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abiiors · 2 months

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on the road // george daniel x oc

valentine's week - day 5: lovers' quarrel

a/n: this is a bit shit but i wanted to resurrect george and cleo and give them a valentine's day because i miss them. also because i need motivation to finish the series cw: nothing much, just a bit of crying wc: 3k

if someone had told cleo a year ago that she’d be spending valentine's day with george daniel, with her boyfriend george daniel, she would have cackled until her stomach hurt. she would have called them insane for even thinking such a thing and moved on with her life.

but the night before the big day, cleo sighs into her pillow and turns to glare at her empty bed, and by extension her empty apartment.

turns out she actually isn’t spending valentines day with her boyfriend—not in the way she wants to, at least.

she picks at a hangnail and hmms noncommittal to whatever matty’s just said on the phone.

“are you listening to me?” matty asks, and she can practically imagine him snapping his fingers at her. “i said george is picking you up tomorrow. 8 am.”

cleo gapes and sits up in her bed. “no he’s not!”

there’s a silence on the other end of the line, some static. “uhhh… yes he is,” matty says, confusion clear in his voice. “i just confirmed that with him.”

“no, i meant… he doesn’t have to. i’ll take the train.” she chews on the pad of her thumb, waiting to see how matty would react to this. predictably, there’s some shuffle on the line. then the background noise dims before matty speaks again.

“cleo,” he begins, exasperation clear in his voice. “have you fought again?”

her first instinct is to be defensive. what does he mean again?! it’s not like they fight a lot! sure they bicker maybe, sure they bicker a bit more than a regular couple whatever that means but they don’t fight. well…

apart from a few days ago. and she’s still dealing with the fallout from that.

“you did, didn’t you?” matty sighs. “no wonder george was so short with me.”

“it’s just a spat,” cleo mumbles and massages her temples. “‘s fine, matty. i’ll take a train tomorrow. he doesn’t need to go out of his way.”

she expects him to argue back, to insist that george should pick her up as planned. instead he just hums.

“sure,” matty drawls. “if you’ve got 160 quid to throw away, be my guest.”

cleo almost chokes on air then, her eyes wide as saucers. “fuck off!”

but matty only laughs at her. “it’s either that or a road trip with george. you pick.”

and then the little shit hangs up, leaving her to fume in silence.

cleo curses at her empty room, at the any and every train operator she can think of. she even plops herself back on the bed to dramatically check for train tickets only to discover that matty absolutely wasn’t lying. once the annoyance drains away, though, her eyes sting with unshed tears. her throat feels tight.

she really misses george, so much so that she doesn’t even want to sleep in the empty bed anymore. but she settles for hugging the other pillow tightly and closing her eyes.

cleo promises herself that she’ll talk it out with him tomorrow. she has to. there’s no way she’s going to be stuck with him in a car for six hours while they both fume silently in their respective seats and not talk for the entire duration of it.

george is there 8 am just like matty said. cleo looks at him through the window of her apartment, curtains half drawn so she could sneakily ogle at him and gauge his mood. to her annoyance, his face is absolutely blank.

not that that’s the first thing she sees of course.

he’s in a plain white t-shirt that fits him perfectly—it’s just the right amount of loose on him, the sleeves cut off at the perfect point on his arms and the sun reflects on his stupidly gorgeous hair making them shine. to cleo’s utter annoyance, he looks fucking hot. just like he always has.

on top of that, he’s leaning against the car, a cigarette dangling between his lips so carelessly, every time he holds it between his fingers, the rings on his hand glint and her mind flashes with all the times she’s spent obsessed over those fingers, all the times they’ve made her feel maddeningly amazing. over and over again.

he takes his phone out to type something and two seconds later her phone buzzes.

something warm spreads through her chest—sure, they’re mad at each other but at least he’s texting her. at least, there’s some form of communication.

she runs to look at her phone and it’s like a bucket of cold water’s just doused the warmth in her chest. it’s not a text from george, it’s a text from matty – he’s waiting downstairs. where are you?

then a moment later – pls don’t make me your messenger pigeon

she stomps like a child and staches the phone in her back pocket. then, just to be annoying, she takes extra two minutes to perfectly apply her lipgloss—let him wait. she’s not in the mood to be nice to him anymore. no matter how good he looks.

by the time cleo gets to the car, it’s already ten past eight. his eyes widen just a smidge when he sees but he quickly schools his face into a neutral expression and flicks the cigarette butt away. then he stomps on it a couple times and turns, about to go to the driver-side door, leaving cleo to gape at the back of his head.

he’s never, never let her open the door even once since they got together. not even a single time. but this time he simply slides into his seat and taps impatiently on the steering wheel without saying a word.

cleo yanks the car door open and slams it shut once she’s inside, she even clicks her seatbelt in place with a scoff and then resolutely turns to the window, turning her face away from him as much as possible.

by the time they’re out of her neighbourhood and onto the freeway, she can feel his burning stare at the back of her head, so much so that she can’t help but turn around slightly and take a peak at him from the corner of her eye. a muscle feathers in his jaw when someone honks at them and george mutters a low curse under his breath.

it’s the first time she’s hearing him speak today, and even this isn’t directed at her. the realisation makes her throat feel tight but she refuses to cry any more about the fight than she already has. and so cleo stares straight ahead, vowing not to be the first one to break the silence.

“coffee?”

cleo startles when george speaks out of nowhere. they haven’t been driving for that long, only about an hour judging by the time blinking on the car’s radio but the tension in the vehicle is thick enough to cut with a knife.

he looks at her briefly and then points to a costa on the side of the road. cleo nods and waits for him to park the car.

“i’ll get it for you,” he mumbles just as she’s about the exit the car and flees before she can make a single noise of protest.

cleo just sits there, absolutely stunned.

is this what it’s going to be like for the next six hours? tense silences and george running out on her whenever he has the chance to? bitterly, she thinks about how he can’t even stomach spending any more time with her than absolutely necessary. sighing, cleo closes her eyes and gathers her knees to her chest.

“i just… i don’t get you!” george almost yells, exasperation coating every syllable. they’ve been at it for thirty minutes now. ever since since they got back to her apartment from fucking ikea of all places.

every since george mentioned “their” home and cleo shut down on him.

“what’s not to get?” cleo yells back. she can’t even bring herself to stand up and fight, she just sits in the corner of the sofa, a throw blanket on her lap almost like a shield. her hair’s a mess from running her hands through it so many times but her scrunchie is around george’s wrist and the middle of a fight is not the time to ask for it.

“cleo…” he tiredly rubs his face and her heart cracks just a little. “we’ve been together for four months. it’s been amazing. hasn’t it been amazing for you?”

she just nods, not trusting her voice enough to speak.

“an we’ve lived together before!” his voice cracks.

“that was different! we were roommates. not– not—”

“oh you can’t even say it now?”

he completely stops pacing then and stares at her intently. cleo tries not to curl into herself under the sudden attention, she tries not to let the anxious ball in her stomach get the best of her. she tries not to be such a bad girlfriend.

but one look at george and she knows she’s doing a pretty shit job of it. her heart breaks at how upset he looks but cleo can’t bring herself to say the words he really wants to hear.

“so it’s a no then,” he sighs, “you don’t want us moving in together.”

the weight of his hope settles on her chest, almost suffocating her and george’s shoulders slump.

“okay,” he says quietly and picks up his car keys.

cleo doesn’t move when she hears the front door shut softly or when his car comes to life and drives away. she just fidgets with the blanket and wallows in self pity. she could have said yes so easily.

but cleo’s scared of how much she likes him—maybe even how much she loves him at this point. she’s scared of going all in so soon after how it ended up for her the last time. she’s scared of letting him see the cracks in her armour.

she wants to make a decision so badly! but her heart wants to give in and her brain reminds her of the last time and cleo can only sit there miserably on her sofa and not come to a decision at all.

“cleo?” his voice makes her head snap up and she blinks against the sudden brightness. “did you fall asleep?”

she’s about to say something but her throat feels clogged and her eyes sting. quickly, she averts her eyes from him and takes the coffee cup from him. george lingers by the door, almost like he wants to say something but then he shuts it gently and goes back to the driver's seat. the whole time she says nothing, not for lack of trying. but she knows the moment she opens her mouth the dam is going to burst and everything’s going to come out and she definitely can’t stand another fight within the first hour of a six hour roadtrip.

so she shuts up and takes a gulp of her coffee, hissing when she scalds her tongue.

