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mrsaguapapi · 6 months ago

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Chapter 18

My Sunshine

The Vibe:

Corinne Bailey Rae 11. Seasons Change

"Wanda is dead. I saw her die" Stranges says pacing away in his office. Looking absolutely ridiculous with his lounge clothes and a cloak.

"She's alive Stephen." I say exasperated

"Okay, I'll play. Let's say she's alive, which she's not. Why of all people would you go to her?" he gestures to himself, "I can help you."

"I'm not letting you anywhere near my memories thank you very much." I scoff at him, "I don't have time to bring you up to speed, I need to speak with her, and considering with what happened in Westview and your little multiverse incident, I don't know where her head is at mentally. All I'm asking is that you watch my back and be on standby" I plead

"Look I want to help you but that last thing we need is to instigate another fight with Wanda Maximoff, IF, she's even alive," Strange says. "If she's alive, I theorize she won't be happy seeing me, so no, I'm not going with you," I roll my eyes and stand up, ready to walk out, "I didn't say I wasn't going to help you," he says stopping me in my place

"Okay well, Stephen can you just spit it out some of us have shit to do," I say holding my hands out annoyed

He rolls his eyes and pulls out a display and uncovers it revealing a floating crystal ball, "This is the Orb of Agamotto. This allows me to monitor the universe and other surrounding dimensions. With the ability to 'Livestream' other planets and pinpoint magic users anywhere, except for those with the power to block its view. I can use this to watch you from a distance and if anything goes wrong, I'll portal to you and help"

I take a moment to think about it, "Fine, you have a deal" I say holding out my hand to him

He shakes my hand and smiles, "Does this mean I'm forgiven?"

"Ugh and you ruined it," I say, dropping my hand, rolling my eyes, and grabbing my sling ring, "For the record, I never really blamed you, and neither does Peter. You just happen to have an annoying face and that I can't forgive" I laugh to myself," Give me your phone" I say to Strange. He hands me his phone and I put my number in it and call myself so I have his number, "When I get there I'll call you and have you in my ear." I say putting an airpod in and giving back his phone. Pausing for a moment I take in a deep breath and exhale allowing myself to relax before opening a portal to the shuffling streets of Sokovia.

I step through turning to look at Strange, "If she's alive and as powerful as before she could easily sever my connection. Just keep that in mind." He warns. I nod my head and close the portal.

"Okay let's get this show on the road," I say to myself walking the down the city streets

----------------------

After getting some food and thinking about the next approach I decided instead of using a locator spell and exposing her safe space, I figure I'll summon her to me. So I picked the most public place I could think of.

A playground

Sitting on the bench watching the children play, I say in my head, "Wanda, I need your help" I call out to her making sure my intention is clear and that I mean no harm, "That should do the trick" I whisper to myself. I pull out my phone to call Strange, "Hey, she'll be here any minute. Can you see me?"

"You chose to bring 'The Scarlet Witch' to a playground?"

"She won't hurt the children," I say

"I once thought that too until she tried to murder America Chavez in front of me" he quips

"Yea well this time will be different Stephen," I say annoyed "Have a little hope will ya?"

He sighs, "You never told me why you need her specifically."

"I was told by my dead mother to go to her directly. She didn't say why, but I trust her judgment. Wanda may also have some info on someone else I'm looking for." I say rather quickly and annoyed

"So the short answer is you don't know," he says

"I've been on the phone with you for 2 mins and I already want to kick your ass," I say making us both laugh

"What's so funny?" I hear someone say near me, causing me to damn near jump out of my skin. It was Wanda sitting next to me in civilian clothes with her hair dripping wet.

"Good lord girl. You don't have to be so creepy" I say clutching my fake pearls

"You started It. I heard your little whispers in my ear while I was in the shower. I thought you had the drop on me." she laughs under her breath, "So why are you here? Don't you know I'm 'dead'? I'm sure Stephen told you. Right Stephen?" She asks a little louder

She knows

"Did you think I wouldn't know?" Wanda Asks

"Millie she's blocking me, I can't see you anymore," Stephen says in my ear, "I'm coming to you"

"Hold off Stephen," I say out loud, "It's okay" I pause looking at Wanda with a small smile, "Do you blame me? If I didn't come with some sort of backup, I'd be pretty dumb don't ya think?"

She looks at me for a while like she was searching for something in my face eventually looking away and letting out a large exhale, "I have been a real witch lately" she says causing me to laugh, "You said you needed my help and I could really use a distraction right now, so what can I do for you?"

"Hey, Stephen you still there?" I ask

"I'm still here. You still alive?" He asks

"Yep. I'm gonna let you go, I'm okay" I say to him

"Are you sure?"

"Mhmm, I'll text you later," I say before hanging up on him, "Let me buy you a drink. We've got a lot to talk about." I say standing up and holding out my hand to her

"One drink isn't going to cut it," She says taking my hand "Might have to buy the bar," she says making us both chuckle.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wanda and I have been venting and drinking for an hour or so at this dingy little bar in the middle of town. We both are sitting in a booth in the back of the room effectively away from the other patrons.

"So," I say before throwing back another tequila shot, "So out of grief you kidnapped and brainwashed a random town in New Jersey, Created a fake husband and children, and then traveled through other universes, blindly looking for said fake children?" I ask

"Well," Wanda taking a sip of her bourbon, "I feel like you're oversimplifying it a bit. Westview wasn't a random town, Vis bought us some land there to build us a home and my children are only fake here, they're very much real elsewhere, but... essentially yes you are correct." She says finishing the drink

"Wanda," I say rubbing my head from the sudden rush I'm feeling, "That like really sucks"

"I Know right? "Oh and let's not forget Pietro, my dead twin brother," She says nonchalantly

I burst out in laughter, I couldn't help myself at her candor, "I'm sorry that was so mean" I said trying to control myself.

Surprisingly Wanda joins me, "You are fucked up, you know that?" She says laughing with me

"I know! I know! I'm sorry, it's either you laugh or you cry and I'm tired of crying" I say catching my breath from laughing

"Couldn't have said it better myself" Wanda says collecting herself from laughing with me"So enough about me and my lifetime of trauma, fill me in on what's going on; why do you need my help?"

