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Thinking of Nova!Gideon again… Our Gideon training so hard because she knows that it’s her only way out of the Ninth but Nova!Gideon has to be the best necromancer ever because if she isn’t she’d probably be killed. Her skill is the only thing that’s kept her alive and she can see exactly what they’ve done to Harrow, the daughter they killed 200 children for, because of her lack of said skill.
She’s going to be the leader of these people and she’s not one of them. Her eyes are the wrong color, her hair is bright, she probably stands taller and she is more muscular than anyone else. None of the holy relics of the Ninth are connected to her and the only thing on that planet that’s a part of her are her unknown mother’s bones.
#more nova Gideon pls pls pls#the locked tomb#gideon nav#neco gideon#I love her#she probably watched her mothers bones all the time#did she move her around ?? because if she did Wake would have been PISSED#her monster of a daughter her BOMB being one of those monster …#I saw someone’s tags saying she probably covered her hair too#and yeah man…#she probably covered her hair and her face#and if she found a way to cover her eyes in a ‘ninth’ way#she would do that too#she wouldn’t know but she’d be hiding everything from her mother#and all the while wanting to be connected to her
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musings on the body
dilaudid by the mountain goats / don't know how to keep loving you by julia jacklin / body by julia jacklin / pressure to party by julia jacklin / head alone by julia jacklin / russian doll s1 e7 "the way out" / spencer (2021, dir. pablo larraín)
#fuck off lou#my post#web weaving#parallels#comparatives#tlt#the locked tomb#music#song lyrics#russian doll#spencer (2021)#the mountain goats#julia jacklin#harrow the ninth#nona the ninth#htn#ntn#this is actually two posts smushed together#one was tmg/spencer/russian doll quotes#and the other was htn/ntn/julia jacklin quotes#which is why there's so much julia jacklin here#just found it chilling in my drafts so i spent an hour fixing it up now here it is woohoo watch it go folks
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Care to Join Us For Some Tea?
(Emmrich Volkarin & Sascha Ingellvar)
Rook is a very strange creature, always keeping to the shadows of the Lighthouse like a timid ghost. It isn't until Emmrich recalls a strange encounter, three decades past and in the depths of the Grand Necropolis, that he begins to understand what made Sascha Ingellvar into the man he is today.
Read Here!
#dragon age#dragon age the veilguard#original content#emmrich volkarin#da rook#sascha ingellvar#ao3#this was a fun (painful) one to write#I've mentioned it before but I work in a school and that involves working with all kinds of kids AND adults#And the process of “child has tendency to run- one adult talks to other adult- one tries to deal with the child- one documents behavior”#is one that I know pretty well at this point#by the time of datv Sascha is 36 years old and has Developed past where he was at 6 but he's still... the child they found in the tombs#He's always going to be strange and echoy and socially awkward and unsure who it's Safe to be around#he just really really really needs a place to Belong and I feel like he'll be able to find that in the Lighthouse amongst the Veilguard#sorry if I bring up anyone's worst memories of being in Special Ed and not treated well by the overworked staff in there#And I'm really happy with how I ended up writing Emmrich and his POV#According to QoAM I did really well#I feel like people know Emmrich very well as he is in-game so I wanted to explore him in his younger days before he's as Established#not just as a Mourn Watch but as someone who is more willing to stand up for what's right and- especially- someone who loves children#I think of all the people I knew in their teens who Hated kids who have softened more and more as they got older and more mature#I certainly don't think Emmrich ever hated children (he's always been Soft) but I feel like it's more of a “how patient am I?”#Like I look at Manfred and how he also Echoes and Mimics and I'm like. Yeah. That's like my little special ed kids.#Emmrich you would be PERFECT in the life skills room I wanna go run Coffee Cart with you that would be great#anyway happy birthday Sascha!! So sorry that your childhood was so fucking awful and you spent your sixth birthday like This#Tumblr not linking to ao3 makes me want to kill this site#Birthday Fic
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I need everyone to know my Rook I'm playing with that I am very much so enjoying is potentially partly undead. Nobody is really sure. He's my wonderful boy.
#dragon age#dragon age the veilguard#dav#is that the acceptable shortening?#but yeah the mourn watch background just dropping that crazy lore about you were found in a tomb with no other explanation and i went 'okay#im running with this now'#Rook#datv
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torn between the grey warden background and mourn watch... would be nice to play a warden again... or I could be a little freak found in a tomb as a baby by undead then raised by necromancers..
#dragon age#i mean one is objectively better than the other#and i have a idea for ingvellar lore as to why they were left there#thank you audric tevinter nights for the idea#idk if we'll get the real reason they got left there as a baby but MY idea for my ingvellar is that the child was stillborn#or passed shortly after birth and was placed in the tomb only to be 'possessed' by a spirit of compassion (or any other) and brought back#kinda like a wynne situation#only to be then found by undead and raised by mourn watch#wait kinda like this more than the grey warden now...#WELL looks like im doing mourn watch background now lmao
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God put us against each other because he knew we would have been unstoppable as a cannon family unit. 😔😔✊✊💫💫💥💥
But My God! This specific specs of humanity between these 2 drove me to the point of actually starting writing sth exploring this exact dynamic of what it could have been if maybe given more time or more peace because some sense of... least to say solidarity was certainly building.
I cannot promise if I will ever get to publish it because I have incredibly low patience writing and we're currently stuck at 1,5k words of Harrow making the most stressed out salad because girl can't help but have OPPINIONS about each vegetable (which are certainly just vegetables and not stand in for anything else why would they???) but... I am cooking! And of course it involves another cooking relating event.
But actually this was born out of my own need to self indulge in the scenario of Gideon taking care to cut Harrow's hair because he would GET IT!!!!
We have been utterly sleeping on the fact and tragedy that is Harrowhark’s missed opportunity to have Gideon Senior as her mentor. I think he genuinely would have melded better with her than Mercymorn and the two would have become some sort of typical locked tomb co-dependent nightmare as per the genre, but he would have absolutely been a better father figure to her than John. Fundamentally the two characters are reflections of one another: unwavering devotion, all consuming love of John, their ‘madness’, being haunted by Wake, the stupid buzz cuts, an alienation from the sex culture in the Mithareum.
He respected her marrow attack. She saved his life. In his last conversation with her he apologizes and explains he pulled his punches. He didn’t take any joy in attacking her, and on my re-read he desperately orders her to use her rapier instead of the long sword.
Harrow really could have had something here. Maybe not something good, per-say, but something. But John took that from her too.
#THANK YOU FOR THIS POST!!!! I AM THE TARGET AUDIENCE AND I WANT TO SCREAM!#My very thoughts exactlyyyy!!!!#my god he would have been such a good mentor#he was good friends with anastasia too and i am sure she made him uphold some promises on her behalf as well#and like??? just the idea of watching over your old friend's family and have a hand in their upbringing and find some conection and closure#is just??? something he would seem to find so gratifying#almost makes me think that Anastasia wouldn't have wanted for her kin EXPECIALLY for her own direct bloodline to walk alongside John#maybe “direct orders from a higher entity” would be the tomb itself#and not even god could step against Sia's will which she left to her friend#but this is just me blabering and theorising into the void and not that relevant either#but man... the wasted potential of g1deon and harrow man...#gideon the first#harrowhark nonagesimus#harrow the ninth#OH AND WE KNOW THAT G1DEON ALSO FOUND ALECTO ENDEARING#think he could have given her more substantial info abt her of she'd only ask
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Striking of the Clock
BrainDead or DeadTired idea.
During Tim's BruceQuest he uncovers hidden texts/tombs of a being that controls and watches over the Time Stream and Tim knows this being will have to be his best bet of finding Bruce while also trying to figure out on his own how to get Bruce out of the Time Stream as well.
However the being doesn't have a summoning sigil due to being an Ancient.
He does find the sigil for the Ghost King however, a being that borderlines into Ancients power territory and could in theory grant Tim an audience with the Time being if Tim plays his cards right.
In the end, Tim decides it was worth a shot. He convinces Ra's to 'help' him summon the Ghost King. Ra's wanting to see if such a being could be real and to see how far Tim is willing to go to bring Bruce back, allows League resources to be used.
It takes a few weeks, with Tim also making plans to undermine not just the Council of Spiders but Ra's as well, but eventually the time to summon the Ghost King comes.
Tim honestly was expecting the large eldritch like being that showed up, he just wasn't expecting the being to be basically a formed galaxy mixed with ice and the northern lights itself.
