#also sorry for the intermittent activity

[qwimchii]

𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘴 (pt 4) — 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘙𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺

pt 1 pt 2 pt 3 pt 4 pt 5

𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘤𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯!𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨. 𝘸𝘤 — 3.4k

𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘳𝘦 — 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴/𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 — 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘸𝘸 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘳𝘳𝘯𝘯𝘯, 𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘬𝘦𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨

note: omg okay i know this is so short but i promise i will be posting the next part (which is quite long!) in a couple of daysss so here's some more flirting and angst for you!! >< also thank you for all the love and support for this series :,))

you couldn’t keep your sworn promises against Simon for long.

the next day, you were already back in the basement of the church for another support group meeting. it was mid-day, and you were showing the progress of your individual projects in the past week.

Kate had forced you and Simon, re-masked and clad in black, to sit side by side, leaving you itching with exasperation, because if you thought it couldn’t get more awkward than when you first met, it was so much worse now.

he made more progress with the sewing project than you had believed he could—a third of his box already finished, you realized, as he presented its contents to the rest of the girls who practically cooed over him.

they almost went ballistic when he pulled out your old hello kitty pouch you lended to him. his glare boring into the side of your face, you scrambled to explain that he borrowed the materials from you—including the pink pouch. they all deflated, the smiles dropping from their faces, and you bit a snort at the way Simon relaxed back into his seat.

he really hates attention, you noted, then wiped the thought from your mind, because since when were you keeping mental notes on him?

the rest of the meeting continued on, dull and boring, till Kate applauded the group for its progress and announced that you all would be going on a little field trip to the pumpkin patch a couple streets down. 

your mouth went stale. pumpkin carving. you almost forgot you’d be sharing that activity with Simon as well.

you glanced at him, finding him already gazing at you, eyes quickly flitting away when your eyes met his. you cocked your brow at him.

weirdo, you thought, though it came out half-hearted and made your stomach feel all warm and gooey. 

you attached yourself to Maya and Sarah the whole walk there, Simon a few steps behind, and flanked by some girls who were eager to get in a few words with him. Iris, a married woman, was one of them, you noticed with a little burst of annoyance.

looking back at him from over your shoulder, Iris flush by his side, you sent Simon a nasty glare and his eyes only narrowed, head tilting like he was confused, but your head snapped forward with a hmph, promptly ignoring him again.

you practically stomped the rest of the way, Sarah and Maya locked in conversation with a couple other girls who paid no attention no mind to your strange behavior. by the time you neared the farmer’s market, your outburst had dwindled, and you were conversing with the girls intermittently, craning your head to get a look at the little pumpkin patch.

side-stepping to catch a glimpse of the market’s vegetable booth outfront, you were totally unaware of the biker making his way down the sidewalk from behind, you would’ve crashed into him if a strong arm didn’t hoist you over by your waist.

you shrieked as the biker whizzed by without a second thought, clutching at the arm snug around your waist.

“careful,” Simon hissed, voice rough and throaty in your ear as he set you down. he smoothed your shirt of the creases he had just created, touch warm against your clothes.

scrambling from his grip, you mumbled a meek sorry, flushed with embarrassment as the other girls checked on your well-being.

“are you okay?” Sarah asked, face flicked with concern and you just nodded quickly, throat tight when you noticed Maya’s eyes dart from you to Simon (who you stubbornly ignored) then back to you again.

Sarah followed Maya’s gaze and strung an arm through yours, pulling you close between her and Maya when she whispered, “what’s going on between you and Simon?”

“nothing,” you hissed, knowing how unconvincing it seemed. 

Maya eyed you carefully. “what happened when you went home together last night?”

your throat only tightened at the memory. “literally nothing. he was kind enough to offer me a ride home and i invited him inside for one drink. just one.”

she nodded slowly, but looked completely unconvinced.

Sarah added with a sincere look, “i thought you didn’t… you know, hang out with guys.”

you grimaced. “i don’t.”

she pursed her lips, sharing a look with Maya, though it wasn’t unkind.

“i’m happy for you,” she said with a light smile, patting your cheek. “i’m happy you’re friends with Simon now.”

you bit back a groan. “we’re not—”

Kate shushed you from the head of the group and you jolted, completely unaware that she had been talking at all. you screwed your lips together at the glare she sent you, sending her a ferocious one of your own, and her face twitched with brief amusement before turning back to the group and dishing out some instructions.

it was simple—you’d be helping some kids from the local daycare pick out their own pumpkins to paint. not so simple was the part where you’d be helping in pairs.

moping, you trudged over to stand beside Simon, still refusing to look at him, and filed into a line on the sidewalk to cross the street. at the farmer’s market, some kids were running around, screaming and shouting and squealing as they played.

you let the smile creep onto your lips at the sight of one of the little girls in a yellow raincoat and big, red rain boots even though it was sunny as ever outside. she ran past you, slowing with a shy look, curls bouncing against her head, before she ran off again to play with her friends.

soon enough, the group dispersed, moving around with the daycare teachers to help the kids. you stood by Simon for a long moment in silence. taking one glance at the hulking man, covered in black, to decide that he needed to take off the surgical mask.

you pointed to your face, mouthing mask, and you were dismayed when his eyes narrowed, slowly shaking his head.

you rolled your eyes. “it’s for the children.”

he sighed, ripping the black mask from his face and crumpling it into his hand, shoving it into his pocket.

you nodded in approval, moving to help one boy struggling to pick up a pumpkin half the size of him. with the softest words you could muster, and a gentle tap on his shoulder, you willed him to move over and let you do it. he relented, and you picked up the pumpkin with a huff of breath, carrying it over to the pick-up truck on the side of the road where you were instructed to put the pumpkins. the boy happily skipped beside you, singing out a thank you as you pushed the gourd across the bed of the truck, smiling after him as he ran off again.

looking back to where your partner was, you bit back a snort at the sight of a couple kids shyly prodding at him, two running circles around him, another hanging off his outstretched arm. 

he stooped down to pick up a big pumpkin when a little girl pointed to one, the little girl in a yellow raincoat and curls, clapping with excitement when he did it with only one hand. the kids bumbled after him as he walked toward you, your heart swelling at the relaxed, content look on his face, saying something to a little boy tugging on his pant leg, another girl clutching at his hand.

when he stopped in front of you, eyes flitting between you and the pumpkin in his hand, you let out a soft oh, snapping out of whatever daze the sight had put you in, and you hoisted up the heavy thing, struggling to push it into the bed of the pick-up truck. two arms came flush around your shoulders and helped you lift it, chest flush to your back and his breath by your ear as he shoved it back so it knocked against the other pumpkins.

“thanks,” he said, voice gravel and breath warm on your neck before he stepped back. your throat closed up, unable to choke anything back except a low hum and nod.

he let the kids drag him back towards the pumpkin patch, a couple of them demanding that they hang from his arms. in response, he held out an arm, and two boys latched on, swinging with squeals as he walked.

your stomach roiled. shit. he was good with kids. in a silent, calm sort of way. 

nothing like your own father, an faraway voice ruminated with awe, and you immediately quelled the thought, the fast thud of your heart in your throat deafening. shit. was this what he meant by maturity?

as much as you tried to rid yourself of the thoughts, it was almost impossible, spiraling around your mind as you helped the kids till they had effectively filled the back of the pick-up truck with an array of different shaped gourds of varying colors.

meeting in a big circle to close the event, the pack of daycare kids said their thank yous and bid their goodbyes, that little girl in a yellow raincoat hanging off Simon even as the rest of the kids were following their teachers back to the little daycare. he had to pry her from him, saying something in a low tone that you couldn’t make out from across the circle, till she nodded with hesitancy, sending him one last bashful look, before scurrying off to join the line of kids filing down the sidewalk from the farmer’s market.

beside you, Maya stared at Simon with a sort of reverence you had never seen on her before, and your heart almost shattered at the sight. curling an arm around her shoulders, her eyes dragged from Simon to you with a confused look. you just returned it with a light smile, beginning a ramble about the events of the day that Sarah happily chimed into, adding her own stories and thoughts with an animated nature.

Kate thanked your group for all the help, dismissing you to the rest of your sunday evenings, and you startled when she made a beeline directly for you, plucking you from the conversation as the rest of the girls began discussing where they’d be eating dinner.

“walk with me,” Kate said sharply, a tight smile on her lips as she looped her arm into yours. you had no time to protest before she was tugging you down a path through the pumpkin patch, away from the rest of the group.

when you looked back, you pretended to not notice Simon staring after you, a couple other girls, including Iris, still flush by his side.

“i heard from a little birdie that you and Simon have been getting along well,” Kate said, and you rolled your eyes.

“i know you’re talking about Sarah, Kate.”

she grimaced by your side. “right. Sarah. she told me.”

you gave her a long look. “i know you asked Sarah, Kate.”

she ignored you this time, stopping when you were at the edge of the forested park beyond the farmer’s market. you were ready for her to begin lecturing you—commanding you to explain yourself and the strange, tense atmosphere between you and Simon…

instead, she asked, a foreign tinge of plea in her words, “how is Simon doing?”

you blinked at her. “how is he doing?”

she nodded. “how is he doing?”

“i…” with a murky feeling of guilt, you realized hadn’t really taken the time to consider it. “i think he’s alright.”

she sighed out, fishing around her pocket, pulling a cigarette from it, and a lighter from her breast pocket.

“do you mind?”

you just shrugged. you were used to the smell from working at the auto shop, your dad going through a pack a day bent over cars to complete an endless list of repairs. it’s no wonder he passed so soon.

pushing the old, stale thoughts away, you pried Kate. “why? is everything alright?”

she took a long drag, politely turning her head to the side to exhale out against the chilly fall air. “just between you and me hon’, i worry for him.”

you rolled your eyes, pushing her shoulder playfully. “he’s a big boy. i’m sure he can handle himself.”

she gave you a wistful smile. “something like that.”

your brow quirked, eyeing the tired look on her features carefully. “sounds like there’s stuff you’re not telling me, Kate.”

she sighed long and heavy. “i was the one who kind of forced him to do this thing. i’m surprised he hasn’t walked away screaming bloody murder already.”

your brows raised slightly. “why’s that?”

she just chuckled in a dark, mirthless tone, brushing back her hair. “s’just not in his nature. he refused to go to a personal therapist, so i offered the group thing to him instead. i honestly think he’s just doing it to make me happy. or maybe to make me finally leave him alone.”

you swallowed hard, thinking back to the dirty blonde man, tall with a heavy build, skin surprisingly warm to the touch. you weren’t foreign to the same beliefs, avoiding personal, one-on-one therapy your entire life because the vulnerability of it was too…

you grimaced.

“has he told you anything?” she asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“what do you mean?”

“has he opened up at all?” she rephrased, and you blinked at her, unsure what to say.

“he has,” was all you confirmed, and she nodded, looking a bit relieved.

“good. good to hear.”

with that, the conversation ended, and you walked a step behind Kate to the girls who were still chattering about dinner and, somewhat unsurprisingly, Simon nowhere in sight. though the vacancy of his presence still felt eerie.

Sarah pulled you to her, pointing down the street, saying they’d be going to a comfy little joint known for soups and sandwiches, but after your conversation with Kate, your stomach roiled with discomfort. waving them off, you promised that you’d join next time, feeling guilty from all their kind remarks—no, come with us, no, we’ll miss you—but you took off in the direction of the church, ready to rid yourself of all the crawling, creeping sensations of your body after the day’s events.

in time, the familiar white church emerged from the mist, looking ominous in the foggy weather. you swallowed, pushing through its double doors, a thick, eerie silence muffling any sound in chapel except for your footsteps.

quickly, you descended down the stairs, and strode down the hallway, opening the doors to the meeting room and making a beeline for your box of costumes. Simon’s had already been taken, you noted, assuming he had made early headway back to the church for the materials. with a shiver, you carefully laid out each costume over one another into the box and snapped the lid shut, shivering violently from that draft that passed through the basement as you picked up the box and turned when—

“cold?”

you screamed. a real, long scream ripped from your throat as you scrambled backwards and crashed into a chair, dropping your box that split in half, its contents spilling out over the floor again. you tumbled to the floor, and once the world stopped spinning, you groaned out, forehead against the carpet.

“what the fuck, Simon,” you hissed, pushing yourself slowly off the ground. Simon, remasked, was already half-way to you, holding out a tentative hand that clenched and unclenched in the open air.

you just held up a hand. “don’t.”

he nodded, straightening, before edging closer to you with an open palm. 

you sighed out, taking his outstretched hand and letting him pull you to your feet. you rubbed at your shoulder that had slammed against a chair in your fall.

“are you alright?” he asked slowly, voice thick and rough, and you just let out a tight laugh.

“m’fine. don’t worry,” you said, stooping down to pick up the costumes, wincing at the new soreness of your body.

Simon immediately pushed away your hands, crouching down to lay the costumes in your box, so you moved to right the chairs again. but he was over in a flash, doing it for you. 

huffing with frustration, you chided him, “Simon.”

but he ignored you, standing up two other chairs before moving back to the halloween costumes strewn over the floor, careful with each one.

“you have really got to stop scaring me like that,” you grumbled, watching him put the lid back on the box, snapping down the sides.

he paused, stock still a moment. when he didn’t respond, and didn’t even move, you stared at the back of his head with a new confusion.

“Simon—?”

“sorry,” he said under his breath, still not moving.

you blinked, shifting closer to him, and edged around so you could see the eerily blank expression on his face as he stared forward on an untrained point.

you dropped to a crouch beside him. “is everything alright—?”

“i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

you stared at the side of his face, your jaw dropping with dismay, then closing again. “it’s okay. you didn’t mean to scare me.”

he shook his head, dark eyes finally moving over to hold your gaze. “i meant yesterday.”

with that, you flushed. “oh.”

he meant last night.

“i shouldn’t have said all that stuff,” he grumbled, avoiding your gaze now.

his words were sharp. “just forget that i said anything.”

a cutting ache speared your chest. forget everything he said?

“you didn’t mean it?” you squeaked, unsure what to say. 

he stood, taking your box with him. you straightened slowly, taking the box from his hands. his eyes were on yours but you felt like he was looking straight through you.

“yeah. none of it.”

weakly, you nodded, your whole body feeling heavy as you left the meeting room. a murky, damp feeling weighed down your chest. 

you both walked out the church in silence, Simon just a step behind you, and the mist against your skin enveloped you in a bone-chilling suffocation.

you were hyper aware of Simon’s gaze on you as he watched you pop open your trunk and shove the box of costumes inside. closing it, you turned to him, his own box of costumes in his hands. you would’ve laughed at the sight, such a big, burly military man and his own box of sewn items, the pink, hello kitty pouch stacked on top the lid, but the laughter couldn’t find you through the mist.

you don’t need a ride? you had offered, but he had just shook his head, half-turning from you as he jerked his head down the road. s’just a fifteen minute walk.

you had grimaced, pressing, but what if it starts raining?

he had just shrugged. don’t worry about me.

then you had said goodbye, watching him walk away and into the mist. the problem was, whether or not you chose it, half of you had started worrying for him all the time.

you slid into your car, letting the heavy feeling consume you. turning on the ignition, your grip tight on the steering wheel, you bit back tears when the first drops of rain fell onto your windshield. you flicked on the fog lights and backed up out of the parking lot, pulling onto the road, rain coming down quicker now. by the time you reached your townhouse, which was just a block away, it was pelting, and the tears were streaming down your face.

you clutched at your chest, rubbing circles over it like Simon taught you. it didn’t seem to work nearly as much as when you were in his arms. the strong warmth of him pressed into you. his soft words by your ear.

leaning forward in your seat, your forehead came to rest against the horn of the steering wheel, uncaring for your tears that ran down the leather and the loud blare that cut through the evening, hoping the downpour would drown out the sound.

yeah. poor simon's walking home through the rain. he's probably crying too 😇

next part coming very soon you guys!!! happy halloweenings!!! (my senior halloween day is this thursday..... my friends and i are going as 2010 justin bieber and bringing selena gomez cardboard cutouts bc i think that's hilarious)

taglist: @kenma-izhu @actuallyhiswife @froggielottiee @neenieweenie @delaynew @ilovehyperfixating @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @tomorrowseverything @moonlqths @ivybeeloved @babygirl-riley @keiva1000 @arminarlertssword @crowbird @jasonloveclub @karurururu @embers-of-alluring @newsies-pape-girl @suhmie @amberpanda99 @mystsee @cosmoscoffee

@hunterofhonor @wawuwe @kunikku @corvusmorte @hearts4sky @aloudplace @justletmelivethanks @shadowdaddysposts @leclercdream @ayanokomu @thedevillovesflowers @thisuserloveshalloween @soundsfunbutno @enfppixie @tired-bi-ass @http-paprika @xaestheticalien @vonev @garfieldssocks @sapphire-read @moonstonedeluluere @killergoddess97 @cassiecasluciluce @xxkay15xx @mrflyingbanana03 @magneto-was-fucking-right @riverbutghost@palomaxaxaxa @hobiespick

[doc-pickles]

I've got you | anthony beauvillier

summary: sequel to til forever falls apart. anthony gets traded again, but everything is different this time.

warnings: unfortunately mentions the bl*ckhawks

a/n: can someone PLEASE get this man out of Chicago?! also let's just pretend he played his first game there I know he didn't but that wasn't good for the plot. enjoy!

xoxo

nina

The light in the nursery is low, only a soft glow coming from the sound machine as you sit in the rocking chair. Hudson is curled up against your chest, the two-month-old snoozing away after finishing a feeding. 