"Can I just so show you? It will be quicker" I ask holding my hand out to her

"Is it going to hurt?" She asks hesitantly

"No. I mean no one has complained before?" I say smiling and shrugging. She places her hand in mine and I use my memory transference on her filling her in on everything; my ghost mom and her past with the darkhold, the books from Wakanda, how peter found me in the lake, and my lack of memory.

"Wow," Wanda says taking her hand back, "You've got some serious power Millie, your magic is vast." She says rubbing her hand "Unpredictable too... It's very familiar."

"Well that wasn't ominous at all," I say a little creeped out, "Can you help me?"

"Yes, I think so. We'll need an open field and it's probably going to hurt" She says standing up "Come on we should get going"

"Fine," I say standing up and throwing some cash on the bar, "But can we not skip over the whole 'it's going to hurt thing"

"I imagine being struck by lightning doesn't feel good," She says walking out

"Well Fuck" I say following her

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Vibe:

Bishop Briggs - Lessons of the Fire: Official Lyric Video | Devil In Ohio | Netflix

Wanda takes me to this field on the outskirts of town. It was surrounded by overarching trees and we were in the open center. When I look up I see nothing but a full moon and stars. The air was cool and the energy surrounding us was peaceful. Wanda had set up several candles around me in a circle and stepped out leaving me alone in the center

"Explain it to me one more time, " I say a little freaked out

"You need to summon the lightning to strike you"

"Okay but why?" I say a little freaked out

"The connection you and your ancestors have with nature runs deep in your blood. Channeling the weather seems to be something engrained in your DNA, specifically thunderstorms and lightning. A storm woke you up in that lake; you were struck by lightning. I'm hoping that with almost the same conditions, it could do the same for your mind. Make sense?" She finishes

"Yes, it does, I think. I'm sorry but I am scared the last time this happened it left me with a giant scar across my body." I say unconsciously rubbing my scar, "Are you sure you can't do some kind of spell?"

"I can't. Quite frankly I'm afraid too"

"What does that mean?" I scoff

"You possess multiple forms of magic. It shouldn't be possible to have more than 2 or 3. Millie, from what I felt from your hand and what you've shown me in your memories, you seem to possess 4. I'm afraid if I go poking around in your brain that you will unconsciously retaliate and that's the last thing we want to do."

Why is she being so cautious?

"What forms do you think I possess?"

"1 being eldritch magic, which you learned from the sorcerers. Accessible by humans, eldritch magic can be properly controlled by those with highly disciplined minds who have been trained in casting spells. Your ancestor Ayesha was a sorcerer supreme, so it's only natural that you have an affinity for this form. " Wanda pauses, I can tell she's a little hesitant to continue.

"Go on it's okay, I can take it," I say trying to convince her, and myself

"The second being Dark Magic, also known as Witchcraft. An extremely powerful and difficult type of magic used by sorcerers and witches to achieve their goals through morally questionable means.

"Morally questionable means? I would never hurt anyone.." I begin to say

"You wouldn't now, but what about you before your memory loss? Who's to say you weren't a bad guy? In your memories when your mother died you were taken by a coven of witches led by Agatha. Agatha isn't exactly a good witch; she's ancient and she's evil. I wouldn't be surprised that her influence on you wasn't positive, especially considering that she's also possessed the darkhold." Wanda sighs. "She was a pain in my ass, I'll take you to her after this."

She has a point, what if my memory comes back and I still have an allegiance to her? What If I lose my feelings for my current loved ones...

"Anyways" Wanda continues pulling me back from internal panic, "Dark magic can be combined with other types of magic, which leads me into your last 2 forms, darkhold and chaos Magic. When your mother was using the darkhold while pregnant with you, a portion of its power embedded itself in you. I am almost positive that's why are you able to use magic just by mentally displaying your intent."

"I can understand why I may have dark hold magic but chaos magic feels like a stretch. Due to its very nature, chaos magic is extremely unstable and requires a massive amount of energy and control to master it; I don't feel I'm at that level. I would have noticed by now right?"

"Like me, you were born with latent magical abilities, yours coming from your ancestors. Your generational power bestowment has given you vast immeasurable strength that was the perfect breeding ground for chaos magic. Let me ask you, have you been losing your temper or lost control of your powers lately?"

"Yea I have been losing control of my powers," I say thinking back to the incident in my bedroom and outside of the royal palace in Wakanda, "I also almost killed a man yesterday. Honestly, I think I could have done it if I wasn't stopped."

"Key signs. I knew your power felt familiar, I felt the chaotic energy pulsate through your veins; You're like me. If I fuck anything up messing with your memories you could go crazy destroying everything in sight. Do you get it now?" She says to me very seriously

"I do" I pause lost in my thoughts. After a few more seconds I hear a loud beep come from my pocket. I pull out the source of the noise and realize it was my pager.

It was a new voice message from Namor, I hold it to my ear and listen, "I miss you more Ki'ichpan"

Through messages and he still makes me swoon.

Feeling a little relaxed, I take in a deep breath, "What do I need to do"

Wanda holds out her hand, "Give me your beeper and your cell so they don't get destroyed." Doing as she says I throw my things in my sling bag and hand it to her, "Okay do what you need to do, to feel as connected to the nature surrounding us"

I take off my sneakers and socks linking my feet to the grass, "Okay" I nod to her

"You can already control the basic elements correct?"

"Yes," I say

"What are the conditions needed to cause a storm?" She asks me

"Storms form when warm, moist air rises into the cold air," I respond

"Make that happen," She says plainly

I silently nod my head and close my eyes; my feet are firmly planted on the ground and my hands are open at my side. I begin to box breathe:

In 1,2,3,4

Hold 1,2,3,4

Out 1,2,3,4

Repeat

Eventually, I feel myself relax, I'm only focused on the surrounding sound of the night; the wind around me was nothing more than a breeze. I was in a total moment of zen and for a while it was quiet. After minutes of silence, the wind around me began to dance and I feel the hair on my arms stand, "It's coming I can feel it" I said as the wind begins to pick up rapidly.

I open my eyes and lift my hand to the sky calling the lighting to me. I see storm clouds forming over us almost fully blocking out the moon, nearly leaving us in total darkness if not for the candles, "Come on" I yell to the storm. For a moment it grew eerily quiet but suddenly flashes of lights began to paint the sky; it was my lightning. Just as I began to smile with pride from the storm I created, a giant bolt of lightning makes it's way down, connecting to my hand and making my whole body seize.

