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orestesimp · 2 years ago

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RED FLAGS ║ PART 13 | FINALE

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: The end is the beginning is the end. Or alternatively: You finally get to have Marc's beautiful face buried between your thighs.

Content: will cause unrealistic sex expectations.

Word count; 17k (guys I'm so sorry)

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS]

Your face, small and pinched and dirty, looks back at you from the tiny mirror in Steven’s loo. The unflattering fluorescent lights aren’t doing you any favours. Eyes wide and strung out. A burst bottom lip. You look dreadful.

Your clothes are soggy and cold underneath Marc’s somewhat drier jacket, mucky with grime and mud (and god knows what else), clinging wetly to your skin.

You look like something the cat dragged in.

You shiver. The idiom feels a little too on the nose, considering you were dragged across East London’s dirty concrete not even an hour ago. Just… not by a cat. You shiver again, harder this time, trying not to think about it.

A shower. Marc sent you in here to take a shower. “Go get clean,” he’d said, “Warm up.”

Right now you feel like you’ll never be warm again.

Marc’s jacket comes off first, and you hang it carefully on a hook, running two fingers over the cuff. You stare at it for a moment, fighting the urge to clutch it to your chest and bury your face in it. On autopilot, you reach out to undo your wristwatch instead, fingers running over the bare skin for a moment, searching, before you stare down at your wrist in confusion.

Right. Your watch is gone.

Or… not gone. Probably still out there in the alleyway, lying face up, cracked glass and all, on the concrete in the rain… next to the carcass of some invisible monster. You shake your head, pushing away the image. It’s as good as gone, then, isn’t it? You’re certainly not going back out to search for it at this point. You’re bloody well never going down that alleyway again if you can help it. Hell, even going outside ever again might be off the table.

Pulling the shower curtain aside, you start the shower and peel off your ruined clothing, letting everything plop in a solid, sodden mass on the corner of the bathroom floor.

The muscles in your arms and shoulders are stiffening up and threatening to cramp up as the last bit of adrenaline abandons your system, leaving bruises and all-encompassing exhaustion in its wake. Your knees throb with the leftover pain. The water stings your scraped shin when you step under the spray.

At least it’s warm.

The heat of the water feels like a balm on your aching limbs, and you close your eyes, tilting your head back under the spray, trying to let the comforting warmth relax you.

In the darkness behind your eyelids, the shower sounds like rain. Your nakedness feels like vulnerability. Like maybe you never made it back. Maybe you’re still out there, in the narrowness of the alley, under threat from an otherworldly creature that you cannot see, let alone fight.

Your chest squeezes painfully sharp, and your eyes fly open, half expecting to see the hazy moonlit sky overhead. But no, there’s nothing but the expanse of the blank white ceiling.

You’re still here in Steven’s shower. Safe, or as safe as it gets right now.

Dropping your gaze, you watch the blood and muck sluice down your legs and onto the tiled floor in rusty red-tinted waves to pool on the tile floor. The dirty water leaves lines of fine grit behind as the rest is sucked down the drain.

You feel strangely numb. Like some part of your brain (probably an amenable survival mechanism) is trying to block out what happened so you don’t go mad. But maybe it’s too late for that. After all, you were a hair's width away from meeting your maker tonight at the claws of an invisible blob monster.

It’s impossible to not think about. An irritated half-healed scab itching to be scratched. You turn it over in your mind, trying to process the fact that the supernatural is real—or those creatures were, at any rate. And apparently Marc dons a mummy costume and goes out into the night to battle them like he’s magical girl Sailor Moon.

God. All of this is right proper insane, isn’t it? You want to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness.

You almost died; your understanding of the world as you know it has fundamentally changed; yet none of it feels real. The world itself doesn’t feel real.

The water by your feet is running clear now. The dirt and grime finally washed off, but the film of exhaustion still clings to your limbs. Turning off the tap, you step out, grabbing the towel Marc left for you in the corner by the door. Your eyes linger on the set of clean clothes waiting for you underneath, folded into a neat square.

You can't reconcile the man who does this for you with the same man that pummelled a supernatural monster into a whimpering pulp without hesitation. Didn’t recognise the Marc you thought you knew in the man in the alleyway standing over the creature and curb-stomping it into the ground with cold and blank disdain in his eyes. Couldn’t see that man in the Marc who escorted you home and gently bullied you into the shower.

Reaching for the clothes, you quickly dress and pull aside the accordion door only to find the very man you were thinking of right outside the door, arms crossed and back plastered to the closest wall as he stands guard.

You barely cross the threshold before he's already pushing away from the wall and moving in to guide you gently but firmly towards the kitchen like a particularly insistent herding dog.

There’s a fairly extensive first aid kit laid out on the counter, well used by the look of it, and you try not to think too hard about why that might be.

"Up," Marc commands, curt as ever, swatting a hand down on the surface of the countertop, and you feel like a lamb being rounded back into the pen.

A ‘please’ wouldn’t have hurt him, but you let it go with just a glare as you shuffle over, too drained to put up a fight over something so small. You lift your arms to brace against the countertop, getting ready to hop up, and flinch a little as your shoulders twinge and ache.

Marc is in front of you in a heartbeat, watching you with worried eyes and a furrowed brow. His hands hover, like he wants to help but doesn't dare to touch, and any testiness in you fizzles out at the sight of him.

You give him a small nod, barely able to complete the motion before his hands come down on your waist, lifting you. Even though you’re expecting it, the loss of ground beneath your feet feels sudden, unbalancing you, and you gasp, hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.

Part of you expects him to drop you, but he doesn’t. Marc’s warm and solid under your palms, strong muscles bunching as he perches you on the counter.

Blood rushes to your head with furious speed. It must be from the sudden change in altitude. That’s what you tell yourself no matter how doubtful that is considering the standard kitchen counter height is not even three feet above the floor. You're not exactly climbing the Himalayan mountains. But you don’t want to think of the more probable reasons right now.

You're still reeling from lightheadedness when he lets you go in favour of busying himself with the large tin box on the counter, rifling through the arsenal of medical supplies, and sets down what he needs next to you. Then he's dragging a nearby chair to position himself in front of you. Sitting so close he's practically nestled between your legs.

It does nothing to help with your newly discovered vertigo symptoms.

"I’m going to check you over for injuries now,” he says perfunctory, pulling you from your thoughts, “Left leg.”

You stretch out your leg into the air, glancing down at him, unsure of where to rest it. There’s no space on the tiny kitchen stool. Do you just… put it down in his lap? On his crotch?!?! Or–

Marc's hand wraps around your ankle, and his executive decision-making ends your flailing, as he gently guides your foot to rest against his thigh. Then his head ducks down, and he starts to inspect the patch of scraped skin on your knee, dabbing gently at the scattered dots of blood with a square of clean gauze.

With how tender and swollen everything feels, you expect it to hurt. That at the slightest pressure on your skin, it is bound to sting and snag and tear. But it doesn't. Marc is gentle, barely pressing down and showing such minute care as he tends to you that you barely feel the brush of the cloth at all.

It's such an impossible contrast. The tenderness of his touch as he fusses over you, placing a plaster on your knee, compared to the brutality you’ve now seen him capable of.

You still can't make sense of it. What happened, or what that invisible monster in the rain was. Why Marc was out there. Or what he meant by that being "what he does."

"Marc," you start tentatively as you lean forward to get his attention, "What happened toni--"

“Wiggle your toes,” he interrupts.

His odd demand cuts off your line of thought. “What?”

“Try to wiggle your toes for me”, he repeats, without looking up. “Want to make sure you didn’t get any nerve damage.”

You frown, you’re not blind to the fact that his request conveniently just cut you off from asking a question that undoubtedly Marc doesn’t want to answer. Still, you comply, angling your foot upwards and wiggle your toes for his inspection.

Whether you passed his ad hoc medical examination, Marc’s expression isn’t giving you any clues. His face is as stoic as ever as he sets down your foot. He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over to your right side to draw your other foot into his lap.

Marred with bruises, looking like something that got mangled in a bear trap. Your right foot does not make for a pretty sight. It’s swollen and bleeding sluggishly from long gashes where the blob monster’s claw-like grip must have broken through skin.

It's a gruesome picture, but miraculously, the injury doesn’t seem to be too serious. It stings more than it actually hurts, and it’s not even bleeding much anymore. Not even worth a trip to A&E really, as you doubt it’s deep enough to need stitches.

At least that’s the assessment based on your own limited medical knowledge. If you based the severity on Marc’s reaction, you’d think it needed amputation.

The line of his shoulder is pulled taut and reminds you of a live wire. Mouth set in a grim tortured line. He has the expression of a doctor about to give the nearest kin some heartbreaking news as he’s staring down at your foot with haunted guilt in his eyes.

"I'm all right. I’m sure it just looks a lot worse than it is," you tell him.

He doesn't meet your eyes or reply for that matter. Instead, he begins to gently tend the wound. Mouth pressing down so tightly his lips go pale white from it. He dabs away the oozing blood, carefully applying antibiotic ointment to the worst of the broken skin, and covering them with large squares of gauze that he tapes in place. It’s all quite professional, really, the practised ease that only comes with repetition.

You wonder how many times he has done this before. You wonder how much harder it must be for him to suture his own gashes and gaping wounds. Wonder how long he’s been doing this by himself, fighting these hellish creatures. These things that you still have no bloody fucking idea as to what they are.

"Marc,” you start tentatively, “what was--" A ticklish sensation rushes through you. In panic, you think a centipede is crawling down the sole of your foot. You instinctively jerk your leg up and away, nearly kneeing Marc in the face before you realise what’s happened.

Your eyes fly downwards to Marc who is entirely unfazed by the close call as you stare at him in shock. His index finger rests on the arch of your heel and you blink up at him in a dumb stupor, not believing your eyes.

Did he just– did he just fucking tickle you?!

There’s no hint of wrongdoing in his expression. No grin, or crack in his stony facade. He is unflappable as always as he continues cleaning your wound with a straight face.

"Needed to check if you still had sensation in that foot," he offers up as an explanation as if he thinks that tickling was a perfectly reasonable thing for him to do in the circumstances.

You frown, biting down the tart comment bubbling in your throat. You want to call him out on it, that you know what he’s up to and he’s acting like a child. But you know that the moment you do, the conversation will derail into an argument and in the flare of your temper, you’ll lose track of your questions. You’re pretty sure Marc knows you well enough that that’s exactly what he is aiming for.

Gathering a deep calming breath into your chest, you steady yourself before you take a second shot.

"What was that thing in the rain?" you ask again.

He acts like he doesn't hear you. "Roll your ankles side to side," he requests instead.

Irritation prickles your face. This bastard is still trying to evade your questions.

"Marc," you start again, "what was--"

"Press down your weight on my hand with your foot."

"Marc!" you bark.

He finally drags his eyes upwards to meet yours without bothering to lift his chin, seemingly as detached and reposed as ever. But there's something else in there too. A tiny flicker as you hold his gaze, and he has to look away.

He looks… scared.

Scared of what you don't know. The man practically single-handedly beat three monsters straight out of a Lovecraftian horror story with his bare fists tonight. With strength like that, you don't think anything should ever be capable of scaring him.

"Can we talk about what happened tonight?" you ask again, trying to keep your voice even.

His head ducks back down again, and he busies himself by rechecking the bandaids on your injured ankle.

“There's nothing to talk about,” he murmurs offhandedly, but his hands betray him.

There's no mistaking it. Even though his shoulders are obscuring your line of sight, you don’t need to see it in order to feel how unsteady his hands are. How his fingers stutter against your skin as they trail over your ankle.

He’s not letting go, as if he’s afraid that if he wasn’t holding onto you, you’d get up and walk away.

Gazing down on him from your vantage point of the counter, Marc doesn’t look as imposing as when you were looking up at him from the rainy concrete in the alley. From up here, he looks small and scared even.

Even though there is nothing in this flat that should intimidate him. No invisible monsters lurking in the dark shadows behind Steven’s piles and piles of books. The scariest thing in Steven’s flat is dust mites.

No, the only thing Marc is scared of, you realise, is this conversation.

That’s what Steven told you, wasn’t it? That 'there are things that Marc hasn't told you.' That 'once you know everything,’ Marc thinks ‘you'll walk away'.

It’s the final puzzle piece, slotted into its rightful place, and you can finally see the picture that was blurred out before, crystallising in startling detail.

This is it. This is the big secret. The thing that Marc hasn't told you.

You get it now. Why he has avoided you all this time. Why he stayed away even after you told him you love him.

Because how on earth would anyone even begin to explain what happened tonight to someone who wasn’t there?

How could he possibly have explained any of this to you before now? How would he possibly convince you those things out there (whatever they are) were real without dragging you into danger, head first, to see it with your own eyes?

Didn't you struggle with the very same thought when you’d first tried to tell Marc what you’d seen in the alley on your own before all hell broke loose? The fear that he wouldn't believe you. That he'd think you were insane.

Even if he had managed to explain and get you to believe him– what then?

You can understand it. Why he was convinced that you would leave not just him but Steven as well, causing further collateral damage, if he told you everything. You can see from where he was standing, why he’d worry.

But this is where Marc is wrong. You still want this. Him. Them.

"What happened tonight, it doesn't change how I feel about you," you start, and his hand on your foot spasms, grip tightening. It’s how you know your guess was right on the button, so you press on. "What I told you on the phone, I still mean it. I–" you hesitate on the word.