“My sweet boy, you look so much like daddy,” you whisper the words into the darkness as you hear the door to your apartment close. “Sounds like he’s home. Should we go say hi?”

Tito finds you instead, slipping quietly into the nursery and smiling as he sees you and Hudson. But the smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he kneels next to the rocking chair and settles his head onto your chest so he’s face to face with Hudson. 

“What’s wrong, mon amour,” you whisper as your fingers come up to Tito’s hair and stroke slowly. “Anthony?”

“I love you,” he whispers as he looks at Hudson. “I’m sorry my job doesn’t offer any stability right now.”

You hold your breath, knowing that Anthony was on the block for a trade. You try to school your features as you look down at him and meet his eyes, “Tito?”

“I got traded to Chicago,” he whispers the words before he sighs and buries his face in your chest. “I’m so sorry, bébé.”

Your hand continues to card through Anthony’s hair as he struggles to keep himself together. You can feel his staggered breaths and the way he’s trying not to cry as he sinks into your hold. Holding him and your son close to you, you take a deep breath before speaking. 

“Don’t apologize, mon amour,” you whisper as you run your fingers down his cheek. “We’ll go wherever you go. No matter what.”

Your words seem to calm Tito as his shoulders sag and he relaxes in your hold. He doesn’t move until Hudson starts to stir, tiny wails coming from him as he squirms in your arms. Tito immediately grabs for him, holding your son against his chest as he sways silently. You watch your husband and son for a moment, Tito whispering to Hud in French as he walks in slow circles around the nursery.

“Are you upset because of what happened last time you got traded?” you ask quietly. Tito stops for only a second before he continues walking, but it’s enough for you to frown as you watch him. “Oh Anthony, you have to know that things are different now, no?” 

“I-,” Tito turns to look at you with unshed tears shining in his eyes. “I almost lost everything last time. And I don’t want to be there again.”

You stand and gather Tito in your arms, careful not to squish Hudson between you, “You’re not going to lose us, you never could. Okay? No matter where you get traded to we’ll be by your side.”

The three of you stand in silence for a few more minutes, Tito’s grip on you never wavering. Despite the uncertainty ahead, you’re confident that your little family will be okay.

+

“Okay Hud let’s go find Daddy,” you whisper to your son who’s currently strapped to your chest with a pair of noise-cancelling headphones on. He looks adorable as he watches everyone milling around the arena, fascinated by all the activity.

Tonight is Anthony’s first game playing for Chicago and you and Hudson had come to surprise him. You’d moved into your temporary apartment two days ago and had told him that you were still settling into a routine with Hudson so you couldn’t come tonight. As you walked towards the ice though you knew you’d made the right choice in coming.

Tito is warming up in the corner, a few guys coming up and saying hello intermittently. A smile forms on your face as you watch him interact with his new teammates, his outgoing personality shining through. 

“Hey 91!” you smirk as Tito whips around, a huge grin settling on his face when he spots you. “We couldn’t miss your first game!”

Your husband skates up to the glass, his smile growing as he notices Hudson looking up at him with wide eyes. When he meets your eyes your heart melts, knowing that your show of support meant so much to him.

“Love you,” Tito mouths as he presses his hand against the glass.

“Love you,” you mouth back, your hand coming up to mirror his. “Now go score us a goal!”

[mama-vaggie]

//OOC//

I know I'm probably the least active caregiver out of all the Hazbin cgs. The thought of that gives me the gut reaction to feel guilty, but I'm trying not to.

I'm not slow to post because I'm apathetic, nor because I don't like any of you all. I'm slow because...well, there's a lot. Always has been.

I'm in my late 20s, and have a career. Two technically, if you include the community work I do. I wanna go back for my PHD. It's a big dream of mine. I was the first in my family to graduate college and I wanna go all the way, if only to soothe my ego.

I'm also physically disabled with chronic pain. And honestly...I have a lot of mental health issues. None of which I care for like I should, but on some level, I do try. I'm a vent regressor myself, so if I'm regressing one night, I absolutely do have to put more focus on Rhea. Hell, if I can be completely honest, all the harassment going on in the community has deeply upset her. She's not doing well, so I've been nervous to even open the inbox. She's gotten more emotional and aggressive; it's hard to explain what it's like being aggressed against within your own headspace, but...tbh I also face a lot of aggression in my day to day life, and the emotional toll from both of those are oddly similar.

Above all else...I am a lot. And I'm sorry for that.

I post intermittently during the week. I'll be more active in evenings and on weekends, although everything can fluctuate. I may answer asks out of order, or just tackle smaller asks before bigger/deeper asks. I'm so sorry if this hurts or frustrates anyone, but MY ability to be flexible regarding my askbox is a boundary I need to maintain.

I also need to ask something from you all: please refrain from sending asks that you know I probably shouldn't be the one to answer. That could be trauma dumping, toxic gossiping about community members, or just things that aren't REALLY rp.

Please listen. Please be patient. Thanks, I love you all. 💜

[rontra]

Can I ask how you hold your pen + tablet when you draw? (My wrists started hurting n I wanna figure out how to make it stop lol)

pardon any awkwardness in this post whether phrasing- or formatting-wise I’m typing it on my phone at like 8am HSBDBSB

I hold my pen in a pretty standard(???) grip like this

I sit at a desk (w a desktop computer) and do not use a screen tablet. So I try to keep a pretty upright posture. my tablet is laid firmly on my desk and I can look straight ahead while I draw, which is good for me (my neck/back can get sore easily)

However I do have wrist problems. I can’t always draw as much as I want to, and I often won’t “double dip” on strenuous activities (for example I usually decide whether to play a video game OR draw, and don’t do both on the same day)

(or I can only play specific games, like ones that are purely mouse-controlled (=opposite hand). You get the idea)

Without knowing your exact like, drawing setup and habits (and medical history for that matter) it’s hard to give specific like Hard Advice—but in general try to keep good posture (sit straight, try to use a seat with good lower back support, don’t hunch) and keep loosy goosy. try not to hold tension in your body if possible (including the fingers—hold your pencil loosely and don’t grip it tightly)

you might benefit from assessing How you draw and adapt certain parts to relieve how much work your wrist is doing (do you rest your hand on the drawing surface and rely entirely on wrist movements to draw curves/etc? Is it possible to raise your arm up from the desk and use your whole arm/elbow to draw larger gestures instead of causing repetitive strain to the wrist?)

(the settings in your art software—does your brush demand too much pen pressure? Can you adjust the pen pressure settings to respond better to a lighter touch? <- This was Huge for me!!!)

Do stretches before you begin. Take intermittent breaks to do stretches again while you draw. You can look up stretches for artists online!

If your wrists are already hurting then something is already wrong. You should be strictly resting whenever this happens and trying to minimize how much strain you put on your wrist, ideally until you feel no pain at all (and depending on how tender your wrist is, maybe a little after that too just for good measure). I use a wrist brace with a metal plate inside to keep my wrist as immobile as possible when I’m resting. If your problems persist like mine, a solid immobilizing brace is really a godsend. Don’t wear a brace while drawing, but put it on when you stop to rest (even if you don’t urgently feel any pain!)

The most hard to swallow advice—but also the most true—is that you should never work to the point of pain. This sucks, because sometimes I’m in a groove and a drawing is going really well and “if I just push through this slight discomfort the art will be finished and it’ll feel awesome”. This is The Deceiver. You never want to work until it hurts. If you (like me) tend to get caught up in the flow and find it hard to stop midway, get in the habit of checking in with yourself at a set interval (eg set a timer, or make up a rule based on your habits like “after every 2nd Monitor Youtube Video I half-watch while drawing, check to see how my wrist is feeling” (<- meee)) and if you feel discomfort or pain, you have to stop and rest

Getting into good habits NOW is the only way to protect your FUTURE wrist... So you have to bite this lemon for me and stop having fun when your wrist starts to complain. Which sucks a lot. But trust me HDNDBHS

Sorry if I sound like a big downer and/or a fussy worrywart but yknow. I have wrist problems that do prevent me from doing things I want to do sometimes and I hate to see it blooming in other artists 😭 take care of yourself anon!

I’m probably forgetting something because I’m very tired rn (and ironically my wrist hurts so I’m gonna put my phone down and sleep) but if possible you should ask a doctor to have a feel, and tell them any other symptoms (numbness, prickling, etc) if you have them. I’m not a doctor and idk what you have going on, but a wrist brace is pretty easy to acquire and wear, so I do generally recommend that!

Like tldr imo its about the preventatives (good habits like posture and taking breaks) and listening to your body (both during work and when resting in between work!). Wrist problems can get seriously bad if you don’t take measures to slow em down. Good luck! Take care of yourself!!!! 😭🫡

[aboxthecolourofheartache]

20 questions for fic writers meme, tagged by @chubsthehamster -- thank you, friend! :D

1. How many works do you have on ao3?

42 at the moment

2. What’s your total ao3 word count?

269,795. Almost half of that is one fic though, lol

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently most active in Trigun, perennially/intermittently active in Nirvana in Fire, currently dormant in CritRole, and hiatus in Sandman. Interests wax and wane! And who knows what I'll discover next? Not me, that's for sure.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Mate, I write mostly gen fic. I'm not here for the numbers. A kudos means that a whole human being with thoughts of their own spent some of their precious moments on God's green earth reading my thoughts and kinda liked 'em.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I do! ...........eventually. sometimes several years later. And why? I dunno, it just feels polite? Also human connection, even digital. That's a thing.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably Inference, but that's just because of the canonical main character death. Visitation Hours is bleak in implication, not in actual ending. My definition of "angst" does not always align with readers' definitions of "angst," which can be hilarious for me when I get weepy reactions on something I thought was relatively lighthearted.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I do 'equivocal' better than 'happy,' I think? The goal is emotional resolution or emotional discordance. Happy's incidental, which almost certainly means I don't write a lot of happy endings by the standard measure.

8. Do you get hate on fic?

Not hate so much as people who are belligerently confused? I get some bonkers fucking comments and anons sometimes, which I delete, a smattering of entitled weirdos, and a sprinkle of (typically unintentionally) back-handed compliments.

9. Do you write smut?

Nope! Suggestive, sure. Dirty language, if relevant. Implication, when called-for. Smut? Nope.

10. Do you write crossovers?

I have written a short series of crossovers between Machineries of Empire and Nirvana in Fire. Haven't written any since, but they're not off the table.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yup! More plagiarism than theft in entirety, though. At least once had someone lift a whole scene, dialogue, phrasing and all, and claim it as their own with obvious intent to get mileage without credit. And I have happened upon recognizable lines from my fics in other fics enough times to have several nickles. I get miffed about the latter, but the charitable assumption is just that it was a phrase fresh in their minds/recalled without association.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Into Russian, I think? Godspeed, fanfic translators, the strongest of us all.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I've co-written original stuff before, but I don't think I could ever do it again, original or fanfic. Not that it wasn't a pleasant experience at the time!

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

I don't have a favorite ship, but I do have a favorite dynamic, which is the mutual "you're the only motherfucker in this club who can handle me" a la that one Lorde tweet. The buckwildness has to be compatible, preferably complimentary. We're not talking enabling, though that can be part of it. It doesn't even have to be a ship. That grok/trust combination.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but probably won’t?

Look, I don't know what WIPs are going to get finished until I post them, okay?

16. What are your writing strengths?

I like character studies! And I feel like I am getting better at limited points of view, though they keep wanting to slide omniscient.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Same-hatting with @chubsthehamster here: plot. What the characters are doing in any given story is largely just to break up the dialogue and introspection. Things happening? They don't, sorry. Gotta work on this.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

For straight dialogue in another language, it's still dialogue, and it still has to serve the story, so if it makes more sense to drop it untranslated, drop it untranslated. If the reader needs to know what's being said, italics or paraphrase.

For mixed languages, it's totally situational and depends on the character, too. Did they just get back from an exchange program in France and they're insufferable about it? Are they a very new second language speaker? Are they an expat? A bilingual parent who wants their child to grow up speaking one language preferentially? An academic, or someone who learned their whole vocabulary based on a single vocation (ie: a doctor who can get by using Spanish in a medical scenario but not outside the clinic)? All of that is going to influence their speech pattern.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Nirvana in Fire!

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Just as interests wax and wane, I like some fics more and some less, and today's favorite could be tomorrow's cringe.

Please consider yourself tagged if you see this and would like to play! @ me, if you like!

[argyrocratie]

"Lola: It all began for us in the early days of 1971. A woman friend invited us to a meeting of the Women's Lib Movement ["MLF" in French]. The whole group went, but the boys had to stay in the café next door. Three of us walked in, plus that friend. We started by saying:

-Sorry, but, as far as we're concerned, we live as a group with boys, some are gay, others aren't totally gay, and we'd rather not be separated from the boys who fight these battles.

-We stand for gender-non-mixing.

-OK then…

I wouldn't say we were pleased. Then we took a look at ourselves: "Shit, see how badly dressed we are, don't we look down and out!!…" As a matter of fact, we did look like tramps compared to all these young women. And then we heard absurd statements such as "I am a Lesbian by political choice", until one of us, me probably, cried out:

-And not for pleasure, you idiot !?

Some time later, we heard about the birth of the FHAR [the Homosexual Front of Revolutionary Action]. Of course we rushed in headlong. We went there with our bunch of friends, we threw ourselves body and soul into this struggle: what attracted us was that it was not a homosexual liberation front, but a homosexual front for revolutionary action. We thought the same about Women's Lib: it's positive for groups to organise for specific causes, provided the specific is not there to stay, provided it eventually merges into the general revolutionary course - remember we believed revolution was round the corner. We were sure the existence of Women's Lib was important and positive, if it worked as a specific tool within a broader range of activities, i.e. if it was gender-mixed. Similarly, we thought the existence of the FHAR was important and positive, if it was also gender-mixed.

G.D.: Mixed in the sense that it was open to non-gays ?

Lola: That's right: open to all walks of life. In fact, the early FHAR supported polysexuality. At the time, we moved into a flat rue Charlemagne (in the Paris 4th district, the Marais area): lots of people would live there or come to sleep over, and the place became a sort of annex of the FHAR. This was where I met the very young man who later became Hélène Hazera. The FHAR had district committees, so we created the FHAR Marais committee. In those days, the Marais was a working class neighbourhood where you heard Yiddish on every street, we had no idea that the area would later morph into a hub of homosexual commodification. Our place became an awful mess where people debated, smoked pot, had mescaline, made love and intermingled, where the district committee held its meetings and prepared its actions. We kept proclaiming how free our sexuality was. I remember, I used to go out wearing big boots, naked under a cassock - a gorgeous dress. In short, we were engaged in permanent no-holds-barred provocation. We fucked in public places - we'd been doing it for a long time.

G.D.: What actions did you prepare ?

Lola: For instance, creating havoc in the ghetto. The gay ghetto, I mean: the specialised homo clubs. We'd go to the club door and tell the guys: "Get out of the closet !" Other actions too. One day, we heard that gay-bashing was taking place in the Buttes-Chaumont park. Some of our friends went. Suddenly gay-bashers were faced with a troop of screaming fairies - even those who weren't fairies overdid it a bit - and the homophobes got beaten up. That was fine. Bashing gay-bashers

(...)

G.D.: And what about class struggle ?

Lola: For us that was part and parcel of our life and activity… When friends happened to be working, we were involved in whatever occurred in their work-places. I personally was doing surveys. We'd become part of a sort of informal gathering of casual data-collectors - similar to what is now called a coordination - which met once a month. As all data-collectors were in intermittent employment, that gathering helped them register with the social security system, get unemployment benefits, etc. And it also provided information about the companies which mistreated us, how they tried to screw us, and how to fight back.

(...)