“you okay?” george asks, then inhales like he’s about to say something more but cleo quickly hums and turns to her window once again.

with a pang in her chest she realises it’s a caramel latte with extra drizzle of caramel, her favourite. even in the middle of a fight, he’s remembered her favourite.

she chokes out a quick “yeah” and takes another sip of her coffee. it’s so sweet, she knows george would make a face instantly if he had a sip of it. she wants to see him make that face now—his nose all scrunched up, his mouth twisted in a grimace. and then she wants to kiss the grimace away.

quietly, george slides his hand into hers over the gear stick. and that’s the thing that finally breaks her. big fat tears roll down her cheeks like she’s a cartoon character and she can’t fucking stop sniffling like a child.

“oh baby,” he whispers softly and cleo just cries harder. she’s already made a mess of everything, she can’t stomach his kindness on top of the guilt. but he’s having none of it.

george takes the cup from her hands and puts it in the cupholder. then unclicks her seatbelt, slides his seat back and, as if she weighs absolutely nothing, he pulls her from her seat and onto his lap. his hold around her is so gentle, it makes cleo cry harder.

“i’ve messed up everything,” she wails and buries her face in his chest. his t-shirt is so soft (she makes a mental note to steal it later) and fuck, he smells so good too. everything about him is familiar and nice and he’s just… he’s her george. but then his hand wraps around the nape of her neck and she remembers his sad face from a few days ago.

she remembers his quiet “okay”

“you haven’t, love—”

“no i have!” she states adamantly, “i made you sad.”

he holds her even tighter then, his fingers gently stroking the back of her head but he doesn’t say anything. at any other time she would have huffed and bickered with him about using her own tactic against her, about staying silent until she feels the overwhelming urge to fill it.

“can i ask you something?” george asks and she lifts her head up to look at him properly. up close, cleo realises how tired he looks. there are circles under his eyes, and she could easily attribute them to late night studio sessions but she has a sneaking suspicion she’s the reason behind them.

she can so clearly imagine him too, tossing and turning in his bed, waking up from a half-sleep only to find her not there, not spending the night with him just like she does at least five times a week.

“yeah,” she chokes out again.

“do you really not want us to live together?”

“that’s not—” her throat closes up again and she swallows forcefully, “i didn’t mean— it’s just—”

“okay deep breaths,” he encourages and starts rubbing small circles on her hip. the pad of his thumb is rough and scratchy, it creates just the perfect kind of friction against her skin that keeps her grounded. and cleo does as she’s asked.

when she feels sufficiently calm, she tries again. “it’s really scary,” she starts and looks at him again to try and gague his reaction, but george just presses a kiss to her temple and encourages her to go on. “the last time i let someone in so quickly, it didn’t… it didn’t end well.”

“i’m not him,” his jaw ticks for a moment but he swallows again and gives her another little kiss.

“i know you aren’t. you could never be.”

“so then…why?”

it takes cleo a minute to mull it over in her head. he’s right to ask that question. he’s right because she has absolutely no answer for it.

“i don’t know,” she mumbles quietly and looks down in shame. they stay like that for a minute. no one moves, no one speaks, but cleo feels his desperation. she knows he wants it so bad. fuck! she wants it so bad—

“a drawer,” she says. “i’ll clear out a drawer. and we can work up from there? please?”

for thirty whole seconds he says absolutely nothing and cleo’s brain conjures up horrible scenarios—he’s going to flinch away from her and tell her to get out of his car. he’s going to call her something hurtful and abandon her in a fucking costa car park an hour away from home. he’s—

george snorts. “did you just suggest exposure therapy?”

cleo blinks at him in surprise. for a beat they both stay silent, and then just like that cleo cracks up, george following suit. two seconds later they’re giggling like teenagers. a couple more tears leak from her eyes but this time she knows it’s not tears of sadness. she’s laughing too hard for that.

“you’re a fucking idiot,” george flicks her nose and she kisses him. it's their first kiss in the last few days and if she could melt, right here in his lap, she would. she would be an absolute puddle right here but george holds her together and kisses her back so deeply that her head spins. she kisses him with equal ferocity and in that moment none of it matters, not their fight, not this stupid roadtrip, not even her fears. in this moment he’s the only one that matters.

“but you’re my idiot,” he whispers on her lips once they pull back just enough to breathe. cleo is breathless and blushing. she hasn’t been kissed like this in, well…days, and she kind of hates the fact that they’re in public.

“i am,” she nods and hugs him tightly. “sorry for being such a loser,” she mumbles into the crook of his neck and feels him nod sagely.

“‘s alright. not everyone can be as perfect as me.”

“fuck off, george!” she pokes him in the sides, “or i’ll—”

“or you’ll what, huh?” he pokes her right back, “revoke my drawer privileges?”

“too soon!” she whines but they’re giggling once again, kissing each other like they’d die if they don’t make up for the last few days.

“we’re going to be so late,” she mumbles once they’ve stopped kissing. “matty’s going to yell at us, i hope you know.”

george just shrugs and looks at her like she’s the best thing he’s ever seen. it makes cleo’s chest ache, it makes her whole body tingle.

“i’m going to give you the best drawer in my apartment,” she promises.

“yeah?” he smiles at her and kisses her forehead again. it’s so tender that she almost cries again but george tickles under her chin. silently cleo makes a promise to herself—she’s going to get over this silly fear. she’s going to be the girlfriend he deserves. and most importantly, she’s never going to make him sad again. he’s far too precious for that.

lemme know what you think <33

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januaryembrs · 2 months

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LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant/Marc Spector x reader [10]

Description: Marc finds out the truth about Dove, and pays the mortal price.

Word count: 12.6k

Trigger Warnings: okay so; HEAVY TRIGGER for drug use and overdose/ accidental suicide. guns. blood. gore. abusive relationship. poverty. HEAVY ON THE ANGST PEOPLE. suggestive tones in parts.

authors note: I'm sorry this has taken forever and a day to post, I had planned to upload on valentines day however life got in the way in every way it possibly could and so this got put on hold for few days, I hope that's okay! enjoy!!

main masterlist | series masterlist

“Boys, get down here. Dinner’s going cold.” She called up the stairs, her voice already that of a tired mother. Mathew practically skidded past her bounding down the stairs, god knows that boy knew how to eat, even if the parsnips were stone cold he would still devour them whole, “Where’s Mikey?” She yelled after him, her tattered apron tied around her waist, greasy fingerprints dragged down the whites.

“In his room,” Joey said, his bulky glasses deep in his new crossword book, “Nine down, a second chance at life?”

His sister looked up the stairs worried, her natural expression whenever Mikey wasn’t under her constant watch, before she met his gaze, adjusting fake pearls around her neck.

“Huh?”

“Second chance at life. Nine letters.” He repeated, scratching the light smattering of facial hair he had only just been able to grow. He felt her fingers deftly begin to fix the tie around his collar, the golden fairy lights wrapped around the bannister illuminating where her red nail polish chipped around the edges.

“After life?” She guessed, straightening his shirt out for him, fussing like she had always done. He shook his head, wincing as she screeched over his shoulder into the dining room. “MATHEW, PUT THE ROAST POTATOES BACK- THOSE ARE FOR EVERYONE,” She tutted under her breath. Sometimes he forgot she was only seventeen. “Sam, can you get the stuffing out the oven,”

A grunt of agreement from the second boy, before a six foot tall, moody boy shuffled past the open door with bumblebee oven mitts on which took every ounce of attitude out of him.

“One word,” Joe said, his eyes flicking over to the vinyl player that stuttered on its eighth run through of ‘Fairytale of New York’.

The tinsel she’d braided into her hair rustled, eyes identical to his own watching his mouth quirk in thought.

“You’re supposed to be the genius of the family,” She teased, her finger nudging under his chin affectionately before she released him, pecking his forehead as he passed her to go take a seat at the table. She fussed some more over the baubles hanging from the tree on her way to the kitchen, straightening out the few stragglers, her pruning fingertips brushing over the fleece blankets covering the back of the sofa, as if she needed to feel their home to remind her where she was, “How about Migration?”