He also really wasn't expecting when he negotiated a deal with the Ghost King, and taken into a place called the Infinite Realms when they shook hands (Tam and Prue is also taken with him, he refused to leave them with Ra's), for the being to shrink down and turn into a white haired, green eyed teen around his age who starts flirting at him.
Nor was he expecting for another being, one that apparently is able to shift aging forms, and a grandfather clock in its chest to appear next to the teen and bonk the white haired teen with a staff and tell him to stop flirting with his future new apprentice....
Wait what?
-x-x-
Danny is rarely, very rarely summoned since taking the mantle of Ghost King. Due to being a new Ancient most old sigils that was once connected to Phantom (mostly teens from Amity tired summoning him a couple of times) no longer worked and the only ones that did were the ones he gave to his friends and family or the Ghost King ones (but again rare due to how rare texts/tombs to the Ghost King is written down)
So when he felt the pull of a summoning he made sure to go in his eldritch form, mostly to see if he could scare them or at least intimidate.
Honestly he was expecting the cult, given the fact they summoned a being known as the (freaking) Ghost King, maybe not them being assassins/ninjas but still a cult.
He wasn't expecting the cute, same age as him too, guy in the room.
(CW totally paused time for a second, gave Danny a file on who and why he was summoned, discussed getting Tim Drake out of Ra's hands (and maybe allowing CW to finally have his own future apprentice because Tim is a smarty smart whose been slowly able to figure out the freaking Time Stream itself.), and then started the timeline again)
Danny decided, after striking a deal, that since he's going to be working with Tim, aka Red Robin (who Danny found out used to be Robin! From Gotham), from now on he might as well shoot his shot and flirt with him and-
"OUCH, CW REALLY?!"
"Stop flirting with my new apprentice for now My King, we have work to do."
#danny phantom#danny fenton#crossover#dp x dc#blue rambles#danny phantom dc#writing ideas#random idea#dpxdc#brain dead#dead tired#tim drake#dannyxtim#clockwork#mentioned Tam and Prue#Danny is around Tim's age on his Red Robin run#and has grown to be a bit more confidant since 14 and since being King#Not fully confidant but he knows how to flirt now#Do I headcanon CW taking Tim under his wing to learn/manage the Time Stream#yes#why?#IDK I just like it#Ancients rarely give out their summoning sigils#Danny's is complex due to being both a New Ancient of Space and the Ghost King
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What They Do When They Miss You (Full Cast + OCs)
Lucifer
Like how you can't teach an old dog new tricks, he turns to old habits:
It’s rather easy to not think of you, after all his brothers and Diavolo make sure he’s always kept busy… for the most part.
But then the night rolls-in.
The quiet always unnerved him, that’s why he usually had a record playing. You never knew this though. After you arrived and changed his world, his life, he didn’t want it. Your voice was far more soothing than any melody or hymn for an ancient, weary heart.
Not always, but on occasion you’d stay up and keep him company. He didn’t care if you talked or not, if you vented your frustrations about school, or if you sat beside him only your soft breaths being heard as you organized some papers in the endless stack between you two. If he had a record playing it’d simply be annoying noise. Yet now he finds sleep eludes him without it playing. You left a mark he can only try to patch.
And on exhaustive nights where even that doesn’t help, he pulls out the bottle, roughly ripping the quark out with a loud pop or even breaking the glass’ neck by mistake, the sharp sound making him flinch and the embarrassment that a human could have such control over him even without a command, making his cheeks flush without his lips touching the blue liquid yet.
At the dead of night, he sits in your room after spending an hour at the tomb or in Lilith’s room. He’d never admit to talking to thin air, about his grievances at the last student council meeting, or his breath shuttering at the thought he truly didn’t know what you were doing, if you were safe or not, if you were happy or not… surely you weren’t, otherwise this tightening of his throat would be a silly feeling, not if you weren’t feeling it too.
Mammon
His sticky fingers get the better of him:
Oh, look at that, the gem on that necklace is your favorite color. He needs it.
That shirt, isn’t it made of that material you found really comfy? He needs it.
The vase over there, it looks rather valuable, he could buy you the newest fragrance from Majolish, The Great Mammon just knows you’ll love it. He needs it.
Geez, you’re such a clutz leaving your room in such a state. Sure, it may look clean, but he knows his human, and the place is just a mess. You’d like it if he tides it up a bit for ya. Like he’d take that picture of you and him on the nightstand, can’t let his brothers accidentally break it, and the clothes from your closet, can’t let them get musty and eaten by moths as well as your sheets and quilts, AND, and there’s also the knick-knacks on your shelves they… get dusty, surely they wouldn’t under his care. He’ll also just be taking-
And then there he was, strung up to the ceiling, for no reason! Doesn’t anyone realize he’s your First Man for a reason!? He knows you better than anyone, and he knows he’s the only one who can properly take care of your stuff! He needs to keep them in his room so he can make sure nobody else messes with em’!
All your stuff, safe in his room. His room where he can look and sort through them all day, every item reminding him of something, anything.
Surely they wouldn’t notice one of your pens was missing, right!? Only he’d notice such a detail. And once you get back you won’t either! So it’s fine! A little something you used to pour emotion into writing or work. It’s always with him, to fiddle with when his mind wanders, the clicking sound soothing.
…
Nobody would notice if he took another, right? You’d want him to look after it, and maybe some other things while he’s in your room.
Leviathan
He hides in a world only made for you:
You’d like this anime, too bad you can’t watch it in the human world. Nothing to do for it but record it. There’s also this new game, too bad they announced it after you went back to the human world, but you don’t need to worry, he’s already preordered a copy for you. There’s also the tie-in book, three for you and three for him.
There’s a lot you’d like actually. It feels like whenever you’re busy THAT’S when all the stuff you’d want comes out. Why did you have the leave him.
W-with so much to do!
Now he has to make a list of all the games he’s preordered for you. There’s also the reviews of all the anime he watched you may wanna know about. Then he needs to-
Most of his time is spent behind his monitor, writing, and writing, and writing away. He used to text you these reviews, recommendations, ect. but then his brothers, especially Lucifer made such a stink about it, about he’s ‘spamming’ you, or it was an ‘unreasonable hour’ to be messaging you. So now he’ll just have to be taking up all your time on your return, their fault really.
If you’d listen to him at least. They can’t just steal you away the moment you get back, right?
…
He dose have your favorite game. And newer games, sometimes need updates! S-so, so while those are downloading maybe he could play that.
There’s another list for you, one he made of everything he likes about the game, from the graphics, the music, there are also some reminders of things he thinks even you wouldn’t know, things to show you when you get back.
Satan
Well, if one has a problem, it’s only natural to find a solution:
He’s tried mastering teleportation, still vexes him that the skill still eludes him. Mammon made travel between the realms near impossible via that paths without Diavolo, Barbatos, or Lucifer interfering.
There MUST be a way though, something he’s yet to find.
Then he could see you any time and life would be perfect.
So what to do, what to do.
Legends could be the key perhaps. He spent the first several months of your absence pouring over the tomes in his room, you never know, perhaps now that he was looking for a method to the human world specifically he’d notice something he missed before.
Unfortunately there wasn’t much.
No matter, there were still libraries to scour through.
And if that didn’t… well…
He’ll find something, he will. He may need to turn his thinking around, quit RAD to pour his all into this search. There IS something he just knows it. He just needs to hunt that method down and take it for his own.
He will see you, he will find you, you’ll both bathe under the sunlight on earth, watch as it raises and sets, no brothers to bother the pair of you. Perhaps even surprise you, show up with a thousand flowers right outside your door. Maybe sneak off for a midnight tryst when you can’t sleep.
Sure you could summon him, but how could he surprise you then, or find you when you’re busy, or see you when he wants and needs you? He’ll find a way, don’t you worry, just wait for him, please.
Asmodeus
Mirrors and screens can only do so much, but it’s better than nothing:
Even his sighs are beautiful, but what do they mean when you’re not here to tell him so, to sooth his worries and hold him close.
Thankfully he took all those pictures of you before you left.
He has one for every occasion, ones of you at RAD when classes are being too troublesome. Ones of your smiling face for… everything really, to lift his mood, to give him motivation to just a little better everyday, when he’s board, when he’s sleepy, when he found that cute new top he just knew you’d love and knew would compliment your complexion perfectly, but double checking your references never hurt anybody.