The last thing you want is to spook him away again by repeating it. It might be too much too soon. Instead, you settle for second best.

"I want you to come back. Steven and I both do."

Marc lets go of your foot. You can see his hand shaking despite Marc’s attempt to make it stop. His fingers flex and curl in agitation until he gives up and reaches up to drag it through his matted curls in frustration.

“You don’t want this,” he says quietly, and his face is still turned downwards, staring at the floor refusing to look up at you.

Knowing Marc, you know that he could very well mean the situation or himself. After everything that’s happened tonight, the part that upsets you the most is that he still feels this way about himself.

"I do," you counter, saying the words with the whole of your chest. “I. Want. You. I want all of this.”

In the face of your certainty, he flinches, face pinched as if telling him you want him is a physical slap that pains him. It takes him a second to recover, to shake his head in refusal as he stares down at the floor like it committed a great wrong against him.

"You want a normal life. Steven can give you that if it’s just the two of you. I can't,” he tells you. His voice, low in that weary and tired tone you overheard in the bathroom.

"I don't need you to give me a normal life. What does that even mean? ‘Normal,’” you say derisively. “I don't need or want normal if it means you're not there Marc. That's not the life I want.”

He's still not looking at you, biting the insides of his cheek, and you can almost see the walls closing in around him before your very eyes.

"You said you wanted me safe”, you say, ducking your head to try to catch his gaze, and you manage to see his eyes peer up at you from his lashes, as you continue. “And happy. I'm telling you now, I'm not going to be happy if you're not here."

Marc’s eyes widen with alarm. “You were awake?”

"I–" you start, but he cuts you off before you finish.

“You were pretending to be asleep?”

"No, I thought I was dreaming, I–"

“What else did you hear,” he asks. There’s panic in his voice, and he’s already rising from his seat in preparation to flee the room.

Fuck, how are you fucking this up this badly this fast? Seeing his distress almost makes you want to backtrack, to fold it up and call it a night, try again tomorrow maybe. Because you know in his mind Marc is already bolting for that door, ready to leg it and put as much distance as he can between you and him.

But… your mind flashes to the weight of his gentle touch on your shoulder. To his fingers brushing away the hair on your forehead. To his quiet voice as he whispered, 'I love you too'. You know what you heard in the dark: a testament of Marc’s feelings for you, and it emboldens you.

“Marc.” You lean forward, reaching out to take his hand in yours. He stiffens with a jolt as your fingertips brush up against his knuckles, and you can almost see the line of his shoulder vibrate. But he doesn't make any moves to pull away at your touch.

“I want you. Do you want me?” you ask.

He stills. Marc looks at you for a long unflinching moment. It’s the same conflicted set in his jaw when you were standing next to him in front of Gus’ tank. The same hesitation written over his face when you were watching him through the back window of the taxi as it pulled away from him in the night. That same pained look when your eyes met in your office before he fled from you.

His mouth parts with hesitation, but then he bites down and grinds his jaw hard enough that you think you can hear his molars grate from where you sit. “What I want doesn’t matter,” he answers you stubbornly.

It's enough to make you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him back and forth and scream into his face.

“It does!” you say, almost half-shouting. “Of course it matters. You matter.”

"Don't. Don't do that.” Marc shakes his head, and he moves his free hand over yours, gently prying it off of him. “Save that for Steven. He deserves it. Deserves… you. I… I don't.”

“And what about what I deserve,” you demand, fed up to the gills with his tendency for self-sacrifice, “What I want? Don’t I deserve to decide for myself?”

That seems to catch him off guard. For once he doesn’t have a ready response, just glares at you, his jaw still set at that impossibly stubborn angle, but his eyes are full of so much pain that it hurts you to see it. You reach out again and cup his cheek.

"Remember that night Gus died? You came to me for help. You said I was the only one you could think of to ask, and it made me so happy that you did. I want you to ask me for things.”

There’s another moment of indecision in his eyes. The upper half of his body tilts in your direction, almost like he’s reaching for you, even if he won’t let his hands do so.

"I just want to be with you,” you continue, “I want to be your person. The person you come to when you need something. Can’t that be enough?"

His eyes are glued on you, mouth gaping open. For a moment you think you've succeeded, managed to stun him into silence and maybe even convinced him.

It doesn’t last.

He closes his parted mouth and clamps it shut until it’s compressed into a thin determined line. Then before you can react, he’s abruptly pulling away, turning with wordless efficiency, and walking away from you.

"Marc?" you call after him, but his determined stride doesn’t even falter, "Marc!"

Oh goddamnit!

You hop off the counter, your sore ankle twinging when you land on it, but you ignore the dull ache as you run after him.

“You don’t have to do this, Marc!" you shout. Slinging your arm out, you only just manage to catch him by the back of his shirt. Your fingers grip onto the fabric for dear life to stop him from getting further away, "You don’t have to do everything on your own. You don’t have to be alone. Steven and I are here. Stop running away from us! We want to support you. Please! You can lean on us.”

He stops, turning about sharply, fire and brimstone in his eyes. The fuse of his already short temper burnt to a crisp.

“You and Steven were never supposed to know about me or get caught up in any of this,” he snaps. “I’ve– My life is dangerous. It’s not safe.”

“Yeah, I noticed the red flags already, you dunce. I still care about you regardless!”

“I don’t want you to care!” Marc roars, and it hits you with the force of a punch to the chest.

You suck in a sharp pained breath, and he must see the hurt in your face because his eyes soften slightly, but his voice is no less emphatic, “You can’t go poking around in my life. Running out after me in the middle of the night. It's dangerous! You got hurt tonight. You could’ve been killed!"

And that does it. The pain of his implied rejection, the scolding tone, the way it feels like he’s blaming you for getting yourself hurt. It all rubs you the wrong way. All of the patience you had in you up until now evaporates, replaced by a fiery heat burning up your chest until it comes to a boiling point.

“Me?” you bite back indignantly. “What about you? Running around in a bloody Halloween costume in the middle of the night. Fighting invisible monsters? What if you got hurt? What on earth were you doing out there?”

“This is exactly why you needed to stay away from me. You do not want or need my fucking mess, okay!?"

“Yes, I bloody well do! I'll take your fucking mess, Marc—every speck of it—as long as I get to have you too.”

His gaze bores into yours, eyes dark like spilt ink and brimming with anger so stark it practically sparks.

“You really want to know what I do? Why I was out there tonight?” he asks, voice quieter, but the anger is still there, simmering just below the surface waiting to erupt.

The sudden change feels like a gauntlet being thrown down, challenging you to a metaphorical game of chicken, daring you to back away and run for the hills while you still can.

You stand your ground, heels digging into the floor as you nod, swallowing the anxiety you feel pressed up against your throat like an acidic heartburn.

“I serve Khonshu. I’m his avatar,” he says matter-of-factly as if it’s the most sensible thing in the world. As if any of this is supposed to make sense to you.

It doesn’t. It makes no fucking sense at all.

Your mind scrambles to connect the dots. Khonshu? Avatar? What the hell is he on about? Avatar as in James Cameron’s Pocahontas in space? And Khonshu? What even… You can’t even begin to think of what that is supposed to mean. Don’t recognise it save for a passing familiarity that it’s a word that Steven has used when passionately serenading you with facts on Ancient Egypt. The connection between the two is lost to you.

“What is… ‘Khonshu?'” you ask, and this time, you don’t have to drag the answer out of Marc.

He answers you willingly and as plainly without varnish as before. “Khonshu’s the ancient Egyptian god of the moon. Years ago, I was stabbed and left for dead. He saved my life and in return, I work for him now.”

There’s no hint of emotion as he says it. He’s not pleading for you to believe him despite how fantastical it sounds. Not trying to convince you of anything. Marc is leaving it to you whether or not you believe him, almost like he wishes you wouldn’t. Like this bizarre rambling will hopefully finally send you packing and out of his life. And that’s… how you know he’s not lying to you.

“Work for him… how?” you ask.

His eyes flick upwards, grinding his teeth as if he’s biting down on a curse, before his gaze settles back on you.

“I swore to protect travellers of the night.”

And once again, that tells you absolutely nothing. What does that even mean, ‘Travellers of the night’? As in prostitutes?!

Marc’s obfuscation and frankly dodgy-as-fuck explanations have your blood boiling. You’re almost positive he’s doing this on purpose to get you hacked off, and he’s succeeding.

“Can you speak in plain English?”

“I take care of bad guys so they don’t harm good people. Protect civilians who can’t protect themselves.”

“So you’re… what? Like a supernatural police officer? A monster hunter? A guardian of the night?”

He grits his teeth.

“Something like that.” The answer is dismissive, and so is his attitude. He folds his arms across his chest, trying to distance himself from you, casting a glance at the door. “Satisfied? We done here?”

“No! No, we’re not ‘done here.’ We are the furthest thing from done. I already told you, Marc. Nothing that’s happened tonight changes how I feel about you.”

He shakes his head, jaw set mulishly, before tearing his eyes away and turning towards the front door.

And that just won’t do. If you let Marc walk out now, you know he’ll do everything in his power to avoid you for the rest of his life.

Moving quickly, you dart around Marc and slide between him and the door. In your single-minded hurriedness, you bump into the small table by the door, sending several things clattering over and probably adding yet another bruise to your already abused body, but you don’t care. You cannot let him leave. Plastering your back to the door, you stand tall and raise your chin, prepared to act as a physical barrier if you have to.

Marc’s eyes narrow into slits, a snarl of pure exasperation erupting from the back of his throat.

“Move,” he orders, taking a step closer to you, but there is no real threat behind it. He doesn’t reach out to touch you; doesn’t grab you or shove you out of the way

He just looks at you like you are an actual obstacle he cannot surpass. But you know that he could move you by force if he wanted to. It’d be easy for him to force his way out of the flat with little effort.

Between the two of you, physically he’s the stronger one. You’ve witnessed him take out supernatural monsters tonight. If he wanted to, he could shove his way straight through you. Carry you into another room and lock you in. Could easily snap every bone in your wrist in the blink of an eye.

But he won't. After all this time, if there is one thing you’ve learnt about Marc, it is that harm is only ever his last resort.

The man is squirmish at the prospect of physically harming a goldfish. Would rather visit all the pet shops in all of London in the middle of the night to find a mythical one-finned fish to avoid that outcome. At the core of him, he wants to shield and protect, not break.

And towards you? He would never use brute strength on you. Would never hurt you. Would give his very life to make sure you’re safe and unharmed. Happy.

In front of you, Marc takes another step forward, closing the distance. His commanding presence crowds you in against the doorframe until there’s barely any space between you anymore.

Marc is angry. Jaw tense, shoulders tied up in a tangled knot, nose flaring like an angry bull emitting a bright and blaring warning signal for you to move. But you stay put because if he’s a bull, then that must make you a matador, practically waving a red cape at him to come charge you.

He’s staring down at you again. That look in his eyes, like he knows what is best for you. That same stern gaze when he swore you to secrecy, deciding what was best for Steven. The determination there that tells you that this is not up for discussion.

It’s a recurring pattern with Marc. He decides what he thinks is best for everyone else, with no consideration of what the person in question actually wants.

“Last chance,” he warns, through gritted teeth, “I won’t ask again.”

Marc probably thinks this is a threat. But it’s only because he can’t see himself, the pain-filled eyes that look back down at you. Nothing is menacing about it.

“I’m not moving,” you tell him.

It’s only a fraction of a second, but you catch his eyes flickering to your lips. A near-growling sound tears out of his throat, and then he’s moving forward further into your space.

What is he–?

His hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you to him, and then his lips are on yours.

Oh.

Marc Spector is kissing you.

It’s hard and demanding, his lips crushed to yours, clearly driven by the frustration and anger that seems to vibrate just under his skin. But it doesn’t matter. You have dreamed of kissing this man for so long. Even with the harshness, you can’t help but respond to him, meeting the brutal press of his lips with your own more eager one. Mouth parting in invitation for him.

Something shifts.

All the fight goes out of him, leaking away like hot air out of a punctured balloon, whatever anger was there fizzles out of him, and you feel him melt against your lips. The kiss slips into something softer, sweeter. Something that steals every ounce of oxygen from your lungs.

You don’t know how long it lasts, the only thing you know is that it doesn’t last long enough. If you could have the choice, you’d want it to last forever.

It doesn’t of course. Marc retreats from you with an unsteady step. His eyes are etched with shock as you take him in, brows pinched and pupils wide, and you already want to kiss him again.

The two of you have been here before. Staring at each other from so close a distance that your foreheads are inches from touching. Except this time it’s not in front of a fish tank with an imposter goldfish between you. A stray curl falls into his eyes and tickles your nose. It’s the hint of clean linen, the note of coffee you brew for him every night that he will unfailingly drink because you made it for him. It’s the smell you wake up to embedded in Steven’s sheets.

You want this man, all of him, to be yours.

Your face tilts up to him. So close, his lips ghost over yours.

“Marc,” you whisper, and his eyes flicker over your face. “Stop running.”

Part of you expects him to stop you again. That he will pull back, eyeing you like you’re something dangerous, the way he did that night in front of the fish tank.

He doesn’t.

You tip your face forward even further, your nose dragging along the bridge of his.

“I love you.”