The pain I feel is almost indescribable; not only did my body feel like every inch of me was on fire but my head felt like my brain was boiling inside my skull. For what felt like an eternity, but in reality, it was only a matter of seconds, the pain stopped and I fell to the ground. The only thing I remember before fading away was Wanda rushing to me, "Millie Wake up" she says, "Millie don't g-", was all I hear before slipping away.

----------------------------------------------

The Vibe:

Breathe me -- sia

It's dark and quiet. I can't feel anything. I can't move.

"Mom.." I hear a males voice whisper

Who's voice is that?

I hear the voice speak again, "Mom I-" he coughs not being able to finish his sentence.

I know that voice.

"Momma I can't move" he speaks clearly before coughing and gurgling. That voice is so familiar. It's warm like the sun. The sun...

You are my sunshine

My only sunshine

You make me happy

When skies are gray

You'll never know, dear

How much I love you

Please don't take

My sunshine away

I love the sun. My son. I named him after the Sun God; the creator of the universe. He's my sunshine, my world, the center of my universe. My Amun.

"Amun!" I yell jolting up. When sitting up I instinctively grab my stomach in utter pain. Looking down I see I'm bleeding, I'm assuming a stab wound. Looking around I see I'm back at that same awful place. Kissena Park.

"Mom," Amun says

I hear my son call to me again; I snap my head in his direction and I see my son lying on the ground covered in blood, "No!" I scream crawling to him, "No, no, no"

When I reach him and scan him a little closer I can see he was stabbed like me but it must be somewhere fatal spot because he was coughing up blood, "He stabbed and knocked you out" he says in between coughs, "I tried t-to protect you but I wasn't strong enough, I'm s-sorry Mom"

"Hush now baby," I say panicked and in between tears, "I can heal you," I say holding my hand over his wound.

"You're too w-weak, you'll die," He says

"I don't care. You are my son, my life means nothing without yours. Just breathe baby" I say trying to calm him and myself down

"Momma, who is that? Sh-she looks like you" He says looking past me. I turn around and see no one.

"Amun baby no one is there," I say

"Momma she's so warm. I think- I think I'm going to go with her" Amun says to me

No.

"No baby stay with me. Don't go." I say my voice begins to shake, "Stay with me, I can fix you, Please" I beg

"It's okay momma, I'll be fine." He says before looking behind me and nodding his head.

I turn around and still see nothing, "What am I to do? How do I breathe without you?"

Amun takes my hand and squeezes it and smiles before taking his last breath. His hand relaxed in mine, and his eyes glossed over. As he took his last breath he took a part of me with him. I pull my son's body to me holding him tightly never wanting to let him go.

"Well that was dramatic" I hear a man say from behind me, "It was a shame he went down so fast, I expected more from him considering his lineage."

I gently put my boy's body down leaving a kiss on his forehead before standing up and turning around. It was the faceless man in the black suit, "Bring him back"

"Like mother, like daughter. What are you willing to trade for his life? Your mother gave me her power. What do you have to barter?"

"Take anything, my power, my life, my soul. I don't care to take it all"

"No" he responds, "Why would I bring him back? I was the one who killed him."

"Y-you attacked us?" I asked. My voice was shaking; I was filled with not only grief and sadness but an overwhelming sense of rage, "Why? We lived in peace, I have atoned for my past. How did you even find us, we were so careful for years."

"Your family has always been on my radar, But you should thank your friend Agatha, she pointed me in your direction." He smiles as my heart drops

Agatha why?...

"I knew one day eventually one of your family's descendants' power would rival mine and I just can't have that. I figure it's time to end the whole bloodline. You should take some pride that it ends with you, you are the strongest and with more time you could have been more powerful." He steps closer placing a hand on my cheek. I look at him where his eyes should be, "It'll be easier if you just surrender Millaenyia"

"All chances of me surrendering left when you Killed my son." I sneer

"So be it," he says disappointed. Before I knew it his hands were hovering at the side of my head, he was draining me of my power and my life, "Don't worry this won't take long" he says softly

I fall to the ground, no longer able to stand up. If I don't act quickly, I will die.

Maybe I should let him.

I ponder on that thought for a while and just as I was about to accept my fate the man speaks up, "Almost done, you'll soon be with your son"

My son. He killed my son.

I snap out of it, realizing I was about to let my son's murderer roam free, I quickly devise a plan.

I'm too weak to kill. But I think I have enough in me to trap him.

I look up and see the man holding his head back as he was draining me, he wasn't paying attention to my hands. I lift my hand out toward the tree behind him; I use what's left of my powers to form an opening in the tree that was big enough to hide a body within it. Once done I call to the roots and branches of the tree, willing them to slowly creep up behind the man and gently wrap around his legs and arms. He was so focused on the feeling of this newly acquired power of his, that he didn't notice he was being detained until it was too late.

"What is this?" He says seeing the branches wrapped around his hand, "What are you do-" the man says before whipping back into the tree. His arms were now behind his back being thoroughly wrapped in roots followed by the rest of his body. The only exposed part of him now was his neck up, "This won't hold me, you child"

I stand up and walk to him, "You will rot in here" I sneer before wrapping my hand around his neck quickly taking back my power and life force. "All you care about is power right?" I ask knowing the answer, "I'll take that too" I say now draining him of his energy and power, leaving just enough to keep him alive so he can rot here for the rest of days.

"Let me-" he struggles to say "Let me ou-" The roots cover the rest of him effectively muffling his words. I step back holding my hand out to the tree and use my powers to close and seal it shut. I place my hand on the tree and close my eyes:

To be Seen or Unseen.

Never in the focus of one's eye

Of nature's age, it does defy

To be Seen, or Unseen

With this spell, this tree will never age. It shall never be directly seen but it will always be here.

Once done with the small runes are now etched around the tree sealing his fate. I walk back to my Amun and look at him one last time.

I need to bury you, my love.

When I go to pick him up I see he had the journal he made of me tucked away in his jacket. Not wanting to leave the journal behind for someone to find and use, I grab it and bind it to my wrist before I pick Amun up. I walk towards the lake and will the water to separate allowing me to walk down to the center of the lake. Once I make it to the spot I place Amun down. I kiss his forward one last time, "My sweet boy" I say before I hold my hand out and use my power to have him sink into the dirt, fully burying him.