We acted where we worked. Unlike the gauchistes, we did not take action everywhere, we acted if we were called upon. When a friend of ours was employed somewhere and needed some help, we were ready. Wherever we worked, we were of course involved in struggles as soon as they occurred. That was our class struggle. In the post-68 situation, everything was being challenged. And as (despite our anti-work stand) we had to work now and again, we weren't inactive in the work-place.

We also did a lot of shop-lifting, we did "free check-out" actions. Often on the spur of the moment. We would decide "Let's go !", and we went. We were always on the go because our purpose was to exist as a group in order to be able to act. We helped abortions to take place, we provided shelter for very young people, one who'd run away from social services, another from a seminary, we housed various kinds of homeless guys. Daily life was a big issue.

For us, summer 71 was like an incredible Summer of Love. Anyone could land on our door-step, debate, fuck and use drugs a lot. This was when the Gazolines came into being: the following year, we marched together for the funeral of Pierre Overney, with the Gazolines dressed as merry widows. (14)

G.D.: This was 1972. The FHAR was launched at the beginning of 71, and you left…

Lola: …after about 5 or 6 months…

G.D.: …so this was all happening…

Lola: …in the blink of an eye.

G.D.: A year, at the most.

Lola: Less. Our communal life and all the rest of it… it was all in the blink of an eye"

-"Revisiting Sex and Class", On a gender-fluid childhood, May 68, women's lib, radical gays and Lesbians, identity, #MeToo, and a bit more: an interview with Lola Miesseroff

[helloalycia]

Heyo, I saw you mentioned working on a few fics with a previous anon, do you mind me asking what your wips are? Also, since you're working on those, are you currently taking requests?

Sorry to bother ya, love. Just very curious lol, feel free to ignore me if you like 😆. Ps, hope your week is starting off well!

hey! yess i have a lot of wips but the ones that i’m actively working on atm are:

• an alycia debnam carey one (like three parts)

• a kate bishop one (probably 2+ parts, it’s not finished yet lol)

• another lucy gray baird one (a request, which imma reply to on my asks after this lol)

• a katniss everdeen one that i’ve planned out but not actually written yet

• i also have an old alycia request where reader is an archaeologist and helping her on a film, but im yet to think of the ending so intermittently working on this lol

hope that helps! 🥰

[whimsical-westbrook]

(@goldenrodchef) Uh, hi! Um. Bit of a weird question, but uh. How do you deal with the sensation of your tails brushing against stuff? When it happens with my tail it feels really, really uncomfortable. -Gen

I'm so sorry, friend Gen, this is another one of those cases where because our reactions to these experiences are so different, sometimes the problems are different. I have been in love with these tails of mine.

Though... this also seems like it might be a case where because we're not both buizels, you're going to have more problems than me? Oshawott tails, if goomygle images isn't actively lying to me, are like. Flat and broad, and not thin and long and spinny-able.

Uh. Maybe if you wore like, a band around your waist and tucked your tail into it? It'd brush up on that constantly, so maybe that'd be worse, but at least then it'd only brush up on the one thing, instead of intermittently and unexpectedly?

[andrigyn]

Oh.

So it's not just me then :/

You go see a doctor and it's always like "oh honey it's probably just stress or hormone imbalance or idk 1000 other conditions you may or may not have and if you do it's not showing up on any of your exams so do with that what you will"

Menstruating can be the worst 🥰

girlie I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop for like two and a half years lol I'm desperate at this point <3

Hey Anon, I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Like I said, I was completely without mine for 5 years and it’s partially my fault, but also no one told me it would impact my bone health for life and no doctors took it seriously when I told them :/

There are a lot of things that can cause period loss. If yours is caused by stress, under eating, over exercising, etc then you can get it back naturally. That’s what I did this year at least, even though it’s irregular.

I can tell you what I did, and these tips are mostly just things everyone should do, so I don’t feel weird giving this advice even tho I have no medical training lol.

1. EAT ENOUGH, and make sure your macro split is balanced. (Not that you have to track your food, just use common sense, although I did track and I had a calorie goal and a fats goal bc that was what I was really lacking in my diet). Another thing is don’t fast, or even intermittent fast.

2. Get 8 hours of sleep. (I try my best with this, but insomnia has always been a struggle for me).

3. Reduce caffeine, and when you do have your coffee make sure you’re eating breakfast with it. I said no intermittent fasting 😡👊

4. Reduce exercise. This was a hard one for me, and I still worked out a lot during this process bc its my main way to relieve stress, and it also helps me sleep. If you eat enough to support your exercise then you might be good to keep with it

5. Explore other causes of stress in your life. Reduce its impact if you can, but if that’s not possible, find activities that calm you down.

6. I started taking a fish oil supplement, not sure if this helped or not though. It can’t hurt!

If you’re curious to learn more, I recommend the book no period now what by nicola rinaldi. I found it helpful to understand what my body was doing.

[moods1805]

Diary of an Intermittent Runner - Weeks 11 and 12

Not been very good at updating recently, sorry!!!

Slowly getting back into the running again, and feel like I'm getting back to how I was a few weeks ago. Completed another two Parkruns, Conwy and Worcester Pitchcroft.

Conwy was beautiful! Running along the River Conwy, towards Conwy castle and then back. The weather was also kind that morning - a bit too kind. I totally misjudged it and was far too hot.

As we were spending the weekend in Llandudno for Dan's 18th (can't believe both our kids are now adults - I'm far too young!!!!!!), it would have been wrong not to have a run along the front and down the pier. So that was Sunday morning sorted. I'd forgotten how long the pier actually was!

A couple more runs followed in the week, and then it was back to Pitchcroft in Worcester for Parkrun number 13. It was the monthly meet-up for 5k Your Way Move Against Cancer. A brilliant organisation developed to support those impacted by cancer to have an active and fulfilling lifestyle. More details can be found at www.5kyourway.org. Will definitely be back at Pitchcroft at the end of April to see them all again. It was also really nice to catch-up with Marie and Mary, a couple of good friends from Happy Feet Fitness - a group that I have run with many times. A group that really helped us through the period of James's treatment in 2019. Running occasionally, but also meeting up with them after their Monday runs for coffee (when James was up to it).

A few more runs this week (and hopefully one tomorrow - although I meeting some ex-colleagues tonight so who knows?!). The hopefully Shrewsbury Parkrun on Saturday.

My recent running soundtrack:

Sparks - Whomp That Sucker

Sananda Maitreya - Introducing the Hardline According to... (the artist formally known as Terence Trent Darby. This was the album that we listened to on the way to the hospital the day Dan was born, and coincidently Sananda Maitreya's birthday is the same as Dan's!)

Interpol - Turn On the Bright Lights

Depeche Mode - Memento Mori

Sparks - Angst In My Pants

Depeche Mode - Songs of Faith and Devotion

Depeche Mode - Ultra

Depeche Mode - Playing the Angel

Hopefully back on track with the running. Have decided that as a bit of a mini-challenge (to myself) I am going to try and run 100 miles in April (haven't done a 100 mile month for a very long time!!).

Until next time, keep well.

Pete

[scorejust]

Trimps game review

#TRIMPS GAME REVIEW PROFESSIONAL#

The HR derived variable TRaining IMPulse (TRIMP) has recently gained favor in team sport as a means to quantify sessional training load. The use of an objective measure of on-ice training load provides a scientific basis for changes in performance, assisting team coaches and strength and conditioning staff to better assess load-performance relationships with a view to optimizing future planning for practices and competitions.

#TRIMPS GAME REVIEW PROFESSIONAL#

Due to these unique demands, training load is difficult to quantify in ice hockey, especially during on-ice sessions.Īutomated heart rate (HR) monitoring systems are currently being used by professional and collegiate ice hockey teams as a way of assessing an athlete’s response to workload (i.e., internal load) in practice and game settings. Coordinating the training load between on-ice and off-ice work adds to the complexity of the development of training programs. Furthermore, physical activity levels during on-ice practice differ between playing position and line status of the player. Typical on-ice practice consists of a combination of systems drills, skill drills, battle drills and conditioning drills-making it difficult for coaches to quantify the external work performed-with the duration of each varying throughout the season. In-season, this is primarily accomplished during on-ice training sessions. The development of ice hockey training programs is challenging as multiple components of fitness need to be addressed (e.g., speed, muscular strength, aerobic endurance, sport-specific skill) along with game tactics and team play. The external work performed on-ice is predominately supported by anaerobic metabolism, however aerobic factors appear to be important for fatigue resistance. During competition, roughly 18% of actual playing time is spent performing high-intensity activity (e.g., fast forward skating, forward sprinting, fast backward skating), with the remainder spent performing low-intensity activity (e.g., slow forward skating, gliding, standing). Ice hockey is a complex intermittent team sport. The results from our study can be used to determine the threshold for meaningful change in TRIMP, which may aid in informing decisions by coaches and strength training staff regarding on-ice training session difficulty and composition. TRIMP is suitable for quantifying training load during intermittent work in hockey athletes. Systematic error, quantified as standardized change in means was negligible (–0.19) random error quantified as the percent typical error (%TE) was moderate (12.2%) and, test-retest correlation was very strong (0.75). TRIMP demonstrated moderate reliability during on-ice sessions. TRIMP and other descriptive HR variables were compared between sessions. Twelve Division I collegiate male ice hockey players (aged 18–23 years) had their heart rate (HR) data recorded during two on-ice practice sessions separated by two weeks. This study determined the reliability of TRIMP during on-ice training sessions in ice hockey players. Having a reliable measure of internal training load during on-ice training sessions would help coaches program exercise training. Please enter an amount you feel comfortable contributing on a monthly basis.The utility of the heart rate derived variable TRaining IMPulse (TRIMP) for assessing internal training load in ice hockey players is not clear. The button below is setup for recurring monthly contributions.īecause the costs of the services are ongoing, I can better gauge how much I can reliably expand services if the contributions are also ongoing. Interested in contributing financially to help keep my work going and my services running?Ĭontributions are very appreciated, and will help pay for the server that runs this website and the JGT service.Ĭontributions will also be used to expand the JGT service to support more target languages than just English. Sorry, there are no reviews for this game, login to be the first to create one. If you see a review that is very helpful, be sure to vote it up so it will float to the top. That can be expressed in the rating system. These reviews are not intended to be one sentence comments expressing a game is great, or the best ever. Of course your opinions on what you did or did not like about the game are also important for helping people decide if it is a game they would like. The more information you give about the game, such as links, pricing details, description of game play, etc, the more likely people will vote your review up for the good information it gave them. These reviews are intended to be informational, not just opinionated. You must be logged in to create your own review.

[lambsearandlavender]

So, stuff has been really rough lately on the hypersomnia and seizure front, and this year I've started having a lot of dizzy spells aside from postictal stuff... and I'm really at a point that I'm calling in sick to work about once a week and worried about keeping my job, so I called my doctor and sobbed on zoom again, as you do.

Anyway I didn't think she'd have much she could do for me, but as always she listened and we came up with some stuff. She's going to give me ....oof, brain fog ... intermittent fmla for the sick days.

She's ordering a tilt table test after asking me some questions about POTS, and I'm not sure I quite fit it, but I'm happy to do the test bc I definitely fit some of it.

Then she asked me a bunch of questions relating to EDS and connective tissue stuff, which I think I match even less aside from joint pain and fatigue, but my naturopath has asked about the possibility of connective tissue disorders in the past too, so I'm being referred to see a doctor who really goes out of their way to work with those patients plus pots, mcas, all the spoonie zebras I guess. And again I'm super happy to see them bc at least they'll have an open mind and know a lot of the hard to spot, hard to diagnose things which... if anyone will figure me out, it'll be someone who likes that stuff. So that's hopeful, like tbh I know at this point I may never have full answers, but I'd love to talk to anyone who takes an interest in cases like mine.

Yeah I'm rambling, sorry. I'm also going to do some pt geared towards chronic fatigue syndrome (which we did confirm my diagnosis of) to hopefully work on my mobility and stamina without overdoing it or causing flares. Rn I'm at a point that my pain is usually gone at rest, but flares with just a few minutes of activity; I can walk about 15 minutes without a cane... for me, that's big progress from where I was a couple years ago, but I'd like to keep working on it so I can take more walks, maybe hike or dance again one day.

Note that my goal isn't to not need mobility aids, but just to increase how mobile I can be in general; rn I get 15 minutes alone or maybe a few hours with a cane and pain meds and a day to rest after. But I'd like to do more and spend less time recovering, even if I'm happy to keep using a cane to get me through outings.

Idk, um. I'm not sure about POTS or EDS but yeah, I at least feel like maybe we'll find something or have a lightbulb moment. Or maybe we won't. I'm glad we're still trying things though and still trying to figure it out.

[toastbutteregg]

Sorry to have to block you for the weight loss post. Weight fluctuating 3 lbs is very normal and healthy and fine. Also in my day, they didn't call it intermittent fasting, they called it "here you go to the eating disorder clinic."

I hope you change your mindset before you hurt yourself.

i dont understand this....

you couldve just blocked me without sending hate. my fitness and wellness journey (not weight loss post) is something im working on to be a healthier version of me. my triglycerides are high and im a suspect of arthritis so i was asked to cut down on fatty foods and sweets which i love so much.

i do intermittent because i have a discipline problem when it comes to rationing and binge eating. i used to eat popcorn even at 12 am but now, i have learned to discipline myself to only eat at the times i NEED to eat.

i am in no way hurting myself as i eat a banana/fruits in the morning. i also eat a full healthy lunch and a full healthy dinner. i sometimes eat some sweets but not as much just so i dont deprive myself of my favorites.

i also workout without overkilling myself and i go for runs, swims whenever i can.

my "ideal weight" of myself is not based off some guy who told me i need to lose weight or the internet saying my ideal weight is 0 lbs. my "ideal weight" is based off where i feel best physically, mentally and emotionally. from my experience, ranging between 95 - 100 lbs is best for me as i feel light and active enough to do the things i love doing.

i hope you can change your mindset with respecting other people's post and not "judging" them or thinking you know better just cause you read a couple of words.

If you have nothing positive to say, it's best to just block me and keep it to yourself.

[stormkobra-5]

Banks of the Nile

Pairing: Marc Spector, Jake Lockley, Steven Grant x Avatar!Reader

Chapter No.: 2/6 (not including epilogue)

[Part 1] [Series Masterlist] [Moon Boys Masterlist]

Summary: With Steven coming to realize he might not be the only one in the body, the presence of you and Layla only makes things more confusing for him— just as he’s being pursued by Harrow, who he didn’t even realize was real.

A/N: Ahahahahahahahaaaaaaa!!! It’s finally here!!! Part 2!!! >:DDDDD I’m so sorry it’s taken so long to write this! Irl has been an absolute bitch and I’ve been having intermittent writer’s block. Luckily, though, with some validation (and inspiration/ideas) from @marc-spectorr, I got the inspo needed to finish this! [I know I’ve said that none of the gifs I use are mine, but I feel like need to say that this gif in particular is from @iamcalmdammit! :3]

Rating/Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, NSFW content; gore, violence, violent protective thoughts from reader, descriptions of child abuse (reader was abused and was violently killed at 13, remember, and then of course there’s Marc), lots and lots of mentions of death, bones, blood, and corpses, angst, yearning, pining, graphic depictions of gore and violence, mention of kidnapping, smut, mention of first kiss/loss of virginity, badass soft Jake, probably more I may have missed some

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=gZp-tQiv2dg

“Oh shit,” was the first thing you said when you realized that of the two men you hear approaching the unit, one of them is the timid voice of Steven Grant. “Oh shit oh fuck fuck fuuuuuck...” Frantically, you searched your surroundings for any decent form of hiding place.

“Couldn’t have a decent fucking closet, Spector?!” You hiss to yourself: your only options are the military-issue crates, which you might just suffocate in, or to hope that a disguise Scooby-Doo would be questioning would pass Steven’s intelligent inspection— with no other options, you made one.

As you heard the padlock to the door opening, you summoned your suit, taking up a statue-esque stillness in the corner of the unit, back to the wall. With your crook and flail crossed across your chest, you looked for all the world like a very realistic statue of Anubis. It’s the best and only disguise you could conjure on such short notice, and just in time, too. The door swings open to reveal Steven as he tentatively enters, face falling when he sees the militaristic setup that clearly establishes that someone is living there.

You fight the flutter of your heart, bidding it cease to race. Your activities with Marc shouldn’t have made you blush, since you’d been together many times before; you’re not sure if it’s even the fact that last night you spent lost in passion with Marc, then Jake, who both shared Steven’s body. It was remembering how deeply he kissed you when he thought he was dreaming, that look in his eye when Marc spurred him into doing it a second time. Beneath your helmet, you frowned. Steven Grant should not be making me blush. It’s ridiculous.