“Good, but it ends in T,” He called out to her, watching his eldest brother look up guiltily where he had a dollop of mash on a spoon, his mouth already full.

It seemed their sister caught onto his greed as she sharply smacked him over the back over the head, ripping the spoon from his hand, “Pig,” She spit at him, not that it seemed to phase him too much as his eyes already set on the small beef loin, the fat dripping off the plate tenderly, “I’m going to get Mikey. Resurrect?”

His eyes lit up at the suggestion, scribbling it down in his book. The cinnamon candle burnt strongly in the centre of the table, warm and spicy, just how Christmas should smell.

It didn’t negate the fact they had all had to go easy on showers for the week, or that the house was freezing at night or that it was obvious all of their “Fancy day” clothes smelled like a charity shop.

Joseph was only thirteen and already he’d noticed how exhausted his sister seemed every day. He’s stopped thinking about it so much, seeing as she’d always been that way, but the drain on her body was clear as anything nowadays.

Joey was just a kid, but so was she.

It wasn’t long before the final two of their little family came traipsing down the stairs, Mikey’s hand tight in his sister’s. At twelve years old, he was still a dot of a boy, scrawny, practically all ribs she would say, and he was a weepy one too. It wasn’t a surprise the kids at school were so cruel, even their own father, when he bothered to drag himself home from the pub or his friends’ sofas, would say the fire had died out a little more with every kid that came out of his ex-wife. His sister was so fierce she could melt the world’s core if she wanted to, Joey was convinced of it. Matt simply was untouchable despite the kids at school taking digs at him just as often as they did Mikey, as if he knew from birth he was getting out of this hell hole, that he was made for better than this. Children could sniff out the ones among them that were struggling like a cadaver dog onto a corpse, and once they latched on they rarely let go. Then was Sammy, and well, one look at him and he spoke for himself. At fifteen he was already broad enough that the kids picking on Mike turned to deadly silence when he was around; grumpy as a mule, cold as their mother, a boy with a bitter face. His sister would rub her thumb over the scowl that marred his brow, trying to flatten the crack where his nose met his forehead, where the anger seemed to settle. She hated seeing them upset; had the unshakable need to fix them.

Joey was her smart boy, trying to fly under the radar and cause her less anguish than he saw the rest of the boys gave her. He thought sometimes, when she would come home at 2am in her clothes from the club, bruises on her arms, when she would make them both a cup of tea and help him with homework, he thought then that he might even be her favourite. They all vied for her attention, only her and Matthew even remembered their mother, it only made sense that she was the next best thing for her boys.

But she was more than just a stand in for their mom. She was their everything, even with the fights over who was doing laundry, the yelling between her and Sammy when she would have to pick him up from the station for the nth time that month for petty thievery, even when Matt started wolfing down a rogue handful of carrots that had fallen onto the dinner table and she had all but dragged him by the ear into the kitchen to go get them drinks.

They revelled in their little bubble, knowing the only thing they’d be given for free in this world was each other.

And when they had finally sat down for christmas dinner, the smoke from the DIY Christmas crackers tiny Mikey had made lingering with a sulphur bite to their nose; when Sam flashed them all a rare laugh as she read out the terrible jokes hidden inside, the paper hats falling down over their eyes as they laughed, their full tummies hurting, plates polished of every scrap, Matt ofcourse eating the left over yorkshire puddings as if they were crisps. When they’d sat in front of the TV that only had four channels and a hefty video player underneath, Joey fiddled with the only film they ever bothered to watch on Christmas Day.

The sepia scene met the soft orange of the fire she’d lit for them, every light besides the ones on the tree turned off for their movie. Joey and Mikey sat practically two inches from the screen, a somewhat stale bowl of popcorn passed between them.

They watched in awed silence as Dorothy ran down the country lane, Toto at her heels, her auburn hair jumping behind her in bunches as she looked over her shoulder.

Running away, always running away, same as she was every year they watched.

“She isn’t coming yet, Toto. Did she hurt you?” Judy Gartland fawned over her pet, the gingham dress bunching around her knees.

Worried, always worried. Always preening. Always fixing.

And by the time the twister came to rip her away from her family and send her to Oz, the girl who wasn’t Dove just yet was already asleep on Sammy’s shoulder, the grumpy boy knocking his head against hers affectionately, silently, the crunching of popcorn and the slurping of an off brand Cola the only things that cut through the sound of the movie.

Unaware, naive to what was about to happen to her.

—

Dove and Steven had a glint in their eyes that she was sure would never be wiped off as they walked beside one another, their pinky fingers clasped tightly together.

He had a dopey look on his face, not even watching where they were going as he stared at her side profile, seeing the warmth meeting her eyes for the first time in a while. Her cheeks were starting to hurt from the smiling, biting her bottom lip like she had a secret.

She would glance back at him every so often, only to see him already staring, his brown eyes softer than a cup of hot chocolate, swirling with adoration and melting at the sight of her meeting his gaze.

After the fourth or fifth time, she reached up to brush her nose gently, “Do I have something on my face?”

He didn’t even answer, he just pulled her in for another kiss, his free hand tugging at the fat of her hips, squeezing gently as he kissed her with a greed she felt high on.

She held back a whine, the hands on her body kind and loving, overwhelming, invading, saturating her with something so entirely like home she felt her face run hot.

She giggled into his mouth as he released her, her hands finding the sides of his neck, thumb running over either side of his jaw as she felt him smile under her touch.

“Steven?” He seemed dazed, eyes never leaving her lips as she said his name again, giddy like his brain had malfunctioned and slowed, “Do I have anything on my face?”

He mumbled something wordless, shaking his head slightly, looking back at her goofy smile as she waited for a real answer. As if it had only just caught up with him, his brow creased, meeting her eyes with a bit more clarity than before.

“Huh?” He asked, to which she giggled and kissed him some more. She was sure her heart was pounding out of her ribs, and that he could hear it from how closely he was pressed to her front.

“You’re staring, I thought I had something on my face,” She said, his nose brushing against hers as he dipped in to kiss the laugh lines of her cheeks, “Do I?”

Steven shook his head, his gaze fanning over the entirety of her face and landing where he wanted her the most, back to her lips that smiled at him in content.

“No, just,” He stopped himself from kissing her again, worrying he was smothering her, though some part of him knew she craved the touch as much as he did. She told him as much by the way her fingers intertwined in the root of his hair, pressing into him like a cat purring under his hand, “You make me really happy,”

Her throat bobbed, the smallest of tears springing to her eyes as she kissed him one last time. She wished she could meld her body to his, couldn’t wait for them to have a moment alone when she could take him fully if he would have her again. Truthfully, selfishly, she couldn’t give a damn about Harrow all that much anymore, her entire being hollow the moment she pulled away from him. He’d changed the epicentre of her world the moment she’d heard those three words.

He loved her.

She didn’t deserve it, but he loved her.

Shuffling away from him, not entirely unaware of how his hand was reluctant to drop her waist, how his lips chased hers, how he seemed to pout when she put some distance between them.

“You make me really happy too, Steven,” She said, her voice mellow and buttery, moving to hold his hand properly, the two of them setting off back to where Layla seemed to be fiddling with something from her backpack.

She knew she would never be good enough for him, that he deserved someone so much better, but it was difficult to hear the horrid thoughts that whirred around the abyss of her head when she heard him softly chuckle, smiling to himself as if he couldn’t believe the words out of her mouth.

Sometimes it’s not about deserve. That’s what Marc had said. And maybe she could start believing him. Because it was Marc, and Marc knew everything. Marc would know what to say, know how to soothe the feeling of rot that threatened to ruin Steven’s sweet words, his soft kisses.

Marc would fix it. Marc would understand. She was sure of it.

–

“We’re going to belay down there,” Layla explained, securing the mountaineering rope to the clasp on her waist, tightening the notch and giving the cable an experimental tug.

The two of them blanked, looking at one another in their own sets of gear that the woman had them step into with little explanation.

“I think we should be right on time, Harrow shouldn’t be too far ahead of us-” Dove started, only to be cut off by the older woman with a scoff and an eye roll.

“Belay. It means we’re going to lower ourselves down using our own weight.” Dove’s face fell in embarrassment, smiling sheepishly as Layla shook her head with a hidden chuckle.