You can hear the sharp inhale just like last time you said it over the phone when you did not know if he was on the other end or not. When you didn't know if the sound was imaginary or real. Now you know.

You couldn’t see his face then, but this time you get to. The pinched furrow between his brow, that look in his eyes that makes your heart seize in your chest. There’s no doubt about it now.

"And you love me,” you say.

His lips part, and you brace yourself for another protest or denial, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his head does the slightest tilt forward. A nod, you realise.

“Yeah.” He whispers it so quietly you nearly miss it at first.

You smile. Happiness surges through your insides, weaving through your ribs until you think that your chest might burst.

Marc Spector loves you.

You swallow in relief, smiling even as you feel a sting prickle the corner of your eyes. Then Marc leans down and closes that infinitesimal space between you, bringing down the final barrier of separation that he has maintained since you met him.

It’s a soft press of his lips to yours. So soft, it’s scarcely there, but it feels perfect all the same, a fluttering warmth that you can feel down to the curl of your toes.

It’s an admittance. An invitation. A sign of trust.

Marc kisses you again and again with lingering kisses that he deepens with each gentle press of his mouth to yours. His hand moves to cup your face in his palm, cradling your cheek like you're the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

You feel like you ought to be surprised by how gentle he is, but you’re not. Not at all, because of course he’s gentle.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? Marc’s hardness is all smoke and mirrors, hiding the vulnerable softness that lies under the hardened skin. Beneath it all, Marc is protective and caring, kind even.

And now, you finally get to have him in all his confounding complexities. This stubborn, kind, impossible idiot, right here in your arms.

You pull him closer, even as you keep kissing him, fingers twisting into the brushed cotton of his shirt, and he lets you. Head leaning down as he adjusts his angle so he can slant his mouth fully over yours. He’s pressed up against every single inch of you, from his knees to his chest, your lips fused and somehow it’s still not even close to enough for you. You tug his collar, encouraging him to come even closer and he does, obedient, in a way that you’ve never known him to be before.

Stepping forward, he follows your lead, inching closer, until the solidness of his chest presses you flush to the door. His arm comes to brace the side of your head, hand cupping behind the back of your neck, and you realise only belatedly it’s the reason why your head isn’t colliding with the hard wood behind you.

Not that it would matter if you did. You don’t even think you’d notice if your head went through the wall right now. Too focused on the softness of his lips. Too lost in the quiet, near-silent humming sound he makes as he kisses you that sets your nerves alight.

God, he’s perfect. His closeness is heady. There’s a growing hunger in your stomach that makes your limbs shake and tremble. After all the time he's been away, hiding from you, you feel starved for this. For him. You want to bite his neck, lick along the protruding line of his collarbone and swallow every inch of him down to the marrow if he’d let you.

For all the gentleness that Marc is showing you, you have no intention of returning the favour. Your teeth sink in, biting down on his bottom lip, and he lets out a quiet involuntary gasp into your mouth. Your veins burn at the sound. Fuck, you want him to make that noise again, that careless pitch of pleasure that sounds so unguarded coming from him. You want to bite and nibble and scratch and claw and have him make every noise known and unknown to mankind.

You drag your teeth along the swell of his lip, and he shivers, eyes squeezed firmly shut like he’s teetering on the very edge of his self-control. Then you nip down again.

His hips stutter forward involuntarily, and he curses, the sound breathless and raw, like you tore it out of him before he was prepared. It’s all you want. To hear that sound again and again and again. You want to hear his tiny moans in your ear, the involuntary muffled growl as he buries his face into your neck trying to keep quiet, hear him gasp ‘fuck’ in barely audible decibels. You want everything.

Hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, you haul him closer as if he wasn’t already pressed alongside your body. Thighs nestled between yours, the coarseness of denim scraping against your bare legs. You can feel the hardening bulge trapped between you, and you want him to grind against you, to rut into you mindlessly until you can feel his cock twitch against the softness of your belly.

But Marc isn’t showing any signs of obliging you in that department, and you’re not willing to stop kissing him in order to give him directions. Instead, you arch your back away from the wall, tilting your pelvis until you rub up against his crotch. He jolts hard at the contact, the line of his body wracked in shivers with a gorgeous groan that is cut off too soon.

"Shit!”

His hand leaves your neck. Then he’s pulling back and away from you in retreat. You immediately miss the warmth of his body, reaching up to try to chase after the loveliness of his lips, but he stops you. A gentle but firm hand comes down on your shoulder, pinning you against the wall.

You stare up at him, and you’re not sure you’re breathing anymore at the sight of him. You should be used to how preposterously beautiful this man is by now. But you never are. Each time feels novel and so much worse–no, better than the last time. The collar of his shirt is stretched and askew. Curls a mess against his forehead. Lips, slick and kiss-swollen as his mouth hangs open, chest heaving as he pants.

As stunningly pretty as Steven is when you’ve succeeded in making a mess out of him, to do it to Marc is something else entirely. This orderly, neat freak of a man who makes it his life mission to repress his emotions and jam them shut inside of himself with a tight lid. You did this. You’ve made a mess of him. It’s electric, your veins buzz with the thrill, and your brain is screaming for more.

Your hand reaches up, fingers carding through his hair as you reel him in by the back of his neck. Your mouth finds his, kissing him hard before he has time to overthink it or, god forbid, change his mind and try to bolt again. His mouth parts, and you swallow the soft oomph of surprise that escapes his throat and lean in, licking desperately into his mouth. If this is all you get, you want to try to savour him.

Marc doesn’t stop you this time. Instead, his hands settle on your waist, fingers digging into your hips as he’s pulling you closer. It has the whole of your back from the base of your spine to the tip of your nose tingling.

This time he’s the one grinding into you, the hard outline of his cock pressed tight between you. Even through the thick layer of denim, you can feel how hard he is, and you shiver pleasantly.

You moan into the kiss, rising on your tiptoes to meet him. There’s not an inch of space between your bodies, and you swear you can feel his cock twitch against your hip.

And fuck, fuck– that’s–

You need to get him in bed now before you hitch your legs and clamber onto his thighs to climb him like the trunk of a tree. Why the fuck did the architect place the bedroom section at the opposite end of the flat.

Stepping one foot sideways, you tug at the neck of Marc’s shirt to steer him towards the bed. There’s no resistance. He shows you the same obedience as before, easily letting himself be pulled by you as you start walking blindly backwards, navigating the two of you through the junkyard of Steven’s mess.

Any second now you’re expecting to trip over the damn ottoman, except this is Steven's flat, not yours. And this isn’t Steven; it’s Marc in your arms. Steady and composed in his every step, with none of the charming incoordination of Steven. No, Marc steers you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Arms bracketing your side to make sure your hips don’t bump into any hard-edged furniture, preemptively pushing back a teetering book from the shelf before it even has the time to leap off the ledge.

Marc—beautiful, stubborn Marc, who is as immovable as a rock in his decisions—is letting you pull and tug him in whatever direction you’re choosing to go. Kissing you with each unbalanced step backwards, like you’re the only air he ever needs to breathe.

There’s a flicker of light as you pass Gus’ tank, and it dims when you move past Steven’s desk and the telly. God. It’s a journey of fewer than 20 feet that should take you less than ten seconds and not the eternity that it seems to take.

When you finally feel the fine, gritty sand beneath the sole of your foot, it feels like victory. The soft brush of the sheets pressing up against your calves is the rope of the finish line that you’d never imagined you’d reach.

You want to memorialise this moment somehow. Etch it into your memory so you’ll never forget. Carve it into the wooden beam structures of this very flat so it’ll outlast you both.

Marc’s hands on your hips guide you gently to a stop, and you realise with a rush of giddiness that you’ve finally reached your destination. You break the kiss long enough to sit down on the edge of the bed, and you don’t even need to tug at the corner of his sleeve for Marc to dutifully follow you down. He helps you lay back and leans in after you, the firm weight of his body settling over you, pressing you down into the mattress.

The weight of Marc feels perfect, as his head tips down to your face, kissing over the curve of your jaw to your neck. He’s pressing open-mouthed kisses down the line of your throat and the swell of your chest. It’s tender. Reverent almost.

Marc is unbothered by the cotton layer of clothing that separates his mouth from your bare skin as he goes. His mouth grazes your knuckles, kissing the inside of your wrist. He’s soft yet insistent. Hungry but slow. God, he’s slow, infuriatingly so, to the point where you wonder if he’s taking the mick out of you.

His lips trail a row of devoted kisses against the bare skin of your stomach where your shirt has ridden up, barely lifting the hem up and letting it ride up against your ribs as he puts his mouth there too. If it didn’t feel so good to have his mouth on you, you’d consider it torture with the pace that he’s going. You’re aching, everything inside is pulled so taught and tight you might burst out of your skin.

Those cotton soft curls tickle against your thighs on his way down, and you spread them for him in a not-so-subtle invitation. But Marc doesn’t pay you any mind, that earlier obedience that had endeared him to you is nowhere to be found now. He continues down, knees sinking into the sand lining the perimeter of the bed until he’s kneeling down in front of you on the bed.

Then he stops.

You hold your breath waiting for him to continue. But nothing happens, and your first instinct is that he’s changed his mind again. You’re almost lunging after him. Fully prepared to tackle him down with a wrestling move you’ve seen on the telly and pin him against the sand and wooden floor.

But he’s not moving away from you.

Opening your eyes to peek, you lift yourself on one arm, tilting down your head to find yourself staring back at those pitch-dark eyes.

You’re not prepared for the sight of him. Of Marc on his knees, peering up at you through his lashes, like you’re a solemn prayer that he’s clinging onto by his fingertips. The vision of him flattens your lungs, taking any oxygen away with it. He’s looking at you like you’re something to be protected and cared for. As if you’re all he’s ever wanted and would never allow himself to have.

Marc’s bending down again, lips brushing your skinned knee as his warm breath ghosts over the raw skin. He goes over every scrape and scratch with his mouth. It’s his way of atoning for ever letting you get hurt.

And as good as that feels, as much as you never want him to stop. You need more. More than this torturous, drawn-out pace that he’s giving you, or you think you’ll tear your hair out by the roots and go mad with it.

“Marc.” You’re trying to say it with urgency, maybe even hint at your annoyance, but it comes out as a high-pitched, delirious plea, “Marc please, I need–”

He doesn’t answer you with any words. Instead, his hands come to the side of your hips, fingers slipping into your sleep shorts, hooking the hem of your knickers with them as he pulls them down.

“Lift,” he commands, in the same brusque way he had before when ordering you to sit on the kitchen counter. But this time you’re only too eager to comply.

You’re so excited you nearly deal a high kick to his face, miraculously missing him by only a couple of inches.

From the corner of your eye, you swear you catch an amused half-smile quirking the corners of his lips. But before you can take a better look to confirm it, he ducks his head back down, even though you think you can see the line of his shoulders shake from what might very well be laughter.

But your mind doesn't get to linger on it for long. His hand curls over your thigh, and he settles your leg on his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the inner side that his mouth can reach. Then he hooks your leg over his back, and sharp heat settles deep in your stomach.

His warm breath fans against the bare skin raising goosebumps in its wake. He continues to lick over the softness of your belly. Nipping at your hip and the insides of your legs, covering every inch of you he can reach with his mouth. Purposefully avoiding the slick ache between your legs where you need his mouth and tongue most.

Fuck, you could kill him for that.

“Marc.” His name is a whine between your lips. It sounds pathetic to your ears, but you don’t care. You’re not above begging. Not if there’s a chance it will get you more of this, of him.

“Please, Marc, just– I need you to–”

“Baby,” he murmurs, cutting off your pleas. It’s almost reproachful, but it doesn’t matter because that’s not what your mind is focused on. This is the first endearment Marc has ever used for you and it sounds so sweet on his lips. Makes you feel loved and cared for despite the admonishing tone.

“Be patient,” he scolds, but there’s so much fondness in his voice for you, it makes you lightheaded. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

There’s only a brief second as you catch a peek of the pink tip of his tongue, glistening against his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he dips down. Heat crackles throughout your limbs, and your lungs pull tight in anticipation. The air around you thins, and for a moment as you try to desperately swallow down the air in your throat, the room seems to tilt.

Then he gives you his mouth, and as cliche as it sounds, it’s heaven. A long, controlled press of his tongue through your wet and slick folds. Endorphins rush through you to the top of your head, and you can’t help how your body reacts, arching up against his mouth with a gasp that is punched out of your lungs.

Then he does it again, and somehow, though you can’t even fathom how it’s not defying the laws of science and time as you know it, he goes even slower. The velvet softness of his tongue drags with an unhurried press across the seam of your pussy until he reaches the apex and licks with a silken glide on your wet clit. You nearly swallow your tongue to tamper the whine trapped in your throat.

This is not the pace you were expecting. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on your part, but you thought he’d be impatient. Almost anticipated that his movements would be sparse and efficient like every other aspect of his life, pushing you to a high-speed climax like a carcrash.

This is not that. This is Marc taking his own sweet time. His tongue is a slow decadent drag against your clit, and you feel his warm breath ghost over you, inhaling the scent of you as he takes you in.

Sweet heady pleasure climbs up the back of your thighs, filling your stomach with it. It’s so much, you don’t know if you can fit it all within, all the emotions that are welling up in your chest to spill out of you. Your fingers grip his solid shoulders to anchor yourself. You roll your hips against his mouth in an attempt to urge him on, but he refuses to take the hint. His tongue makes a slow, thorough exploration, interrupted only by the open-mouthed kisses that he presses against your mound, your hip, your cunt.