And who is he to keep all these for himself. Of course there were some he deemed for his eyes only, but he just feels so bad for all those poor demons out there who just have nothing.
His days are mostly spent scrolling through his many, Many, MANY albums of you, searching for just the perfect one to post to Devilgram that day. The world can’t be deprived of such beauty, you must understand.
Soon a trend starts, #(insert number) of days MC has been gone. Asmo always has a new post for the tags for every day, he has enough to last for a few centuries. It’s an okay amount but really you need to get back soon so he can take more.
And don’t you worry, there’s not only pictures of you. Of course, with the tag of how many days you’ve been gone he’s taken 1(0000000000000000000) of himself for each day of your departure, he knows you’ll have missed him, so don’t you worry cuttiepatootie, he’s got you covered.
And so here you’ve left him wanting, looking in the mirror waiting for you to just appear in the empty space he leaves beside himself while he get’s himself ready for the next photo.
Beelzebub
Just as with all of his other feelings, it eats him alive:
For Beelzebub even before food, his family is at the forefront of his mind, and that, includes you. Whether it be the nightmares that plage his sleep, or the joy at hearing his brothers just chatting in the next room over, or the thought of you that’s just as haunting as it is comforting.
When he goes shopping whoever is minding him don’t point out how he doesn’t need to get your favorite snacks. There’s too much free time so he filles it by tripling his workout routine, makes it harder for the mind to wander. He knows it isn’t the safest yet on those long jogs he turns up the volume on his D.D.D., getting lost in your favorite songs. Then, when his belly is good and empty, he can focus on that pain, that gnawing more bearable. He hates seeing your spot at the table empty though.
It's… not a powerful feeling, he can go about his day to day, but it’s-
No, YOU’RE always there.
And it’s nice, in it’s own way. His family is always a part of him.
So he buys your favorite foods when it’s his turn to do the grocery shopping so that should you suddenly drop-in again he can already make the best feast for you. With his workout routine being tougher he has all the more reason to ask for your help like being the extra weight on his back for pushups or having you keep count, and these are very serious jobs so his brothers aren’t allowed to interrupt, just you and him for a time. He could also carry you on his jogs and sing along to your tunes. Finally once the day is getting late and it’s time for dinner he can stuff himself beside you, you and his brothers merrily chatting away filling him more than anything else possibly could.
The sweetest of daydreams to think of while waiting for you.
Belphegor
Miss you, why, when he can see you anytime:
Day, night, sleeping, napping, whatever the case may be, if you’re resting, he’ll be there. Life is easier if you just put effort in the things that matter and don’t bother with anything else, and thankfully that’s never any less true here.
Your dreams are easy to find, practically second nature for the demon. For a being such as he, the ethereal world of mixing, melding thoughts and emotions are almost just as real as the waking world.
So it’s just up to you, sleep, lie down on the couch and meet up with him. Want to go for a stroll on the Milky Way, or perhaps dance on the wind, it’s up to you. Why don’t you just stay, it’s not like there’s anything better to do.
Sleeping’s better than going back to the waking world. It’s filled with nothing but pain and death. It’s cozy, and warm, and safe, and kind here. Why must stupid human bodies always wake up.
And so you leave him.
All alone.
…
You’re very cruel you know, making this place so lovely only to rip it away.
No more dreaming till you come back, there’s no point.
Please come back soon. Sure he’s waiting, always waiting for your return, but if you’re not going to be here by his side to make the waking world warm and kind or the dreaming world safe and cozy then what’s the point of either?
Diavolo
There won’t be a world where he’d ever have to know of such pain again:
Funnily enough, he’s doing better than ever. Sure, life is a lot more boring with your absence, but he
Has.
A.
Goal.
It’s perfect, simple really. With the exchange program having been a success, you’ll have to come back for another, and another, there’s no one better than you to tell the progress of the Devildom in accommodating your people, and when the Devildom dose get to that place surely you wouldn’t mind being the official human representative full time. And with you being such a high standing official and honored guest/resident it’s only natural you’d just have to stay at the royal palace with him.
He just needs to make this world.
It will be a lot of work but it will be worth it. Sure his hands may get bruised, cut, bloodied, broken, dirty, or sore but then, once everything is said and done, surely life would be perfect.
Sometimes motivation does wane and as much as he cherishes your calls and texts, it’s still not the same as having you HERE, to feel the warmth of your hands in his. Sometimes when you’re on call he’ll slink away from this desk, sneak down the halls, and slip into that little room. He tenderly pulls out the albums so you don’t hear anything and ask what he’s doing, he adores your day to day, see how humans, you, go about your life. And as you talk he’ll open one of those many albums, each practically filled to bursting with photos of you and those brothers and the shenanigans you lot would drag him or he drag you into.
Had he ever told you, just how much you mean to him? Just how much you’ve changed his life? How you’ve brought much more joy than even the chaos of his home could?
… What better place to tell you such things than a world where you’d never have to leave again, where you could stay without worry, a world where humans and demons lived hand in hand, surely the rest of his people deserved the kind of joy you’ve brought to him.
Barbatos
Indulging in memories, that’s not a form of time travel, right?:
The day to day is always busy for a butler, but especially the one of the (temporary) Demon Lord. His thoughts are always filled with the most important things, you must understand.
He awakes bright and early before any other creature dare. Standing before the mirror, adjusting the buttons, smoothing out the outer coat, floofing the ruffles on his shoulder as you would in a playful mood, tapping the ends of his shoes to the floor testing if they’re snug enough, and giving his warm gloves one last taught pull before making his way to the Little Ds’ rooms to assign them their duties for the day.
He ties on the apron you bought him. He still doesn’t understand why ‘Kiss the cook’ is such a prolific phrase on the garment in the human world, but who is he to comment when you always take the fabric’s advice upon seeing him in it. It had been a few days so surely the Young Master would be craving some bloody lignin berries with his pancakes. Perhaps some Griffin eggs on the side? Diavolo does have more paperwork than usual so the extra treat would give him the boost he needs to not run off as soon.
The garden also must be tended to for the day. There are the blazing spuds you planted. Still not ready yet it seems. Good, it’d be a shame if you weren’t here when they were at their peak. The Hanging Shivering Fuchsias you watered the last day you were here looked especially lovely in the morning dew. Seemed the pickles could use some extra attention though.
There was the evening shopping too, Diavolo requires the freshest ingredients. You joined him for these shopping trips often. It was always a lovely chance to teach you of some of the local delicacies. He finds to odd now to not be looking to his side and asking your thoughts, if anything caught your eye, or if anything reminded you of home.
It’s natural to be lost in thought, there’s a lot too keep track of after all. However much there is though, every night he’s always left with the same one as he takes off those gloves placing them aside. How strange and charming it was that they always felt so warm after you held them for the first time. Something to look forward too for tomorrow as he planned out the day.
Luke
Well, being a Guardian Angel has it’s perks:
Angels are not to interfere in the lives of humans ever, with two exceptions. One! Father gives the order to do so on his behalf. Something like that hadn’t happened in a very long time though… Two! When acting as a Guardian Angel. Of course there were limitations for what he could do, but it was enough to keep you safe!
One can’t work directly, but there was plenty he could do for you! Like scooching your slippers a little closer to your bed so your feet don’t end up hitting the cold floor or when you’ve lost something if he finds it, he’ll move it to a slightly more obvious place you might have over looked.
It hurts worse sometimes being able to do these little things and not being able to do a thing when the bigger, badder stuff happens. His eyes get misty when you burn your hand on the stove, or get fired, or get into some accident or The EArtH SHAKES!? IS FATHER MAD AT YOU? ARE YOU OKAY!? Then it’s even worse when you act like nothing happened at all like with the SHAKING! You just go around putting away everything that got knocked over! Is he doing a bad job!? Are you just that used to danger that you don’t care!? How can you not care!? His heart practically breaks for you.
Maybe this started before, when you joined the exchange program. He knew he should have kept a closer eye on you! But don’t worry he’s here for you!
There might not be much he can do, and he can’t always be watching over you but he can help. Every bad thing will lead to something good, he’ll make sure of it. Like your burnt hand gets you to take that break you needed, or because you were fired you’ll get an even better job, or from the shaking and cleaning you finally can find that keepsake you thought you lost.
He’d never admit it to anyone, let alone himself but something deep in him does hope you return to the Devildom soon, then you can be together again, and he can protect you, for real.