“Right, got it.” She held her hands up, nudging Steven’s when she saw his smile widen, if that had even been possible, “Floor is yours,”

Layla hid her laugh with a cough, taking one confident step off the ledge and down into the tomb, the rope gently dropping her into the darkness.

Dove and Steven watched with bated breath, the former leaning forwards to ensure she had reached the floor safely. Her eyes squinted, not seeing all too much other than the broken steps that would have once been functional, that were half buried in sand by now.

“Be careful love,” She felt his fingers loop into her harness, keeping her safe even though they both knew she could survive the fall and much worse.

She smiled, ready to reply when she saw a flash of Layla’s torch from below, and the woman’s face returned.

“Alright, it’s safe. Come down one at a time,” She instructed, the younger woman sticking a thumbs up at her and moving back into a hard chest where Steven hovered over her.

“I’ll go first,” She said, reaching for the clip and tightening it to her harness the way Layla had.

“Wait, shouldn’t I go first? Make sure it’s working properly?” Steven said, though his voice hardly matched the chivalry of his words. She smiled toothily at him, tugging on the rope once to set it in place.

“Put it this way, honey. I can survive broken legs, but I need every bit of you to function or else I don’t know how I’m going to repay you,” It was new. It was flirty. She had a cheeky twinkle in her eye that reminded him she was able to be girlish and happy and tease him and call him honey and it all felt normal and he wanted more of it by the bucket load. He’d not seen her like this perhaps ever. He fell in love with her even more. He didn’t even think he could.

His mouth moved in an attempt to say something, his face tinging red at the implication of her words.

“You don’t have to repay me,” He murmured, feeling her fingers loop through his belt, a heat to her gaze that had his skin prickling.

“I know,” She pecked his lips one more time before they had to be parted even if it was only for a matter of a minute or two, “I just really want to,” She drew back when she heard his breath stutter, his cheeks growing all the more darker in their cherry red shade, and gripped the top of the rope the way she’d seen Layla do.

“Ok-kay,” The man stammered, his palms sweating, nose tingling with heat.

“See you in a minute,” She quipped with a deep breath for courage, stepping into the darkness as her body weight tugged against the rope.

Her feet met the sand faster than expected, stumbling a moment before she steadied herself, fingers quickly undoing the harness that sat around her thighs and waist.

Taking in the small entrance to the catacomb, she saw Layla crouched over the foot of a statue, her own torch clamped tightly in her grasp. Figuring she was conducting her own search, she chanced a look back up to where Steven’s dopey grin looked down at her, as if cartoonish pink hearts swirled around his head.

“It’s safe!” She called up, as she fumbled with the latch around her harness, “Just need to get this off-”

The wind was knocked out of her as a body crashed into her own, two startled voices filling the cave, two hands pinning either side of her, landing on her back with a shooting pain through her brow.

She groaned in unison with the heavy body atop her, feeling where his head had banged against hers.

“Guess you could say I’m really falling for you,” Steven’s joke melded with a grunt as he pried himself off her, feeling Marc huff in annoyance from inside the head.

“Huh?” Her voice was muddled, her face scrunched in pain. She barely heard what he said before he had stumbled to his knees, holding his hand out to lift her off the floor.

“I said- Nothing- Sorry love,” Steven stuttered, his hand pawing at his aching temple, pulling the girl back to her feet, “Guess I just need a bit of practice at that Belay thing,”

“A bit?” Layla scoffed, though she watched the pair with a hidden smirk, the bumbling mess of limbs as they dusted themselves off and unhooked their gear, “You okay?”

“I’m aces,” He said, turning to where Dove had dirt collecting in her hairline. Reaching a hand up to help her brush it away gently, he was distracted by the huge statue of big cat, most likely a lion, engraved into the stone, “Look at you,” He murmured breathlessly.

It was her turn to warm under his brazen words, stilling her movements, fingertips rubbing away the traces of sand clinging to her clammy skin.

She laughed with more shock than anything, though it sounded more like a choke, swallowing heavily as she braved to meet his gaze.

Her brow furrowed as she flicked a glance over her shoulder at the artwork along the wall, untouched for hundreds of years, the paint lines a thick and dark umber red as if sketched only yesterday.

Looking back to him, she crossed her fingers he hadn’t seen her flattered expression, knowing better than to be embarrassed around him yet she couldn’t deny those three words spread the heat back through her gut that he had satiated only moments earlier.

Clicking her torch back on, she threw her attention away from those soft brown eyes, back to the sculpt of the lions, the stone cracking as chalky under their years of solitude, but striking nonetheless.

“If they just sprang to life right now and asked me a riddle for passage, I’d be thrilled,” Steven said, his voice that of a boy at Christmas, “I’d shit myself, but I’d be thrilled,”

Giggling behind besotted eyes, Dove moved to head further into the tomb, stopping dead in her tracks when she saw freshly drawn initials in the sand.

Glancing back to where Layla seemed to shrink in demeanour, she gestured to the markings with her light, “Did you do these?” She asked, curious to her motives.

“Yeah,” She cleared her throat, averting her eyes to the wall opposite them where vibrant blues and sunflower yellow strokes stared back, “Yeah it’s for my father. He would have loved to be here,”

“Big history buff is he?” Steven asked, the three of them setting off through the tunnel, leading them further into the crypt.

“So much worse,” The El-Faouly woman replied with a smile, falling into step with the duo, “Archeologist with a mission,”

They all breathed a laugh, the air stagnant and musky around them, the smell of a place only the dead seemed to know the past few thousand years.

“And to him it was a dream worth dying for. And he did,” She went on, Dove’s face falling into solemn sorrow. She knew, if Layla was anything like she was, she would hate the idea of hearing an apology, would hate the idea of someone feeling sorry for her. She had barely been treading water the past day or two, fighting to stay in Layla’s good books, she feared if she were to show any remorse now it would only earn her a slap to the face.

“Did he dig it?” She asked, her face forlorn and wary as she toed the boundary between their friendship. Casting a glance back at Layla and Steven, she gulped, “So history, you could say he dug it?”

The light bulb went for both of them, Layla frowning with a defeated grin.

“That was awful,” She playfully shoved the younger woman, who took it with no bother, smiling back in relief her joke had been taken kindly, “That was the worst-”

“I quite liked it,” Steven inputted helpfully, also earning a bash to the shoulder as Layla laughed.

“Not a word from the two of you now unless it’s something useful,” She scolded, leading the way through the tightening corridor, the darkness encompassing them in something that felt like comradery.

“Did you want to hear the one about the dinosaur’s dog-” Dove started, the words echoing around them as they headed further in, only to be stopped again by Layla’s softened voice.

“Do-you-think-he-saurus rex!”

–

She stared at the house, the one she’d been born in, the light in her room long since switched out. She wouldn’t blame them if they’d taken over her room, it was the biggest one, though that wasn’t saying much. She could see it now, Mathew shotgunning the double bed the moment she left, there was more than enough room for Billie’s small cot next to him. She’d grabbed what she could the day Oz had taken her away, but she wouldn’t bat an eye if they’d sold the clothes she’d left, or even thrown them on the fire to stay warm.

No, she wouldn’t blame them for erasing all memory of her. She’d been the one to leave, not them. As far as they knew, she’d not made contact whatsoever. Her letters had never been sent, never even left the house.

She’d not seen home in three years. It was smaller than she remembered. Darker.

The duffle bag was clutched tightly in her hands, wringing the fabric of the handle between her fingers. The accelerator had been to the floor the entire way here, the blood was still caked thick in her hair, under her nails, stained parts of her skin.

Frank’s blood. She wondered if the neighbours had called the police yet, if they ever would since he kept them so isolated. Wondered if she was already a suspect in his murder.

She shook in her shoes at the thought, though that may just be the December night air.

A figure came storming out of the front door, hands in his pockets, his coat thin and moth eaten.

Mathew had never been a tall boy, not even at eighteen when she’d last seen him, especially not now at twenty. He was always thin in his face, despite devouring the most out of any of them, his eyes always tired. Though, becoming a dad at such a young age would do that to someone.

He stopped in front of her, his eyes roving over her with a grand mix of anger and worry. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost, as if he’d seen a dog returning home with its tail between its legs. Which was sort of how she felt.