I lay beside him now, with the intention of ending my life and resting beside him for eternity. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, something was stopping me like there was someone in my ear telling me no. So, still intending on resting beside my son, I decide that if I'm too cowardly to end it now, I don't deserve to remember him in case I wake up:

Forget me not

Forget me now

Forget the past

Forget the sound

Forget the memories

Forget the love

Forget it all

Forget it now

As I finish the spell, I feel myself begin to fade away and sink to the ground. The water released and is slowly filling the lake back up; I find comfort in my last lingering memory of my son's laughter before I'm completely asleep.

---------------------------------

The Vibe:

Labrinth & Zendaya - I'm Tired (From “Euphoria” An HBO Original Series – Lyric Video)

"Millie wake up!" That is all I hear before I feel water being poured on me.

The sudden feel of cold water all over me jolted me awake. I sit up completely dazed; my eyes were fuzzing and my ears wear slightly ringing. Eventually, the ringing faded and my eyes clear up. I look around and see Wanda sitting next to me, looking like she has seen a ghost, "Are you okay?" She asks, "Fuck you are still steaming, does that hurt? I thought the water would help," she says concerned.

"I'm okay," I say plainly.

"Are you?" she says. I look to her with expressionless eyes and nod.

My body feels numb, it's because of the lightning... No, I remember...

"Did it work? Do you remember?" She asks

"I remember everything," I say beginning to cry, "My son..." I say holding my stomach, I feel like I'm going to throw up, "Oh god my son" I say sobbing

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skootiethedemon · 3 months ago

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Been reading the Comics lately, and Damn Jake Lockley with a beard is a hottie want to draw him with it for now on and my OC loving every bit of it !

Also the Bar and club scene I wanna get into more in the future

#moon knight #jake lockley #my artwrok #artists on tumblr #marvel #moon knight smut #oc artwork #oc x canon #original character #original post #pen and pencil #pen and ink #traditional illustration #steven grant #marc spector #khonshu #marcstevenjake

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01101101ute · 4 months ago

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Redraw of a chocolate ad by Al Parker

#oc #original character #digital art #clip studio paint #al parker #redraw #marc spector #moon knight #oc x canon #bajy

15 notes · View notes

oc3anawrites · 2 months ago

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Shattered Reflections

read previous chapter here

Chapter 3- The man in the mirror.

summary: steven uncovers the truth about the man in the mirror, marc spector and it leads him to meet someone new, amaya young.

a/n: the begining is very similar to how layla and steven meet in the show but don't worry it changes fast

cw: small mention of divorce, other than that its mostly just confused steven

When he arrives at the storage locker, he nervously tells them employee,

“Hi im uh looking for a storage locker it might be under the name Steven, Steven Grant or uh Marc? Just Marc, no surname.”

“I know you, you’re number 43. I never forget a face.” The man leads steven to the storage locker.

Steven enters the storage locker, alone. Once inside the storage locker, Steven finds a cot, supplies that look like army supplies and a duffle bag. He unzips the duffle bag. Inside it’s full of guns, money and a passport with his photo. Steven reads the passport outloud.

“Marc Spector…” Steven sighs and continues looking in the duffle bag where he finds the scarab that Harrow has been looking for.

“Steven, listen to me very carefully..” says Steven’s reflection on a glass pane in the room.

“There he is, hello man in the mirror..” Steven says as he puts his hands into his pocket, clearly nervous.

“You weren’t supposed to see any of this.” Marc responds.

“Well uh it’s a bit too late for that yeah? What am I like, some secret super agent or something?” Steven asks, nervously.

“A bit more complicated than that.” Marc replies.

Growing frustrated Steven asks-

“More complicated what? Am I possessed? Are you like a-a-a demon? Or..” Steven stutters.

“You’re in danger Steven, I can save us. Just like I did last night but I can’t have you interfering-”

Steven moves close to his reflection as Marc continues talking.

“So, you’re gonna go lay down on that cot over there take a nice nap-”

“Are you kidding? I’m never going to sleep again. Look I don’t care how bloody handsome you are yeah? Tell me what it is you are. What are you?” Steven interjects.

“Are you sure you want to know?” Mark asks.

“Yes, bloody yes-”

“I serve Khonsu. I’m his avatar.Which means you are too, sort of. We protect the vulnerable and deliver Khonsu’s justice to those who hurt them.” Mark states.

“Oh my god, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.I eat one piece of steak and then bam i go bonkers.” Steven says, turning away from his reflection.

“I’m having a panic attack, I think I’m having a panic attack. I need to go to the hospital.” Steven says, out of breath.

“I made a deal with Khonsu, that deal is contingent on you not interfering. Now give me control of the body, let me finish this and you’ll never hear from me again.” Marc interrupts.

“You want my body? Right yeah how about this I’m gonna take this bag full of illegal shit to the authorities and they’re gonna put me away so I don’t hurt anyone else. And hopefully the hospital will pump me so full of pills that you get out of my head.” Steven grabs the duffel bag and exits the storage locker.

Suddenly, all of the lights in the building start to go out, the locks on the storage units rattling, the wind shifting around steven.

Steven screams and begins clumsily running towards the exit while Khonsu chases him.

“Give it back, you fool.” Khonsu says, looming over Steven.

Steven lets out a girlish scream, clutches the duffel bag and runs outside. He stumbles and trips onto the street, his head nearly being squashed by a woman on a motorcycle.

✦

“Marc, where the hell have you been?”

“Amaya?” Steven questions, remembering the name and voice from Marc’s phone.

Steven hops onto the back of her motorcycle and she drives away while questioning him.

“What the hell is going on? Is this ‘Steven’ the latest fake identity for you? I thought you were using a coded message when we spoke on the phone.”

“How did you find me?” Steven asks.

“How do you think? I tracked your phone, I thought that’s what you wanted me to do when you turned it on.”

“Uh- right yeah.” Steven replies confused, he isn’t sure what to tell her, or how to explain any of this.

Steven’s hands awkwardly hang onto her shoulders, as he tries not to fall off the bike.

“Why didn’t you at least tell me you were alive? I thought you were in danger or kidnapped again. But I kept telling myself ‘Marc has the suit, he’ll be fine.’ And then my mind would trail off into well what if he doesn’t have the suit or what if he got ambushed. And would you just stop clasping my shoulders like that!-”

“Oh- uh sorry where do I hang on I-” A bump in the road causes Steven to fall onto Amaya, grabbing her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. Stevens face blushes a light shade of pink.