Simeon
… Is it fanfic if you write about your friend?:
Simeone heard the term from Leviathan once. Fanfiction. He’s not quite sure he’d consider himself your fan perse, yet there he was, pages, upon pages, upon pages of writing about you, about what you and he could be doing together if not for this distance, about what you could be doing.
It felt… wrong? in a way, to do this. This wasn’t one of his characters that lived in his head, facts of things he knows you’re doing. He’s just… making stuff up with you in mind.
He writes of you laying in a field, some place as close to the Celestial Realm as the Human World could get to, you at peace, and happy, watching as clouds roll by.
There’s another of you and he sitting on the beach watching the sun set. He doesn’t actually know what a sunset looks like, but there’s something so enchanting about it, something so human, so imperfect about the idea, something so… something he could only hope to see with you.
He wrote about what he’d say to you, his longing, his fears, his silly ideas, confess his selfishness of wanting to keep you all to himself just for a short while and of you returning those feelings in kind.
It almost feels bad, like he’s dictating your actions, it’s not the same as when you worked together on those plays together, and yet despite this odd growing pit in his stomach, he can’t stop. This being something that calls to him when thoughts turn back to you and they’re too much to bare without doing something.
And so when he has the time, he can’t keep himself busy, or when he tries thinking of Henry and you begin to take his place instead, it’d only be natural to write of you instead, right?
Solomon
Laugh:
Things are so much simpler when you’re in the human world where you belong. No demons, angels, or other such creatures to fight for your attention! It’s amazing!
But fate can be cruel and he finds always, ALWAYS at least one of you is in the Devildom.
Loneliness and Solomon were no strangers, the man knew that feeling all too well in fact, however, you made it hurt worse. He was used to it, the rejection, the being kept at arms distance and him doing the same to others, the fear and disgust in their eyes, yet you didn’t. You approached him, drawing him closer and closer, how could you expect to give a thirsty man water in the desert and not have him on your heels desperate for more.
Yet there are those brothers, and royalty, and angels, and even death fighting for you embrace.
It feels the worst when you’re in the same room and no matter what they consuming you whole.
You’re a human in a new and unfamiliar world, so he’ll look after you.
He can’t help but smile seeing anyone less by your side. At him successfully distracting Lucifer with the question of a pact. He loves it when that one innocuous comment from him sends the rest into a fight giving him the chance whisk you away and laugh at their foolishness. He chuckles when he doesn’t need to do a thing at all and their own follies get the better of them and they don’t even realize what they’re missing out on.
If they knew he was mad or upset they’d feed on it, it’d make them just a bit too comfortable, but an unflappable smile, that can be just as unnerving as a wicked scowl. Then when at last it’s just you and him, and he’s home at last, no longer alone, just you get to see his real smile, one of relief.
Thirteen
It’s easier to hope to not see you too soon:
That thought makes things easier, considering who she is, and what her job is. It wouldn’t be the worst thing for you to go, you could always be by her side then, but it wouldn’t be the same as you are now, alive. It’s much more fun and interesting!
And as boring as waiting can be, she much rather wait for your return to the Devildom than you meeting her scythe for the second time. She would go and visit you, but she only really can when working and it might not be the best idea to have you follow her around and others start spreading rumors of you being cursed or something. Then again… well if she were to invite you along it’d be entirely up to you if you went or not. Maybe that is something to consider for a later date.
There’s only so long one can chase around Solomon though, or go shopping, or try meeting new people, or… there’s a lot the reaper has tried in her long, long, long ‘life’ but the time with you is always the most thrilling. Perhaps not the best life for a human but you at least seem to enjoy yourself despite your… she could never land on if you either had incredibly good or bad luck but, it certainly was something to behold.
It’s easy to pass by the days tinkering, and toying, and fiddling away till her cave was filled with new traps for your perusal, but on occasion she’ll pause. Sometimes it’s to wonder what you’d think. Sometimes it’s how you’d react when she unleashes it upon your reunion. Sometimes it’s just how you’d want to paint it. Inevitability the squeaking of metal or the snapping of wood, or stupid Solomon’s voice brings her back and you’re left to rest for a time. Thoughts of you came back though, they always do. That’s at least one thing she’s certain of, aside from your long life and bright flame. She can wait, there’s plenty of time yet still to burn.
Raphael
Pain is a trial, something to be embraced:
Father is cruel as he is kind, strict and wrathful yet understanding and loving.
This… shallow hollowness, he finds the feeling hard to describe, must be something similar to Father. It took root when his siblings first fell and it never truly went away. Sure there were more important things to think on, to work on, to refine, to improve, it was something he tolerated or tried ignoring. There wasn’t much he could do about the feeling anyway so why bother?
It was different after you though. For his siblings, yes they did wrong, but perhaps, one day Father would see their actions weren’t malicious, they just loved so much and didn’t know how to express it when they were scared for one another. You however… There was no real reason why you couldn’t be together now, to share hellos and see you laters. He could text you maybe, but it wouldn’t alleviate this feeling, just make it worse the longer your time apart is.
He finds it inspiring sometimes. Sitting on a couch unable to decide what to sew or embroider next. The decision is always easy now, what would you like?
During training he’s able to put in this energy he never knew he had that just sat dormant within. His swings are faster, more power can be utilized.
You grow in strength everyday, you could easily surpass Solomon at this rate, something that should terrify him, yet he wants to stand toe to toe with you. How things were going, you’d probably save his life. That wouldn’t do, you have enough people relying on you, if someone was going to be saving the other let him save you for a change. You deserve the break.
So he’ll keep this feeling close and this new part of himself, it hasn’t been causing any trouble so far, so he didn’t see much reason to do anything about it.
Mephistopheles
How dare you, he must curse you in kind, it’s too precious of a gift:
You are no human! You are a curse, a plague! You’ve went and made yourself impossible to ever forget. Do you even realize what that means? Do you truly understand just what you’ve given him? Your short life, and you’ve chosen to give part of that to him so freely! And now he’s saddled with the responsibility of keeping that part of you alive within himself because who knows when you’ll just keel over from how fragile you are!
And now you just expect to keep him waiting. He just has to sit here in anticipation for your return so he can give you the same gift! How rude!
Never again will you be able to doze off without wishing he was beside you. He will make sure your drifting thoughts are of him, and him alone.
He’s planning every moment of your return. Demons live much longer than humans so for him to give you the equivalent of what you’ve gifted him, you won’t be having any free time for a very long time. For you, for him it’s practically nothing, but be sure it will be the most amazing moments for your entire existence! Just recompence in his opinion.
Don’t plan anything, he has date plans for you for a few months. He would have the next few years planned out by the time you see one another again, but it can’t be anything less than perfect. There’s also always something new add. His finger is on the pulse of the Devildom, from the new hole in the wall eatery few have tried but raved about, or the Three Legged Crow’s plans on investing in at home entertainment, there’s always something new to add and see if they fit into his plans.
Why did you do this, take the little free time he had and twist his arm into dedicating them to you. He could be relaxing, but no, the rarer times he’s not busy he finds your life in his mind. Surely a curse most fowl that he will give you one of his own.
Aurum
Writing so you don’t miss a moment:
The evenings in the bar are long, but the days even longer. They lay on the sofa half asleep, one thought on their mind. The nights felt shorter when you visited. He also missed the anticipation he held in his chest, locking up the front doors only for you to pop up and walk him back home. He always told you he didn’t like seeing you out so late, yet you’d just say the same back. At least they had work and you… you were just damn too sweet.
He wondered, but couldn’t just ask if you felt the same, it’d turn awkward if you didn’t and well… His feelings probably hurt you enough already.
But, by chance, if you did, surely you’d like to hear from him?
Mammon raised a brow and questioned how Aurum hadn’t gottn your number yet and practically threw his phone into the man’s face to copy your contact info upon seeing the letter and hearing Aurum’s request for him to play mail boy! The demon still immediately pocketed the letter but, this was ridiculous. Even more so when Aurum refused to copy your info!
Was he perhaps a bit too presumptuous about your relationship? Texting would be a lot more casual than a hand written letter, but they knew how creepy it could feel when someone got your contact info without you being the one to give it out. Thankfully he didn’t have to ruminate on it for long, Mammon calling, saying you had a letter for him!
The patrons thankfully always provided with good stories for the man to share, and you always wrote of whatever misadventures and the brothers got up to. Sometimes Mammon would look over their shoulder, interject about the goings on, usually about you ‘exaggerating’ things he did. He also liked not telling stories, just news, or this off looking tomato he found at the market, and you’d tell him of the day to day in the Devildom, about the ingredients you thought he’d want to try experimenting with or how the library got an updated fae law book you could borrow for him if he wanted.