You can feel the tension in his shoulder under your thigh. Can hear it in the quick rasp of his breath, but still, his pace remains slow and measured. Steadily kindling the smouldering heat beneath your skin, lick by torturous lick.

It’s perfect. Hot as sin and twice as glorious, but you could scream with how agonisingly glacial the build-up is. A strange, high-pitched sound escapes you. An unflattering blend between a moan and a sob. It sounds like you’re in pain when all you feel is pleasure, and then you hear Marc shushing you again. This time softer, comforting even.

“It's alright. You're alright. You can take it for me,” he says into your skin, mouth pressed against your clit with a warm hum that rumbles through your flesh. Your veins drip with something sweet and honeyed at his tone.

Marc is so exacting, not at all like Steven’s wild hunger. His tongue laves at you, warm and wet, with an unceasing gentle pressure, gliding over and around your clit. Decadently slow, but never stopping. The feeling is intense and unrelenting. Somehow dragging you closer and closer to the edge but never quite enough to push you over.

Digging your heels into his back, you tilt your hips as far as the strain in your muscles will allow you to get closer. You rock yourself against his mouth, and Marc groans, a pleased, encouraging sound, even as his hands grip the flesh of your waist and hold you firm against the pillowy softness of the bed to make sure you don’t try to ride out your own pleasure against his face at a faster pace than he has set for you.

You could scream with frustration. If the left hemisphere of your brain responsible for speech wasn’t so severely compromised by Marc, you would be screeching until your throat goes raw with it. Instead, you hiccup a broken sob, his name quiet and cracked on your lips.

"That's right. You're alright," he soothes, as he presses his forehead against your stomach. If you didn’t know better, his voice almost sounds a bit shaky, slurring on the last word as he bends back down and puts his mouth back between your thighs, onto your sensitive flesh and gently sucks.

Those unruly curls tickle against the soft skin. You only meant to brush his hair away, but as soon as your fingers curl into the soft heat of them, you can’t help but grip tighter at the silky touch. Carding your hand through the curly locks.

You don’t mean to tug, but the careful drag of his teeth against your clit sends a sharp electric jolt up your spine, short-circuiting your lungs and sending you clawing at his curls for dear life. It should not feel this good, and yet you find yourself chasing the sensation, nearly buckling over, as your heel digs into the firm muscles of his back to anchor yourself.

You can’t even look anymore. Why torture yourself with the sight of him buried between your legs. Cheeks dusted crimson, and those breathtakingly expressive eyes burning into yours as if he’s trying to memorise every minute detail of your expression. You can see his jaw working on your pussy. Can feel him as his tongue keeps sliding hot and insistent without reprieve against your overstimulated clit.

It’s so much. Too much. All your senses feel overloaded. Your vision goes blurry. You’re not sure if it’s tears that are stinging behind your eyelids or if they cross at the back of your head as everything dims and darkens, like a fuse box blowing out. It’s all too much, and you’re being dragged under and drowning in the sensations. You need to pull up above the surface to breathe again or you’re sure you’re going to die.

You grab at Marc’s hand like he’s your life preserver, and he weaves his fingers between yours. It’s surprisingly intimate, as he squeezes your hand back, pressing your intwined hands to your hip bone, reassuring you he’s right there and—fuck, it’s… It’s so much, too much.

It’s chaos. A mayhem between your violently beating heart and burning lungs. You think there must be something wrong with you. Can’t possibly contain the pleasure that keeps pouring and pouring into you. For a fraction of a second, as your mind is torn apart by the sensations, and you are convinced that you must be having a heart attack. What other explanation could there possibly be?

“Ma–Marc, I–I’m– Fuck, oh god, oh fuck."

Marc eases back, “It’s okay.” He presses his mouth to your clit and kisses it, and the slick sound his mouth makes have you trembling and shaking so hard you’re convulsing against the sheets. “You’re okay,” he soothes. “Let go. I’ve got you. Come for me.”

Warmth floods your veins touching every part of your body, humming through every nerve and cell as your orgasm washes over you. It’s hard and unforgiving. Your body is trying to claim revenge on you for allowing it to take so long as it did. Everything else around you disappears, pulling you under with a vengeance that blots out your vision and all sounds with it.

But it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters to you anymore is how everything in you tingles pleasantly. It lingers long after it’s over, and you can still feel it from the tip of your fingers to the curl of your toes as you come down on Marc’s tongue.

His face is still buried between your thighs. His tongue curled against your entrance as he laps every drop of slick out of you. Drinking you down and swallowing every trace of your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for long moments until finally he’s satisfied and drags his head up your body.

“Did so good,” he praises, voice raspy and raw as his tongue trails a long affectionate line down your femur.

He presses his mouth to your knee with the same gentle care he did when he’d applied plasters. It’s intimate. Sweet.

Part of you feels silly to feel this affected by such a simple affectionate gesture considering what preceded it, but your heartbeat flutters at the touch.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve barely just come down from your orgasm or that you’re still throbbing and sensitive between your legs. Limbs so wrung out, they’re tingling and numb. You’re already craving the closeness of him all over again.

“Marc,” you call out for him, arm outstretched in an invitation for him to join you on the bed.

He doesn’t move, and it takes you a few moments, your mind fuzzy around the edges with the afterwaves of your orgasm to register that something's wrong. Everything is blurry and obscured by a warm haze, and you have to blink through the watery periphery of your vision before you can see him a bit more clearly.

Still on his knees, Marc’s mouth parts slightly open, like he maybe wants to say something but he doesn’t know how. There’s hesitation there in the tenseness of his jaw as his eyes flick away from your gaze, as if there’s still some invisible barrier that he won’t let himself cross.

It is a little bit ridiculous. After all, what barriers between you are there possibly left to cross? You and him nearly died together tonight. You love him, and he loves you too. Bloody hell, he’s just spent the better half of this night with his head buried between your thighs. There’s no stone left unturned.

But you know it’s not that simple. There’s a deeply embedded seed in Marc, buried under his skin and flesh and left to sprout for decades, long before you came along. Making him doubt himself and his place with you. It doesn’t matter how far you two come. He might always struggle with letting himself have what he wants guilt-free. Because he still doesn’t think he has a right to, that he doesn’t deserve it.

You plant an elbow on the mattress to raise yourself. But your arms have turned into boneless gelatine, wobbling under your weight, and you nearly topple over. Marc moves so fast, you only register a blur of movement, before he’s by your side. Steadying you with his hands on your shoulders.

“Easy. Lie back,” he says, eyes narrowed and worried, as he’s ushering you back down. The man’s got a protective streak a mile wide.

“Marc, please—” you start, but you don’t have to finish.

He breaks with your plea, and his knee dips into the bed, fully climbing in. His arms brace your sides as he lowers himself onto the bed.

“What, baby? What do you need? Tell me.” He says it like you only have to speak the words, and then your every wish will be his command.

There’s no fight left in his tone anymore. Voice gone soft. Any internal doubts have melted out of him. The look in his eyes as he gazes down on you tells you that Marc would give you anything you ask for. This man would insist on throwing himself under a double-decker bus if he thought it would make the ride a tiny bit smoother for you.

And oh… You get it now.

It’s taken you far too long, but you might have finally solved the puzzle that is Marc Spector. For all his aversion to let himself have even a morsel of happiness, there’s always been one overriding drive. There’s one thing that towers above the shame and guilt. One thing that’s more important to him than everything else. It’s in the way he’s always trying to meet the needs of those he cares for. Their happiness. Steven’s. Yours.

All you need to do is ask for him.

“You. I need you. Want you. Please.”

You can see it in real time as it happens. How the last traces of hesitation in him crumble, replaced by a determination that carves into those rich brown eyes. He drops forward, then he's sealing his mouth over yours like he’s signing on the dotted line, giving himself over to you.

It's everything.

Marc leans back again, fingers hooking into the hem of his t-shirt and dragging it off over his head in a single fluid motion. There’s no tangling of fabric, and it doesn’t get snagged as he tugs it over his head. There’s none of the clumsy adorableness of his alter. Marc undresses with practised ease like it was choreographed for the sole purpose of making your heart race faster.

Good fucking grief, you might’ve already seen this man before you naked on more occasions than you can count. But as he towers above you, skin golden in the dim light, the sight of his bare chest feels novel in a way that has your heart dropping to your lungs that must be entirely medically unsafe. You can’t help but stare shamelessly.

Chiselled and hard from the top of his head to his toes. You remember being surprised by how fit Steven was the first time, but somehow on Marc, it seems right. His physique reminds you of mythic Greek heroes memorialised in marble, and you're taken aback at how soft and warm he is under your hands. That he's human, made out of flesh and bone, and that he shivers as you drag your palms across the bare skin of his chest and stomach.

The anticipation crackles in your thighs, burning with a searing intensity at the thought of undressing him, gingerly unwrap him like a decadent present. But you’re greedy and have none of Marc’s patience. You wrench at his belt with little to no finesse, reaching down and wedging your fingers along the hem of his jeans to shove them down forcefully against the generous curve of his ass. You tug hard enough that you hear Marc choke out a wheezed breath, but you’re not even paying it any attention.

His hardened cock slaps against his stomach with a heavy thud and everything in you roars to attention at how thick and swollen he is for you. You feel heavy with need at the sight of it, and your brain is on autopilot, acting without conscious thought as you’re already reaching forward. Your knuckles skim down over his stomach before greedily wrapping your hand around his cock.

A deep groan tears out of his chest, and his hand snaps up to grab your wrist, holding you still. He clamps his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, inhaling heavily through his nostrils, breathing in and out with great struggle.

As much as you enjoy getting a rise out of him, you’re not trying to make things difficult for Marc on purpose. At least you don’t think you are. But you can’t look away from his cock. You can feel it straining and twitching in your hold, can see the trickle of glistening precome welling up from the flushed tip.

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, practically salivating as your thumb gently drags over the slick wetness there. The touch has his hips bucking, stuttering into your hands with a sound that sounds suspiciously close to a whimper. Your cheeks burn and tingle, your whole body flashing hot.

“Fuck,” he snarls and knocks your hand away, “You fucking ruin me, you know that?”

You want to retort that he’s the one to talk. Point out that he’s left you a dripping slick mess that’s soaked into the bedsheets and mattress and made them unsalvageable; that your thighs are an aching mess and you’re still swollen and sensitive from his mouth. But all vocabulary flies out of your head at the sight of him, as he replaces your hand with his own, wrapping one large hand around his cock.

Your heart stutters somewhere in your chest, and the breath in your lungs still with anticipation as he drops down to settle himself into place between your legs, knees nudging against your thighs to spread you wider for him as he notches the fat tip against your slick entrance.

His eyes lock on yours, the tip of his nose brushing alongside yours. He leans down to kiss you again, mouth warm and slick. You can still taste yourself on him, tart and almost sweet. Then he pushes inside of you, and your mind goes numb.

The first slide of him inside you is perfect. A sweet filling stretch that threatens to blot out everything else into nothingness.

Even though it’s your first time with Marc, your body already knows him. Craves every inch of him, and he’s willing to give that to you now, inch by slow maddening inch as he eases inside. Large hands clutching your sides, as his hips press forward and he works himself inside you. His cock pushes deep until he’s buried to the hilt. Then he stills, shuddering.

“Shit—,” he groans, dipping his head to press his face into your shoulder. “You gotta be kidding me.” His voice sounds shaky and strained. You’re not entirely sure what he means or what he finds so implausible. If he can’t believe he’s finally inside you after all this time or how good it feels. You just know you can’t believe it either.

It's flawed logic, but you’re not exactly coherent at this moment. Lungs squeezing tight in your diaphragm, you’re only capable of sobbing nonsensically at the consuming sensation of him filling you. Can barely focus on the warm tingle on your spine that settles over you. Your mind has been filled with cotton, soft and hazy as he’s completely sheathed inside, as deep as he can physically be.

Marc holds there for a long moment, his breath hot on your skin where he pants against your collarbone. He doesn’t move. Hips pressed flush against yours, taking his time to let your body adjust to the girth of him.

His mouth is on your bare skin, pressing kisses to your lips and then the apples of your cheek, before he drags himself downwards to mouth at the side of your neck, and under your jaw. Hands roaming along your ribs and hips like he cannot stop touching you. It’s devoted, loving even, the gentleness to his touch. It makes everything all the more overwhelming for you. He’s ruining you, with every caress on your flesh, and kiss to your skin, and he has barely even moved yet.

And god, you need him to.

"Marc."

He doesn't seem to hear you, mouth continuing to dot lazy kisses across your clavicle.

"Please.” You arch your back towards him, but you don’t get very far with his weight flattening you down against the bed.

“Marc, need you to move," you try again, voice high-pitched and needy, but you could be pleading to a stone wall for all the good it seems to do. His hips don't move from his position, immovable like a boulder. Instead, his palms fan out against your ribs, fingerprints permanently searing into your skin with the heat of his touch.

You can’t take it anymore, everything inside you is screaming, bursting at the seams for more and you wrap your legs around his waist in an attempt to force him deeper. To move.

Your heels dig into the rounded curve of his ass, and he jerks and gasps. You can feel his cock twitching inside you, as those stupendously gorgeous eyes flutter open. He’s looking at you again, stirred from the spell and the soft expression on his face hardens with determination.