“Do you see what you put me through Marc? I used to be your wife, you know?” She retorts. The touch of the man she once knew on her waist feels unfamiliar to her, unnatural.

“Sorry did you- did you say wife? Are we married?” Steven says, confused.

“Please just drop the act, clearly we lost whoever is chasing you, and drop the fake British accent.” Amaya replies, clearly fed up with whatever game ‘Marc’ is playing.

“What? This is how I talk?”

“Okay, get off my bike.” She says, pulling the motorcycle to a stop.

“Wait wait please, I will tell you everything, just get me to my flat yeah?” Steven responds, panicked.

Amaya sighs but agrees and takes Steven home. He unlocks the door to his apartment and they both walk in. His apartment is a mess. Littered with books about ancient Egypt, Pictures and postcards covering the wall. She walks up to the fish tank, and watches the fish swimming around.

“A goldfish huh?” She asks, watching the fish aimlessly swim in circles.

Steven watches her, and in the reflection from the glass of the goldfish tank Marc says-

“Get her out here Steven, she shouldn’t be here.”

“I just want my life back.” Steven responds.

Amaya turns away from the goldfish tank and faces Steven. “Yeah I can see that.”

“No, no- sorry I wasn’t talking to you, just talking to myself, kind of.” Steven responds.

“Uh this is your apartment.. Marc?” She looks around the room and scoffs when she sees the ankle restraints attached to his bed.

“I’m Steven.” He responds.

“Are you living here with someone else?” Amaya asks, frustrated. She’s had enough of this sick game ‘Marc’ was playing with her.

“No, no no uh this is my mum’s flat.” Steven says.

“Oh so you guys are talking again?” She responds, puzzled.

“Again?” Steven asks.

Amaya ignores him and begins to walk around his apartment, looking at all of the books and items he has around. She sees pages full of hieroglyphs and questions why ‘Marc’ is suddenly learning how to read them.

“Well it’s not like hieroglyphs are a whole language, it’s more like an alphabet.” Steven responds.

She looked down at the papers and read them out loud- “Funeral Rights.”

“Well someone knows their unilaterals. You.” Steven lets out an awkward laugh and points to Amaya.

Amaya sighs and rolls her eyes.

“Okay.. yeah I’m not buying this Marc. You sent these papers but never signed them-” Amaya pulls out some papers from her bag and hands them to Steven.

“Oh did I uh- let’s have a look here.” Steven puts on a red pair of glasses, slightly too big for his face and begins to read the papers.

“You told me that I need to move on. But you didn’t even have the guts to sign them first.” She says as Steven reads the papers.

“Divo- Divorce? I would never divorce you.” Steven says confused.

“What the hell are you talking about? YOU sent these to me.” Her voice is short of a yell now. ‘This is a sick fucking game Marc.’ She thinks to herself.

“Look, you seem absolutely lovely. This Marc, on the other hand is a right twit. Yeah?” Steven looks into the mirror behind him and sees Marc, who sighs and hangs his head in shame.

“Look, I don't know how to explain what’s happening. I don’t expect you to believe me, I honestly don’t even believe myself. All I can do is try to show you what I found-” Steven begins to explain.

“Steven, Steven stop. I mean it Steven. Stop. Don’t bring her into this.” Marc pleads, in Steven’s reflection.

Steven reaches into the bag and begins to pull something out-

“You’re going to get her killed, Steven, close the bag. You show her that scarab, you’re responsible when they come after her.” Marc says angrily.

Steven stops in the middle of his sentence and freezes.

“What? What did you find?” Amaya asks.

“N-nothing, nevermind.”

She walks over to Steven and opens the bag, pulling out an ancient scarab.

“The scarab pointing to Ammit’s ushabti? What we fought side by side for?What is this whole show just because you want it to yourself?” She asks angrily.

“Just take it, take it please. I swear I don’t want it. Please just listen to me. I am not Marc Spector. I am Steven Grant. I work in a gift shop, or I did work in a gift shop. And I think I’m in real danger and you might be the only person who can help me.”

“You really don’t remember why we’ve been looking for this? Our adventures? Or our life together? You don’t remember me?” Amaya says, collecting herself. She doesn’t want to believe a word coming out of this man's mouth but he seems so innocent.

“Oh god I wish I could.” Steven responds.

She pauses for a moment, unsure of how to proceed.

“You’re really not Marc?” She asked.

“No, I promise.” Steven responds, nervously fiddling with his jacket pocket.

Amaya takes a deep breath, unsure if she can trust what the man in front of her is saying. Part of her wants to trust his words, trust that he doesn’t remember how much he hurt her, that he doesn’t remember her. The other part of her wants to spit in his face and never speak to him again. She stays silent for a moment, debating how to respond.

“Okay Steven, I believe you.” Truly, she isn’t sure what to believe but if this is all true it means a man who looks eerily similar to Marc has put his trust in her. She decides to really listen to what the man has to say and open her mind up to the possibility of his words being truthful even though every bone in her body is telling her to run the other way.

“Really- really? Oh thank god.” Steven takes a breath of relief, his shoulders relaxing.

“Tell me everything Steven.” She demands.

Steven begins to speak and then looks in the mirror, expecting a retort from Marc.

“Good job Steven, you’ve just gotten both yourselves killed.” Marc says.

Steven ignores Marc and begins to blurt out everything.

“So a few months ago, yeah? I started having these blackouts, waking up in random places, not knowing where I was.”

She listens intently and lets Steven continue. ‘Blackouts?’ She thinks to herself.

“And a few days ago I started hearing this voice in my head and seeing someone in the mirror. I think I'm sharing a body with someone. With this Marc Spector guy. And he told me he works as Khonshu’s avatar, this all sounds so bonkers right?” Steven looks over to Amaya.

Amaya takes a moment to process everything Steven just told her. ‘Marc and Steven share a body?’ She asks herself. ‘I guess it’s less crazy than ancient gods being real and being able to possess humans.’

“You’re not crazy, Steven.” She replies after collecting her thoughts.

“What? You really don’t think I’ve gone mad?” Steven asks.

“I met Marc a little over 10 years ago in Cairo, eventually I found out about Khonsu and that he was his avatar. So no I don’t.I just can’t believe he never told me about you.” There’s not even the slightest twinge of emotion in her voice as she explains.