But he was. Steven Grant, the shy gift-shop employee, was making you, the Avatar of Anubis, blush, and it had nothing to do with your two other lovers who happened to share his body.

It was… kind of amusing, actually.

If it wasn’t also complicating things further.

Warily, Steven stepped into the unit, closing the door behind him with an echoing thud. His dark eyes flicked worriedly around the room, taking in the stacks of military-issue crates, the cot, the rack of jeans and shirts you stood beside, keeping as still as possible. Every slow, shallow, unnoticeable movement of your breathing felt very noticeable as Steven’s eyes locked on you in amazement. “Bloody…” He couldn’t even finish the exclamation, coming closer uncertainly. You felt ridiculously exposed, even with your helmet, as he leaned far too close to scrutinize the finer details of your armor. “Bloody hell, you look real…” He breathed, waving a hand in front of you. He rapped his knuckles on the snout of your jackal helmet, frowning at the hollow noise it made. Steven lifted a hand, coming up to trace your helmet’s jawline, the snout, the ears; goosebumps burst to life on your skin as you fought a shudder. His eyes locked on your gold ones, trained straight ahead– but not with enough discipline. They flicked to him briefly, before resuming their lifeless stare: but it was too late. He saw it. His eyes widened a bit in surprise, before narrowing as he leaned closer. After a moment of careful observation, he stepped back, blinking and shaking his head, playing it off. Thank Ra. “Wicked…” He breathed, looking around the unit with a furrowed brow.

His eyes landed on the little tactical bag that Marc had put the scarab in, as if drawn to it. Oh fuck. Should you stop him? Should you reveal yourself? Him having the scarab, when he didn’t even know what it was for, was a very, very dangerous thing to happen. Harrow would find him easier than he would locate you or Jake and Marc, and both of you could fight. If they found Steven…

He unzipped the bag, the sound seeming overloud to you and nearly drowning out the frantic beating of your heart. “Not yet,” Anubis boomed, warning you against any action you were about to make. Steven jumped and whipped around, wildly searching for the source of the voice. “Hello?!”

You fought the urge to show yourself. Why can he hear you, Anubis? He’s a part of Marc, so why can he hear you?

Anubis– most likely wary of attracting further attention– remained silent, but you still felt the thrum of his presence. Warily, Steven returned to inspecting the bag; the first thing he saw when he opened it was Marc’s handgun. “Oh my god.” You had to bite your lip to stifle a laugh when he picked it up like a dead rat, slowly laying it on the cot using only two fingers. You watched with only your eyes as he shuffled through money from various countries in astonishment, even pulling out his passport and flipping it open. He paused, reading the details. “Marc Spector…” He mumbled; and then his eyes caught on the one thing you’d hoped they wouldn’t. “...No way…” He set the passport aside, reaching in the bag to remove the scarab. Wonderment and shock settled on his features. “It’s real… It’s totally real…” He clicked the button that activated the scarab’s searching mechanism, and the golden beetle launched a couple of inches off its base to hover above it. It’s nose pointed in the direction of Ammit’s tomb, somewhere in the world, and your skin crawled at the sight of the blasphemous guide. Steven, however, was in awe. “Whoa. I'd say you’re a compass, but you're not pointing north…”

Steven stood, eyes on the compass as he tried to face the direction it was pointing– until he abruptly stopped. He jumped, head snapping up to look at his reflection in the wall of the unit. The scarab returned to its base. “Marc?” Steven asked, barely audible, and you came to the belated conclusion that perhaps reflections were a form of communication for them. Nervous, Steven took a couple of steps closer after giving a little anxious wave. “There he is. Here he comes. Hello, man in the mirror. I was wondering if you'd pop up again.” There was a pause, a pause in which Marc clearly said something. “A bit, yeah.” Steven listened to his reflection, in which you saw nothing different; you wondered what it was like, having to communicate like that. Steven became more nervous, fingers fidgeting with the scarab as he confronted the mirrored vision of himself. “No? Well, bit late for that, innit? So, what? Am I, like, meant to be some sort of mad secret agent or something?”

You could do nothing but listen to one side of the conversation and worry as Steven became more agitated. “More complicated? What, am I possessed?” The mere thought sent him into a stammering frenzy before he finally managed, “Are you, like, a demon? Or…” Steven halted to listen, glancing back to the cot and eliciting a scoff of disbelief. “Are you joking? Sleep– I'm never gonna go to sleep again! You hear me? Look, I don't care how bloody handsome you are. Tell me what it is you are. What are you?” There was another brief pause, allowing you to realize, yes, poor Steven did just call himself handsome without even registering the fact that they share the body. “Yes, bloody... Yes.” There was a much longer break in the one-sided conversation you were hearing, before Steven slowly cocked an eyebrow and emphasized, “...Khonshu? …The Egyptian god of the moon?” Steven turned away from the wall, frustrated, glancing back once as if offended. “Oh, my god, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. I eat one piece of steak then, bam, I go bonkers.”

He sat on the cot, taking a couple of deep breaths, before snapping, “What do you mean, ‘tell her she can come out’?! Is there another like you?! Somebody else I’ve got to worry–” He cut off as you let your hook and flail fall to your sides, yelping in terror before you let your armor melt back into the realm of the Duat and leaving you in your normal clothes. Steven’s eyes were wide as he stared at you, mouth gaping and trying to form words. “Y-you– you’re real.”

“Hello, Steven,” You sighed, sympathetic. “I’m sorry you had to be dragged into this.”

Steven stared at you, the realization dawning on him that, this is real. Everything Marc’s been telling him is correct, he’s not dreaming; you can’t imagine the fear he’s going through right now. “A-are you like him? Are you Khonshu’s Avatar, too?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m the Avatar of Anubis.”

“That other voice?” Steven was all but curling up on the cot. “That’s… That’s Anubis, innit?”

You nodded. “Most Avatars can only see their Patron god. How you, Steven Grant, can hear Anubis when Marc Spector cannot is a mystery to all of us. You’re the first, besides myself, to hear him in over twelve thousand years.”

“O-oh god,” Steven breathed, hand finding his chest as he struggled for air. “Oh god I— I’m having a panic attack. I need to go to the hospital.”

Oh shit. Steven couldn’t panic here; not with so much at stake. You felt sympathy for this poor man, drawn into the conflict unnecessarily… You knelt in front of him, putting a hand on either side of his face to make him look at you. “Steven… Hey; look at me, Steven…”

His eyes kept flicking to the reflection in a panic, and you knew Marc well enough to know that he was probably also trying to calm Steven; or he was just making the situation worse.

Steven threw your hands off him and abruptly stood. “Are you trying to help me? Help us? With what?! What the bloody hell is even—“ Steven paused his frantic rant to yell at the wall, where Marc was trying to communicate. “Shut up! You want my body?! Right, yeah— Marc, how’s this for a deal?!”

“Steven—“ You tried, but he shot you a glare that looked something like betrayal as he started packing up the money, the gun, even the scarab; you froze with uncertainty, unsure of how to approach the situation.

“I’m gonna take this bag full of illegal shit, yeah? And I’m gonna go straight to the authorities, and they’re gonna put me away so I don’t hurt anyone else!” He backed toward the door, swatting your hands away desperately when you reached for him. “And hopefully NHS will fill me with enough pills that you both get out of my head!”

Steven backed hurriedly out of the storage unit and slammed the door closed. “Fuck,” You breathed after a moment. He now is convinced that you are part of his mind, too. How are you supposed to get the scarab now?

“We can no longer count on Marc and Jake’s cooperation. Not with Steven in this mess.” Anubis said, but he did not appear in the room. You dreaded that he would ask that you kill them, and that is something that you would never recover from. Killing the ones you love most…

A portal opened before you, and on the other side, you seen a spacious flat filled to the brim with books. “Wait for him, and then obtain the scarab. I believe even Marc would give it to you willingly at this point.” At your Patron’s words, you felt a surge of relief. You can’t imagine ending their life. Not Marc, who you still love deeply. Not Jake, whom you’ve loved for years. And not Steven, who did nothing wrong and did not deserve such a fate. Perhaps Anubis knew this, and would never send you after them. Perhaps there may come a time where his sympathy ends, or there is no other choice.

You push fears of future happenings away, and step through the portal, intending to wait for Steven Grant for as long as necessary.

Patiently waiting until Steven arrived was much harder than you’d first thought. First of all, because so much was at stake. You weren’t certain why Anubis simply didn’t let you follow him out the door, but you knew better than to question your Patron God. Secondly, and for a much less important reason…

His apartment— or rather, flat— was beautiful.

Large and spacious and cluttered all to hell with piles upon piles of books of all sorts, it was an old attic space that looked right at home in a scene from Inkheart. Steven mainly had books on Egypt, but there were plenty of others— such as books on Asgard and Norse mythology, and you came across a notebook where he was clearly teaching himself Wakandan script. There was a record player behind the fish tank, and there were puzzles everywhere. A ring of sand encircled the bed, and there were so many locks on the door it was ridiculous. A trash can full of rolled-up pieces of blue tape caught your attention, and you belatedly realized that with Marc and Jake around, Steven probably thought he had some kind of sleeping disorder. Hadn’t Marc said that? That he thinks he sleepwalks?

You eventually took a seat on the couch, sighing impatiently. “I could’ve just followed him out the door, y’know.”

“Perhaps,” Anubis conceded, “But then you would have only found… more complications.”

Before you could ponder the meaning of his words for long, you heard voices in the hallway— you recognized Steven’s.

You also recognized Layla el-Faouly’s.

Oh shit.

You stood, bracing yourself for the worst. Layla never knew about Jake or Steven, so she would probably assume that Marc is faking, and is living with you, his ex. Things could go very badly here. In fact, probably worse than if you had chased Steven out the door. You silently cursed your god and prepared yourself to face the wrath of a very pissed-off Arab woman.

They saw you as soon as you opened the door.

Steven let her ahead of him, always polite, and Layla’s dark eyes lit like fire when she saw you. Steven paled at the sight of you, flinching when Layla rounded on him like she was ready to kick his ass. You felt strangely protective over Steven in that moment. “That’s what this is about?! You got back with your ex?!”

“What?! No!” Steven waved his hands wildly, trying to dissuade her from thinking that, “No, not at all, I’m here by myself. I-I live on my own.”

“Then what the hell is she doing here?!” Layla demanded.

Steven’s brow furrowed, gaze flicking between you and Layla curiously. “Bloody— you can see her, too?” Oh, gods. Steven truly believed that you were a figment of his imagination, didn’t he? It crushed your heart to hear that, crushed it to tiny little bits. He doesn’t deserve it, Marc had said. And he was right.

Layla scoffed, storming away to set her bag on a nearby table. She didn’t care for whatever she may have crushed underneath of it. “Yeah, whatever. The stupidest thing I’ve ever—“

“Layla,” You said hopefully, catching her attention as you took a couple of steps forward. She turned an icy glare on you, her glistening obsidian eyes like daggers. You felt for her— Marc had broken her heart, too. “I’m not here of my own accord, I swear to Ra.”

“Then what?” She snapped, facing you.

“Anubis sent me,” You clarified; she knew that Marc was an Avatar. It wasn’t as if it was far-fetched for you to be one, too. “I didn’t want to come, but Anubis sent me to retrieve something from Spector.”

“...Anubis sent you?” Her eyes narrowed, lips quirking into something like a frown. A bit of understanding dawned on her. Guilt gnawed at your heart briefly; technically, she was still married to Marc. She still loved him, much like you. And he’d spent last night between your legs, moaning your name and holding your hands. If it weren’t for making Steven panic more than he already was, you might’ve broke and told Layla what happened between you and her husband. She sounded like she only half believed you about your purpose here. Or maybe she sensed that you and Marc had done much more than just your gods’ bidding.

“I just want my life back…” Steven mumbled dejectedly into the ensuing silence between you and Layla, and you felt as if Marc may have said something to him to prompt him to speak.

Layla’s expression flickered briefly to grief before settling on fury. She turned with a steel barricade over her heart to face Steven, whom she still seemed convinced was Marc up to some kind of game. “Yeah. I’m getting that.” He flinched at her harsh tone.

“No, sorry. I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to myself… sort of.” His voice was small and defeated, and also tired. So very tired. His dark chocolate eyes settled on you with a strange ferocity in them, but also a plea for help— you were, after all, the only one who had insinuated that he wasn’t crazy, had implied that you knew Marc.

What should I do?

This was a delicate situation. You knew that Marc and Layla had been searching for the scarab for years— for many reasons. For Layla, it was also personal, although you weren’t sure of the details. And now Steven was involved, when he wasn’t supposed to be. He knew nothing of the situation. He could hinder the entire progress, or send it spiraling into chaos without even meaning to. You wished that all three alters had separate bodies, so that you could protect Steven better; but also, a selfish part of you missed Jake more than anything.

You pushed your own emotions aside once again. You needed to focus. On the scarab. On Harrow. On how to retrieve the one thing in the world leading to Ammit’s tomb and keep it safe under your charge.

Luckily… Death is patient.

“Wait, little one…” Anubis rumbled, low in his throat. Steven jumped, but clamped his jaw down tightly to avoid saying anything in front of Layla. “Say nothing yet.”

You kept your mouth closed firmly, and obeyed.

Layla frowned as she surveyed her surroundings; probably trying to see if there was any incriminating evidence against you, giving her some reason to explain Marc’s sudden absence in her life. “So this is your flat, Marc?”

“Um…” Steven fidgeted nervously with the hem of his jacket before stuffing his hands in his pockets to stop himself. “I’m Steven.” He glanced to you again, big dark eyes begging you for help like a baby cow asking for more treats. If anyone could convince Layla of his truthfulness, you could. Or so he probably supposed. You knew bits and pieces of his story, so he thinks of you as his ally. But aside from this, you’ve only met Layla once, and that was when she had come to you after Marc abandoned you and told you how sorry she was, how she hadn’t known about you, apparently, until yesterday.

The day after their wedding.

The thought still stung you.

Layla’s eyes settled on the restraint tethered to the bed, and she spun around defensively. You held up your hands in surrender before she rounded on Steven once more. “Are you living here with someone else?!”

“No no no,” Steven replied hurriedly, eyes wide. “No… This is my mum’s flat.”

Layla lifted her chin in a curious half-nod. “Oh. So you guys are talking again?”

“Mm-hm,” Steven answered shyly, worriedly, as if he was unsure why she was even asking that.

That… that hit you like a truck.

Their mom was dead. Their mom, who had beaten him, neglected him, abused him all his life after the death of his little brother Randall, blaming him, a child, for the horrific event. That kind of trauma at such a young age prompted the creation of Steven, and then Jake, who was the one that fought back. Their protector.

Steven didn’t know yet; how the hell would he react learning that this was all faked by Marc in an attempt to give him a normal life?

You were shaking your head, not even realizing it. Steven was going to be devastated. You couldn’t take much more of this… doing nothing.

How much longer?

“Until an opportunity presents itself to obtain the scarab,” Anubis grumbled. Steven glanced at you warily, opening his mouth seemingly in an effort to ask you something— but one look at Layla scanning his bookshelf made him go quiet again.

“Marceline Desbordes-Valmore?” Layla held up a book— a little poetry book.

“Yep,” Steven answered; but as she turned back to the book, he began reciting one of her works. In perfect French, he spoke the poem, which Layla finished with an awestruck grin. Your twinge of jealousy was overruled by the rush of static energy in your chest as you watched Steven with eyes that spoke volumes.

He’d never spoken poetry. Neither of them. Not in French. Marc had told you sweet things in Hebrew, Jake had whispered his love in Spanish. But French... It was new, and it was impressive. Your heart skipped a beat involuntarily, and you quickly schooled your expression so that you appeared calm and collected externally. Inside, you wrestled with this new feeling and tried to play it off as something other than what you feared it was.

“Focus, child,” Anubis boomed, and Steven jumped again, away from you, as if you could control the actions of your god.

“S-she’s my favorite poet,” Steven scrambled to formulate the sentence, trying to seem as normal as possible. You felt Anubis’s swirling concern as to why Steven— a part of Marc— could hear him, when only his Avatars have been able to. For you, it’s different; being the Avatar of the God of the Dead have you more powers, as death ruled all. It was normal for you to see and hear the other gods. But not Steven Grant of the gift shop, an Avatar of Khonshu.

“Um…” Layla frowned again, only this time a mix of frustration and confusion. “No, she’s my favorite.”

“That’s mental,” Steven mumbled, swallowing hard enough to make his throat bob. Layla shook her head, continuing to scan the flat for any sign of anything that could give “Marc” away.

Steven sidled closer to you, keeping his hands buried firmly in his pockets and his voice low enough for it to only be heard as a mumble to Layla, who cast a glare toward him. “So all that really happened, then? In the Alps?”