It was nice summoning Mammon every few days for his visit and trading your letter for theirs. It hurt, but you seemed to get that and would talk more about yourself for a time or just about Mammon. He admitted once, it felt kinda like giving each other a piece of home, these letters, and that he hoped you felt the same.
Matoi
You’re always together, there’s no need for that:
They told you before, didn’t they? The world of yokai and the world of humans are one in the same, intrinsically connected, one effects the other just as much as the past effects the future and the future effects the past. Humans and the Lantern People sewed one another, raised one another, and return to the earth hand in hand. The land may be vast, but the land is still earth, you are both earth, thus you are always connected.
But it’s okay if this hasn’t sunk into your soul and bones yet. You know, even if you don’t realize.
Knowledge doesn’t always sway the heart though.
They whittle. Not the tool carving for the village, or toys for the kids.
They hop through the forests till something catches their fancy. Could be a log, perhaps a branch but it has to be something that screams ‘you’. It’s rarer for them to have a plan for what the item will be. They chip away till the wood begins to take shape and they see what it wishes to be. They sing, ancient songs long forgotten but still they are songs of love, a song for you, one you’d never get to hear. Unless you asked but they wouldn’t on their own, their body always heats up from the embarrassment of being so focused on by one person, let alone you.
These projects, if they hadn’t made Mephistopheles’ cane, they would say each and every one was their magnum opus. Each had thoughts of you poured into them. A paperweight, a figure, some pencils, a chair, the amount of these carved gifts Matoi has given you practically every time you meet, you could not keep track of. They’ve made you furniture as if knowing the House of Lamentation needed a new one, not that was too hard of a guess with how destructive the brothers are. They’ve made you a ring that perfectly fit your ring finger. They made so many things, the only thing you could be certain was that they must spend most of their free time making these for you.
#obey me#obey me x reader#obey me lucifer#obey me mammon#obey me leviathan#obey me satan#obey me asmodeus#obey me beelzebub#obey me belphegor#obey me diavolo#obey me barbatos#obey me luke#obey me simeon#obey me solomon#obey me thirteen#obey me raphael#obey me mephistopheles#obey me oc#oc aurum#oc matoi
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The way you lay it out makes it so clear they did know (or at least strongly suspect) John was lying to them, and had for a long time. Gideon's eyes were just the final proof they needed, and they were already looking for it before she was born. That's why she was born. Mercy and Augustine weren't actively trying to kill John by opening the tomb, they were trying to test a theory about the source of his power. Trying to kill him was reserved for after they were proven right.
And the explanation makes sense for Cytherea, but there's one thing that's bugging me which is.... He didn't make them kill their cavs. Mercy and Augustine never killed their cavaliers, not at anyone's demand.
Alfred and Cristabel killed themselves.
John did lie to all of them, and those lies did lead Cris and Alfred to fundamentally misunderstand their options, but I think the distinction there is important, both to the overall themes and most especially to why Augustine and Mercymorn wanted John dead.
I think what it all comes down to, really, is John's reason for lying to them. When Harrow finally prompts him to explain why he would let something like lyctorhood happen, when it should have been in his power to stop it, his answer was essentially: because they might have left me, and I wouldn't have been able to stop them.
Before lyctorhood, the disciples were still just mortal necromancers. Strong ones, but still dependent on John for immortality. Independence wasn't an option; if they wanted to be immortal, they had to stay close to John. If he'd told them everything, if they'd known everything there was to know about him, and Alecto, and how their power worked, they might have been able to change that dynamic. They might have achieved an immortality not even John could rescind.
John couldn't trust them not to leave him, so he lied to them to take away the option.
I think that's why Mercy and Augustine tried to kill him, when they understood the depth of his lie, and the choice he'd deprived them of. They couldn't live with it, and he was never going to let them leave.
Thanks! I think the biggest thing currently bugging me about HtN is why every surviving lyctor, with 1 single exception, was plotting to kill Jod? My understanding is that it was only when they saw cav!Gideon's eyes on the Mithraeum that they realized Jod lied about the existence of perfect lyctorhood. So why had they spent decades plotting with BoE to open the tomb and murder God? Only explanation I've read is "because he made them kill their cavs," which seems weak.
The short answer is: They at least suspected that he lied about it even before meeting Gideon. She was just the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. Plus, he did make them kill their cavs! Their siblings, their lovers, their closest friends! They dealt with that truth for far more than a lifetime, but they just so happens that they had a lot of time to dwell on it. It’s not really a surprise that it eventually got ugly.
Long answer under the cut, because I love my followers and don’t want them to suffer.
First off: it isn't just the surviving lyctors who betrayed God. Mercymorn, Augustine, Cytherea, yes; but even G1deon was willing to share a bed with the enemy. Either he or Pyrrha told Wake about the RB's and what they do to necromancers, thereby handing her an effective weapon against lyctors.
And then there's Anastasia, who's implied to have gone against John's orders by even founding the Ninth House. Cassie, who contacted BoE *6 000 years ago*. So who really knows what Cyrus and Ulysses were up to, or would have been if they'd survived for long enough.
As for why? We get two pieces of explanation in the text.
YOU LIED TO US
Could this refer to the proof in Gideon's eyes? Sure. But I'm not convinced that it wasn't the message Cyth always wanted to send.
Checking in with the other duplicitous sluts:
“You’ve offered us explanations for everything over the years. But—some of them didn’t hold up on examination … It was the power I could never get my head around, you know? I follow power back to its source, John. It’s the skill you asked me to perfect. And the longer I looked at yours, the less things added up.” “This has been troubling you for a very long time, then,” God said finally. [...] “You don’t get your power from Dominicus,” said Augustine. “It gets its power from you. There’s no exchange involved, no symbiosis. You draw nothing from the system. It relies on you entirely, as we all know. You’re God, John. But—as the Edenites are fond of pointing out—you were once a man. So whither that transition? Where does your power come from? Even if the Resurrection had been the greatest thanergy bloom ever triggered, it would drain away over time. And then Mercy said to me—in a moment of true Mercy vileness—she said, What is God afraid of? [...] I never wanted to believe it when she said, What if he didn’t really put down A.L.? And then—What if he couldn’t put down A.L.?” (HtN, ch. 51)
So: they knew that John didn’t have a tangible power source; and lyctorhood was the only kind of internal furnace they know about. Ergo: yes, they suspected that John had lied about perfect Lyctorhood. He made them kill their cavs. 10 000 years of guilt, literally chasing them across the universe, and for what? For whom?
What kind of God demands such a sacrifice? I think that's one of the central questions of these books. What kind of God demands it? (compare the Binding of Isaac - John) But also: What kind of God punishes it? (compare the Mark of Cain - the Resurrection Beasts)
But -
“Why would one of the Emperor’s Lyctors hate him?” “Hate him?” The voice of the girl whom Gideon had known as Dulcinea rose, high and intent. “Hate him? I have loved that man for ten thousand years. We all loved him, every one of us. We worshipped him like a king. Like a god! Like a brother.” (GtN, ch. 35)
They are Believers losing their Faith. They’re questioning the entire foundation of his divinity. Augustine and Mercy are still asking, still hoping that they're wrong - “All that effort to break open the Locked Tomb,” said Augustine, “only to have the answer we wanted wander up in the form of one dead teenager flaunting your genes." - but crucially, they are also lovers going through a messy divorce. You know, when people who once loved each other and were presumably capable of communication are suddenly throwing plates at each other? “Come, swear your loyalty, my son—my brother—beloved—Lyctor—saint.”
Possibly what Tazmuir is saying is, they're the same picture. But that might be conjecture.
(edited to add in links to other theory posts. call it the director's cut)
#it's the same picture as Harrow watching Gideon kneel heartbroken on the landing pad as she watches the shuttle leave without her#it's the realisation of her dread that one day her body and Harrow's would be found together hands still around one another's necks#it's Augustine covered in Mercy's gore plunging the Mithraeum into the River to drag John to hell with him#all of these are the same picture#the locked tomb#tlt meta#suicide cw#domestic violence cw#dios apate major#emperor john gaius#augustine the first#mercymorn the first
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Batboys and
how they talk about you
Bonus fic as a thank you for allowing my jason fic to do well 💋
Dick Grayson-
, who talks about you like a goddess walking the earth, loves you more than words. The type to talk about you so much that people doubt your real
“My girlfriend is so sweet, guys. Today we went to that one library I like. Guys, have I told you even her favorite book is adorable?”