Steven, looking confused, takes a step back from Amaya. Amaya stands there silently, watching Steven. Even though this man has so many similarities to Marc, his beautiful curls, his smile, the same eyes, the same body, he is a total stranger. Until she sees the look on Steven’s face.

“Ten-ten years? Marc and I have been sharing a body for ten years?” Steven’s face looks defeated, he looks like he could just break into a million pieces.

A soft look of worry crosses Amaya’s face, barely noticeable unless you’re staring directly at her. Seeing a man who looks so much like someone she used to love be so hurt makes her head hurt.

“What happened between you and Marc?” Steven asks her, interrupting the ache in her head.

Amaya takes a deep breath. Normally she would never tell a stranger even a tiny piece of the truth in her life but she can’t help but feel a vulnerability in the armor she put up around her heart when she talks to Steven.

“After we met in Cairo we began working together, searching for ancient artifacts. We fell in love, or what we thought was love. I’d provide him information for his missions with Khonsu. He refused to ever bring me along but he would always come home after his missions. We got married 5 years in. A few months ago, Marc disappeared one day and never came back. For an entire month I didn’t hear a single word from him until I received divorce papers in the mail. Then it was radio silence again.” She recants.

Steven processes what Amaya has just said and looks into the mirror. Marc stares back at him with a furious look on his face, but stays silent.

“I’m so sorry Amaya. You didn’t deserve that.” Shame and guilt are riddled across Stevens face and body language. Even though he knows that it was Marc who hurt her and not him, he still feels like it’s his fault.

Amaya is taken aback by Steven’s words. ‘He’s so…different.’ She thinks.

“It’s okay Steven.” Amaya carefully places her hand on Stevens shoulder, gently squeezing it to give him some reassurance. She felt it was what he needed, even if she wanted to just slap him straight upside the head simply because she knew he and Marc shared a body.

Steven blushes at Amaya’s hand on him. He feels a little bit of shame for liking Amaya’s touch as he now knows that the man he shares a body with is her husband.

“So Steven, I know a lot about Marc, but nothing about you besides that you used to work in a gift shop. Who are you?” Amaya asks, trying to gauge what kind of man this Steven is. Because if he’s anything like Marc, she plans to run away as fast as she can before she breaks.

Steven fidgeted nervously, his eyes darting around before finally settling on Amaya's. Her look was sincere, she wasn’t judging him like everyone else usually does, she actually wanted to know.

"Um, well I’m- I’m Steven Grant, and, well, I work, or worked.. at a gift shop in the London Museum. I’ve always been a bit of a, um, history buff, especially when it comes to ancient Egypt. It’s just so fascinating, you know? My dream was to be a tour guide at the museum but Donna always shot me down. I have a goldfish named Gus—he’s got one fin, poor little bloke. Or at least he did, And, uh, my mum, she’s always been there for me, even though things have been a bit... complicated lately.”

Amaya and Steven took a seat on his couch as they talked, she listened intently, her eyes softening as Steven spoke. This man was nothing like Marc, not even close. She reached out and gently touched his hand, offering a reassuring smile. She couldn’t really figure out why. It just felt right.

His hand felt so similar to Marc’s yet so different. As Amaya sat on Steven's couch, her fingers traced the intricate patterns on the cushion absentmindedly with one hand, the other gently held Steven’s. Steven fidgeted with his free hand, trying to pull at his sleeve. Amaya’s touch made him nervous. The room was filled with the soft glow of the evening sun filtering through the curtains, casting a warm light on Steven's collection of Egyptian artifacts. As Steven spoke about his life, his job at the museum, and his passion for ancient history, Amaya's mind drifted back to the days when she and Marc were inseparable. She remembered their wedding day, the way Marc's eyes looked when they exchanged vows, the way he kissed her, the way he held her…. The memory was so vivid that she could almost feel the warmth of his hand in hers, the sound of their laughter echoing in the air. But then, the memory shifted to the arguments, the days without him and finally the day Marc disappeared. The confusion, the fear, and the endless nights of waiting for a call that never came. What it put her through, the dark path she had fallen down. The hate she had for herself for not being able to find him no matter how hard she looked.The pain of his absence was still fresh, a wound that had never fully healed.

As Steven continued to talk, Amaya's gaze wandered around the room, landing on a small goldfish swimming lazily in its bowl.’Gus.’ She thought to herself, remembering what Steven had said. The sight brought her back to the present, and she realized how different Steven's world was from the one she had shared with Marc. The meticulous notes scattered on the desk, the way Steven's eyes lit up when he talked about his passions—he was so different from the cold, untrusting and untruthful man she once loved. The juxtaposition of her past with Marc and her present with Steven created a whirlwind of emotions within her. She felt a deep sense of loss, but also a glimmer of hope. Perhaps, in understanding Steven, she could find a way to heal from Marc, to bridge the gap between the man she married and the man who now stood before her, fragmented yet whole in his own way.

Amaya took a deep breath, her fingers still intertwined with Steven's.

` "Thank you for sharing that with me, Steven," she said softly, her voice tinged with a mix of sadness and warmth.

"It's clear that you’re very different from Marc, and I can see how much you care about the things that bring you joy. It's... it's a lot to take in, knowing that Marc and you share the same body, but are so different in many ways."

She paused, her eyes drifting to the goldfish bowl once more before returning to Steven's earnest gaze.

"I wish I had known you before,Steven.” ‘Shit, why the hell did I just say that?’ The words had escaped her lips before she could even process what she was saying. She hated this feeling, this dumb fucking fuzzy feeling that you get when you have a crush as a kid. It made her feel too vulnerable for comfort.

Steven's eyes softened as he listened to Amaya's heartfelt words. His heart hurt at her words.

"I wish I had known you too." he said, his voice filled with genuine emotion.

"It means a lot to me that you want to understand and get to know me. I know this whole situation is... well, it's complicated, to say the least."

He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. He realized that this entire time he was so busy rambling and panicking that he never even took a good look at Amaya. She had long white hair that was tied into a braid and thrown over her shoulder. The last few inches of her hair are an inky jet black. Her eyes looked empty, almost drained of life in their blue-ish gray hues. Her ivory colored skin had but a small tint of warmth in it.Her jaw and cheekbones were sharp but almost soft at the same time. Steven gazed at the scar in the middle of her forehead, right between her brows. ‘I wonder what happened.’ He thought. He continued to examine Amaya, noticing the way her clothes fell on her body, the way she moved her hair ever so slightly. He took one last look at her face, admiring it before he averted his gaze.