His dark gaze met yours desperately, like he was asking you to laugh and play it off as an elaborate prank. “I’m sorry, Steven.”

“And…” He gulped. “And when you came to the museum that day, looking for Marc… That’s why you thought I was him. ‘Cause he’s…” He shook his head, closing his eyes at the absurdity of the situation. “‘Cause he’s bloody… living in my head? Is that it?”

You frowned, keeping your voice low for his sake. “I’m so sorry, Steven. I’m not sure how to explain this without Marc… He means well, I promise.”

Steven scoffed in disbelief, opening his mouth to say something, when Layla cut him off with a low question of surprise. “So… you’re learning French and hieroglyphics?”

You saw something click in his bronze eyes, and a part of you was fighting a smile. Of course. If Marc and Jake had special interests, Steven surely did as well. Marc’s, you remembered vividly, was baseball. Not like a sports fan— like a sports expert. He could tell you the date it was invented, why, and the evolution of the baseball and bat. He could name off every player there ever was. For Jake, it was animals and drawing. Despite how tough he seemed, he had volumes of animal dictionaries stuffed away in your things where Marc wouldn’t question them, thinking them yours. He knew the entire animal kingdom from A-Z and whenever he took you for a ride in his limo, you nearly always ended up with several stray dogs and cats in the vehicle that you would take to a local shelter, where Jake was considered a regular animal rescuer. A hero. And then he’d draw from memory each animal, first in pencils, then in colors, making several scrapbooks starring his furry acquaintances.

It made sense— more than— for Steven’s to be mythology and history, specifically Egyptian, if all the decorations were to be believed. He very nearly reminded you of Rachel Weisz from The Mummy.

“Yeah, well… That’s not that impressive, really…” Steven tried to play off the fact that hundreds of notes written in hieroglyphics wasn’t impressive at all, and you bit your lip to stifle a grin as he moved over to the book she was looking at. “It’s not like hieroglyphs are a whole language, it’s more like a…”

You couldn’t stop yourself. You blurted it out before you realized what you’d said. “An alphabet.” Layla nodded in agreement to you, confirming your statement, as Steven turned to look at you in awe. “Y… Yeah, and…” He awkwardly cleared his throat and ran his finger down a line of inscriptions shown in a picture of a tomb wall. “Well, you still have to know Ancient Egyptian to read it.”

“Sure,” Layla replied softly; she shared a look of confusion with you. You could tell her nothing. It was not your place. Only Marc could explain to her Steven’s presence, tell her about his DID.

Steven, luckily, was too interested in showing her the glyphs to notice. “For example, this one here, right? It’s—“

“Funeral rites,” Layla read without hesitation; of course she had. Her father was Abdullah el-Faouly, of course she knew these things. You felt a spark of jealousy as Steven’s dumbstruck gaze lingered on her in wonderment, one which you tried desperately to quell. Marc had been yours. You weren’t sure about now. Steven, you barely knew. Jake was yours. You’re pretty sure that what was bothering you was the fact that somewhere in there was your loving Jake. He’d once told you that he could sometimes see out of Marc’s eyes. Could he see out of Steven’s right now? Was he co-conscious without Steven’s knowledge? You wondered. You wondered if Jake could see you. Again you were slammed with longing for your lover, trapped inside one body with two other men who knew nothing of his presence. He wouldn’t let them.

“I need to protect them, mi vida. Showing them that I exist will not keep them safe.”

“Someone knows their unilaterals— you,” Steven added, bringing you out of your thoughts somewhat. Anubis hummed softly, in an attempt to soothe your tangled emotions. “That’s amazing… Yeah…” At Layla’s stunned smile, Steven all but recoiled. “S-sorry, I don’t mean that in a creepy way…”

Layla, however, was done. The pain of seeing Steven, who is a part of Marc but not her husband, was too much for her. She hurriedly brushed past you on the way to her bag with Steven following like a lost puppy. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not buying this, Marc. Use whatever accent you want. Let’s just get this over with.” She drew a bundle of papers out of her bag and thrust them at him impatiently. “You sent these papers, but you never signed them.”

“Did I? Uh…” Steven began patting himself down, searching his pockets. It’s only after he draws them out that you realize they’re reading glasses. Much like Jake’s, actually, rather than Marc’s thinner ones.

“This is what you wanted,” Layla snapped.

After fumbling to put on his glasses, Steven finally was able to take the papers from her. “Let’s just… have a look here…”

“After everything…” Her voice cracked very slightly; only slightly. She quickly masked it with anger and a frown. “You told me that we needed to move on.”

Anytime now, Anubis.

“Patience!” Anubis boomed, making Steven jump and nearly drop the papers. “You must wait, little one. Be patient.”

I would be, if it weren’t so awkward to be here.

Marc, who was your ex and hers. Steven, who had no idea what the fuck was going on. Layla arrived at the worst possible moment. Jake, stuck on the sidelines, and you, stuck waiting awkwardly in the midst of this personal conversation before snatching the scarab right out from all of their noses to keep it safe on your own.

“Di…” Steven lowered the papers to look at her in astonishment. “Divorce?”

“I’m just gonna… stand… away… from this very personal conversation,” You raised your hands and backed off, sidling away to seek shelter behind the fish tank. Layla regarded you with a look that was somewhere between help me and thank you.

“I’d never divorce you,” You heard Steven say, albeit muffled.

“Hey, fish,” You greeted the fish, because you are really trying not to eavesdrop. It came up to inspect you curiously, although it got distracted by its own reflection and started blowing bubbles. “What’s up? Nothin’ much, huh? Yeah, I get that. Actually, I don’t. What’s it like to float suspended in water and eat all day for a living?”

A loud thud startled you, and you leaned around the fish tank to see Steven picking himself up off the floor and Layla standing by the bag that Steven had taken from the storage room. “The fuck? Did she just throw you?” Not by a lack of strength, you knew. You’d seen Marc without the suit lift weights that made you seriously concerned for his safety. But Steven probably didn’t realize he had such power packed beside the six pack he obviously never questioned.

“Y-yeah,” Steven mumbled, sounding a bit ashamed. You fought the urge to run your fingers through his hair to straighten it. “Bloody hell…”

Offended, hurt, and betrayed, Layla turned with the scarab in-hand, holding it up for you both to see. “The scarab leading to Ammit’s ushabti? What we fought side by side for…” Jaw clenched, she jerked a finger in your direction. “This is why you’re here. Anubis wants you to protect this because he doesn’t trust Khonshu’s Avatar.”

“Anubis doesn’t trust anyone,” You relented, “Not until he’s weighed their hearts.”

She twisted the scarab in her palm, stifling the tears glistening in her dark eyes with anger. You lowered your head, unable to bear her heartbreak and as she regarded Steven with the look of one betrayed— a look you knew all too well.

Steven tried to dissuade her from thinking that he had done wrong, when he truly hadn’t. “No—“

Layla wouldn’t let him speak. “This whole one-man show is just what? So you can keep it for yourself? After all we’ve—“

“No, I swear—“

“Just stop!” Layla shouted, making Steven flinch. You wanted to walk away again, but… Anubis’s wishes kept you glued to your place, waiting for an opportunity to take the scarab from her without causing a fight. “I’m supposed to believe anything you say with this shoved in, what, a gym bag?”

“Take it!” Steven cried, hands outstretched pleadingly. Layla’s surprise and shake of her head was in tune with your sympathy for him. “Take it, you can have it. Take it. I don’t want it, I don’t want it. I swear. Have it.” He stepped back so that he could address you both, though if Layla believed him… that, you couldn’t determine. “I am not Marc Spector! She knows that! But she won’t say anything, because some loud voice we can apparently both hear is telling her not to.”

Layla’s head snapped over to you as your eyes closed. Oh, Steven…

“I’m Steven Grant,” He sounded as if he was begging for her to believe him now, tears in his eyes. “I work in a gift shop. Well, I used to work in a gift shop... And I think I’m in real danger, and I think you two are the only people who can help me.” Steven looked back and forth between you, desperate for assistance. “...Please.”

Slowly, subtly, you nodded. Letting Steven know that, to the best of your ability, you would help him. Slight relief spread across his face at that.

Layla was still partially unconvinced. “You really don’t remember why we’ve been looking for this? Our adventures? Or our life together?” At Steven’s small shake of his head, she gestured to you. “What about your life with her?”

Steven’s eyes widened slightly at that, locking on you with something like panic in his dark eyes. “I had a… We… N-no, I don’t remember any of it. I’m sorry. God, I… I wish I could.”

Loud knocking on the door made all of you jump. You nearly whipped out your khopeshes. A woman’s voice on the other side said, “Steven Grant? Can we have a word?”

“See!” Steven whispered, gesturing at the door. “Oh, god, they’ve come for me.”

“Why?” Layla asked, to which Steven replied softly, “I vandalized a toilet…”

More knocking prompted Layla to snatch her bag and stuff the scarab inside. Steven approached the door tentatively. “Yeah, just a minute!”

“Get out of there,” Anubis rumbled, “If they see you, he’ll only be in worse trouble.”

Steven’s apartment had no fire escape. Dangerous, yes, but where were you and Layla to go? Ah. The open window. An Avatar and an ex-Marine’s mercenary’s wife can easily use it as an escape route. “Layla,” You hissed, catching her attention, “This way!”

You both glanced back at Steven; he stood by the door waiting for you both to get out, stalling. The woman on the other side of the door called his name again, to which he called, “Yeah, one second,” and began slowly undoing the lock.

You climbed out onto the ledge first, wobbling unsteadily when you realized how far the drop would be. “Oh shit—“

Layla grabbed your arm and steadied you. You could hear Steven talking to the officers— you had to hurry. Together, helping each other to stand, you and Layla scrambled around the window to a somewhat flat corner of roof, leaning against the wall for support. The wind and sound of traffic below made it nearly impossible to hear what was happening inside.

“Not entirely impossible, little one,” Anubis said, and your eyes nearly rolled back into your head with the intensity of the out-of-body vision he showed you.

“Anyone else here with you?” The female officer asked.

“Um, here with me?” Steven repeated unsurely, wringing his hands anxiously, “No, just me. And my fish.”

The officers— without a warrant— scoured over his apartment with controlled but arrogant airs, relishing the sensation of how badly they intimidated Steven as they searched for evidence. “So… um… Yeah, is this about the toilet? ‘Cause it’s been dealt with. Yeah, I’ve been sacked. And uh, yeah, that’s…”

The female officer held up the restraint on his bed with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips, seemingly snide in having found something against him. You wanted to jump back in and beat the shit out of them for doing this to him. “I-I have a sleeping disorder,” Steven defended softly. He circled around “A-and um… the museum said that they wouldn’t press charges so long as uh… As long as I do it in installments. That, uh… They said that I could.”

The bearded officer approached Steven with heavy, thudding footsteps and a grimey smirk. In his hand he held a harmless pyramid decoration, just trying to intimidate his target. Steven nervously shrunk a bit, but held his ground. “What’s this?”

“A paperweight,” Steven replied flatly. If it weren’t for your current state of being, you’d have busted out laughing.

Miffed by Steven’s snark, the man added with a low growl of frustration, “Where’d you get it?”

“Paperweight shop,” Steven answered smoothly, his eyebrow lifting a bit.

Ah, so Steven has sass.

“You’re in possession of a stolen item,” The female officer said slowly, haughtily, as if she positively can’t wait to get Steven in chains.

Steven swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as he’s made to sit down by the male officer. “Oh, yeah, I— no. I don’t have it.” His eyes widen slightly in terror as the man digs through the gym bag. “I don’t. No, it’s not here.”

“‘Marc Spector’?” He reads on the passport.

Steven paled, dark eyes falling to the incriminating little booklet in the man’s hand. “Th-that’s not mine.”

“Funny, that,” The man looms over Steven to show him Marc’s picture on the passport. “Fella looks just like you.”

“Fake passport and a thief,” The female officer drawled out; a deep, fiery rage built up in your chest. You wanted to attack her, brutally. Only Anubis’s will kept you in place, kept you from launching back inside and tearing that condescending expression clean off her skull. She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I think you best come with us, son.”

You watch, helpless, as Steven is cuffed and guided out of the flat. He shoots it one last, desperate look over his shoulder, taking in the sight of his home, before they slam the door shut behind them.

You snapped violently out of your trance that Layla had to steady you before you fell off the roof. “You okay?”

You shook your head, trying to overcome the dizzy spell. Getting a vision from Anubis was oftentimes like a powerful headrush. “Y-yeah, I’m good…”

“Your eyes were golden,” Layla observed, “Was Anubis showing you something?”

“Nothing much,” You snarled, narrowing your eyes at the street below. “Just those bastards dragging off Steven.”

“They are not standard officers,” Anubis growled, and you caught a glimpse of him watching them shove Steven into a car parked in front of the building. “They are Harrow’s people.” He slammed his staff on the ground for emphasis.

Gooseflesh crawled up your arms.

Harrow’s people.

They had Steven.

Marc.

Jake.

You very nearly summoned your suit.

Anubis stopped you. “Take advantage of your position. Gain Layla as an ally. Free him together. It would look very bad for us if the Avatar of Khonshu were murdered by the Avatar of Ammit under our watch.”

“What is it?” Layla hissed. “Can we go back inside now?”

“Those were Harrow’s people,” You ground out through gritted teeth, nimbly climbing back to the window as the car sped off, taking Steven with it. Denial and helplessness briefly took hold, and you feared for a moment that you may never see your boys again. “They might kill him.”

“No shit,” You heard Layla scoff, snapping you out of it. Anubis’s low rumble filled your head. “I am watching him; I shall guide you. But you must hurry! Go!”

“Anubis will guide us,” You told her, and she visibly sagged with relief before bolting for the door with you on her heels. “I don’t have a car!” It was stupid, really, and inconvenient when you needed to travel with someone, but on your own, you didn’t need one. You could simply teleport from one side of the planet to another through the Duat in seconds. You couldn’t take Layla through there, not without killing her.

“We’ll take my Vespa,” Layla answered, opting for the stairs rather than the rickety and unstable elevator. Less than a minute later, you both ran onto the busy street, and you followed her to her shiny red Vespa.

“Nice,” You commented as she got on, forgoing the helmet for the sake of going faster. You’d hardly gotten situated behind her before she sped off. Over the sounds of traffic and the scooter, you shouted, “Keep going straight, and after two intersections turn left.”

GPS: Anubis Edition, you thought, and you felt your Patron’s vague amusement at that.

Once en route, Layla almost immediately took the opportunity to ask, “What did he mean? When he said that you knew he wasn’t Marc?”

You hesitated, but… It was her right to know. She deserved this bit of information. And at this point, when might Marc get to tell her himself? She deserved to know, instead of being left eternally in the dark. “...Did Marc ever tell you about his mother?”

“Not everything,” She admitted, dodging a car and ignoring the ensuing honks from it. “But enough. Why?”

“That trauma caused Marc to form something called DID. He’s not just Marc in there. There’s also Steven.” You said nothing of Jake.

You felt more than heard her scoff of disbelief. “Are you trying to defend him?”

“Oh, so, a mental condition is impossible, but a giant purple alien snapping his fingers like a rap video to wipe out half the population of the universe isn’t? Good to know.”

Layla regarded you with a scowl in the mirror near her left handle. “...You’re telling me he’s had it all his life? That there’s always been… Steven?”

“I didn’t know about Steven until just recently,” You answered, “I only found out literally a few days ago.”

“...But you always knew Jake?” Damn you’re glad you’re not the one driving, because if you were, you’d have just crashed. Your wide-eyed reaction alone gave Layla her answer. “He only showed himself to me once. He told me never to mention him to Marc, for his safety, and so I never did. I wanted to protect Marc just as badly as he did.” After a beat of hesitation, she added, “And he also told me about you.”

“You mean—“

“Yeah,” She nodded, sharing a sympathetic glance with you. “I knew about you through Marc, of course; but I mean after I came to apologize to you, Jake showed up, and told me who he was, why I can never tell Marc… and that he was still in love with you. That he would never leave you. So before I found something of yours and blamed Marc for living a double life, Jake warned me about him coming to see you. That was the only time I ever saw him.”

You weren’t even sure what to say to that. You felt relieved. Maybe when all of this was over, you and Layla could even be friends, bonding over your shared love and heartbreak for Marc. A fanatical part of you even wished for Marc to finally accept the fact that he deserved love— you cared for him so deeply that you wouldn’t even mind if he were with both you and Layla. You wondered if Layla wondered the same, or Jake. You wondered what Steven would think of it at all.