"Yeah, baby. I got you," he says, and he finally complies. His hand comes to rest on the small of your lower back, tilting you up to him as he moves again. The hard drag of his cock slides out of you until only the blunt tip rests inside, and then he thrusts back, unhurried and deliberate.

Slow simmering pleasure bubbles up in your veins and you have to swallow it down with a hiccup of a sob. It's still the same ruthlessly slow and thorough pace. The one that tells you he won't be rushed, won't be hurried, even as he's giving you exactly what you asked him for.

Stubborn. Unreasonable. Maddening. You won't survive him.

The next thrust is demanding. It strikes heat along your spine and squeezes the air out of your lungs, until there's none of it left so you can fit more of him inside. A strange squeaky noise punches out of your throat, and in panic you clamber onto him.

He does it again. Hips dragging back as he pulls himself away, altering the angle of your hips with a small adjustment as he cants your hips upwards again. This time he lifts you further up than before and he pushes his way in with an almost testing stroke. His eyes narrow as he gazes down on you, brows furrowed in concentration and you realise what he’s doing.

Marc is slow and exacting, studying your every reaction, learning the best way to intricately pull you apart.

Staring up at him like this feels like you’re witnessing your own demise as it unfurls. Those unwavering eyes are focused on you, watching your every expression. He’s tilting the angle of his thrusts until he drives the pleasure deeper inside you with devastating precision until there is nothing left of you. Until tears are stinging in the corner of your eyes because you’re sure that you can’t fit more within you — the pleasure and him— and then he does somehow.

He catches your leg, hitching them higher so that he can slide a few inches deeper. The angle shifts, striking against something raw and overwhelming. You think you go blind with it and you swear you see stars collapsing behind the darkness of your eyelids.

"Yeah, there we go." His voice in your ear is calm, but he also sounds proud and pleased, and you're not sure if it's with himself or you. It’s all you can hear, and then he’s moving again.

A rich pleasure fills you at the slow glide of his cock dragging out of you, and then he pushes inside again, deep and determined, until his cock is kissing that deep perfect spot that robs you of your ability to breathe.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Can feel–” he groans, rolling his hips into yours, and it’s fucking devastating.

Your mind goes blank. A clean slate with no thought left in you except how good it feels. All you can do is moan and whimper, hands clutching desperately to his shoulders. "Oh– Oh, god. Marc, I– oh!"

He groans, slanting his mouth over yours and swallows the words down, cradling your head with his fingers. Soft doting presses of his lips to yours.

"Fuck, you feel so–" His sentence is cut off, and you never get to hear the rest of what he was going to say.

His mouth is on yours again and it’s nothing like the starved and overwhelmingly eager kisses you’re used to from these lips when it’s Steven who’s kissing you. This is slow and measured. Patient and deliberate as he takes his time with you. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to tell you a secret. Like he’s entrusting you with something important, to protect and to keep for him.

His finger rubs small circles under your ear, his hips slow and consuming as he fucks his cock into you. His arms never leave your side. Mouth never lifting from yours. His whole body pressed as deeply into you as he physically can.

It feels like a confession.

The ‘I love you’ that he can’t bring himself to say in front of you and can only admit to in the dead of night when he thought you were asleep.

His kiss is a soft and devoted touch. A complete contrast to the rest of him, as he continues to thrust into you, fucking his cock deeper inside you and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up.

It’s pleasure. It’s aggravation. It’s love and a defeat and a million other contradictory emotions between you and Marc that may never be resolved.

And you’re not going to try to. You’re happy to take him as he is, cracks and all. You accept it, his lips pressed against yours. Accept his demanding rhythm as he drives himself into you deeper and deeper. Accept the insistent heat that curls at the base of your spine, until it is a searing and smouldering burn and sparks like ember, numbing your legs with it. It is threatening to consume your very being and burn you into ashes as it flares bright in your lungs and you can no longer breathe as the pleasure of it is ready to overspill, and—

“Baby, you close again?”

And fuck, that’s—that’s— Your stomach tenses up again. The warmth spreads, twining and branches out along every single vein flooding it with blinding bliss until you’re dizzy with it.

You’re trying to say yes, trying to nod, but your body isn’t responding to your will anymore. It has a mind of its own, and all it wants is to be closer to Marc, to grab onto him and never let go. Your limbs are wrapped all around him, legs locked around his waist, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders so hard you know you’re breaking skin. The only thing you’re still in control of is to helplessly squeeze down tight on his cock as it slides thick and heavy in you.

“Oh fuck, that’s–” his voice sounds pitched and almost vulnerable, the arm curled around your leg, squeezing tighter.

Pleasure builds in you like the tide, rising slow and steady but inexorable, filling you until there's no room for oxygen or thoughts or anything else except the consuming push of Marc’s cock inside of you.

And then it breaks, ecstasy streaking out along your every nerve, overwhelming and inescapable, threatening to wash you away with it, except that you’re pinned, held safe by the grounding weight of Marc’s body and the reassuring press of his forehead against yours as you come on his cock.

You open your eyes to find yourself staring up at him, still bleary-eyed and drunk on bliss. You can only make out the colour of his eyes, the dark ink of his hair. But blurry as he is, you’re intimately aware of how he can see all of you. The glazed look that you must be holding in your half-open eyes as wrought out with pleasure as you are. The hair plastered to your forehead. The absolute mess of a state he’s left you in, and how debauched you must look in front of him. Face to face, all of you bare and uncovered, there in its unembellished form for him to see.

But that means you can see Marc too. As your vision clears, you can pick out every small detail of his expression. The subtle tic of the muscle in his jaw. The furrow in his brow. How his mouth is slack with pleasure. Those rich eyes of his are blown wide open until they’re left exposed. You can see it clearly now, how he’s clearly trying and struggling to hold back. The vulnerability that he’s been trying to hide from the world the entire time you’ve known him.

Not for the first time, as he holds himself above you, you find yourself marvelling at how beautiful he is. Identical to Steven, yet worlds apart.

Steven is hope and light and the curve of a gentle smile. Marc is sharp lines and dark shadows and heat behind his pained eyes. Jagged edges to Steven’s soft curves. Jaded cynicism to Steven's cheerful enthusiasm. Dark secrets and carefully hidden skeletons lurking in closets to Steven's forthright honesty.

And god help you, you love them both beyond measure.

The weight of his body is pressing down against you now. Every inch of the smooth golden skin pinned against yours, warm and flushed against your heated flesh. He grinds himself against you, needy, and desperate. There’s no longer any rhythm or logic to it. Just an instinctual primal need to get closer. You spread your legs as wide as you can to welcome him deeper, to take all of him as much as you can even as your thighs ache in protest from overexertion.

His mouth moves against yours, stuttering and trembling, and it takes you far too long to register the words that are coming from him.

“Fuck, baby, fuck I’m–” he chokes out brokenly against your lips, his hands on your hips holding on tighter.

He stills, and you think maybe this is it, that he’s about to come. Anticipation rises in your chest, and you hold him tighter, body clenching down in preparation.

But he doesn’t come. Just holds himself there, shuddering against you, his forehead against your chin, panting breaths, hot and humid, against the base of your neck. His cock is pulsing where it’s buried thickly inside you. Thighs quivering and barely able to keep them upright where they’re pressed between yours. You know that he wants to come. Needs to come. You just don’t understand why he’s refusing to give in.

“It’s okay, Marc. You can let go. Come for me,” the words are a struggle to get out. Your voice hoarse and scraped raw in your throat.

There’s a long moment of stillness, then he heaves a sigh so weary it makes your heart clench, as he starts shaking his head.

“No,” he grits out, voice low and determined as it so often is. His head comes up, dark, fuck-drunk eyes meeting yours, jaw set at that stubborn angle you’ve come to know so well, and he says it again.

“No. I– I’m not–“ He cuts off, shaking his head again. “Fuck, not yet,” he says. Then he rallies through, lifting his body away from yours and drives himself deep inside you with a shudder. “Not ready. Don’t want this to end.”

It sounds like a plea, and you’re not sure who he’s pleading with, you or himself, and there is a pang of pain in your chest for him. Because this idiot still doesn’t get it.

It’s like he’s never known softness. Hardness forged from a lifetime of a man who’s always had to hold himself up without respite. There’s a loneliness in it, of being the one who always has to take care of everyone else with nowhere to put down his burdens.

Fondness swells up in you and there is nowhere to direct it except for the object of your affection. You wrap your arms tighter around him, smoothing one palm over the sweat-slick, heaving muscles of his back, and whisper reassurances into the hair above his ear.

“Marc,” you breathe out and at the sound of you calling his name, his eyes snap up to yours. “Nothing’s ending.”

His arms buckle and he lets out a small choked sound that almost sounds like a whimper. He looks like he can barely hold himself up anymore.

“You have me,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to his. You kiss the arch of his jaw and mouth at the column of his neck. “Have had me for a long time.”

He tenses at your words, whole body trembling above you. But he still refuses to let go.

How many times will you have to keep reaching out to this impossibly stubborn man before he starts believing that you mean it?

Your hands come to the sharp edge of his cheekbones, cradling this face that you have fallen in love with twice over. Not just because it is Steven’s face. Not just because he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. But because it’s Marc too.

“I love you.”

At your words, those determined eyes pitched with dark concentration blanks into a stupefied daze.

His head tilts slightly, a movement so small it doesn’t register at first that he’s nodding. Then his face drops closer, pressing his lips to yours. The line of his shoulder softens under your locked arms, lowering himself down onto you. His hips sink into you, his cock dragging thickly inside you as deep as it goes.

You watch in awe as his mouth falls open, eyes rolling back, and you can feel it as he comes inside you. Pulse after devastating pulse.

And god, he’s so beautiful like this; unruly curls wild and ruined, cut cheeks a faint crimson, skin slick with glistening sweat in the dim light. So perfectly undone and at peace. The pulse of his cock inside you as he spills himself deep inside you is almost secondary.

You bask in it. The warmth of his arms caging you in, his forehead pressing down firm against yours. The feeling of him so deep inside you, you’ll happily drown in the feeling of this man after waiting for him so long. His body slumps, dropping his weight on yours, completely depleted.

His cock is still hard, arms still trembling when Marc shifts on top of you, trying to raise himself on one elbow. It's too soon for him to move, you don't want him to move, want him to lie on top of you forever.

Logically, you know it’s out of consideration. He’s probably worried that he’s squishing you, but an irrational fear swoops low in your stomach at the idea that he’s going to leave again. Your fingers dig into his forearm, dragging him back towards you.

He lands on top of you with a quiet and tired grunt in your ear, but there’s no other protest from him. Marc lets you, shifting ever so slightly to make sure that his elbow doesn’t jab into your ribs as he settles on top of you. Then he stays, and you get to listen to the slow steadying of his breath, as the erratic rise and fall of his chest ease into something more even.

The two of you stay this way for a long time, staring up at each other, with half-lidded eyes worn from exhaustion without speaking, and you catalogue his face as it cycles through a series of micro-expression with each second that ticks by.

If this was when you’d first known Marc, at first glance, each expression would have looked the same to you. But you know him well enough now that you can tell that the tiny pinch of his brow means something is troubling him. That the narrowing slant of his eyes means he can’t find the right words to express it. That him biting the inside of his cheeks means he’s hesitating on whether he would be offloading on you. Every detail says just as much as Steven’s openly variable animated expressions.

His eyes blink in quick succession, and Marc takes a deep heaving breath as if bracing himself. Then he’s lifting himself up and away from you by his forearms, slipping out of you to a sharp pained hiss as you whine in response at how empty you feel at the loss.

He rolls to the side of the bed next to you and settles there, and you feel a bit nervous about what’s going to happen next, because you don't know what is going to come.

“Is this still what you want?” Marc asks.

He’s looking at you as he says it, but somehow you feel like he’s looking through you, eyes not quite meeting yours. His voice sounds impassive, and if you haven’t spent so much time with him by now, it could easily be mistaken for disinterest or even boredom, instead of the defence mechanism that you know it is.

“Yes, of course, it is,” you say without hesitation.

There’s no response from Marc, he’s lying so still next to you. So quiet you can’t even hear him breathing anymore. If it turned out that he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open you wouldn’t be surprised.

You turn onto your side so that you can scoot even closer to him as you watch him. One sole stray curl is draped across his forehead, and it’s fallen into the line of his big gorgeous brown eyes. So ridiculously pretty, this one.

Yeah. This is definitely what you want. Him. Steven. Both. All of them.

“You’re– okay with all this?” he asks hesitantly, and he looks genuinely puzzled as to why you would be. “With... what happened earlier too?”

A breathless huff pushes its way up your chest. “I don’t know if ‘okay’ is the right word here, Marc. I’m not sure how to deal with the revelation that gods and monsters are real, and there’s a very high chance I’ll freak out about it tomorrow or next week. But…”

You press a kiss to the side of his cheek as you draw your eyes up and meet those rich expressive eyes of his. There’s no mistaking it, you feel it, in the same way that you do for Steven. Even if it’s different… there’s no doubt in you, haven’t been for a long time about this.

“What I’m sure of is that I want to be with you. You and Steven. No matter what. I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said. I want to be your person as well as his. And– and I hope you can be mine.”