It doesn’t help that he tends to get caught up in certain details, completely ignoring other ones. No one knew your name until a week into dating.
Jason: “If you asked me before, I would’ve never believed him; weve all gone a little insane, but now that Ive seen proof, I'm happy for him. He gets to be well-dick, and she gets to smile and nod, but I swear she enjoys it. They’re weird together.”
Tim: “We love Dick. A lot, but we were looking at a wonderful facility that has an in-patient gym in the beginning. But the way he looks at her, I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually did miracles.”
Damian: “At least I believed him at the start. He was smitten and absolutely whipped. I thought it was just like Dick. I don’t know why I, of all people, was the only one that caught it.
Bruce: Yeah, I knew she was real. Why would I ruin everyone’s fun? I mean, Dick is a bit. Aloof sometimes… I'm not exactly surprised; he’s not exactly amazing socially sometimes, but with her, he’s extra awkward, and I watched him flirt with men and women. But look, as long as he’s happy, we’re happy for him.”
Dick is a completely drunken idiot, with so much training thrown out the window.
(Can you tell I'm not a fan of a playboy dick😞 im sorry i love a good love stuck man)
Jason Todd-
, who is extremely protective of his peace, sometimes acts as if you’re fragile. He was the type to invite you to a family game night where he called a family meeting an hour beforehand, forcing everyone to be on their best behavior. Needless to say, it was awkward, but one uno round later, he realized you fit in just fine.
“I knew my girl would win. She's a gangster.”
boast when you absolutely dominate everyone playing in the game. You never quite beat the cheating allegations.
Dick: "I don’t know how he did it, but he found someone who brings out a side of him I haven’t seen in years. No one is that good at uno; naturally, at least, I think she’s a meta. I'm not saying that non-metas aren’t good at uno.”
Tim: "You know how in movies the girl animals just have lashes, and how the boy is always darker and the girl will be like a lighter color? It's like she was made for him. I'm glad he found his anamorphic girl, Wolf. But, can I be honest? I think Alfred was telling her our cards.”
Damian: "I'm glad Jaybird is happy. He’s definitely earned it. Even if she cheats at UNO, they’re perfect for each other. Hell, the cheating is what makes them perfect for each other.”
Bruce: "I'm glad to see Jason happy. The sparkling in his eyes, the boyish smile, is the same joy I saw after he hit me with a car iron and ran off, giggling. I like her.”
Bruce Wayne-
is proud to show you off publicly. He’s not one to spoil someone, but sometimes he can’t help but pick up trinkets for you. Sometimes you’d wake up to keychains, jewelry, or even clothes somewhere in your shared room.
He tried so hard to be there for you and protect you from his line of work. Some nights, he wouldn’t come to bed at all to avoid waking you. Some nights, if you worried too much, he would send Dick out in the Batman costume so he could be by your side.
"Shh, baby, its ok... Tonight, I'm staying with you, okay? I love you; do you know that? And I know sometimes the risk scares you, but I’ll always be here for you.”
Dick: "It's nice knowing Bruce isn’t constantly brooding about it. Well, I knew that fact already, but this is different. I only see a light in his eyes when he’s doing stuff he absolutely loves. Like when he talks to his parents tombs and we pretend we don’t see him.”
Jason: "i think that man would come back from the dead more dramatically than I did for this woman. And I waged like 3 wars.”
Tim: “Sometimes I see them sitting in the library together in silence. All they do is enjoy each other’s presence. Its adorable”
Damian: “Dads earned it. And when I say he’s earned it, I mean he’s earned it!”
Bruce isn’t the easiest to be with, but he always makes up for it.
#dc x reader#jason todd x reader#nightwing imagine#red hood#red hood x reader#dick grayson x reader#bruce wayne x reader#batman x reader#dc imagine#self indulgence at its finest
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Accessories
The twins couldn’t believe it. They had gotten news that after nearly five years their father‘s body, or rather it was left it, had been somehow pulled from the tomb. So, Billy and Mary were allowed to collect some of the things from the body.
Billy and Mary: *walking over to the collection site*
Coworker 1: “The Batson twins?”
Billy and Mary: *pause and look over to Coworker 1*
Coworker 1: “My god you two are all grown up.”
Mary: “Do we know you…?” *shares a look with Billy*
Coworker 1: “Ah you were probably too young to remember. I was a work friend of your father’s. I met you both when you were babies.”
Coworker 2: *walks over* “So did I!”
Billy: “Oh cool…” *sounds awkward and shares another look with Mary*
Billy and Mary didn’t know that all the people there were either friends of C.C. or Marilyn. They didn’t know that this entire thing was basically turned into a sort of funeral, seeing as none of their friends got to go to C.C.’s. The people were nice though. Most had flocked to them, telling the twins stories about their father and mother which everyone was honestly grateful for. It made the entire thing hurt less for them.
Coworker 2: “But anyways, are you two here to collect the stuff from the body?”
Billy: “Yeah.” *nods head*
Coworker 1: “Well, it’s just over there.” *points in a direction*
Mary and Billy: “Thank you.” *in unison*
Coworker 1: “No problem.”
Coworker 1 & 2: *watch the twins go*
Coworker 2: “Those poor kids.”
After this, neither of the twins could bring themselves to go out in their Marvel forms for about a week. A direct result of their grieving was that everyone was concerned about where the two superheroes had gone. For the Fawcitizens, they were worried sick about their lovable heroes. For the JL, one of the sunniest person they know, and one their heaviest hitters just up and disappeared and isn’t answering his comm. For the YJ, one of their kindest and lovable members poofed and was gone. For magic users, their Champion just vanished. And for the Marvels’ villains, they were confused because the imbeciles they fight nearly every week didn’t seem like the type of people to just abandon their post. Safe to say, it threw a lot of people off.
Meanwhile, Billy and Mary are looking at the things C.C. had with him during his last moments. The man only had his wedding ring and a pair of now broken glasses. The backpack he had been spotted with before going into the tomb was nowhere to be found. So, now with these two items were in the twins’ possession, they decided to do something with them. Billy put the string on some yarn he got from an old lady a couple doors down, and as for the glasses, he and Mary pooled as much money as they could to get the frame fixed, thankfully getting a discount because the glasses fixer had a soft spot for kids. They didn’t care for the lenses because they remember their mother saying something about how C.C.’s vision was absolutely terrible. Billy now lets the ring hang around his neck from the yarn and Mary wears the glasses on her head since they’re too big for her face.
Unfortunately for them, they couldn’t grieve forever. Black Adam showed up in Fawcett and literally demanded they come out of hiding. So they did, or at least Billy did. He let Mary stay home.
Black Adam: “There you are.”
Marvel: *waves to Adam* “Heeeey… Sorry I’ve been gone for a bit. I’ve been busy.”
They fought like usual, and everything was going normal until…
Marvel: *punches Adam in the face*
Black Adam: *skids back and his hand went to his face*
Marvel: *confused because he’s seen him shrug of worse*
Black Adam: *moves and there’s a nice ring mark on his face*
Marvel: *jaw slightly drops and looks to the hand he punched him with*
Yup, for some reason, the ring translated to his Marvel form. (The Gods were feeling like causing drama) He honestly felt so bad for Adam because the mark looks like it’s going to welt. They wrapped up the fight soon after that. The fight was caught on the news and everyone was happy Cap was back, although they were still concerned as to why Mary hadn’t appeared. They were hoping she’d come back too.
Eventually though, someone pointed out the wedding ring. That was how everyone collectively came to the conclusion that Marvel had been gone because he was getting married. Everyone was then collectively distraught. Like the JL are upset because Marvel didn’t invite them, let alone mention it. The YJ are upset because Mary didn’t tell them she was leaving. They also would’ve liked to be invited too. As for the simps and or stans? All screaming, crying, and throwing up.
After fighting Black Adam, the twins decided to get back into heroics. When Mary transforms now, she gets to wear her father’s glasses. (Her Gods just wanted her to look more like a cutie patootie) Everyone was eating up the new look. The two decided to clear the air with their friends too.
At the Watchtower…
Marvel: *sitting at a meeting table being bombarded*
Flash: “Dude I invited you to my wedding! Is the sentiment not the same??” *sounds completely betrayed*
Marvel: *confused* “Wha-”
Supes: “I invited you to mine too!”