Layla looked ahead, contemplative. Like you. Quiet and concentrated. You said nothing more, only holding onto her waist and barking out directions when necessary. It was only when you neared your destination that Layla said, as she pulled over to haphazardly park near an alleyway, “Guess we might need a plan.”

Your plan was simple, really. Simple and full of holes. But it would have to do. After all, you had the scarab now. It was only the matter of distracting Ammit’s Avatar long enough to help Steven escape. Not to mention, you would not have the godly assistance of Anubis other than his suggestions. He offered none for the plan.

In your full armor, you perched unseen atop the crumbling roof of a half-pillar with your staff held tightly in one hand to balance, looking down into Harrow’s cultist center. People laughed, drank, and made merry as if it were a holiday. They cooked, played games, and several of them were being brainwashed by a gigantic tv playing something about the ocean— you weren’t sure exactly what. Your golden eyes, enhanced by your powers, allowed you to focus on other, more important details.

Such as Harrow himself.

With a calm, misleading voice, he seemed to be acting as a priest, preaching Ammit's greatness to a crowd that wasn’t watching the tv. All your senses were zoned in on him.

You wanted to rush down there and attack him… but the heavy footsteps of your god beside you reminded you of the plan. Anubis stood tall, lips pulled back in a snarl as he observed the happenings below. His ears flicked forward, and you turned to follow his attentions.

The officers from Steven’s flat approached Harrow in a rush, passing him a walkie-talkie. The bearded officer leaned close to Harrow. You were able to vaguely make out the words, “We’ve got him.”

Oftentimes you wished for a jackal muzzle of your own, if only so that your snarl came across as more menacing. Hidden behind your mask, it went unseen by even Anubis. Your grip tightened on your staff. No you don’t.

“Be wary, child,” Anubis warned, “Harrow is cunning.”

“Yes, he is,” You agreed, following Harrow with your eyes as he meandered out of the main building. “But so am I.”

Anxiety and butterflies twisted in your belly. Somewhere, Layla was sneaking around to avoid Harrow’s security, trying to find an opening in which you could make your move. Layla was supposed to make a distraction and lead Steven away, in which you were supposed to distract Harrow. It won’t be easy, but it’s all you have.

Shortly, Harrow returned, his guards trailing subtly behind. Beside him was a very startled Steven, warily eying everything around him. You refocused, eyes and ears locked on Harrow and Steven’s exchange.

“You hungry?” Harrow asked, giving off a false sense of kindness. He passed Steven a tray and took one himself before moving to the food line, Steven awkwardly shuffling after him. “You’re a vegan, right?”

“Yeah,” Steven replied, unnerved; you were, too. How did he know that? Marc and Jake weren’t vegans. Which means that Harrow must have done extensive research on Steven alone. It was worrying. The leather of your gloves squeaked against the metal of your staff you were gripping it so tight.

“Yeah, so am I,” Harrow said as he led Steven into the little courtyard. “You might wanna try the lentil soup. I made it this morning.” Reluctantly, Steven unsurely trailed after Harrow. It might have been a trick of your imagination, but it seemed like Steven did a double-take at where you were perched, shoulders sagging a bit with relief. Impossible. The suit renders me nearly invisible.

Anubis all but laughed heartily, settling instead for a deep chuckle. “It is also supposed to be impossible for him to hear me, and yet, here we are.”

Steven jumped. He did another double take before forcing himself to look away.

He did see you.

And now he was certain of it.

Why are you so different, Steven Grant?

“It’s Victor’s recipe,” Harrow was saying, but Steven was only pretending to listen. Harrow raised a hand to wave at this Victor, who was sitting on a ledge dangerously close to being in the line of sight to your position. “Gracias, Victor!” He turned back to Steven with a chuckle. “He’s from the Yucatán. He’s… no, he’s very funny.”

Harrow passed a tray to Steven, who took it, uncertain as to what else he was supposed to do. “Here.” He spoke calmly but threateningly as he proceeded down the food line. “I know being on the right side of things is important to you. Khonshu always tries to ensnare those with a strong moral conscience.”

Anubis pinned his ears back as you felt the presence of the chaotic god. “You have no conscience.” To emphasize his point, you watched him knock several metal shelves of pots over with a wave of his staff, purposefully frightening Steven.

“You don’t have to listen to him,” Harrow told him, unperturbed and trying to soothe him as he led him over to an unoccupied table. “He often throws temper tantrums, like a two-year-old. None of the gods respect him. Perhaps that’s why he’s banished.”

Khonshu stood on the archway to the entrance, glowering at Harrow. “I only punish those who have already done harm. I am real justice!”

“What’s he saying now?” Harrow chuckled to himself as he sat down. “‘I am real justice?’”

Perfectly timed, the audience of the tv area laughed like those in a comedy show. They made Steven jump a bit, before he turned with astonishment to Harrow. “Can… Can you hear him?”

Harrow, still unbothered, began to eat as if he were at dinner with an old friend. “Not anymore. I was his former Avatar. Before you. I was the fist of vengeance.”

“I’m not the fist of anything,” Steven mumbled, stirring his soup around a bit. “That’s the little American man living inside me.”

You almost— almost— audibly snorted. You wondered what Marc would think of Steven calling him that.

Harrow looked up from his food. Condescendingly. “And that's, uh, that's Marc?”

Steven’s face fell, and suddenly he seemed very interested in the bowl before him, scooping a large bite into his mouth. “Soup's... Yeah, it's very good. It's aces. Yeah, it's lovely.”

Harrow leaned back in his seat, watching Steven for a second before continuing to eat his own soup. “Khonshu punishes those who have already walked an evil path. His retribution comes too late. By the time his fist of vengeance arrives, people have already suffered. Ammit knows this too well. She tears evil up from the root, casting her judgment before any evil's done. That's why we must resurrect her.”

You tensed as Steven spoke up, testing his limits. “Right. But... Isn't that a bit dodgy? Like, trusting the judgment of a weird crocodile lady?”

Harrow, luckily, only seemed to find his snarky question amusing. “You don't need to doubt her judgment. Ammit will light the path to good by eradicating the choice of evil.. which brings us to the scarab.” As Harrow wiped his mouth with a napkin, his cultists seemed to receive the same silent signal that prompted them to stand and come to surround Steven, slowly. “That scarab functions as a kind of compass, leading us to Ammit's tomb. She's out there, waiting, longing to be freed—”

Steven noticed the approaching threats, eyeing them warily. He offered them a tiny wave. “Hi.”

Harrow, meanwhile, continued like a religious fanatic— which, you supposed he was, in a way. “—while the cruel masses deserve to face her judgment. And in the wake of their screams, evil eradicated. Steven, to exist at that moment? Heaven on Earth. So…” he stretched out his arm, palm up, in a gesture of expecting to be handed exactly what he wanted. “...The scarab.”

Steven swallowed hard. “Oh, I don't have it.”

Harrow’s hand fell to the table in disappointment. “No?”

Steven shook his head rapidly. “Honestly, I don't have it.”

Harrow frowned, sniffing with irritation. “Well, maybe you know someone who does? Maybe Marc?”

Steven’s eyes kept flicking to his reflection in a nearby bowl as he stuttered, before finally managing, “No, I don't.”

“May I speak with Marc?” Harrow asked, in a warning tone.

Steven glanced around at the men and women surrounding him. You wondered why Jake hadn’t forced himself to the front yet. “Um, uh…”

Harrow interrupted, speaking to Marc through Steven. “Marc, what has Khonshu promised you? That this is your last mission? Then you'll be free? Trust me when I tell you Khonshu is a liar. There's always one last thing.”

Steven wasn’t looking at Harrow; he was looking at his reflection. Whether listening or gauging his reaction, Steven was speaking to Marc. “Sorry. If Ammit judges people pre-evil, like, before the fact, then, isn't she judging an innocent person? I mean, a thought can't be evil, can it? I think about killing my boss all the time, but I wouldn't actually do it.”

“Steven…” Harrow tried to interrupt, but Steven was on a roll.

“What about a child? Would she kill a child for something they might do in 30 years?”

Harrow began nodding. “I'm glad you mentioned that. Sometimes, the cure is a little taste of the disease. The difference between medicine and poison sometimes is only dosage. Consider a diseased limb. Amputation, horrific and grotesque, is necessary for the larger health.”

“But a child is not a diseased limb. Sorry, is that... Is that what…” Steven turned around, gesturing at the gathered cultists boldly. “You're all into that, like, killing children and that? Maybe that's just me, but that's... I kind of draw a line there at child murder.” He said it firmly, pointedly, aiming his hidden accusations at Harrow.

Ammit’s Avatar frowned, a bit twitchy, and leaned back to tap the head of his double-crocodile-headed cane. “Do you know what this is?”

Steven nodded sarcastically. “Yep. It's a cane, yeah.”

“This is... Ammit's gift to her first Avatar.”

“All right…uh…” Done with his antics, Harrow was standing. Steven got to his feet, alarmed and searching for an exit. Harrow brandished his cane, preparing to unleash its horrors. “It contains in it a tiny sliver of her power. I don't wanna use it. I don't.”

“Then don't,” Steven offered, then, “I can't help you.”

Harrow slowly nodded, stalking forward. The cane began to glow. “Yes, you can. I need to know, where is the scarab? Where is the scarab? Where is the scarab?”

With each question, Steven grew more and more frantic. “No—“

“Where's the scarab?” Harrow demanded; your whole body tensed, preparing to launch you into the scene— until you didn’t have to.

“I have it.” Layla held the glittering scarab aloft so that it shone above her head, catching the eye of everyone present. No one dared to attack her with it in her hands, and perhaps not with Marc, the Moon Knight, her husband, so dangerously close. It was the perfect distraction.

Harrow was taken aback by the sudden intrusion. “You couldn't possibly understand the value of what you're holding.” He held out his hand to her, leaving his intentions perfectly clear. “Let me have that, I'll keep it safe.”

Steven jumped a mile high when Khonshu appeared behind him, booming, “There is no deal in this, Marc. Fix this. Fix this!”

Layla slowly approached, sharp eyes darting around to spot any attackers, before she came to a stop near Steven. “Summon the suit,” she breathed to him.

Steven winced; he probably hardly even registered what she said. “Sorry, what?”

“Summon the suit!”

“‘Summon the soup?’” Steven replied, very very confused. His brow furrowed. “What are you saying?”

“The suit. Summon it!” Layla tried again, but unbeknownst to her, Steven didn’t even know what suit she was talking about. You stifled a feeling of endearment toward the gift-shoppist. His confusion remained evident on his face, a fact which Harrow seemed to find amusing. You wanted to rush forward and crack your staff across his face, but…

“Not yet, little one,” Anubis chastised you, “Not yet.”

“The suit?” Steven asked, fumbling to catch the scarab as Layla shoved it at his chest.

“And keep this safe.”

Harrow frowned, and his followers started taking menacing steps toward Steven and Layla. “So be it.”

“Let's go, let's go!” Layla shouted, dragging Steven with her.

You watched from your perch on the ledge as Layla urged Steven to run— and kicked ass while doing so. She knees Victor hard twice in the ribs before throwing him off a balcony after being briefly separated from Steven, who tried to stay as close to her as possible. Khonhsu grumbled to himself behind them, trailing slowly after his avatar’s alter. Anubis stood by your side, waiting…

Harrow took several steps forward, bringing Ammit’s staff before him with both hands as he chanted in Ancient Egyptian. A rush of hot wind swept through the courtyard, and you recognized the feeling of something being pulled from the Duat. You stood, bracing yourself, as Anubis disappeared in the blink of an eye. “Ready yourself, child.” He almost sounded amused. He knew that you would have no qualms about fighting the Avatar of Ammit.

Harrow slammed the end of his staff into the cement with surprising ease, and purple magic erupted from the site of the impact. Very calmly, he stood and paced away, as a jackal from the Duat itself, its original purpose to hunt and kill those whom tried to escape the depths of the underworld, clawed its way into the Mortal Earth and bolted, following Steven’s scent. You itched to chase it and dispose of it, or even call it to serve your purposes, but Anubis silently encouraged you not to. His will seeped into your mind, and you forced yourself to obey it. Anubis was not like Khonshu. He would not force you to enact his will. But you would, because of all he had done for you.

“Now,” Anubis ordered.

And you obeyed.

Almost silently, you dropped to the ground a story below. All of Harrow’s remaining cultists backed away at the sight of you, an imposing figure reminiscent of the God of the Dead. Harrow was unperturbed as he faced you, even trying to hide a smirk that you wanted nothing more than to rip off of his face. “The Avatar of Anubis... I was wondering when you would show up.”

“Arthur Harrow,” you drawled out slowly, his name like hot fire on your tongue. “I am here on behalf of Anubis. I am to take you to the Council, where you shall be questioned for your actions involving the scarab.”

For his part, Harrow wasn’t petty enough to steep to such levels to interrupt you. He merely smirked. “Ah, so you’re the police officer of the Ennead, I see.”

“I am only doing what is asked of me,” you replied, fully monotone. But your inner self was twisting and writhing, begging him to resist so that you could take drastic measures.

“You mean what you are told to do,” Harrow stepped closer. You flinched as you heard the distinct sound of glass in his shoes. “Anubis is just as awful as Khonshu. You know this.” He certainly spoke as if it were some big secret between you, and not a lie.

“Anubis has only ever treated me fairly,” You defended, and then, “Are you going to comply or not?”

“I will not comply to something that is so foolish,” Harrow began to actually take a seat.

A cruel, twisted smile worked its way onto your face. “How unfortunate.” With a flick of your wrists and a satisfying shing, your khopeshes were in your hands, ready for battle. “I was hoping you would say that, if only to end your life in a justified manner. Refusing Anubis’s summons is most especially terrible for you, Harrow.”

Before yesterday in the Alps, you had never set eyes on Harrow.

Never as an Avatar.

Your helmet melted off, and you saw his surprise clearly evident on his face. His eyes widened, jaw falling slack a bit. He swallowed hard and stumbled back a bit, an act which made your grin even wider. When he spoke, his voice was strangled in his throat. “You... You should be dead...”

“Usually,” You casually strode forward, inspecting your blades. “An Avatar of Anubis never reveals their face when they kill. But for you?” A dark chuckle escaped your throat. You vaguely wondered if Jake would be proud to see you so savage. “I want you to see who killed you.”

“You should be dead,” Harrow repeated, his calm countenance shaken. His cultists saw this and grew fearful, keeping their distance from you. “I saw it. Your body. There was hardly anything left. You should be dead.”

Your grin turned to a scowl as you brandished your blades. “No, Harrow. You should be. You should have died that night, but some cruel fate saved you. Now, I am cruel fate— I will take from you what should have been taken all those years ago.”

“Are you in league with him? The mercenary?” Harrow’s question gave you pause, briefly. He was a manipulator. Your cool expression could give nothing away of your feelings for Marc, surely, but you didn’t know that for certain. If he knew how much you cared for Marc, for Jake, and now even Steven…

Anubis showed you a flash of Steven, now dressed in a sharp white tux and mask and his eyes glowing white. He’d summoned a suit of his very own. And now, he tried in vain to copy moves that he’d seen from movies, trying to defend himself from the jackal’s attacks. You saw no sign of Layla, and you felt a surge of panic until Anubis also showed you a glimpse of her, running unharmed toward the sounds of Steven clumsily fighting the jackal. So long as you kept Harrow distracted, they didn’t have to worry about an Avatar attacking them.

You smiled. Cruelly. “I’m in my own league, Harrow. That’s something you should realize.”

A few men stepped forward as you held your swords up on either side of you, eyebrow arched in challenge. Harrow stopped them by simply raising his hand, standing with a frown and shock still blazing in his eyes. “No. This need not concern any of you. This is between me...” He lifted his staff, which began to glow softly again. He cleared his throat in order to properly speak, and you felt Anubis’s pride at you having successfully shaken the notoriously smooth Avatar. “...And my daughter.”

The words sent a fire through you that you couldn’t contain. It burst out of you in a ferocious growl fit for an animal. Memories besieged you of a childhood spent locked in a small room, the bastard child of a religious fanatic. Half-drunk, he had beaten you, claiming it cleansing you of your sins at only four years old. He would make you go without food and water and say that you were “fasting” in the name of Khonshu. He had kept you away from school, from children, from culture and fun, trying to raise you to be a heartless killer. He wanted you to take his place as Khonshu’s Avatar so that he could be free of him.

After Khonshu had denounced him, he came to you. You saw him only briefly. “No child should have to endure such a fate. I will not make you suffer longer… Know that you have the moon as your guide and protector always, little one.” Khonshu was not kind or forgiving, but he was not without mercy or pity. You became a traveler of the night at eleven years old, and you were protected.

Until you weren’t.

Until you came at Harrow point blank with a shotgun.