“Matty-” She breathed, her exhale clear as day in the freezing night, only he scoffed at the words. He may as well have spat in her, “I don’t have time to explain-”

“What?” He growled, lip sneering in a way that looked too much like their mother, “Where the fuck have you been?”

She baulked, eyebrows furrowing in a way that she willed herself not to burst into tears. She wanted to head inside, wanted to curl up on the old, ratty sofa they’d had since she was young, wanted to feel Sammy’s head knock against hers affectionately, the only sign the grumpy boy ever gave that said he loved her, despite the fact she knew. She wanted to scold Matty for eating all the bacon out the fridge, help Joey finish his sudoku, wanted, no, needed to see Mikey, see he was okay. Last time she’d been here, she’d found him stashing pills for his friends she knew had a one way ticket to juvie or the streets.

She’d left for all of them, left to get them a better life. And now she was standing outside her childhood home, drenched in bloodied clothes, her body used, beaten, betrayed. Grace was gone. Frank was dead.

This was all she had left. Her boys were all she had left.

“I don’t have time,” She repeated, forcing the duffle bag into his hands, hoping he missed the way the blood collected beneath her nails. She’d scrubbed off what she could before she left, but she knew had it been daylight he’d notice the red ichor immediately, “This is for you,”

“Wha-” Matty looked as if he could swing for her, and she knew she deserved it. She’d left them. Her bottom lip trembled at the very thought. He said her name, only now it seemed dirty, filthy, tainted, like that name had been said by so many awful men she felt as though it was muddied even Matty when he said it, “You leave us to rot for three years, and all of a sudden you just swan in here with presents-”

“Mathew, be quiet,” She barked, hearing his voice grow louder and louder, echoing in the silent street she used to run down to catch her bus, “I have to go,”

He stopped, staring at her teary eyes for a moment, and then laughed. Loud and cruel, and she knew his vitriol was still ongoing, knew she wouldn’t even stop him if he wanted to throw a cruel hand across her face for running away.

She was such a coward. She was a liar. A murderer. But she was a coward above all of that.

“Did we stop being good enough for you, huh?” He spat, trying to hand her the bag back, “I don’t want your pity or your little presents, take it-”

“It wasn’t like that,” She pleaded, wrestling with him to keep the bag strap in his grasp, “Mathew, just take the bag,”

He shoved her away, but she didn’t relent, her mind set on getting him to take the damn money, the fucking notes that mean nothing to her anymore. There had to be at least thirty grand in there by now, probably more.

“We needed you, and you weren’t here,” Matt stumbled away from her as she forced the bag into his chest. His voice trembled in a way it hadn’t since he was a boy, since she used to bathe him with that damn toy boat, wash his hair with dish soap, “Social Services know about Mikey and the pills- they want to take Billie away-”

She stopped at that, the two of them looking at each other for the first time since she’d shown up. His eyes were watery, where hers were empty. His sister had always been strong, Matt didn’t think he’d ever seen her cry in all the years of shit she’d trodden through for them. She had always looked exhausted, as if her brain was fired up every moment of the day, as if she could go for a three day nap and it wouldn’t so much as touch her.

But this was worse. She wasn’t tired. Wasn’t thinking hard. His sister didn’t even look alive.

Whoever it was staring back at him was not the girl he remembered. Someone could tell him a wraith had crawled into his sister’s skin and dragged her back here with the sole mission of getting him to take the damn bag, and he’d believe them.

She looked dead. She felt it too.

“Is that-” He stopped himself, a bitter hand reaching up for a mark on her face that glinted under the moonlight, “Blood?”

She froze, and for a moment neither of them said anything.

Her breath rattled in her chest, the stickiness of Frank’s blood clinging her clothes to her skin, and he realised once he’d actually taken the sight of her in, that she smelled metallic, that she had a thousand mile stare that had not been there the day she’d left them.

“Everything I’ve done, I did it for you.” She said after a moment’s reprieve and the anger brewing in his frown wiped immediately, the words soothing his fury into a simmering guilt.

He tried to say her name again, only to have her cut him off, shoving the back into his arms with finality, her eyes blank, leaving no space for questions, for retaliation.

“Get Mikey a lawyer. Get him to rehab. Read the letters, or not, I don’t care,” But she did. She cared more than anything. Cared so much she needed to run, now, cared so much she knew every moment she spent talking was more time for him to be incriminated in what she’d done. “I have to go, it’s not safe,”

He wanted to hug her; he’d never been the affectionate one, she usually saved her cuddles for the younger ones. He wished he’d hugged her now. Wished he’d dragged her back inside, gotten her warm in front of their fire, forced the truth out of her. Anything to tell him what that look on her face had meant. Anything to make her stop seeming so dead it scared him like a child.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t, not even as she all but sped away in a car he’d never seen before, a limp he’d not noticed through his anger fogged brain as he’d stormed down their front path.

He barely caught Sammy, filling their entire doorway with his form that had only grown tenfold, if that had even been possible, since his sister left, looking like a kicked dog behind angry eyes that glinted with rare tears.

“Come on, Sam,” Matty said, brushing past his little brother, though he towered over him for a nineteen year old, heading inside their small house that had felt colder since she’d abandoned them, “We’ll sort it out in the morning,”

But Sam didn’t. He watched the broken tail lights of the car speed off into the distance, until they were no more than a sound rattling around the silent neighbourhood. Only then did he let himself begin to cry, hoping she came back for them soon.

–

“It’s a maze,” Layla said, as the three of them traipsed through the tunnels that certainly looked like they had seen better days. Dove startled a bit at the bugs that skittered up the walls as the light hit them, no doubt a little frightened themselves at the rude intrusion from the trio, though she stuck behind Layla. She’d fought demon jackals, men with guns, lived a double life but bugs were what scared her.

“It’s a-maze-ing,” Steven replied, snickering to himself, which had her giggling too, shaking her head at the man behind her.

“She means there are six paths, Steven,” D ove clarified, and he hoped the light covered the way his cheeks rouged.

“Right, yeah, yeah,” He replied, sticking his head down one of the thin alley ways to scope out the labyrinth they’d found themselves in, “Six points,”

Dove hung back as Layla went towards another one of the pathways, eyes clocking a stone surface planted directly in the middle of the antechamber, the sand laying thick over the top, yet uneven as if the stone wasn’t entirely flat.

Her brows furrowed, and she traced her finger deeper in the dust, carving out where the ridges grooved into the table. She made an almond shape, an arching line parallelling it, before she realised what the marking was, her brows shooting into her forehead.

She saw a torch flick over where she worked, felt Steven’s body press against her side as if he’d forgotten what personal space was exactly.

“You don’t think…” He started, watching how her soft fingertip swirled around into a spiral the two of them had seen a million times walking past the exhibits on the way to the gift shop, “This whole structure is-”

“The Eye of Horus,” She finished, curving around to create the iris. As if proving her point, Steven’s light reflected off the the shiny stone of the table, producing the identical symbol on the ceiling of the room, which had her nudging his hand, pointing to the light, “Look at that,”

“Wow,” He hummed, his eyes flicking between the eye and the wonder on her face as she smiled wryly at the stone, “It’s the royal symbol, protection in the afterlife.”

“I mean the resources needed to build this-” Layla added, looking between all of the corridors that had certainly not been crafted in a day’s work, nor had it been done cheaply, judging by the quality of stone that surrounded them. She stopped, her eyes wild with excitement as she looked at the two of them, “Her final avatar was a pharaoh,”

A breath whooshed from Dove’s lungs, jaw gaping, feeling Steven practically buzzing in his shoes beside her.

“A bloody pharoah,” He repeated, the joy coating his words like a kid on Christmas. He and Layla chuckled between one another, before their gaze fell on Dove, who stared at the drawing in the sand as if it would outright speak to her.

“So you think it’s a map?” Layla asked, her fawn eyes dropping to the girl who bit her lip unsure.

She nodded, gaze scanning over the drawing again, as Steven’s rough finger followed where her own hand had traced just moments before.