"I want you to know that I'm here for you, too. I may not have all the answers, and I might not be able to explain everything about Marc and me, but I promise to be honest with you. My life has always been a bit of a puzzle, but maybe together, we can start to piece it together. And who knows? Maybe we'll find some new pieces along the way that make the picture a little clearer." Steven said, snapping out of his admiration of Amaya.

His smile widened slightly, a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes as he looked at Amaya, feeling a sense of connection and understanding beginning to form between them.

“I hope so.” Amaya smiled softly back at Steven.

suddenly there’s a knock on Steven’s door

#mcu #moon knight #steven grant #marc spector #marc spector x oc #steven grant x oc #jake lockely x oc #oc #original character #moonknight angst #slow burn #fanfic #marc spector needs a hug #steven grant needs a hug

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bagsybaggins · 1 year ago

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The Masterlist of Bag End

Jason Todd x OC:

A Knight Under the Moonlight Masterlist

Sebastian Sallow x OC:

In the Shadow of the Legacy Masterlist

Eddie Munson x Fem!Henderson Reader

The Freaking Rebel Masterlist

COD FICS - Task Force 505 Verse

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

The Ghost of Her: 1 2 3 4

John 'Soap' Mactavish

Soap Bubbles: 1 2

König

Pandora's Lullaby: 1

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

Being Rewritten! Sins to Bare Masterlist

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chaithetics · 9 days ago

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THE GREATEST PROLOGUE OF ALL TIME!!!!

You are so real for this! Hannah Simone as an OC face claim... making this poly because why should you or any of us have to choose between Layla or the Moon boys?! And Halsey inspired titles? Yes!

But seriously, this was so good! I was immediately hooked in and on the edge of my seat! You're so big brained and talented. I can't wait to read more!

prologue: but all i can taste is the blood in my mouth and the bitterness in goodbye

masterlist || next - chapter one

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Implied drugging and attempted murder, swearing

Note: My poly Moon Knight fic is finally here. Continuing my trend of inserting Desi characters into fandoms I enjoy, here is my latest creation. Why have a love triangle when everyone can be together? This will follow the plot of the miniseries. Please let me know what you think. The graphic is made by me. All chapter titles are from Halsey’s “honey”.

Word Count: 366

Keep reading

#fic recs!!!#chaithetics recs #moon knight #arthur harrow #oc: ash rajul #fan fic #marvel #the eye of the moon #moon knight x oc #steven grant x oc #marc spector x oc #layla el faouly x oc #x oc #x original character #x desi oc #moon knight fanfic

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sarahghetti · 9 months ago

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moving day; m.k.

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

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

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

word count: 9.9k

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

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

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

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

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

He just couldn’t move on.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

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

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

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

Steven likes having something just for him.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? No—what?”

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

“Steven!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“How do I look?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About time, innit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

“You can open—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake has his car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

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

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That third sarcophagus—

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

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

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

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

To the right—

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

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

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

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

You are the bane of his existence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake.”

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

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

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

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

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

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

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

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

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

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

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

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

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

No. You can’t believe it.

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

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

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

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

They call you princesa.

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

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

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

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

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

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

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

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

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

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

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

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

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

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

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

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

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

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

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

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

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus, man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight fanfic #my writing #mk bingo 2024

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mrsaguapapi · 2 years ago

Text

Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4

Chapter 5

Royal Introductions

Exhausted, I lay there, eyes closed, not wanting to move. I'm this close to dozing off before Marc leans in and kisses my neck, "You should use the bathroom before you fall asleep."

"No"

"You could get a UTI."

"Nothing magic can't fix" Without opening my eyes I wave my hand around like a wand, "Goodbye, UTI "

He quietly chuckles, "You're a comedian you know that?" He scoops me up and takes me to the bathroom, "Don't expect me to wipe for you" He drops me down and closes the door behind me.

Once I was done, I wash my hands and look in the mirror. My makeup is a hot ass mess; too embarrassed, I decided to take a shower to wash away my mess. I hear a small knock on the door.

"Come in" I reply

"Hey love, mind if we join?" by the happy tone of his voice it was Steven.

"Yes on one condition. Can you wash my hair" I ask

"I've literally always wanted to do this" He laughs. Steven sneaks in behind me and begins to shampoo my hair. He thoroughly massaged my scalp and ran soap from my roots to the end of my hair.

This is so comforting.

I don't allow many people to touch my hair. Honestly, Aunt May and Bucky were the only ones to wash my hair before this. May's gone and Bucky checked out.

Ughhh I don't want to see him tomorrow

Refocusing on my anxious thoughts, I realize Steven is unusually quiet, "What's on your mind hun"

Steven hesitates

I turn around and rest my arms around his neck and look him in the eyes, "You can tell me" I smile.

"I used to wash Layla's hair like this." he sadly responds, "I'm sorry, probably don't want to hear about our ex right after sex" he nervously laughs.

Leaning my head on his chest I sigh, "I'm hung up on my ex too; no need to protect my feelings hun, we all went into this agreement with no intentions of a relationship. Just a couple of broken people with needs" I joke. "But seriously you can talk about anything with me. When was the last time you spoke with her?"

"A few months. The last time we spoke, we fought. She said she hated us and left."

"I seriously doubt she means that. She was very upset and probably felt outnumbered by you 3. Want my advice?"

"Always"

"Reach out and ask to talk. Listen to her, don't interrupt, just let her get it out. Remember, Listen to understand not Respond. Marc and Jake, I'm talking to you."

"They say they resent that" he laughs. "Thank you, Millie"

"Of course"

We eventually get out, dry off, and head to bed. They fall asleep first and I lay there in their arms lost in thought.

I really do hope they fix it with Layla. I would be lying if I said I don't feel anything for them; It would be nice to end up with them but it could never work; they age, and I don't. How am I to have a normal life when I can't even grow old with someone? I refuse to let myself love someone ill have to eventually bury. I did try with Bucky though, I even looked into giving up my immortality for him.

Wasn't enough I guess

I push those thoughts out of my head for now and allow myself to sleep.

------------

The boys gift me a t-shirt and a pair of their favorite sweats as a replacement for the dress Jake ripped.