Billy ended up having to make a flimsy excuse that no one believed. As for Mary…
M’gann: “Mary? You went to a wedding? Why didn’t you tell us??”
Mary: “What do you mean? Marvel and I just went on a little adventure that got out of hand.” *all calm and stuff*
Kid Flash: “What about the ring?”
Mary: “What ring- Oooh the ring. Marvel just wanted to accessorize. Trust.”
Also, as for how C.C.’s body hadn’t just been dust? Here are a couple solutions you can choose from: This AU isn’t a time bubble AU, or this AU is a time bubble AU but since the tomb held Black Adam, it’s remaining magical properties slowed down the decomposition rate of C.C.’s body, or the wizard did something and that slowed the decomposition rate, or something else, which I would LOVE to hear yall’s ideas.
#billy batson#dc captain marvel#shazam#fawcett city#captain marvel dc#fawcett#fawcett comics#mary batson#mary bromfield#mary marvel
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moving day; m.k.
pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader
summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.
warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.
word count: 9.9k
notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”
MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS
Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.
He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.
(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.
He just couldn’t move on.)
But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.
It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.
The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.
However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.
Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.
It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.
(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.
Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.
But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.
Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)
-
Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.
They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.
When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”
Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.
Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”
“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.
“Still—”
“Oh, don’t start—”
At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.
Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.
It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.
“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”
Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”
“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”
It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.
And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.
They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.
There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.
In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.
.
.
.
Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.
There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.
(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.
Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.
Steven likes having something just for him.)
Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.
“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—
Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.
In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”
Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”
“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”
“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”
“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”
“What? No—what?”
“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”
“Steven!”
-
“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.
“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.
They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.
“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”
He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.
“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”
“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.
(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’
Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)
“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”
Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”
“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”
Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”
He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.
He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.
You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”
Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.
Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.
So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”
“What?”
“What?”
“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”
Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.
“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—
—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.
“How do I look?”
The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.
Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.
God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”
You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”
“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.
A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.
His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”
You light up. “Really?”
“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”
Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”
Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.
It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.
Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.
Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.
“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."
Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”
Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”
And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”
Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.
“About time, innit?”
-
Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.
The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—
You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.
(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)
So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.
After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.
Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”
You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—
“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.
“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”
It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.
“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”
The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”
“Oh?”
“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”
“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”
“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.
You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.
“You can open—”
You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.
“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”
You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.
“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.
They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.
When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.
“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.
.
.
.
You are the bane of Jake’s existence.
First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?
Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.
Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.
Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.
But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.
Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.
But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.
(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.
Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)
In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.
So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.
Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.
-
Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?
Jake has his car.
Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.
The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.
That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.
It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.
He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.
(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.
That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.
How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.
How do they know?)
There’s a rustling in the bedroom.
Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—
“Marc?”
You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.
He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”
A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”
You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”
If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.
But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.
You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.
“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”
He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.
There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.
For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.
-
Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.
You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”
“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”
Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”
Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”
That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”
You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”
Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”
“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.
“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”
His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”
A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.
He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—
That third sarcophagus—
Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?
Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.
“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.
Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—
To the right—
-
So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.
He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.
The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.
But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—
You are the bane of his existence.
Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.
He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.
They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.
-
You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.
But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”
The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.
That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—
“Jake.”
The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.
“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.
“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.
“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”
A wave of dread washes over you.
He’s not talking about last night.
No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.
He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”
Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.
There’s no way—
“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”
You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.
You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—
You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—
You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.
No. You can’t believe it.
You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.
None of it makes sense.
It—it can’t—
The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.
They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.
They call you princesa.
-
It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.
Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.
He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—
It’s best to steer clear for a while.
Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.
“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”
No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.
You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.
Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.
Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—
Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.
He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.
Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.
It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.
His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.
(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)
Then—your keys turn in the door.
.
.
.
Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.
“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.
“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”
“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”
“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”
You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.
“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”
Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”
Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”
He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.
That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.
Let Jake try and beat that.
“Oi! Share!”
Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”
“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”
Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.
All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”
“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”
Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”
“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”
“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”
“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"
“Are you kidding me?”
Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.
He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.
“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”
He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.
Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.
Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.
It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.
“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”
He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.
Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”
The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.
“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.
The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”
“Jesus, man.”
Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”
The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.
He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.
Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”
It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.
“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”
Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”
They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.
It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.
In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—
Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.
And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.
#moon knight x reader#marc spector x reader#steven grant x reader#jake lockley x reader#moon knight#marc spector#steven grant#jake lockley#moon knight fanfic#my writing#mk bingo 2024
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SIX WEEKS (8 YEARS) OF BREATHING CLEAN AIR / I STILL MISS THE SMOKE
touya todoroki x reader
you finally bring yourself to visit your husband in the hospital.
mha official ending spoilers
part 2/3, part 1
inspired by the black dog
what a long 8 years.
touya’s defeat came at no surprise to you. as much as you wanted to root for your husband, to hope he achieves the twisted, revenge-filled dreams he dedicated his like (death) to, you knew his attempts would be futile.
you knew that the moment shouto’s fists connected with your husbands, it’d be over. the flames would subside, and dabi’s fiery reign would come to an end. for just a moment, in the midst of the blue and red flames, you saw a glimpse of two broken brothers. just a glimpse.
what followed wasn’t any less heartbreaking. touya was kept alive in his own, high tech cell. though he had made sure to keep you hidden from the world, you heard from short whispers that there was nothing that could be done about his current state. he could only manage a few words, his vessel slowly slowly dissipating into nothing but ash.
you absolutely could not bring yourself to visit. not in any of those 8 years. maybe its because you knew you could very well be hearing your last words from him soon.
too many memories engulfed in fire. his arsons match and your tear-stained eyes, watching it all helplessly.
so for as long as you could, you stayed in your house, grieving for the living.
until now.
it wasn’t a surprise you were eventually found out. when you opened your door, expecting the mail, you were greeted with a familiar face- not when you were angry about seeing, but not particularly delighted by any means. his dual coloured eyes and scar similar to that of your husbands- not by look but by origin.
you honestly couldn’t remember how he convinced you to leave your home. he may as well have dragged you by your feet, into his car and to the facility they were keeping touya in. this man was technically your brother, too. but seeing him felt like a wound reopened.
touya laid there, his body weak and emaciated, as the machines beeped and whirred around him, monitoring his vital signs and keeping him alive. a futile but admittedly impressive effort by his rich father, wanting to somehow make amends. everyone knew, however, that he was not saving a life- he was prolonging a death. the death of his firstborn son, to be exact.
his mind was hazy, his vision blurry as he struggled to keep his eyes open. the sound of the machines became a constant, familiar background noise, almost like white noise.
as he laid there, fading in and out of consciousness, one thought ran through his mind again and again: you.
while you stood outside the room, touya’s barren body laid in his tomb. his eyelids could hardly closed, so he was more or less forced to take in the grief-stained drywall. he thought about you, every single day. wondered where you were, how you could be doing- he hoped it was better now that he was gone.
your hand was wrapped shakily around the doorknob. just one twist and push. but it felt as though that door was made of iron. why was it suddenly so heavy? why was it being weighed down with the weight of your love and grief all rolled into one?
“…i don’t think i can do this.” you say shakily, a single tear rolling down your eye at the thought of seeing your dying husband after all this time.
a hand is placed on your shoulder. a comforting touch, like one who is learning to navigate through the grief alongside you.
shouto stood silently beside you, his expression stoic as he waited for you to make a decision.
he knew how difficult this must be for you, the years of pain and guilt weighing heavily on your shoulders. if he was grieving a man he hardy knew as his brother and more as a villain, he couldn’t even grasp how his wife must be feeling- someone who had loved him despite it all.
“you can do it.” he says softly, his voice firm but gentle as he tries his best to hold it together. he doesn’t want you to face this alone, though he knows he cant enter that room with you.
“you’ve made a good name for yourself.” you say, acknowledging shouto’s growth. at least one of the two brothers can still live, still be happy. “no one even calls you endeavours son anymore.”
he nods silently, his expression softening slightly at your words.
“i guess so.” he said quietly, a small hint of a smile on his face. he doesn’t dare to jinx his success. “ i’ve… i’ve tried to separate myself from my father’s shadow, to be my own person.”
he says for a paused moment, looking at the small glass panel that gave a window into touya’s room, his hand still resting on your shoulder.
“but t wasn’t easy. it never is.” he says, taking a deep breath before speaking his next piece.