Marc tentatively draws his hand towards you, fingertips searching across the length of your arm until he finds your fingers and weaves them with his.

The palm of his hand is warm and sturdy, sending a pleasant buzzing sensation across the back of your neck. It’s your favourite thing in the world, whenever Steven does this, and you’re pretty sure it’s going to be your shared favourite when Marc does it too.

“Yeah”, he finally says after a long moment, “I’d like that.” His voice is soft and quiet, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies swoops your stomach at his warm tone filled with affection.

Tilting your head upwards, you close the distance between you, pressing your lips to his. It’s sweet and tender as his hand cups your cheeks protectively, like a promise that he’s not going to run anymore and it makes your toes curl into the sheet until you’re giddy.

You clutch at him, hands cupping the back of his neck and lace your fingers into those ridiculously soft curls of his. Marc shivers against you, and you smile like a loon as he ducks his head and buries his face into the crook of your neck contentedly, and exhale deeply.

Who would have guessed that post-sex, the man would be the world's most grumpy cat turned soft and cuddly, asking to be petted. You comb through the matted locks and the blunt tip of his nose nuzzles into your damp skin. He makes a quiet, content little sound somewhere from the back of his throat like he doesn’t want you to stop and who are you to deny him?

Your fingertips trail his scalp, from the nape of his neck to the crown of his head, when it occurs to you that you should probably be more careful with his head.

He was flung several feet in the air and landed head-first into a concrete wall with a bone-cracking sound that still makes you sick to your stomach. You continue to card through his hair, mapping him out in search of any signs of injuries, but you can’t find any and your fingers still.

It doesn’t make sense. You weren’t put through the ringer in any way near what Marc was tonight and you’ve still ended up with your fair share of scrapes and bruises. But there’s nothing on Marc.

No swelling, no bumps. No wounds.

On top of it all you’ve spent the better part of this evening, pulling and tearing at his hair. Your nails had been digging so deep into his shoulders you might as well have been excavating for gold and he hasn’t so much as hissed or flinched in pain even once.

There’s a faint muffled sound of complaint from Marc as he lies on top of you. It’s so distorted that it takes you a few moments to appreciate that they’re words.

“What's wrong?” Marc asks.

“You don’t have any injuries. You were hurt.”

“I was wearing the suit,” he answers in his typical deadpan manner. No background information, no context, no painting out a scene for you. To Marc, the limited information he’s given you should make perfect sense to you.

You grimace, and you’re just about to have a moan at him, when Marc seems to realise how confusing that explanation must be. He lifts his head from your neck as he continues. “Khonshu’s ceremonial armour. It protects me. Heals me when I need it.”

An image of the swirl of bandages wrapping itself around Marc’s body to form an otherworldly magical suit plays out behind your mind, and you can’t resist teasing him.

“So you transform like Sailor Moon and then fight evil at night?”

Marc lifts his eyebrow inquisitively, with a completely blank expression. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Really? Sailor–” you sputter, shocked he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “Steven would know that reference.”

“Steven has too much free time,” he sighs, but the fondness hiding under his gruff tone is unmistakable.

The playful jab at Steven brings a small smile to your face. The levity of it is a nice change of pace from the whirlwind of seismic events and paradigm shifts tonight, because there’s been a lot to take in. Much of which, you’re pretty sure you haven’t fully taken in… Don’t even know how to start to process it.

Ancient Egyptian gods are real, and your boyfriend—(boyfriends? Just exactly how involved is Steven?)—is some kind of indentured fighter priest who battles invisible monsters—also real—for one of them.

What is the correct reaction to a revelation like that? How does one even begin to mentally process that?

“Any other questions? Now’s your chance,” Marc says.

There is no hostility like before and this time you don’t have to drag it out of him with the persistence of a detective in an interrogation room interviewing a suspect as you ordinarily have to.

You’re not entirely sure how you feel about that, except that you’re a little bit stunned and you realise that something has shifted between you and Marc.

He’s… opening up to you.

You look up at him, and he meets your eyes steadily. There are a million things you still want to ask: What’s the deal with his and Steven’s mum? What did he and Steven go through while they were away? How did he almost die, and how on bloody earth did he manage to just stumble upon an ancient Egyptian God to end up in his service?

Marc hasn’t moved from the spot as he observes you. Still seemingly expressionless, except…

There’s a tension to the set of his shoulders, isn’t there? And he’s too still—even for Marc… It hits you all at once he’s holding his breath, the line of his lips set in a thin nerve-biting straight line.

He’s waiting for you.

Regardless of how hard Marc tries to hide it, trying to school his expressions, there’s only so much his body language can repress. The ring of his eyes is dilated and vulnerable.

He’s nervous.

Marc’s jaw tightens in anticipation and maybe something a little like fear, and it makes your chest ache with an overwhelming need to protect him. Those other questions can wait. You have all the time in the world together. Right now you want to make him feel as safe and cared for as you do. You want to make him smile.

"So..." you begin, and you see him stiffen, watching as he braces himself like he’s expecting a blow. It’s how you know you’re making the right decision. "Do you actually like my coffee?"

His eyes widen and he sputters out "You– Your–" then barks out a laugh.

Even in the dark, you can see it, a soft smile on his face that illuminates the darkness of the room with it. A gentle curve, as the dimple of his cheeks carve a deep dent into those hollowed cheeks, the soft crinkle of lines around his eyes. It’s like nothing you have ever seen before. It’s bright and uninhibited. An electrical socket has been plugged in and every nerve in you is flicked alight with excitement.

It stuns you and takes your breath away, and for the longest moment, you forget about everything else.

Because god, he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

It takes you several seconds, maybe even a full minute to compose yourself enough to ask him again.

"Well...?" you prompt, and you’re gifted with the pleasure of watching him try and fail to hide that perfect smile.

"It's… a little more complicated than that," he says, and you narrow your eyes at him, trying to look playfully peeved while tampering your own smile that’s twitching at your lips and failing.

"I like that you make it for me," he tries.

"That wasn't the question, though."

Marc shifts in the bed, scooting closer to you until he’s brushing up against your knees. That small but near-magical smile is still on his face.

"Tell you what,” Marc murmurs, as he tightens his grip around you, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat-slicked curls tickling your nose. “Tomorrow, let's make it together."

His voice is so assured, it feels like he’s promising you a certainty, and you trust him with every inch of you.

A warmth spreads in your chest, and you can feel the dopey grin pulling at your lips until your cheeks almost hurt, but you can’t stop yourself and you don’t think you want to either.

There is so much that is still unresolved, so many more things you need answers to, but it’s a good start and that’s good enough for tonight. After all, as Steven would tell you: you have all the time in the world.

“That sounds perfect,” you tell him.

When you wake, the morning light is filtering in through the large windows. The sun is blinding and makes it difficult to see anything at all.

Reaching out your hand, the spot next to you is cold and empty, any residual heat long gone from the sheets. You’re alone in bed again.

Marc has really got to stop fucking doing that.

“Marc?” you call out, but there’s no response. You hesitate for a second before adding, “Steven?”

“Here.”

Then you hear familiar noises coming from the kitchen, and the tension in your chest melts away at the sound of porcelain clinking together. There are no folded clothes by your side, but to your surprise, your watch sits on the nightstand, cracked face turned up, waiting for you.

A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your stomach warms at the sight. Marc must have gone back to retrieve it while you were asleep.

You sit up on the bed, bending over to grab a discarded shirt from the floor as well as your knickers from last night, and pull them on, smiling to yourself as you start to make your way across the flat to join him in the kitchen.

The familiar sweet, bread-like smell wafts out to greet you, and you falter.

Pancakes? That isn’t right. Today’s not Sunday.

In the bright morning sun, you see him standing, with his back turned against you over the kitchen stove. Wearing only his jeans, bare from the waist above, the carved muscles of his back flexing as he flips the frying pan with a dramatic flair. Even before he speaks, you already know what’s happened.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he greets you. He's turning his head just enough to throw you a quick glance, and a one-sided crooked smile.

You stop in your tracks. The cadence is alien, the smile off, but you recognize it immediately.

Not Marc. Not Steven. But you have met this man before.

That first night at Steven’s; the man you woke up to who looked at you like you were a stranger; the man who followed you to the lift to return your watch; the same man who towered over the invisible creature with nothing but cold contempt in his eyes as he snuffed out its time on earth with precision and brutality.

All this time, you thought that the first night you’d spent with Steven was also your first encounter with Marc.

But Marc doesn’t call you sweetheart. Marc doesn’t flirt. Marc doesn’t smirk like he’s trying to imitate something he’s seen on the telly.

This is detached and impersonal, like he’s not really smiling at all. When Marc smiles it’s snow thawing in the spring.

It’s funny how you didn’t see it until now. Marc was never the wolf.

You cross your arms against your chest, planting your feet firmly on the floor, standing up straight and tall as you confront the man before you.

“You’re not Marc, and you’re not Steven,” you say and you shift on your legs, puffing out your chest in a display of put-on courage. “Don’t you think it's time you introduced yourself, seeing that you’re in my boyfriends’ flat?”

The man huffs out a laugh, and his accent is different when he speaks again. A New York accent, you think, but almost cartoonishly so, like he’s watched one too many Martin Scorcese movies. It’s oozing out of every word as he speaks with a slow and nasal hum.

“Nothing gets past you, does it, sweetheart?”

He sets down the frying pan on the stove, turning it off before he wipes off his hand on a flower-patterned tea towel and extends it towards you, a polite invitation to shake.

“Name’s Jake Lockley.”

You take a step towards him, and maybe you should be nervous—afraid of this stranger wearing your boyfriends’ face—but the panic and fear from that first night you met him is absent. That painful pounding in your chest is no longer there.

You accept his hand, looking up into this man’s familiar eyes that are staring down at you in an entirely unfamiliar way. Not Steven’s wide and adoring gaze. Not Marc’s protective and gentle attention. No love resides in those eyes for you at this moment, just curiosity.

But you’re not scared this time.

Because come what may, you already know the most important part. Whatever happens next, whoever this Jake turns out to be, it’s not going to change your mind about Steven or Marc.

You’ll take them as they are. Red flags and all.

THE END.

Author's notes

This is the end. I wish I was more coherent to write a meaningful and heartwarming message about what this story has meant to me. How grateful I am to everyone reading it, but I do not think I have any words that can do it justice.

The only thing I can say is thank you. Thank you for reading this, whether you've read this from the first chapter, or whether you only read the first chapter or you've only read bits and pieces. Whether you've commented or liked or reblogged or simply just lurked-read, from the bottom of my heart thank you for giving this story your time, I'm really grateful to you all.

A big thank you to my friends who have listened to me whine and bitch and moan and generally emotionally terrorised them with this story, and especially thank you to my cowriter: thirstworldproblemss who has been put through the ringer with this story and suffered alongside with me. I love you the moooooooooooooooooooosetest

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

#i’ve been trying to get my thoughts in order but i just can’t #first of all thank you guys for writing and sharing this beautiful story #it must feel great to have completed this book even though it’s probably also a little sad #i know wr all enjoyed and basically worshipped this story #now holy fucking plot twist #it’s so funny because the story is called red flags and it’s about this character ignoring the red flags in her boyfriend #but now i realize that it’s also about us ignoring the red flags in that first ‘marc’ encounter bc marc doesn’t use the word sweetheart and #he isn’t forward like that and he doesn’t smirk #and ive gone back to the first chapter and you guys use words to describe him that 100% fit jake and bc we believe that this is marc #pretending to be steven we think that this is why marc acts that way #WE ignore the red flags and now my mind is blown #*galaxy brain*#it’s just genius #i’m so intrigued #now the smut was top tier my god that man is gorgeous #the whole confrontation was so heartbreaking and the lead up to the kiss 🙌🏼#loved the sailor moon reference we’re showing our 90s #and steven would 100% understand the ref #I’m dying she doesn’t know he has his own little suit oof her knees would weaken faster than santiagos #number one fan of the watch #whoever picked it up from the street is a hero bc i was a little sad it’d be lost all alone (being sad about lost objects is also very 90s)#fic rec #steven grant #marc spector #jake lockley

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lasoldier · 18 days ago

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Act IV ~ Masquerade: New Year’s Eve [Part I]

Inspired by @usamamoweek Week 2024 - First Glance/Masquerade prompt. Due to a death in the family, I was unable to participate in UsaMamo Week 2024. In honor of UsaMamo Week 2024, my future chapters will be inspired by the prompts from last year.

December 31st, New Year’s Eve

Marcelina

“No, Papa. I will not do it. I can’t.” Marcelina protested! “Marcelina, por favor.” Marco pleaded. “We just buried Mama…now you want me to go to a party in her stead?” Marcelina asked. “Caroline and Sienna were going to honor your mother long before her death, Marcelina. Her passing was unexpected by all of us.” Marco reminded his daughter.

Marcelina bit back her bottom lip bitterly as she sat defeated on the edge of her mother’s desk, her eyes again looking at her mother’s cherished rug. Mere moments after her father appointed her mother’s replacement as cultural attaché, he asked that she accept the posthumous Humanitarian of the Year award being presented by Infinity Corporation. A sigh escaped Marcelina; it was all happening so fast.

“No lo sé, Papá...I don’t know, Papa.” Marcelina said softly, looking at her father, her deep brown eyes locking her father’s. Her father’s eyes looked different, sadder, emptier now that her mother was gone. “Marcelina…your Mama wanted this for you. She knew you would be her successor. I. know she wishes she had more time or was here to help you. But you can do this, mija.” Marco explained.