But the gun was heavy, and you’d only maimed his hip and legs.

And then his then-fiancé, a fellow Ammit worshiper, attacked you with a meat cleaver. There was hardly anything left of your maimed body. DNA testing had to be done to confirm your identity. You watched on from the rooftops as your funeral took place without anyone to see it. As your old body was buried amidst a thousand other orphans where no one came to set flowers on the gravestones, your reborn form was dressed in the black and gold ceremonial regalia of the young Avatar of the God of the Dead.

Anubis became your father, the Duat your mother. You learned of all the world’s cultures from the mouths of dead travelers seeking peace, and you experienced what a child should in fun and games only briefly, between assignments from Anubis. Where others saw death as grotesque and frightening, in it you took comfort. Bones were a memory of what once was, meant to be treasured relics. Rotting corpses had been your only friends, offering wisdom of days lost. They filled your mind with ancient legends forgotten by scholars and truths untold, and despite their stench and flesh falling from their bodies, you sat with them and listened avidly to their tales. Those who moved on to the Field of Reeds were teachers of morals, ancient beings from beyond time immemoriam that taught you the secrets of pyramids and temples. Shadow was your solace, providing you shelter and cover.

You became death.

And your anger became mind-numbing fury, a rage-fueled quest for revenge. Your every step fulfilled your god’s wishes while simultaneously bringing you close to this moment. When you could finally end Arthur Harrow. It was a revenge that only Jake had thought necessary. He got you within a hair’s breadth of Harrow not once, not thrice, but an uncountable amount of times. It was him who had requested, no, begged, you to make a more practical outfit for battle. “Por favor, mi vida, do it for me?” And so you had. Jake had designed it— Anubis had made it real. And you hadn’t worn it since that last battle with Marc, the one that had failed because of the conflicting emotions between you. Wearing it had been a painful reminder of what you’d lost, but with Jake having shown, in what little ways that he could, why he hadn’t seen you recently…

The armor— the armor Jake had designed for you— made you feel more safe than that provided by any god.

And so you let it melt away.

Replacing your ceremonial regalia was a one-piece suit of something like Kevlar, but far more maneuverable. Knee-high, soft-soled shoes offered both protection for your knees in the metal caps and stealth. The suit was reinforced with protective bracers, hip guards, and a chest piece of strong leather, over which were bone bracers, a breastplate made of a ribcage and hip guards made of plates from the pelvis. Shoulderblades and clavicles worked in tandem as pauldrons, and your gloves bore knuckledusters of silver steel to match the barest highlights, glints and flickers of moonlight in shadow. Your hair was accented with streaks of powdered bone that dyed it in streaks of white and gray, your face unrecognizable because of the Day of the Dead style makeup that transformed your countenance— and a mask, raw titanium, forged into the shape of the upper and lower mandibles of the skull, protected your lower face. The scarf-cape, silver as the moon, you had chosen. For Jake. For Marc. Your khopeshes were now a single scythe, a cursed weapon which had belonged to one of Anubis’s Avatars from the Middle Ages, hidden within your reach in the Duat.

And your eyes…They shone like liquid starlight, flickering with the fire of molten gold.

Gone was Death Jackal, replaced by the far more terrifying and merciless Necromancer.

“I am not your daughter, Arthur Harrow,” your voice was altered slightly by the mask, more gravelly, more dangerous. Adrenaline flooded through your veins, making your eyes glow brighter. A fierce wind swept through the building, blowing your hair and cape behind you as if you controlled it more than you let on. “I am shadow— I am death!”

“You are an abomination,” Harrow drawled out through gritted teeth.

“I am retribution,” You countered. “I am what you made me.”

“Then I’ve made a monster,” Harrow replied shakily; your dark laugh made him waiver even more on his glass-filled shoes.

“I’m not a monster; I’m a fallen angel.”

“That’s what you are, mi vida. Nothing else but an angel would care like you do.”

The memory of Jake’s words to you— wearing the armor that he designed for you— seemed to give you more courage. “And what are you, Harrow? Hm? Nothing more than a fanatic to a dead goddess.”

“She’s not dead,” Harrow seethed, trying his damndest to remain calm even as you stalked closer, not even having drawn your new weapon. “She merely sleeps.”

You tutted, the action made horrific by the skull mask and your glowing eyes. “How unfortunate. Forever is such a long time for a nap, after all.”

“You should never have been born,” Harrow gasped out between clenched teeth. He was sweating through his maroon pajamas and pale brown cardigan, his grip knuckle-white on his staff.

Calmly and smoothly, you summoned your weapon. To anyone else, it would have seemed to shoot from thin air into your hand, forming from nothing. But you knew it came straight from the Duat, ready at your beck-and-call and still covered in sand that fell from the sleek metal. The curved blade sang in the light of the crescent moon looming above, begging for blood. “Funny you should say that, Harrow.” He paled when your glowing irises locked on him. “You shouldn’t have, either.”

With a few rushing steps, you came to meet Harrow with a clash of your blade against his enchanted staff. Sparks flew from the meeting, smoldering on his woolen jacket. His arms shook from the force of the blow, and he stumbled back several steps. “Death unto you, Arthur Harrow,” You growled, rage fueling your every movement. You only wished that you really were here to bring him in for questioning, and that he really had disobeyed Anubis’s summons. This only left you with fulfilling your revenge. After all… he wasn’t Marked for Death.

“You cannot kill him unless he is Marked,” Anubis reminded you. A surge of anger allowed your next swing to nearly chop his staff clean in two. Harrow sidled back like a viper, avoiding your secondary strike, but only barely.

Why is he not? After all he’s done?

“There is no proof,” Anubis answered; Harrow lunged, bringing his staff toward your neck with such force it would have snapped it clean in two had he hit his mark. Your feet shifted to better your stance, bringing your weapon to effortlessly block his attack. “Not yet. Killing another Avatar without reason will see us both imprisoned in stone.”

Is my suffering not reason enough? It was a selfish thought. One Anubis felt sympathy for. But he could not condone an action that would see you both set in stone for ten thousand years.

Anubis briefly flashed you a vision. Marc had taken control of their body, dressed in the familiar ceremonial armor as he led the jackal away, the scarab stuffed somewhere in his pockets as he parkoured through the London rooftops. Layla was safe, heading to her Vespa in order to escape the scene and find a way to Marc. Just a few more moments would give them time to reach safety.

Harrow launched a burst of lavender energy at you, a beam that would have incinerated you had you not melted into the shadows at your feet. Through a deep twilight you raced behind him, standing before he could register the fact that your presence had shifted. Without thinking, guided by your years of waiting for this moment of revenge, you swung with all your might, supernatural strength coursing through your body as you aimed to rent Harrow’s body clean in half from shoulder to hip.

“Enough,” Anubis commanded, stopping your momentum; your body quaked against the invisible force. Harrow flinched; and when he realized that you couldn’t hurt him, he smirked.

No… no no no no no—

“You cannot kill him, little one,” Anubis sounded sympathetic.

It did nothing to curb your rage.

He’s right there, right in front of me, I can do it, I can end him, let me kill him let me kill him let me kill him—

“I cannot.” You could hardly hear him over your scream of hatred, your burning, writhing fury that felt like hot fire. All you could see was red, red and Harrow’s smirk of satisfaction when he realized that you were powerless.

And then all went dark as Anubis sucked you into the Duat.

Your scream echoed into the void as you stumbled forward with built up momentum. The scythe hurled from your hands in a deadly steel hurricane, flying over the sands and into a dune somewhere. Defeated, you fell to your knees, gasping and clenching your fists in the grains of golden sand around you.

“No,” Anubis corrected, kneeling before you. “Not defeated. Death can only be postponed. Never bested.”

Your silver eyes met his gold ones. “I could have killed him.”

“You would have, if I had not stopped you,” Anubis answered. His ears flicked forward, a massive hand coming to rest on your shoulder. “He was not Marked yet, little one. I couldn’t let you kill him.”

“I… I know.” Your voice was small. Much like it had been when Anubis first found you.

“One day,” Anubis assured you. He stood and turned, waving his staff to open a shadowy portal that led to a dark alley. “Why don’t you relive a tender memory of yours to calm yourself? Marc and Layla are safe. I know not the whereabouts of the scarab. I shall have to confer with Khonshu. Until then, ease your mind, my child.”

A tender memory.

You hadn’t had those before Marc and Jake.

Anubis’s thoughtfulness brought tears to your eyes. You got to your feet and stumbled, weapon forgotten, into the portal that Anubis had opened for you.

You sat on a dinghy rooftop with your knees to your chest, forehead ducked low so that your face was hidden behind them. You had been raised in this. Death. It was all you knew, all you had ever known. And yet still, oftentimes you found yourself feeling so much sympathy for your victims, their eyes boring into yours with fear and questions as your powers mummified them. Why did some people need to die, and not others? Why did the nineteen-year-old you’d just taken the life of need to be sent to the Duat, when the men who had kidnapped her were only mauled to death by Jake? Why? Whenever you asked these questions, Anubis never had much of an answer. He would always tell you that perhaps you would know, one day, but that you were too young now to understand.

A child of Anubis, too young to understand death?

…Were you a child of Anubis, or just a personification of that which all humans feared? A monster, in every aspect, for taking their lives?

“Mi vida…”

Jake’s voice made you jump. You shouldn’t have been surprised; even when you’re paying attention, Jake is entirely silent. He doesn’t have the heavy footsteps of Marc, who wants his enemies to know he’s coming. With his mostly-black suit, he’s like a shadow, unseen, unheard, until he’s right up on you, and even then you’re not sure what killed you. You lifted your head as you jumped, whipping it up to look at him.

You were wearing the armor he’d designed for you. It was the first time you’d worn it. It had been better than your other armor, the ceremonial armor, and a part of you wondered if Anubis had made this more powerful because of how strongly you cared for Jake.

His glowing silver eyes stood out from the pitch black mask, focused on you intently as he knelt beside you. “Mi vida,” He repeated, softer than before. His hand, sheathed in the bloody glove, came up to cradle your face. He knew that you didn’t mind blood. His thumb ran over the apple of your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. It glinted like quicksilver. Even your tears were abnormal.

Jake’s other hand came up to mirror the actions of the one that held you, his head dipping forward to rest his forehead on yours. “It’s alright, cariño…”

You may have met Marc first, but it was only days later that you had met Jake. Jake had been… your first. Your first everything. Marc didn’t know, could never know, and both you and Jake felt such intense guilt over that fact that neither of you mentioned the fact that Jake had kissed you first, had slept with you first, had cuddled you first.

But they were your first firsts.

Jake had been your first kiss. You’d never expected to ever have love returned— you’re a reaper, after all, and who would love a reaper? But as you fought Ammit’s jackals on a rooftop in Cairo, the sound of a gunshot from behind made you turn to find that Jake had blown one’s head clean off with his pistol, effectively allowing you to finish off the one you’d been occupied with. You’d demanded what he was doing there, how he could’ve gotten himself killed— and he’d cut you off, yanking you flush against him by your waist and pressing his mouth frantically to yours, all tongue and teeth and frenzied love. He’d confessed then. And he’d checked you over for injuries. You. A reaper.

Your first kiss with Marc took time. A part of you didn’t trust him, another didn’t want to be selfish and allow yourself to fall for him when you were certain you’d only destroy him. But when it did happen it was soft and precious, a moment you cherished alongside your first kiss with Jake. You opened yourself up to Marc then, just a bit.

But Jake was like you. He killed, for a good reason, but he didn’t like it. He took punches he didn’t need to just to feel as if his victim put up a good fight. His hands dripped with blood, and they held your death-covered ones as if they were made of glass. You and Jake bonded because you were killers, forced to become killers without much choice from a young age.

Jake, you trusted wholeheartedly.

And never had he let you down.

He trusted you, when he wasn’t even entirely sure what the full meaning of that word was. When he’d never had anybody else to trust. He’d revealed himself to you the day after you and Marc had met, something he’d never done with anyone else.

And you’d never given him a reason to lose that trust in you.

Jake was the one who’d taken your virginity. After a particularly difficult battle, you and Jake had confessed more than just your love for one another. You’d confessed your worst atrocities, the most vile things you’d ever done. And then after you’d mentioned what horrors your hands had wrought, Jake reached forward and took them in his, encasing yours in calloused fingers and bruised and bloodied knuckles. “You’re not a monster. You’re a fallen angel.”

“How can I be a fallen angel? Angels are pure and good.”

“That’s what you are, mi vida. Nothing else but an angel would care like you do.”

You’d kissed him. “Then you must be my guardian angel.”

He'd kissed you. Then again. And again. He made you promise to tell him if anything he did made you uncomfortable. He’d spent hours with you, kissing you and getting you comfortable before getting you ready for him with his mouth and his fingers, making you feel a euphoric bliss the likes of which you’d never known. It was nothing compared to what you felt when he made you his, when he marked your outsides with bites and your insides with something else. He let you mark him, too, leaving a trail of marks across his collarbone and neck and jaw until you both were a mess of bruises and teeth-shaped marks. When morning came, it didn’t register for either of you, still so lost in each other that you’re sure the whole of the neighborhood heard your moans and loving whispers echoing off each other.

Jake fronted for several days afterward, allowing your marks to fade before he gave the body back to Marc. “You love him, too. And he loves you. I don’t want to ruin that for you.”

Marc never knew that you were a virgin; he only thought you were inexperienced. He didn’t realize that you’d already given yourself to Jake. And neither of you would ever tell him.

And then he’d left you. Marc had abandoned you for Layla, choosing someone who would remind him of his failures because he thought he deserved that rather than being a burden on you. He hadn’t realized just how badly he’d broken you, so badly that you couldn’t even feign competence and strength when Layla came to apologize to you.

You didn’t see Jake for a few weeks, and you thought that he’d abandoned you, too.

Until he’d showed up in that black and white suit outside your window, begging you to forgive him for not coming sooner, how now with Marc and Layla living in London and him having to do Khonshu’s bidding, he’d had no chance to come see you.

And you did forgive him.

Because Jake hadn’t abandoned you.

Whereas Marc was your ex that you still loved, you and Jake had vowed never to leave each other. You felt like soulmates, if that word really meant anything.

“Y/N,” Jake breathed against your ear, bringing you back to the present. Stiffly, you shifted so that you could embrace him, arms wrapping around his middle under his cape.

“Will you ever stop loving me?”

“Oh, mi amor…” Jake held you close, shielding you from the sight of the dead bodies around you, from the city, from your gods, from everything. There was only Jake Lockley, the man you loved more than anything. “Never. Never. I’ve got you, princesa. I’ve got you.”

Jake was the protector of his system. But he was also your protector. And you protected him.

Jake held you on that rooftop and assured you of your humanity just as you assured him of his. Two bloodied, scared souls bonding and seeking shelter with one another.

“Te amo,” He whispered. “Te amo, mi luz de estrella.”

His starlight. Because to him, you were a scattering of life-giving light in the blackest of nights, a blanket of stardust and silver that kept him safe.

But he was also your moonlight. The kind of light of a full moon that blazes at midnight, chasing away shadows and bringing soft light to every surface, giving it meaning and shape.

“I love you,” You told him. “I love you so much.”

That was the night that Jake gave you a plain silver band and asked you to be his forever, even if he wasn’t always there. You took it without hesitation, wearing it around your neck on a silver chain so that none would know of him. Your only weakness. Jake had asked you to.

He had one, too.

The one hanging on your neck was clearly meant for a man’s finger. The one that Jake wore when he fronted, which he kept stored safely in a hidden compartment in his limo when he wasn’t, was much smaller, with a single adorning diamond.

You couldn’t get officially married— you had died in the eyes of the world many years ago, and he legally didn’t exist. A dead girl and a false persona couldn’t be married. So you’d decided to simply exchange rings. In the aftermath of Marc’s abandonment, it was a bittersweet moment.

But now when asked your name, you told them.

Y/N Lockley.

And you knew that somewhere in the world, Jake would sit in the driver’s side of his limo or cab and smile softly as he stared at your ring, wondering how his wife was doing, where she was, hoping she was safe.

“Jake and Y/N Lockley,” you’d sniffled that night, staring at his ring after briefly flicking your eyes up to look at yours, which dangled on a chain around his neck. “Midnight Vigilante and Necromancer… That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Jake held you close without a word, pressing his forehead to yours. Maybe he was crying. You couldn’t have been sure, not with his mask.

That was the last night you saw him before you met him in the Alps.

When you woke up, the blistering winds of the Duat were ripping through your cape. The ache of the memories had left you ragged, lungs hurting from the force of sobs you hadn’t realized you’d unleashed and cheeks covered in the cracking shell formed from dried tears.