“Right. So the eye of Horus is also the Eye of mind, yeah?” He asked, his face now more serious than she’d ever seen him, as he thought harder, “Representing the six senses, six points.” He gestured to each of the corridors that lead away from the chamber they huddled in, “So you’ve got the eyebrow that denotes thoughts. Pupil, sight obviously.” He followed each of his words with his calloused fingers, the same ones that had been down her trousers not so much as a few hours ago. She felt her stomach writhe at the thought, “This point here is, uh, hearing. Smell. Touch. And this long line ending in a spiral is the tongue,”

She felt her eyes train on his lips as he said it, his gaze falling to her face where she stood besides him, watching every movement on his lips as if she could barely hold herself back from meeting their mouths then and there.

“The avatar would be Ammit’s voice,” Layla murmured, entirely unaware of the heated thoughts racing through the girl’s mind as she stared at the man, his own expression indiscernible, meeting her eyes with his own chestnut hues, “We should head this way,”

Layla took off towards the route the tongue pointed them to, the two of them hanging behind for a moment, unable to rip their eyes from one another.

“What’s that look for?” Steven asked, chuckling nervously as he tried and failed to pull his gaze away from her where she licked her lips slowly. Leaning towards him, her fingers found the front of his jacket as she pulled him closer, kissing him gently, though there was a subtle bite to it that went straight to his trousers as he melted.

Pulling away, she looked at him with a spritely kind of excitement, as if she loved every moment of looking at him like that.

“Did I ever tell you how amazing I think you are?” She asked, her face warm with adoration, and the words had his cheeks blazing instantly.

“You mentioned it once or twice,” He joked, both of them knowing full well the girl was known to give him every compliment she could even before they had been brave enough to admit how they felt for one another.

She snickered, pulling away from him to follow where Layla had wandered off too, looping a pinky finger in his own to encourage him to follow. Had she not, he was sure he’d be rooted to the floor, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down, or even for his cock to calm enough that he could move without feeling it press against his trousers.

He cursed himself moments later, when his brain caught up to him, that he hadn’t told her just how amazing he thought she was.

Yet Steven felt his jeans tighten again when he thought of one other way he could show her just what he felt.

The heavy panting was the only sign either of them were even there as they walked through the narrow corridor, the smallest slither of light meeting them at the end, not unlike when they had trudged into the Great pyramid. That had seemed weeks ago, when in reality it had only been six days, how her life had been flipped upside down all the more since then.

Her head rattled on her shoulders, thoughts flitting over Layla and her whereabouts as they stepped through the hallway, dust thickening in their lungs with every pant. Her ears were alert to the smallest of movements, her heart pounding in her chest, the image of that thing, the resurrected Heka Priest, replaying in her head, the screech of its rotted vocal chords keeping her arm hairs standing in goose flesh.

“She’ll be alright, won’t she?” Dove asked solemnly, her brow creased so tight she reminded herself of Sammy, knowing they had always looked the most similar out of all of her brothers. She knew, by the way Steven blanched at the sight of her worry, that she looked as guilty as she felt, “I shouldn’t have left her-”

“We didn’t have much choice, sweetheart,” He sighed, grabbing her hand tightly in his own, stopping in the middle of the darkened chamber to look at her properly. She tugged her lip between her teeth as she averted his gaze, the disappointment in herself shadowing over her chest, “We did everything we could- it’s Layla, she’s done this a thousand times with Marc. She’ll know what to do,”

Though he was more convincing himself than anything. He wasn’t so sure from the way Marc scoffed inside the headspace that she had in fact not run from undead creatures that threatened to rip her limb from limb a thousand times. Not even once. This was new territory for all of them.

She didn’t seem convinced as she nodded, her lips quirking as if she was about to say something, only for him to kiss her forehead before she could.

“I don’t think I’d be able to forgive myself if something happened to her,” She confessed, after he drew back, watching her thoughts swimming behind sad eyes, as if he could see the way she bit her tongue to stop herself from calling herself the worst names imaginable.

He stroked her cheek gently, tilting her chin to meet his gaze, his chocolate gaze warmer than summer and he smiled at her sadly.

“None of this is your fault,” He said, though she said nothing, chewing her cheek silently, “The faster we get the ushabti, and the faster we can go find Layla. Deal?”

She nodded again, and he squeezed her hand, pulling her towards the end of the corridor with a small smile.

Steven Grant was not a brave man, not by any means. But for her, he would be. He thought the same as she had, worried for the El-Faouley woman more and more with every step they took towards the tomb, his own body on high alert for an incoming attack from one of those creatures.

The end of the hallway drew near, the path widening out to accommodate an entrance, water trickling between the tiles in a silent stream, and he held her hand tighter as they navigated over the stepping stones, her boots slippy over the moss that clung to the rocks.

It wasn’t until he reached the end, where the corridor opened out, that he let go of her hand in favour of flicking his torch on. His entire body froze at the sight, satiated in awe of the tomb before him.

She hopped the final stepping stone, hands grabbing onto the wall and his shoulder for support before she followed his gaze to the room, and her jaw dropped too.

“First ones in, tomb fit for a pharaoh,” Steven hummed, stepping further into the antechamber, and he wasn’t wrong by any means. The walls were all but covered in bright paints that had yet to wash away, the tales of heroic battles and armies surrounding them like one huge mural. Solid gold plates, figurines, vases scattered neatly around the room, each one shiny and polished as if the death bed had never been touched since the day it had been sealed. Four bronze horse statues the size of her watched them enter, carefully avoiding the water that surrounded the sarcophagus in a deep pool, stepping between cracked slabs towards the coffin.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding as she saw the sheer amount of engravings on the sarcophagus, each one proving the power the dead king had held over his people when he’d died. It was more than she’d seen even on one, more than she would ever see.

This was a wealthy, wealthy pharaoh, she realised, her brows flicking into her hairline

“Thutmose II?” Steven guessed, leading the way to the coffin, the excitement blaringly clear in his voice. He couldn’t so much as catch his breath behind his smile, “Nefertiti. It’s gotta be one of the bigg’uns, Dove,” He said, flicking a grin over his shoulder as her eyes scaled every inch of the tomb. Her jaw hung open, ignoring the dusty task of musk in her mouth, the stagnant smell of water, her eyes pure wonder of what she was seeing.

This was the stuff of movies, of adventures she read to Joey and Mikey before bed, never did she think she would be part of it, let alone with Steven Grant, a man so quiet he apologised to pigeons, who jumped at his own shadow, who missed his bus every single morning.

“Must be, I’ve never seen so many offerings,” She replied, willing her feet to hold steady as they stepped between the stones and water carefully. “The engravings, there nothing like I’ve studied before,”

“Oh wow, look at that,” Steven gawped, taking the final step onto the centrepiece, heading towards the sarcophagus with ravenous eyes, “Look at all these relics,”

She was hot on his heels, quick to hop over, and expand her search with an eagle eye as she closed in on the sarcophagus.

“Hold on, Macedonian?” Dove stopped in her tracks, clicking her torch on and nearing the engravings with wide eyes, “It can’t be right-”

“That’s Macedonian,” Steven echoed, kneeling next to her with wary fingertips. He brushed over the markings, a gobsmacked laugh coming from his chest, “Well-b-but the only pharaoh-”

She grabbed his arm with a clawing strength, head drinking in the facts before her, gently hands following the engravings as if she needed to touch it herself to believe what she knew to be true, “H-He insisted on calling himself Egyptian,” She swallowed, standing on shaky knees to behold the rest of the coffin, her heart hammering. The two of them approached either side of the king’s burial place. “Steven, I think we found the long lost tomb of Alexander the Great,”

Taking a moment, if not to catch a nervous breath, their eyes met across the top of the sarcophagus, an identical expression of astonishment on their faces.

She couldn’t help it then; she started laughing. Nervous and yet amazed, she was lost entirely for words.

“We have to open it, Steven,” She said, her chuckles dying out, a hand flying to her forehead when she realised what a desecration they were about to cause, “The ushabti has to be inside, we have to open it up, oh goodness-”

“Everything inside me is screaming not to touch this thing,” Steven agreed, shaking his nerves out through his hands while watching her also fret over the slight grave robbing they were about to commit.

“You want Harrow to get to Ammit first?” Marc snapped from the glint in the cursive gold writing across the sarcophagus’ chest. He seemed to have roused from his silent protest and come back swinging, Steven thought with a bitter huff, his hands coming up to the side of the opening.