Her father was right; maybe this answered her prayer to the Blessed Mother…Please help me find the path and to take steps that honor your legacy. She glanced down at the red and golden wand resting on her desk, the sun glistening off the gilded symbol of Mars. She remembered the sister’s words to her that night…When the time comes, you will know what to do. What did she mean by that? Marcelina could not help but feel that everything would change this very night…

“Ok, Papa. I will do it. For you. For Mama.” She said with a soft smile. Her father clapped his hands together in pleasure, “Thank you, Mija.” He said gratefully with tear-filled eyes, “Your Mama…would be so proud.” He said, turning to leave, “I trust Tino will be escorting you this evening.” He said, giving her a knowing glance. Marcelina blushed and covered her mouth, trying to hide her smile, “Papa…we were being discreet for your sake...as Ambassador.” She stammered. “Well, if it was for my sake,” Marco said sarcastically. I see how you look at each other, Mija. It was written in the stars.” He said this comfortingly as he left the office. “Written in the stars…” Marcelina murmured, looking out the window.

Cael, River, Reign, & Zak

The Heavenly King, Cael’s private helicopter, was high above the Paris skies. Cael’s co-pilot handled all the preparations to ensure that everything was in order when Cael, Reign, and Zak arrived for take-off. Cael soon had the helicopter in the air, and the trio arrived at the City of Lights within the hour. It was not long before they landed at Héliport de Paris-Issy-les-Moulineaux and made their way to the main terminal where River awaited them.

“River!” Reign exclaimed, throwing his arms around his friend and hugging her. River hugged Reign tightly and hugged Cael and Zak as they approached. “Welcome to Paris, mes ami!” she said, “What are you doing here?” Zak asked, “You didn’t think I would miss an opportunity to see you guys when you all decided to make an impromptu visit to Paris, did you?” River responded with a wink. “And getting a ticket to the biggest social occasion of the year event didn’t have anything to do with it either?” Zak teased. River pushed Zak playfully! “Of course, it didn’t!” she said. “It was just a bonus.” “Well, before we settle in, we have an appointment at Massimo Dutti in La Defense tonight,” Cael explained as they left the terminal. “My office is there; I can get us there in a jiff,” River said, jingling the keys and pressing the button on the key fob. The horn of Quicksilver, River’s turbo-blue Audi RS5 Sportback, blared and its headlights flashed as it auto-started, “Hop in.” River said with a wink

Mina

The minuet third movement of Luigi Boccherini’s String Quintet, Op. 11, No. 5, sung from the strings of the Marine Cathedral, Mina Nilasiman’s priceless Stradivarius violin. Her dark hair cascaded like waves along the shoulder of her white cropped t-shirt, and her loose denim jeans hung from her hips. Her bare feet embraced the warm wooden floors of her home. Her dark eyes were hidden beneath her closed lids as her hand deftly strummed the bow across the strings while the other instinctively found each note to play on the violin tucked betwixt her shoulder and chin.

Mina knew the movement like the back of her hand, but today, she struggled with the subtle nuances of the piece. Most would not notice that Mina was not at her best, she knew. The music stopped abruptly as Mina stopped opening her eyes. A soft sigh escaped her as she lowered the violin and bow and looked out the window toward the Paris skyline. She glanced over her shoulder to the steaming kuhlar of chai that sat on the coffee table of her office. Her dark eyes watched the star anise dance in the almond liquid and the foam of tea swirl hypnotically in the pottery cup.

The room's silence was replaced with the crash of waves and swirling waters of the sea. Mina could hear inaudible whispers speaking to her,

“The seas are stormy…” Mina whispered.

She broke herself from the trance and looked at the violin. She walked over to the open case, where she placed the instrument and bow. Her bare feet padded on the wooden floors toward the chai. She raised the warm kuhlar to her supple lips and took a gentle sip, savoring the spices and sweetness of the tea. She took another sip before setting the cup next to a golden antique mirror.

Mina glanced at the mirror’s reflection, which rippled like a drop of water into a placid pond. She had the mirror for as long as she could remember; it was a family heirloom passed down through the women of her family until it came into her possession as a young girl. Slender digits caressed the gilded handle of the mirror as Mina admired its details, including the inlaid woman eternally transfixed to glance at her beauty in the reflective depths of the mirror. Grasping the handle, Mina lifted the mirror, looking at herself in the reflection.

“There’s something between this world and the mirror…” Mina said as if she were in a trance to her reflection. Her words were not her own, “For I have summoned you, and you are bound to me…my talisman, the Deep Aqua Mirror…” She said stoically, “What will you show me? What will I see?” She asked, and suddenly, everything went dark.

Mina opened her eyes and found herself in what used to be Paris…

“What in the world…” she murmured, looking at the destroyed Eiffel Tower.

The cityscape was drenched in the color of blood and shadow. A brooding wind swirled about the desolate city of lights, and she felt fear swell in her heart. Grasping the mirror in her hand, Mina looked about, seeing nothing but the destroyed city of Paris and the bodies of its citizens. Looking upward, she saw the sky darken, and the world around her began disintegrating.

“The world…is ending,” Mina said sadly.

A figure hovered above Mina in a flash of aquamarine light. Mina raised her hand to shield her eyes from the light. Squinting from beneath the palm of her hand, she looked at the silhouetted figure above her.

“The Silence is approaching…” a voice spoke to her. Mina lowered her hand as the figure came into focus; their voice sounded familiar. “I know you…” Mina said as the figure revealed themselves to be Mina herself.

Mina looked at her other self in amazement. This other Mina’s hair was long and wavy like her own with tints of deep-sea green, much like the waves of the ocean itself. A V-shaped golden tiara rested upon her forehead, a tourmaline gem resting in its vertex. A similar gem with golden adornments was affixed to the seaweed green choker that wrapped about the other Mina’s neck, matching the same-colored sailor collar that fluttered above the shoulders of her white padded cuirass. Fashioned to the center of the cuirass was a deep ocean blue bow appended with a circular teal emblem. Similarly, an ocean-blue bow fluttered the lower back of Mina’s outfit. White wrist-length gloves with deep ocean-blue cuffs covered her clasped hands. Her seaweed green pleated skirt flitted about the windy but stale air from her waist, matching the ribbon-crossed high heels upon her feet. The other Mina opened her eyes and looked down at Mina with a gentle smile.

“By the gods...” Mina said in awe, “Who are you?” she asked. “I am you. My name is Sailor Neptune,” the other Mina responded gently. Sailor Neptune’s smile faded, and she looked at Mina solemnly. “Mina, awaken. The silence is approaching...” she said ominously. “The silence?” Mina asked watching Sailor Neptune unclasp her hands. The Deep Aqua Mirror appeared in a flash of light between Neptune’s open palms and looked at the antique mirror forebodingly. “You asked what you would see in the mirror, and it has shown what will come to pass...” Sailor Neptune said, “Awaken…for the time is near. Gather the three talismans…”

Mina gasped only to find herself back in her office. She lifted the mirror, knowing she held one of the three talismans her dream asked her to gather. She glanced out the window of her office toward the blue sky,

“What did she mean by awaken?” she murmured. How and where was she going to find the other Talismans?

Clare

“I can’t believe it!” Clare exclaimed to Himeko, Karine, and Chasity, followed by other excited murmurs from her company. Madame Javelot clapped her hands to get her dancer’s attention. “Yes, yes, mes danseurs. We have officially been invited to the New Year’s Eve Gala by the Opera’s most generous benefactors, the Infinity Corporation.” Madame Javelot confirmed with a stern look, “Remember, you are a member of the representing the esteemed company of the Paris Opera Ballet. I expect nothing except the best from you.” she said sharply, “Decorum and discretion are key.” she explained eyeing her dancers, “Now.” she said with a warm smile, “Go, dress in most dazzling finery and have fun. Have a happy New Year! Class dismissed.” she said with a wave of her hand as she left the dance room.

The dancers gathered their things and hurried excitedly out of the dance room. Clare, Himeko, Karine, and Chasity huddled together giddily.

“I can’t believe this is happening!” Chasity said, “It’s the social event of the season,” Karine responded fervently “What will you even wear tonight!” Clare said, her mind racing with ideas of what she wanted to wear. Jean-Yves approached the four women, “Well, this year’s theme is masquerade. Formal attire and masques are the dress code.” He said, having looked up the event on his phone. “A masquerade! How elegant!” Himeko squealed “Evie, are you going?” Chasity asked; Jean-Yves shook his head ‘no.’ “No, parties aren’t my thing. You four have fun.” H said as he slung his duffle over his shoulder and left the dance room. Chasity watched Jean-Yves leave disappointedly. “We have the rest of the day free; maybe we should go shopping!” Karine suggested. Chasity’s face lightened up! “Yes! Let’s go to La Defense! My family recently opened another jewelry boutique, and my mother is throwing a grand opening sale!” Chasity exclaimed. “That means we can shop for outfits for the gala and get some accessories!” Himeko chirped as she grabbed her bag. Karine and Chasity followed suit, “C’mon, let’s go get changed and catch the Metro,” Karine said. Clare went to follow but remembered she forgot to grab her bag! Clare scurried across the dance floor, picking up her hoodie and stuffing it into her half-opened bag. “Clare, we’re gonna leave without you,” Himeko called out “No, don’t! Wait for meeeeeeee!” Clare whined, chasing after her friends.

No one noticed that Lilita had remained behind. The young woman stepped gracefully and thoughtfully to the center of the room, where she stood placidly, watching Clare hurry after friends and listening to the girl’s footsteps grow quiet, leaving silence as Lita’s only companion.

Zharia

On December 26, Zharia and Blason presented a tense vision for Infinity Corporation’s New Year’s Eve Bash to Myrrhina Fluere with Infinity Media, who spearheaded the big occasion. After carefully reviewing their menu selection, adjusting, and receiving a generous increase in their proposed budget proposal, Café de la Paix won the bid to cater the most sought-after event of the season!

Zharia and Blason spent less than a week sourcing and prepping ingredients. The day before the event, Blason, and the kitchen staff were busy making red wine reduction, Lobster Bisque with Cognac cream and chive oil, duck foie gras macarons in Fig Compote, and Duck Breast à l’Orange with Grand Marnier Jus and spiced red cabbage. Zharia tended to the desserts, including her specialty Champagne Sorbet with edible rose petals, Mont Blac, and petit fours, which consisted of chocolate truffles, madeleines, and lemon tartlets.

On the day of the event, Blason added the finishing touches with smoked salmon tartare, beef tartare, Roasted Filet de Boeuf in red wine reduction, Pommes Anna with glazed vegetables, and Oysters Rockefeller with champagne sabayon. At the same time, Zharia layered the Opera Cake and helped the kitchen staff with the cheese board selection and baking fresh bread before it was all hands on deck to get the food transported to the venue at the Louvre.

Zharia used a flour-powdered arm to wipe away the sweat on her brow, leaving a chalky streak on her forehead. Blason chuckled, approaching Zharia wearily, watching her massage her clammy palms together and the staff get everything in order in the vans. Zharia smiled softly at Blason.

“What’s so funny?” she asked with a smirk. Blason motioned to his forehead,

“Your choice in makeup.” He teased, watching Zharia feel her face and looking at one of the silver-plated serving trays, seeing the white floor streak on her face. Blushing, she grabbed the towel tucked in her apron, wiping her face clean before giving Blason a knowing glance,

“Ha, ha.” She grinned before tucking the towel back in her apron and crossing her arms, “We have a busy night ahead of us.” She said, hoping to move past her awkward moment, “I was thinking we could let Mathieu and Gaby take the lead for the event,” Blason responded, looking at the kitchen staff. Zharia looked at him, surprised, “Seriously?” she asked, looking to Blason in astonishment, “Blaise, this is a big event. I’d think you’d want us to be there.” Zharia protested, “I do, Z,” Blason said abruptly, looking at a perplexed Zharia, “Look, I received an invitation to the New Year’s Eve Bash; I was hoping you’d accompany me as my date,” Blaise said sheepishly, rubbing his head and looking to the Paris streets. Zharia’s face softened with a gentle smile as Blason glanced at her from the corner of his eye, “I’d love to.” She said, accepting his offer.

Myrrhina

"On the last day of 2020, we revisit one of the year's most troubling stories. Earlier this year in May, renowned archaeologist and anthropologist Dr. Morgana Maragdos announced her summer expedition where she would continue researching and excavating ancient ruins discovered by her small scouting team in the Arctic Circle last year. Artifacts from last year’s expedition are currently being studied at the Louvre."