For several minutes you sat there, attempting to compose yourself, before even thinking of why you were here in the first place.

With a growl of annoyance, you struggled to your feet. “Anubis!”

“What is it?” The enormous god appeared beside you without a sound. Dust and gray sands caught in his leathery skin and curled around his staff like a cloud, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Where’s the scarab?”

His ears flicked, but his expression gave away nothing. “Harrow has it.”

You stumbled back in shock. After everything… after all this time, trying to beat him to finding it…

Your bloodcurdling scream of rage, punctuated by the half-buried corpses and bones flung away from you in a shockwave of sand, would have driven a mortal man mad.

“Marc Spector is on his trail,” Anubis added. “And he takes with him Steven Grant, who may encumber his process. Layla el-Faouly, I believe, is also tracking him. Jake, as you know, has always sought after Harrow. If he can front but for a few days, his leads on Ammit’s tomb may prove useful.”

His meaning, left unsaid, was clear as spoken words to you. With Marc and Steven getting to know each other, it was harder for Jake to front at all. He might disappear entirely, and it’s a thought that makes you feel sick to your stomach. If Jake dies… you’re not certain you could keep living. This, Anubis knew and feared.

“Where is he?” You demanded. Your much smaller stature did not warrant a smaller attitude.

“In Cairo,” Anubis boomed, turning to open a portal for you. You didn’t realize that it opened right into Marc’s hotel room until you found yourself, in pitch black armor, adorned with bones and desert sands, standing in the center of a nice, aesthetically pleasing bathroom. You stumbled as you nearly walked into the toilet, knocking over a couple of bottles of shampoo on the rack above it.

Almost immediately, Marc popped around the corner with a gun.

When he saw you, even despite your current appearance, he relaxed, lowering the handgun. “Oh. Uh… Didn’t think to expect you.”

You let your arms fall to your sides. “Who else would be busting into your hotel bathroom? One which doesn’t have windows, might I add?”

Marc shook his head and backed up so you could exit the bathroom without squeezing past him. You heard him empty the gun of its magazine behind you. “So what brings you here?”

“The scarab, obviously,” You snapped, turning to him with fury in your glowing eyes. “How the fuck did Harrow get it?”

Marc never knew that Harrow was your father. It was something which you knew would deem you and your actions unforgivable. You didn’t want to be viewed as the monster your father was. You hadn’t told Jake, either; he’d figured it out. He’d done research on you after Marc started to fall for you, which you hadn’t prepared for. You remember the despair you’d felt when he’d slapped the official documents before you and sat down. For awhile, he’d sat nothing… until finally, he reached over and took your hands in his. “You are not your father, cariño. Don’t ever think you have it in you to be what he is.”

You still refused to tell Marc. The hatred he’d spew about Harrow made you afraid of what he’d say about you if he ever found out. You didn’t want Marc to hate you. Maybe one day, he’d find out. But not by your choice.

Marc, however, assumed your vehemence towards Harrow was something spawned from the conflict between Anubis and Ammit’s Avatars, or maybe an unresolved battle between you that had damaged your pride. He never asked many questions, thankfully.

Marc shifted his weight a little, almost awkwardly. “...It fell out of our pocket during the fight.”

Our pocket.

For some reason, the mention of Steven softened you significantly. Your harsh glare faded, and you let your armor melt away. You felt naked without it, a vulnerability you didn’t quite like. Not without Marc or Jake nearby. Even now, in front of Marc, it felt uncomfortable to be in regular clothes.

Jake was the only one you felt truly at ease exposing yourself to, the only one with whom you felt as if you didn’t need to keep a barrier up around. Marc protected you, and you loved him, but he’d also hurt you, despite whatever intentions he may have had. Jake never did.

Marc frowned as he looked out the window over Cairo, eyes scanning the streets as he waited for you to yell at him. “...It wasn’t your fault, Marc,” you said instead, and he turned to face you with glistening eyes. “Hope isn’t completely lost. We’re alive, aren’t we? Then we still have a chance.”

Marc nodded. You knew he didn’t trust his voice enough to speak, so you joined him by the window. When you recognized the streets below, you felt a pang of nostalgia. “...This isn’t far from where we lived.”

The memories— walking arm-in-arm from the market with him poking at your sides in an attempt to tickle you, pulling you close to kiss your temple, hugging you from behind as you made dinner together— were painful. Marc swallowed hard.

“...You deserve someone better. That’s why I left.”

“I love you, Marc,” you sighed, “I love you. I don’t want anyone else. Can’t you see that?” With another sigh, you added, “Do you feel anything for Layla at all? Or are you just…”

“I love her,” Marc choked out, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth in a desperate attempt to stifle his tears. The admission stung. “I love you. And I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t love both of you, or one of you. I shouldn’t love anyone. Even with something as simple as a relationship, I screw everything up. I broke your hearts and now what? Now you’re both in my life again. Now I have to face what I did, and…”

“What’s worse is we both still love you,” You finished for him, feeling sympathetic. “And now you don’t know what to do.”

Marc made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a choke as he turned to face you, putting his hands on your shoulders. “Baby, how am I… how am I supposed to… if we survive this, how am I supposed to make a choice?”

His cracking voice broke your heart. Marc had already been through hell his whole life; why, you wondered, did it seem that fate was intent on making him suffer in every aspect of his life?

You took his face in your hands. “We’ll figure something out,” You assured him, although you weren’t entirely sure if that were possible. “We’ll figure it out together. I promise.”

Marc nodded, rushing forward; at first it startled you, but then you realized that he was hugging you tightly, like he was scared to let go. “I love you, I love you, I’m so sorry I’m sorry—“

“Marc,” You interrupted, pulling back a little to look into his dark eyes. “Don’t. It’s not your fault.”

Marc met your gaze reluctantly, allowing himself a small nod. His hands came up to cup your face in his hands, and after a moment of hesitation, you both moved forward in a passionate kiss. When you part, you’re barely centimeters away from each other, tongues still tangled in an unspoken question, before you both dove back in for more. Deep, heated kisses stole your breath away. Marc whimpered into your mouth, hands traveling to splay across your back and press you flush against him.

Your heart pounded against your ribcage, memories of last night coming to the forefront of your mind. He seemed less desperate now, more in need of love than anything else. You didn’t realize he’d walked you to the bed until your calves hit its edge, making you tumble back with him on top of you, careful of his weight.

One of his hands wrestled yours out from between you, entwining his fingers with yours before pressing it into the mattress beside your head. At the same time, he tilted his head to deepen the kiss with a moan in the back of his throat, one that made you whimper for him. The sound you emitted was one that drove him crazy, one that made his hips jerk into you and become desperate for your touch.

Marc started to strip you of your clothes, pulling off your shirt and jacket while keeping as close to you as humanly possible. His free hand roughly palmed your breast as he ground into you, twisting and pushing against you like he was trying to become one with you. You accepted him readily, pulling off his jacket, his shirt, even getting him out of his pants before he’d gotten you up into the center of the bed, your bodies writhing against each other in search of a way to get more.

But what you couldn’t hear, Marc could.

You couldn’t hear Steven become conscious, suddenly realizing what was happening between you and Marc. You didn’t know that Steven was torn between watching your beautiful form laid on the bed like that under him, even through Marc’s eyes, and being appalled. Wasn’t Marc married? Wasn’t he with Layla? Who was this Avatar of Anubis, so alluring like an enchantress, who would seduce a married man into bed with her? If that’s what happened at all. Did Marc have a history with you, too? Is that what Layla had meant? Steven wasn’t sure. All he knew is that he couldn’t stand it, being in the dark like this. He didn’t know Marc, or you, or Layla. He’s a stranger thrust into the midst of these people’s lives and he’s not sure what to do about it.

“Marc,” He finally choked out, and Marc paused, making you confused. The look of disappointment on your face broke Steven’s heart. “What about Layla?”

“What about Layla?” Marc growled back; but he hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Steven flinched away from Marc’s anger as your face fell, as you squirmed out from underneath of him and collected your shirt and jacket. Steven felt bad for you; you must have a story. Your eyes are always so full of sadness. He wonders if you might tell him one day.

“We’ll figure it out, Marc,” you whispered, and through Marc’s eyes, blurry with tears, he watched as a smokey black portal opened in the wall, leading to a purple-hued desert as your skeletal armor returned to your body, your scythe appearing like a staff in your hand.

Marc was crying. Steven regretted having said anything. Your glowing silver eyes didn’t disguise your pain. He can’t begin to understand; but he knows you’re hurting. “Y/N—“ Marc called, brokenly. You turned to him, haunted. But strong. A reaper, a necromancer, a daughter of Anubis, whatever you were. You were strong. “...We’ll figure it out.”

You nodded, resolutely. Then you were gone, swallowed by shadow as if you’d never been there in the first place. Marc stood. He paced. Steven felt his growing fury and wasn’t sure if he should be scared or sympathetic. “Marc,” Steven said softly from the surface of the mirror at the end of the bed. “M-Marc, I’m sorry—“

“Shut up,” Marc snapped, low under his breath. He ran a hand through his hair as he passed by the mirror to get to the bottle of scotch they’d found in the drawer, on the nightstand with the gloves somebody left behind.

Steven hated alcohol. He couldn’t stand it. It made him feel sick. Was Marc doing it because he wanted to spite Steven, or because he wanted to drink his problems away? “Marc—“

That was it. The final straw.

Marc snapped.

Steven could only watch, glad to be in his mind rather than in a separate body which Marc would be able to hit, as Marc started to tear apart the room. He let his anger take control, destroying vases and pots and lamps and anything he could find to annihilate. When he was finished, he was heaving for breath and his eyes were wild— wild, and full of pain.

“Marc,” Steven tried softly, “I’m sorry—“

“Shut up,” Marc hissed, storming toward the mirror, “Shut up! Shut up, just shut the fuck up!” Steven flinched as Marc, bare-handed, punched the mirror with all of his strength, cracking it, in the midst of his rant. Steven immediately went silent, but that wasn’t enough for Marc. He turned and yanked a blanket off the bed, hurling it messily over the mirror and casting Steven in darkness.

Steven stumbled back, settling on the edge of the bed that he was sure wasn’t even a mirror image. Shivering, he wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, realizing his hands were covered in blood— Marc’s blood. Steven didn’t even fight the tears streaming down his face as he tried to wipe it off on the blankets to no avail. He just wanted to go home, back to his semi-normal life and away from all this, these gods and monsters and complicated love triangles that he was somehow now a part of.

He felt like something was watching him and simply curled up deeper into the thick blankets, too tired and upset to care.

What he didn’t see was the figure in the distant corner, sat on the other end of the twisted hotel room reflection in the chair by the nightstand with the gloves. If Steven would have looked up, he would have seen dark eyes watching carefully, waiting to see if he needed to intervene, as he slowly flipped a small ring with a diamond on it between his fingers. A fist with bruised knuckles clenched tightly around it after a moment, holding it to his chest as his eyes cast to the wall of the room where you’d disappeared through.

He felt sympathetic for Steven. Really, he did. And also for Marc. His brothers may not know he exists, but that doesn’t mean he cares any less. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t get pissed at them. He had half a mind to slam their heads together and make them talk things out like adults rather than throw tantrums and whine. Or maybe he was just being so cold because he was so angry.

“Pendejos,” He growled under his breath, “That was my wife you just hurt.”

He wasn’t surprised when they didn’t hear him.

They never did.

Thanks for reading!

Tags: @dameronsknight @sylkisdagger @atzlena @gucciboots @pastel-0-princess @poeticsorcery @rosaren2498 @love-on-the-murder-scene @wintergirlsoilder2 @blackcat-midnight-thatsme @multifandomsw @bookloverfilmoholic @khaotic-kris @hb8301 @soggumm @simonsbluee @aniskywalkerslvr @bluestuesday @magnet-girl @rosellacwrites @dweeb-central @ilymorepls @drwhofangirl1963 @loonymagizoologist @auszimbo @tealrivers @later-gators12 @izbelross @xcatnapsx @child-of-the-moon-gods @djarinsgirl27 @sokoviansorceress @eerievixen @cold-buffet-ham @upbeat-cascade @stark-kirk-rogers-grant-blog @candydancey @rqmanoff @jakelcckley @sharin4readers @lovely-cryptid @marc-spectorr @rmoonstoner @oscarisaacsspit @moonknightyws @hopefulfangirl24 @local-mr-frog @daawnsutopia @mandosmistress @yoditopascal @halerune @tojisprincess @freeshavocadoooo @kingtwhiddleston

[sultrysirens]

I just turned 21!!! and it got me thinking, how would the guys celebrate their 21st? Got any headcanons for us, Miss Nightshade?

Oh shit how long has it been since you sent this...? Timestamps aren't a thing lmao, sorry. And congratulations! :D

Of course the boys would wanna try alcohol! They've been waiting their whole lives for this moment!!

Raph goes first and foremost for the hard liquor like gin and rum

gotta prove he's a MAN amirite??

then he smells the fruity drinks Mikey and Don are sharing and changes his mind

can't be that bad if TWO of his bros are drinking it, right?!

Leo tries to keep sophisticated about it and totally puts on airs lmao

"I'll drink the sake one sip at a time like you're supposed to"

also tries to keep his bros under some measure of control

it does not last

Mikey just starts chugging the drinks he's always wanted to try

and also spits out any of them he doesn't like just all over the table

Donnie's the smart one, making sure he stays hydrated between drinks and imbibes slowly while keeping active notes of how drunk he's feeling after each one so he can figure out his tolerance level

soon Mikey and Raph are hanging on each other and singing along with whatever music is on the stereo, probably loudly and off-tune

it annoys Leo a lot but he can't say anything cause baby bro Mikey looks so h a p p y

Donnie suggests they play arcade games as they get progressively drunker

Leo eventually gives up on propriety and chugs an entire bottle of wine which he fails to remember doing

Donnie starts filming shit at that point while chortling all the while

he thinks he's more sober than he is and keeps trying to narrate and thinks he's holding the camera steady but NOPE

Mikey strangely holds his liquor the best, but he also drank the hardest so he's still the first to blackout

Raph and Leo devolve to chanting drinking rhymes and doing complex patty-cake games in an attempt to out-sober each other

Donnie is now mumbling and slurring everything he says but he still thinks he's being perfectly coherent

Mikey intermittently gets up, talks to himself, yells at the TV, has another drink, etc, then blacks out again

usually he's staring at the neon signs when it happens with his mouth open like

like he's just lost in how pretty lights are, like bros, bros, hey bros, do you -- do you see how -- how pretty lights are??

keeps passing out and waking up and he falls into the canal like seven times

Leo and Raph have devolved further into arguing with each other but at the same time are having two completely different conversations with each other

Raph's talking about monster trucks and Leo's talking about Mozart

they both think the other is responding to their subject

somehow Donnie ended up filming the ground and mumbling about the cracks in the concrete and the tiny microscopic civilizations living inside them like tiny worlds all of their own

do you think there's tardigrades down there??

next morning Mikey is facedown on the floor in a puddle of drool

Donnie is slumped over in a chair, snoring louder than he's ever snored

Raph made it to the bunk beds but fell asleep in Mikey's

Leo's in the dump truck and has no idea why or how he got there

they all slowly rouse while Splinter goes about making hangover remedies

they crawl to the kitchen one by one, and when they're all there and staring at each other with dry, sunken eyes, they simultaneously just go

"...That was AWESOME"

and thus did getting blackout drunk become a yearly birthday tradition

[transmasculineselfielove]

Hi all,

Sorry for the radio silence from me for so long. A while ago I received some serious harassment and threats related to this tumblr and it just was too much for me to deal with. It's funny because I've gotten a lot of harassment from racists, truscum, fatphobes, and other bigots which didn't feel like a big deal. But something happened that was different this time. I don't want to go into details. I was hoping that I'd shake it off and get back to reblogging posts but... my heart's just not in it anymore.

Part of the problems I've had in the past was with reblogging people who ended up not wanting to be reblogged (even though they were posting in common tags for trans guys and didn't indicate that they were not to be shared). So this blog is going to be submission only moving forward. I know that submission blogs like this don't tend to be very active, and I'm sorry about that. I don't think anybody's found a solution to the lack of submissions blogs like this tend to get after a while. Maybe I could create a sort of advertisement for the blog that I post to some popular tags every now and again?

I'm also considering reblogging some things that aren't selfies specifically, like general positivity, calls to action, informative posts, etc. Just to have some activity here without risking sharing stuff that wasn't meant to be shared.

I'd love to hear from the folks who are still following to see if there's anything you'd like to see from this blog. In the meantime, I need to update some things like pinned post and "about us" page.

Thanks to all who have been following for a while, despite my intermittent absences.