“Alright, alright, alright,” He replied, a nervous grip settling on the cold sandstone. His eyes flicked to her again for reassurance, though she herself looked to be coming to a sobering understanding they needed to disgrace the burial sight to get what they wanted. She nodded, her hand drifting to clutch over her mouth in shock, like she needed to stop herself from protesting his actions, and with that he pushed.

The smell of death invaded her nose, choking her for a moment as the stone slid to reveal the mummified corpse of the man historians had been babbling about for decades.

This had once been a conqueror, a king, a pharaoh everyone whispered about, a man who’s name was spoken a thousand times a day on the guided tours in the museum.

And they had found him.

A plated scarab sat across his chest, one she assumed was a sister to the one they had used to find him, the one Harrow took, below it; a huge, solid battle axe with engravings the entire length of its sharp edge. An offering to a man so revered for his wars.

A shiver trickling down her spine, she looked up at Steven through wide eyes, the two of them entirely stumped for words at what they were discovering, the thousands of years they had just peeled back with one fell swoop.

“Oh man,” Steven shook his head, barely ripping his eyes away from the mummy for a moment as she moved to stand at the head of the sarcophagus.

“Where’s the ushabti?” Marc spoke again, this time from the fresh golden sheen on the axe, seeing no other offerings or trinkets inside the coffin besides the weapon.

“Well, if you’re going to hide it for all eternity, you’d probably put it in a place where the average looter wouldn’t think to look,” Steven replied, his heart a hummingbird behind his chest, almost, almost as excited as he had been when he’d been kissing her against that post.

Almost, but not quite.

She stayed silent, attuning her ears into keeping watch for Harrow’s men approaching, or hopefully even figuring out where Layla was, while Steven’s brain whirred, conferring with Marc.

She hoped he wasn’t mad at her for Steven pushing him out of the headspace, for throwing that mirror into the sand the moment he’d gotten his lips on hers. She hoped he would understand. Marc always understood.

Steven’s face smoothed out in realisation, whether he had come to it on his own or Marc had helped she wasn’t sure, but she grabbed his wrist gently nonetheless.

“What is it?” She murmured, his eyes trained on the tightly wrapped linen, an almost horrified look on his face.

“Alexander was the voice of Ammit…” He trailed off, his hand coming to rest on the corpse’s jaw, “All right, I’m gonna try something, I’m gonna do something here.”

His fingers found the lip of the cloth where the head met the body, weaving their way under and tugging them away carefully.

Dove released a shaky breath, her hand returning in shock over her mouth, knowing that this was technically known as grave desecration, let alone ruining thousands of years of history.

“Steven, oh my god-” She gagged as the smell hit her, the man beside her writhing in sickness as his fingers touched the mummified skin beneath.

“Oh god- so sorry- sorry, Mr Great,” He choked on his words, the disgust running over his skin when he touched something cold and wrinkled.

He tore the bandages with more force, the linen coming away easily, but they both shuddered hearing something crack under the weight of his hand, something she could only imagine was a bone.

Steven pulled the cloth away to reveal a perfectly mummified face, and the sight wasn’t so uncommon as she’d thought since they had two preserved in the museum. But seeing it so up close, without the temperature controlled glass, it made her want to vomit and stare in awe all at the same time.

Steven took an unsure breath, before he went even further, his fingers resting on the lower mandible, pulling back whatever remained of the lips to slip between his teeth, his other hand holding his cranium still.

She forced herself not to wince as he started tugging the mouth open; the look on his face was torture for him enough.

“All right, open up. Oh, sorry, Mr Great,” He bit out, bile rising in his own throat at the sensations beneath his hand, the jaw cracking and ripping down with a nauseating crunch. His hand reached down the gullet, and she had to turn away then when he started rooting around the throat, resisting the retch that fought her own mouth, “Oh, sorry, oh god, I couldn’t be more sorry,”

It wasn’t until she heard a squelch they both heaved, Steven’s own noises of disgust filling the tomb as his entire upper arm wormed its way into the chest cavity, and she thought he might just be the bravest man she’d ever known.

His arm twisted for a moment, before he started pulling it out, not without some resistance from the collar bones, only for it to come away with one final tug, and in his hand producing a small ceramic figure of an alligator headed woman, and two audible gasps filled the silence.

“Steven-” She started, turning to him with something warm and gooey and close to pride in her eyes, “Steven, you did it!”

She threw herself at him in a hug, ignoring every morsel of her that cringed when she imagined where his hand had been, feeling him squeeze her to him just as tightly.

“We did it, we did- I could never have done any of this without you,” He replied, nosing her hair for a moment before he pulled her away to look at her face, beaming with glee. It didn’t matter then, that he had been chased by that creature, or that he’d been shot at, or that he’d been digging around a dead man’s throat. It didn’t matter then that his life had been turned upside down, or that he was actually one man split into another, or that he’d lost his job. He didn’t care. Because seeing how she looked at him, as if she’d just watched him solve string theory or win a nobel prize, healed every wound he’d ever had.

He only needed her; only ever wanted her.

“I really do love you,” She said, and he wondered it she’d heard his thoughts, fought the urge to kiss her then and there.

Her head snapped to where they had entered the tomb, something wary in her gaze until he saw Layla appear in the doorway, looking entirely scraped up, as if she’d just been dragged through the caverns backwards.

“Layla!” Dove called, bounding over the stepping stones, “Layla, are you alright- we got the ushabti-”

“Layla, look! We won!” Behind her Steven held up the figurine, the pair of them with billion dollar smiles on their faces, watching the woman approach on shaky legs, “And the ushabti goes to; us. I had to go digging down old Alexander the Great’s gullet, but we found it,”

Dove giggled at his teasing, shaking her head, and fighting the urge to yank Layla into a hug of her own. They had done it, they’d won. Now they could get out of here and away from Harrow, she could go home, go home with Steven-

She was quick to notice the stare Layla pinned on the man behind her, something visceral and in pain beneath her skin, something raw, a wound ripped open. She knew it well, knew it like an old friend. Layla was the pure image of betrayal.

She stalked forward silently, not paying the younger woman a scrap of attention as she approached, stepping over the cobbles with not a single hesitant foot. Her eyes gleaned with unshed tears, something rageful keeping them bay.

Dove stopped still, her eyes trained on the woman, her smile dissolving into confusion.

“Layla, are you alright-”

“Can he hear me?” Layla cut her off, not giving a shit for her soft lilted voice or her concern. She only cared about Marc, Harrow’s words rattling in her head like a foghorn calling every shred of anger she’d ever felt for her ex-husband to arms.

“Alexander? No, I don’t think so, god I hope not,” Steven snickered, and Dove winced. Layla’s eyes darkened, her honey tones near black in the lowlit antechamber, and the younger woman knew whatever had happened in the moments passed since they’d parted, Layla was now out for blood.

“What happened to my father?” The El-Faouley woman spat, her hands shaking with anger, and Dove could do nothing but wait for Steven to understand that she wasn’t kidding around.

She dared a glance at the man who stood there like a lost child, whatever celebration and relief they had felt swept away in a matter of moments. Seconds.

She knew from the silence that lingered Layla already suspected something.

“I’m talking to you,” Layla seethed, stepping towards the man without a bat of an eyelid at the woman who watched whatever progress they’d made swirl down the drain like yesterday’s newspaper.

“What?” Steven murmured, a frown on his face as Layla’s hands came up to shove him in the chest hard.

“I’m talking to you, Marc,”

He barely stumbled, barely blinked, but she saw it. Saw the way the innocence melted away, and his frown became cold and distant. She saw the moment Marc took the body, and her heart dropped at the flash of guilt that glinted in the crook of his eyes as he saw his ex-wife’s expression in the flesh.

“Come on, let’s go, let’s go-” He tried to pull her away, but Dove knew it was his own brand of avoiding the subject. She’d never hold it against him, who was she to judge someone for running from responsibility, but she knew. And so did Layla.

“No,” The woman dug her heels in as he tried pulling her to the exit, her empty fist weakly beating on his wrist while he yanked on her coat.

“We have to go right now,”

“No, Marc, no,” She fought, the venom in her tone only growing. He tugged her harder, the two of them all but grappling with one another for control.