"Don't be a stranger, and reach out to Layla. Sooner rather than later okay?" with that, I give them a parting hug and kiss before I portal home.

Finally home I let out a long sigh and do a full-body stretch.

"Hey, you're home!" Peter yells before he runs to hug me, he looks down at my clothes and gives me a puzzled look, "what happened to your dress?

"Don't ask questions you don't really want the answer to."

He deadpans and walks backward, "You need church, a baptism, shit maybe an exorcism too"

I laugh, "What I need is a shower" The boys and I had an early morning; we fucked twice, 3 times if you count them eating me out before we got interrupted by their landlord.

I go take a quick shower and wash off last night/this morning's sex-scapades. Once again I do my makeup; nothing extravagant just something natural to highlight my features. After my face is done I check my hair and fix my edges.

I finally dress in my formal battle attire; a black leather high low tunic dress with gold accents as well as a white and gold shoulder cape I break out for special occasions like this. It's giving 'Game of Thrones meets Castlevania'. All jokes aside my uniform is interesting.

I found it tucked away in the Kamar Taj one day and when I touched it I felt strange. There was an old ancient energy about it so I decided to leave it there. But for a week straight I found it in places that it shouldn't be. One day I even buried it, and then the next day I woke up with it at the foot of my bed, dirt and all. I finally took it to Wong and he informed me that it was a magical relic and essentially chose me as its owner.

Reference:

Artwork by Me (Super rough drawing that I finished at 2am; just trying to give you a general idea)

'The Regalia of Rowena'; the original owner was Rowena Hemlocke an infamous witch who tried to harness the sun's power. Legend says it almost worked, but she couldn't handle the heat and disintegrated in a matter of seconds; all that remained was her clothes. Some would say that's a red flag but my toxic trait is that it picked me, so obviously it's true love.

Hehe

Finally, all done, I look over myself and I honestly feel beautiful. Not sexy or hot, but beautiful; It feels really good. I grab my suitcase and meet peter in the living room. Peter is dressed in a simple black suit, his Spidey suit isn't necessarily formal.

"You have everything you need? All the essentials? All your chargers? Your suit just in case?"

"Yes, yes, yes & Yes. You look intense; like I am kind of intimidated by both your beauty and power. Is this a slay?"

"Yes, Peter this is a slay" I laugh hysterically "Come on let's go, can't leave a Queen waiting" I open a portal.

The Vibe:

Otis Redding - Try A Little Tenderness

We step through and find ourselves outside of the Royal Palace. Immediately the royal staff took our bags to our rooms.

"This place is remarkable," Peter says in awe. "Just insane"

"I know right? You are gonna love Shuri's lab."

"Oh, I bet. I'm gonna walk around okay?"

"Okay, don't go far doors open any minute" Peter nods and walks away; I take a look around and see who else is here. No one I know, just a bunch of Wakandan leaders and noblemen. I think we are the only outsiders invited.

Spoke to Soon

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. I almost forgot he was coming. He's wearing black slacks and a dark blue sweater with a black coat over it. Doesn't sound like much, but Bucky is a simple man, I'm honestly surprised he's not in his signature leather jacket.

He cut his hair, It looks good

Staring and lost in thought I didn't notice him staring back. He sheepishly smiles at me, I quickly look away too embarrassed and sad. All the old unresolved emotions hit me like a car crash, I start to get anxious and nauseous. Around me, the air started to cool and the wind picked up rapidly;. the clouds begin to darken. The people around mutter in confusion; I can't breathe, I can't move, I can't speak.

Suddenly a comforting hand touches my shoulder. Shaking and on the verge of tears, I look and see who it was, Namor.

"Walker of Clouds indeed, I see you truly are a descendent of Ororo." He calmly speaks "Breathe." he pauses "It'll pass"

I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, after a few seconds everything around me slowly calms. It passed, I put my hand on my heart and breath for a few more beats, before I open my eyes. "Thank you" I softly say

So maybe I can control the weather...

He nods, "Are you okay Ki'ichpan (beautiful girl)?"

"I'm getting there." I chuckle. Namor was wearing his normal royal jewelry in addition to golden shoulder plates, kind of like armor; attached were red and white robes that flowed nicely in the wind. "I didn't think you would come. Also, we gotta talk about this 'Ki'ichpan' business. Can't keep casually calling me beautiful in all of our conversations"

"I almost didn't. My people advised against me being here but if we are to work with the Wakandans, it must be done. If anything happens my people are near." he leans into my ear, "I will call you beautiful because you are." The hand he has on my shoulder sneaks down to my lower back. "This is a lovely dress you're wearing. You look very," he pauses, "commanding"

Nervously I laugh, "You are one hell of a sweet talker," I look him dead in the eye, "Flattery will get you nowhere."

He deviously smiles.

I think he took that as a challenge.

Before he responds Peter returns, "uhhh" Peter looks at Namor's hand placement "Everything good here?"

"Yes, Peter everything is fine, just talking to a friend."

Without even acknowledging Peter, he looks at me, "Is this your Twin Flame Ki'ichpan?" he asks with a hint of frustration.

Is he angry?

"Ew" Peter and I say in tandem.

"This is my brother, Peter. Peter this King Namor ruler of..." I look at Namor for Help

Namor hesitates to respond, "Peter can keep a secret as easily as breathing air. You can trust him. All of us here are allies, you have my word" I assure

"Talokan. Ruler of Talokan" Namor Responds

"Well, it's great to meet you Namo- Mr. Namor sir. I mean King" Peter fumbles

"Namor is fine" he smiles

Before we could continue with introductions the doors to the palace open and we all file in, one by one. As we walk through, the announcers introduce us one by one. He gets to Namor,

"Introducing for the first time ever, King Namor ruler of Underwater Kingdom Talokan" Namor Bows and Walks away.

"UNDERWATER?" Peter whispered and yelled.

"So amazing," I say in awe

It was our turn to be announced, "Welcome Millaenyia Parker, primordial earth witch, master of the elements, And her brother Peter Parker, Spiderman, protector of New York " he pauses "One of the many heroes of the Batlle of Earth"

Peter and I bow and continue forward.

"They remember me?" Peter whispers

"Unfortunately no, but did you think I'd let them announce you as just a plus one" I reply

"Thank you" he smiles

"Of course" I respond

"Alrighty let's get through the night without embarrassing ourselves," Peter says

"No Promises" I nervously smile

Let the show begin

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