“the doctors think they can buy him a few more months, maybe.” shouto reveals. the extent of your absence towards your dying husband finally begins to sink in. you waited until it was almost too late to see him. its a guilt like no other. what could you possibly say about to him after all this time?
“…i’m going in.” you say, pushing the door open and letting it close behind you with a click that rings through the room.
theres constant whirring and beeping from the technology keeping touya breathing. he lays there, his body held together by planks of metal and wiring. god, as morbid as it may seem, you wondered why they were even trying at this point?
he doesn’t seem to notice you, not till you walk closer to him. its hard to move his head with that brace around his skull, anyway.
his eyes weakly tracked your movements as you weakly made your way over to the bed, pressing your hands against the glass keeping him inside of his pod. he recognizes you, because how could he not? he married you, after all.
“…hey.” you manage, despite the dryness on your tongue.
your heart clenches as you watch him try and respond. his throat was dry and raspy, like his quirk had given him sandpaper for lung. he was forced to swallow several times before he could even mutter a word.
“hey..” he finally croaks out, his voice barely above a whisper, hoarse and strained.
you take a deep breath, silently cursing yourself for your already shaky words.
“you look like shit.” you have the audacity to chuckle at him, the numb laughter devoid of any empathy. you were grieving, grieving yet angry. as much as you understood and wanted to understand, he still left you.
touya would be nothing if not an asshole.
“thanks, doll.” his voice almost mechanical. “..don’t look too hot yourself.”
there he is. that smartass touya you love. his quick tongue and his smart heard, smarter then he lets on. you love his remarks, his sass, his demeanour. and it seemed that even through all this pain, he still managed to give you some of it.
the tears are already sliding down your cheeks, knowing that this is likely the last time you’ll ever get to feel it.
and for a moment, through your hazy eyes, a silver glimmer catches your eyes.
“…you kept the ring..?” you have to rub your eyes, unsure if its just a grief-stricken illusion.
he scoffs, as if it should be obvious. “yeah… course i did.”
his time is running out and you both know it. you cringe watching his weaken state, trying to slide the ring off his finger. you quickly hush him, your delicate hands carefully reaching into his pod to help him remove the band. though most of his nerves are killed off, he feels as though he’s truly lost his favourite part of him.
his eyes continue to grow tired, but me fights them valiantly to catch a glimpse of you slipping the ring onto your own hand. he had taken that part of him, and given it to you.
you sob, pressing your forehead against the glass. your hand just barely grazes his, feeling the charred skin you still loved, no matter how dead.
“i love you.” you sob, baring your soul to your husband. his eyes close, feeling the exhaustion sink in- but he can’t give in. not when this is his last chance to see his wife.
despite the pain and the knowledge of his imminent death, he manages to find his voice and responds, his voice hoarse but filled with a raw intensity of emotion. he’s doing everything to stay with you right now, though you know it can’t ever make it up.
“… i love you… too…” he croaks, letting what soul he has left reach itself out to you.
“and i’m so mad at you.” you sob. “not just you… i’m mad at the world.. i’m at the world that let your father get away with abusing you and breaking you down.. i’m mad at the world that didn’t see you were a boy who needed help. i’n mad at the universe for not giving you and i a chance… i’m mad at your god damn fire for taking you away from me.”
your tears slide down the glass, only continuing as you see his eyes close. he’s still breathing, yes, but either he was so exhausted from fighting death, or he couldn’t bare to see you in this much pain. probably both.
“i know… i’m… sorry…” he prays you know how sorry he really is. for doing this to you. for exposing you to the evil of the world when he should have been protecting you.
“..don’t cry..” he rasps, asking more for him than for you. you scoff.
“i’ll cry if i damn want to, touya.” you chuckle. “i lost my husband.”
just for a second, its almost like he smiles.
“you… still… call me.. that?”
without a trace of hesitation, you nod. “of course i do.”
he’s having trouble forming his next words and you can tell. you know you have to do it. you somehow have to say goodbye.
“i love you, touya todoroki. i love you so much.” you declare, showing your soul to him right before he enters the afterlife- maybe so he knows to look for you once your time comes as well.
“…i… love you.. too..” he rasps. he’s trying and you love him for it, despite the sobs that choke out of you seeing his struggle just to speak.
“i’ll never ever, ever forget you. i wouldn’t dream of it.” you whisper.
“you better not…” he rasps out weakly. what a fucking smartass you married.
you cant kiss him. but you do press your forehead and your lips to the glass, and give his hand once last squeeze. you have to rip yourself from the room and out the door, otherwise you might have stayed in there forever.
the door clicks behind you. a breath escapes your lips, knowing that you have truly said your goodbye. you still clutch his silver ring on your finger.
the ring served as a reminder. that no matter what happens now, a part of your soul forever belonged to touya todoroki. that no matter how many of your clothes you burn and how many exorcisms you perform on your house, the love you shared with touya will never leave. no matter how much clean air you breath, a small part of you will always miss the smoke he gave. always.
you vowed to never forget him, anyway.
tags!🪽
@the-dumpster-fire-of-life @greenmanshoe @connorsui
#bnha todoroki#bnha dabi#dabi x y/n#dabi is touya#dabi mha#dabi smut#dabi x reader#mha touya#bnha touya#touya todoroki#touya x reader#dabi touya#bnha x y/n#bnha x fem!reader#bnha x you#boku no hero acedamia#my hero x reader#bnha manga spoilers#bnha spoilers#bnha#bnha x reader#my hero academy fanfiction#mha x y/n#mha x you#my hero acedamia#mha manga spoilers#mha todoroki#touya x y/n#mha dabi#dabi todoroki
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sorry to still be mentally ill over the locked tomb but for all that i keep seeing people emphasise alecto's apocalyptic rage, alecto as an eldritch horror shackled into the body of a barbie doll, etc etc i feel like it cannot be overlooked that Nona Is Still In There. she may not remember it, but alecto is still nona. nona was still alecto. alecto's rage and nona's love come from the same depths. the nona who laughed at pyrrha's stupid jokes and wore goofy t-shirts to make little children laugh and got excited for her birthday is the same nona who broke her hands and feet in a blind bloody screaming rage when she woke up to find herself (once again) in chains. i did not spend 480 pages watching nona love recklessly and wholly and extend that love to every small thing, every person and creature she connected with, loving a life lived with her little found family in borderline poverty in a warzone, to believe that alecto is the monster the lyctors described her to be or to believe that alecto won't still love just as recklessly
#i should be doing uni work. anyway#im not coherent#gray.txt#the locked tomb#nona the ninth spoilers
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Thinking about the fact that Matt survived a building falling on him, and while he survived, the love of his life- that he just got back from being resurrected into a soulless weapon, died. They wanted to die together, yet Matt survived. Then he found refuge in the place he felt the most alone in his life: the orphanage where his mother cared for him without his knowledge. The basement of a church where he's surrounded by angel statues whilst rejecting religion, forced to be watched under their stone faces. And after a suicide attempt, he has to hear the choir singing above him, surrounded in a tomb of graves in the walls. He is surrounded by death, failure, by religious symbols and sounds. Yet he's supposed to find meaning, challenged by the comments of his mother who tells him not to dwell in selfish "self pity."
DAREDEVIL, 2.01 "RESSURECTION"
#my gifs#daredevil#matt murdock#character analysis#tw: sucidal thoughts#tw: religious themes#red aesthetic#daredevil gifs#marvel#marvel gifs#mcu
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Pretty sure we all agree that the moment Neve learns that MW Rook was found in the Necropolis as a baby she starts looking into their background and where they might have come from, right? (complete with cork board and red string)
After inquiring with senior members of the Mourn Watch and getting suspiciously stonewalled she finally just throws up her hands and confronts Emmrich directly. They all care for Rook, right? Who wouldn't want to know where they come from? She doesn't need sleep she needs answers, damnit!
And Emmrich sighs, puts down his tea, and very slowly explains to Neve, after extracting a promise of secrecy, that the most senior of the Mourn Watch do, in fact, know where Rook came from. They aren't the first to be discovered, after all, just one of the very few to be found still alive.
The Necropolis is vast. Lot's of uncovered corners and dark holes for a secret, unwanted child to be quietly removed to. Despite the protests of the Mortalitasi, the Nevarran nobles have unrestricted access the tombs and burial fields of their families, and it is not unheard of for the remains of unclaimed newborns to be found among those family graves.
Does Rook know? Perhaps. Rook is clever, and much like Emmrich, holds no love for the nobles of their birth land. Best to let the matter rest, hm?
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