"Dr. Maragdos, a leading figure in Archaeology and Anthropology, reached new career heights when she made groundbreaking discoveries of physical evidence of long-lost civilizations that bridged the gap between Greek Antiquity and the Roman Empire. Her findings in Asia, Greece, the Middle East, and Spain provided invaluable insights into these transitional periods, earning her critical acclaim, including the 2019 Ladislaus J. Bolchazy Award for her exceptional contributions to understanding ancient civilizations. Dr. Maragdos was part of a 20-member team of fellow archaeologists, anthropologists, geologists, biologists, surveyors, and support staff. Contact with Maragdos and her team ceased in September. The expedition was in part funded by the European Climate Monitoring Initiative in addition to funding from prestigious academic institutions and grants. The expedition was abruptly halted under mysterious circumstances following their last distressing transmission about unexpected atmospheric disturbances and severe blizzards. Since their disappearance, extensive search and rescue operations have been underway, but the harsh Arctic conditions have continuously thwarted efforts. Rescue teams face extreme challenges due to low visibility and relentless storms. The scientific community has rallied in concern for the missing team, highlighting the perilous nature of fieldwork in these remote and unpredictable environments. As 2020 comes to a close, the search efforts persist with undiminished hope, though the challenges remain daunting. Families of the missing have been provided ongoing support, clinging to hope despite the weeks of uncertainty. Dr. Maragdos was awarded in absentia during the 15th Session of the Intergovernmental Committee for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage earlier this year, where she was honored with a UNESCO Medal for Scientific Achievement. We promise to update you on this developing story as the new year begins. Our thoughts are with the families and colleagues of Dr. Maragdos and her team during this distressing time. In other news, Heliologists have discovered unusual activity on the Sun. Several sunspots have appeared on the Sun’s surface –”

Myrrhina turned off the TV in her office as her phone rang. Swiveling her plush burgundy leather office chair, she pressed the speaker button on her office phone.

“Ms. Fluere, Mr. Luciano Amare is here to see you,” a voice said over the speaker on Myrrhina’s office phone. “Thank you, Gemma. Send him in.” Myrrhina responded.

Myrrhina stood up from her plush burgundy leather office chair, which accented her mahogany desk. She slipped the deep green jacket of her pantsuit over her golden yellow blouse and ran a hand through her mousy brown pin curls as the door opened. Grabbing a jade compact from the desktop, she opened it up and checked her maroon-tinted lips, closing it as the door to her office opened. A sly smile formed on her lips as Luciano entered.

Luciano entered Myrrhina’s office, a deep navy suit adorning his tall, muscular frame. His white dress shirt unbuttoned a few buttons from the collar, exposing his neck, collar bones, and chest. His dark hair reached the nap of his neck, the stubble of his 5’oclock shadow adding depth and edge to his square jaw. His stunning blue eyes locked with Myrrhina’s as a sly smile formed on his lips.

Myrrhina glanced at Luciano across the room as she stepped away from her desk toward the large panoramic window of her office, which gave her a stunning view of La Defense.

Luciano silently followed Myrrhina to the window, standing behind his hands and gently grasping her waist. Myrrhina raised her arms before her head, tilting to look back at Luciano.

The two looked at their reflections in the window. Myrrhina’s eyes glowed in violet light, and Luciano’s eyes responded in kind, glowing yellow. While the two stood silently, their reflections spoke instead.

“Is everything prepared as we discussed?” Luciano asked, “Yes, Lord Danburite. Everything is prepared for tonight.” Myrrhina responded, “Good, I will not accept failure. This is all for the revival of the Great Ruler.” Luciano said in a solemn tone, “I understand, Lord Danburite,” Myrrhina responded, “I don’t think you do, Fluorite.” Luciano said cooly, his reflection reaching around Myrrhina’s, turning her so her eyes met his, “Sailor V has awakened and has stopped most if not all of your Phantoms.” Luciano explained. “Sailor V?” Myrrhina asked, “Is that who she is?” “That is the epithet the media has been fed; it seems to be sticking even the so-called soldier of love and justice has claimed it for herself,” Luciano said with a smirk. “Should I have the Phantoms focus on eliminating her?” Myrrhina asked. Suddenly, Luciano’s face turned grotesque, starting Myrrhina as the hand of his reflection grabbed Myrrhina by the throat. The real-life Myrrhina gasped for air, “Sailor V is MINE, Fluorite.” He snarled through gritted teeth, releasing Myrrhina, who gasped for air as Luciano stepped away from her. “You have your orders.” He said, straightening his jacket. “Yes…Lord Danburite.” Myrrhina said dutifully as she composed herself watching him leave the office.

Luciano strolled past Gemma’s desk, winking at the smitten secretary as he took the elevator and exited the building. Standing under the structured canopy of the Grand Arche's exterior lobby, he turned and headed towards CitizenM.

“Lucy?” a voice spoke behind him. A smile formed on his lips as he turned to look over his shoulder, “Aurora!” He exclaimed, outstretching his arms, embracing the one and only Aurora d’Amour. “Hi!” she said happily, “Here to see Myrrhina?” he asked. “Of course. Did you leave her office?” Aurora asked, running a hand through her blonde hair. “Yes, I’ll be escorting her as my date to the New Year’s Bash since you turned me down.” Luciano teased, tapping Aurora’s nose. “Lucy.” Aurora said, crinkling her nose teasingly, “I’m going to London, you know that.” She said, pushing him back gently. Luciano pressed his hand to his chest for dramatic effect, causing Aurora to laugh, “Ahh so it’s these acting skills got you on Plus belle la vie?” Aurora winked “Oh, so you follow my career?” Luciano said in a surprised tone, “How could I not when it’s all you talk about?” Aurora teased, “Daggers, Aurora,” Luciano said, grasping his chest feigning chest pain, “You’ll live. I’m going to see Myrrhina. Mimi is taking my place for tonight’s event, I’m going to review any last-minute tour details for London before my flight.” Aurora said as she entered the Grande Arch building.

Luciano waved to Aurora through the glass doors, watching her disappear behind the elevator's closing doors. His smile faded from his lips. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a deck of tarot cards. With a flick of his wrist he drew a card from top the deck and smirked.

“The Chariot. Fate is converging, and opposing forces will come together as fate has ordained.” Luciano whispered, tucking the cards back in his pocket, “Soon you will be mine, Sailor V.” he said as he walked off into the distance.

In Westfield Les 4 Temps, Clare joined her friends at Le Muguet Jewelers.

“It’s about time, Clare,” Chasity said, “What took you so long?” Karina asked, “I had to find the perfect dress for tonight,” Clare protested, reaching into her bag and pulling out a stunning sheer silver gown! “Wow, Clare, you outdid yourself,” Karina remarked, “Isn’t it great? I tried on so many dresses, and then I found this one.” Clare chirped, looking at the dress. “What took you so long? We agreed to meet here so we wouldn’t miss the opening sale,” Himeko said exasperatedly. You’re always late!” she growled. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it,” Clare said feebly, clutching the dress tightly. “What’s important is that you made it,” Chasity said reassuringly, much to Clare’s relief. “You’re right,” Himeko said sheepishly. “I called my mom, and she’ll give you an additional discount on the sale. C’mon!” Chasity said excitedly, leading the girls into the store. “Wait for me!” Clare said as she fumbled with her dress, trying to put it in the bag

Clare abruptly crashed into something, trying to follow her friends, and fell backward onto the floor. Clare winced in pain, rubbing her head, realizing she had crashed into someone!

“Je suis vraiment désolé! I’m sorry!” she exclaimed as she gathered her dress off the floor, stuffing it in her bag. Clare looked up to see Reign standing over her, rubbing his chin. “You should watch where you’re going, " he said annoyedly, looking down at Clare. Clare blushed at the sight of Reign. His blue eyes and dark hair seemed so familiar and enchanting. Her heart beat hard in her chest, and her face flushed warmly. “Are you okay?” Reign asked, reaching down and extending his hand to Clare. Clare smiled and half-nodded as she took Reign’s hand. Reign gasped as he saw a vision of a woman wearing a white gown, her face obscured. ‘Endymion…’ the woman whispered, reaching out to him. Reign blinked and was back in the mall, holding Clare’s hand. “I’m fine. Thank you.” Clare said again, slipping her hand out of his “Clare!” Himeko called out, “Hurry up!” “Coming,” Clare said, unable to break eye contact with Reign, “Reign?” Cael said as they, with River and Zak, approached. Clare looked to Cael, River, and Zak before moving past him and into La Muguet. “Who was that?” Zak asked, watching Clare run into the jewelry store. “Some clumsy girl. She crashed into me,” Reign said dismissively, trying to shake his vision. He turned, looking to the store. “Clare,” he said to himself. “Let’s get back to the apartment to prepare for tonight,” Cael suggested. The group agreed and turned to leave. Reign couldn’t help but look back at the store before following his friends.

Clare watched Reign and his friends walk away before turning to see her friends staring at her. She blushed and lowered her eyes, smiling embarrassedly.

“Clare, who was that?” Chasity asked in astonishment “His name is Reign,” Clare said dreamily. “Reign, that has to be a nickname or something,” Karine said “I feel like I know him…” Clare whispered reminiscently, “From where?” Himeko asked curiously, “A long, long time ago…” Clare said yearningly as if she were someone else, “Clare?” Himeko asked. Clare blinked and smiled at Himeko, “Oh, nothing…” Clare said, “Let’s see what’s on sale.” She said, turning to look at the display cases. “Chasity?” a voice called to the girls. The group turned to see Chasity’s mom approach them with a warm smile, “Hi, Mom.” Chasity greeted, hugging her mother tightly before turning to face her friends, “Mom, you already know Clare.” Chasity said, “Of course! Hi Clare! How are Irene, Ken, and Sebastian?” she asked, hugging Clare. Clare hugged Chasity’s mom, “Hi, Mrs. Vale, they’re all doing great!” Clare responded cheerfully, “Please call me Maylis.” Chasity’s mom responded, “Mom, these are our friends, Karine and Himeko,” Chasity said, introducing the two, “Nice to meet you.” Karine and Himeko said in unison, “Chasity has told me all about you, and I’m glad to put the names to the faces,” Maylis said as she turned on her heels, gesturing to her boutique, “Welcome to the La Muguet,” she said proudly, walking towards one of the displays in the center of the store, “Come, mademoiselles, allow me to show you our regalia,” Maylis announced. The girls excitedly followed Maylis, “As my daughter has undoubtedly told you, everything is on sale, and since this is a big occasion for you girls, I am giving you an extra discount on anything in this display. So please let me know what you like to look at.” She said, tapping the glass with a wink.

Karine, Chasity, and Himeko huddled around the display counter, pointing at the rings, earrings, bracelets, and necklaces. Clare idled on the opposite end of the counter, looking at the various baubles until a sparkle caught her eye, and she eyed a necklace with an ornate golden pendant. The pendant had a star engraved in its center with a golden gem; on each point of the circumference, four gems were affixed. Maylis walked over to Clare, watching her admire the pendant. Without saying anything, she reached into the display and removed it from the neckstand.

“I know that look,” Maylis said, gently nestling the pendant in her palm and showing it to Clare. Clare looked to Maylis and looked at the pendant again. Something about it just spoke to her, “Go on.” Maylis whispered. “Maylis, I couldn’t,” Clare said in dismay, “I insist,” Maylis said as she dangled the necklace in her hands and unclasped it, motioning Clare to come closer. Clare smiled and leaned forward, letting Maylis clasp the necklace around her neck. “Thank you,” Clare said gratefully, feeling the cool metal touch the skin of her breastbone.

Clare joined the other girls and showed them her necklace. Maylis smiled as the girls admired each other’s jewelry. She saw another girl looking at a nearby display case from the corner of her eye. Maylis didn’t see the girl come in and walked over to her, watching her look at the jewelry.

“Hello there.” Maylis greeted. Lilita turned to look at Maylis and gave a half-smile with a curt wave of her hand. Maylis gasped, taken aback by Lita’s resemblance to Clare. “I was just looking. It’s all beautiful.” Lita said, admiring the various pieces of jewelry with a soft smile. That was until she saw a necklace with a baroque, heart-shaped pendant. Lita’s eyes sparkled as she eyed the gilded, deep crimson enamel with an amethyst marquise-shaped gemstone in its center. Maylis smiled as Lita eyed the pendant eagerly, “It’s a beautiful pendant.” She said in a soft tone. “Yes…it is…” Lita whispered with an eerie smile. “Would you like to see it?” Maylis asked as she slipped the necklace off the mannequin neckstand. Lita’s eyes watched the pendant hungrily as it danced in Maylis’ fingertips before resting in her palm, “Well?” she asked inquisitively, presenting the necklace to Lita. Lita’s eyes slowly rose from the pendant and bore into Maylis’ eyes. Maylis lost her smile and shifted in discomfort under Lita’s gaze but couldn’t bring herself to look away, ‘Give her the necklace.’ A voice whispered in Maylis’ mind. Maylis hesitated but soon outstretched her hand, letting the necklace fall from her grasp and curl into Lita’s palm. “Mom?” Chasity called Maylis. Maylis blinked and took a breath. “Mom, are you okay?” Chasity asked. “We’re getting ready to go, " she added. Maylis looked around the store and at her hands before clasping them together. She wondered what she was doing. Was she talking to someone or helping them? Maylis looked at Chasity and smiled, dismissing the confusiona and unease she felt. “Of course, Chasity. Have a wonderful time, " she said, stroking her daughter’s cheek. Chasity touched her mom’s hand lovingly and smiled. “I’ll see you later.” She said as she went to leave with her friends. “Be safe,” Maylis called out softly, feeling her unease reemerge watching her daughter and her friends leave the store.

The girls passed Lilita, who stood alone by the mall railing. She watched Clare and her friends disappear into the crowd before glancing at her clenched hand. She opened her hand to the heart-shaped pendant in her palm. The amethyst flashed with eerie darkness as Lilita clutched it tightly. She looked off into the distance, her eyes darkened before she turned and walked away.

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