“We have to go, right now,” He repeated, eyes flicking to where Dove stood still, her hands playing with one another nervously, “Come on, we gotta get out of here-”

Layla forced his head back to her, away from where the younger woman moved between each foot, watching it play out like a tragedy.

“What happened to my father?” She said again, louder this time, and it was clear no amount of deflection would stop her from getting an answer.

“Listen to me,” Marc said with a seriousness Dove had never heard, real life panic in his tone that had her shifting to check the doorway for signs of Harrow’s men following closely behind, “We need to leave right now, I will explain everything, I swear. But we have to go,”

“Did you kill Abdullah El Faouley?” Layla’s voice cracked, because the answer would break her if it were true, if it was what she feared.

“Of course not. Of course I didn’t,” And it was the first honest thing Marc had said to her in years. The pain in his eyes at the accusation said it all.

Layla sighed in short lived relief, running a hand over her face.

“But you were there,” She said quietly, and the four words cleaved Marc’s resolve right down the middle, his brow furrowing in agony, “You were there, right?”

“I was- I was there,” He confessed, Dove’s stomach turning over in anguish. She wanted to hug both of them to her in entirely different ways. Wanted to grab Layla, stroke her hair the way Grace used to when she was upset, hold her to her chest and tell her how sorry she was that her father was taken from her so cruelly. She wanted to pull Marc in, slot him right over her heart and tell him he wasn’t bad, not even now, not ever, that he was good, pure, golden goodness, just as good as Steven. That he wasn’t guilty, he was just unlucky.

“My partner got greedy, he executed everyone at the digsite. Shot me too, I was supposed to die that night,” Marc spilled out, his expression bleak, distraught.

She knew better than to interrupt, than to get in between the two of them when they fought like this. That is, until her ears pricked up with her inhumane senses, the sound of guns cocking and creeping footsteps dragging through the sand stones they had just come from, whispers between comrades that they were getting close to what they had been searching for.

“Someone’s here,” She said, before she could think better of speaking. Their heads turned to her, as if they’d forgotten she was there, Marc’s face a picture of a tortured soul. She angled her head to distinguish what the men were saying, try give her some pointers how long they had, “Harrow is getting close, I can hear his watch-”

“Who’s Grace?” Layla asked, her tone guarded, as if she’d begged the question the entire time she’d known the girl, “Marc’s not the only one who’s been keeping secrets,”

But Dove was frozen. Entirely frozen. Not so much of a breath in her chest, not even a blink.

Because hearing that name again, her name, hearing Layla take everything close to her and toss it around as a conversation piece shattered her into a million small pieces, floating down neatly into the water right then and there.

He saw it.

When her eyes glazed over, as if hearing the name pressed play on a movie she’d not seen in years, and she no longer stood there, with them, but she was transported somewhere else entirely. It was the same as when she’d been in the car, staring out that window, he wanted to yell out to her, grab her delicate face and scream Where do you go? Come back to me, take my hand and come back to me. Where are you where I can’t follow.

Because she wasn’t there, inside her own body. And she feared she would never be again.

She was back in that room, in that window sill, replaying every single night she’d spent in Grace’s room. Who’s Grace? She was opening that door, the one Frank told her not to go in, she was staring at the body, the unmoving one, the cold corpse, frozen in pain, what was once her entire world ripping away from her soul, pulling her apart right down the middle, the empty bottle staring right back at her from the bedside table as if to say ‘I won, I won.’ Who’s Grace? She wasn’t there, wasn’t in the tomb at all, she was rotting in her bed, lying still and waiting for death to take her too, because it seemed impossible that the person who had been made as her mirror image in every way but looks could be culled but not her.

How could she explain who Grace was? How do you even begin to explain to a person what every cell of your body is?

“Harrow said you let her die,” Layla said, and she knew she’d hit a home run with whatever that look on Dove’s face meant, knew that everything he’d said had been true, “He said you could have saved her and you didn’t-”

“Don’t,” It was a snarl, something unearthly and rotten, but the grief in the single word was clear as a bell, “Stop it, Layla,”

She hadn’t ever spoken to her like that, had snapped and rolled her eyes, but never had such a clear threat to her words.

The woman blinked in response, the hairs on her arms standing on end at the voice that was entirely not Dove’s coming from her throat. It was monstrous, and part of her wondered if it was Seth who had in fact taken her body, only to see the eyes she knew well staring back at her with the image of a deer at the barrel of a gun.

Vulnerable. Ready for slaughter. Ready to be laid bare on the butcher's block.

Layla thought twice before she opened her mouth again, second guessing pushing for more answers, but something in the way the girl looked told her there was a truth to it.

“And Frank?” Layla asked, watching Dove’s hands shake. With anger, Layla guessed, anger that her little secrets were being poured out on the cobbles for her precious Steven to see.

Layla was not a cruel woman, not by any means. But she despised liars. And Dove was one of them.

“You and Harrow seem to be best pals, Layla, why don’t you ask him who Frank was,” Dove hissed, and it was like Marc was looking at someone else entirely, like he was watching a mutt backed into a corner snapping at everyone who approached, like watching game gnaw at its own leg to be free of a trap, “He got what he deserved,”

And Marc didn't doubt it. Not even when he reeled back in shock at her tone of voice, not expecting it from his peaceful dove, but then again Layla had ripped all sorts of wounds open in the interest of her own search for answers.

Marc opened his mouth to reinforce their need haste, only to hear for himself the footsteps draw nearer, and the three of them swivelled to look at the direction they came from.

“They’re here,” He said with a pit opening in his stomach, right around where his heart had fallen, springing into action as Layla paced across the stones, searching for a hiding spot.

“There must be another way out,” Dove said, though she felt her brain wrestling with images of that day, that last day, the feel of the mirror beneath her fingers, the scars that to this day marred her palm from the glass as she’d driven it into his chest.

“You find it, I’ll hold them off,” Marc ordered her, backing on himself to grab the battleaxe from inside the sarcophagus. Layla followed orders without protest, heading for the small alleyway she had come from, knowing she couldn’t go back that way with those creatures lurking behind the walls.

Crouching behind a pillar, she watched them with doubtful eyes. She knew they could find her in a matter of seconds. She was beyond angry at both of them for their deceit, yet she watched Dove summon the claws of her suit around her hands, ten blades sprouting over her natural nails in a small motion.

“Get out of here-” Marc waved her off, trying to nudge her body towards where Layla crouched, only for her to gently brush his hands away, careful not to scratch him with her talons.

“Marc, I’m not letting you do this alone- you don’t have a suit-” She argued back, hating the way he was still ready to go down swinging for her, hating the way he’d brushed off what Layla had said because it was Layla and Layla had every reason to throw her under any bus coming.

Her heart plummeted even more, dragging her shame down with it, and she understood then what it was.

He didn’t believe she’d done anything. He didn’t believe something was wrong, something was wrong with her. Didn’t believe she had lied, and kept things from him, didn’t entertain the idea for a single second that she was not the Dove he thought she was.

She knew if he would ask, she wouldn’t have the heart to lie to him to his face, knew she couldn’t keep betraying the undying loyalty he had to her. Knew he would take Steven away.

But she also knew he wouldn��t ask in the first place. Because to Marc, she was innocent of everything everyone accused her of, no matter how true.

She felt even worse than before, if that had even been possible.

She could only steel her face over as Harrow entered the room behind her, the infuriating tap tap tap of his staff against the floor giving him away.

And in a split moment, twenty armed men followed him, crawling out from the corners of the room, their rifles loaded, torches trained on the two of them, the red aimpoints hovering over their chests. She tried to account for every single one of the guns and their wielders, but she couldn’t. There was just too many.

The only way they were getting out of here alive is if he ran, if he ducked out with Layla and left her here to fight alone. But she knew he would never. Not unless she were to throw her body over his, take every single round of ammunition in her suit, keep him protected until they had run dry, but even then she knew he would fight against having her in front of him.

She couldn’t just stand by, couldn’t just let him go, no matter how much she dreaded what was coming next, how much he would hate her once she told him. But maybe he could understand, maybe he would. He had killed people before, she knew he had, he never hid from that. Killed those who deserved it. He hadn’t cared, hadn’t treated her differently when Hellhound had slaughtered those men. She wished she was back in that bathtub, back in their hotel room, the room full of lavender and vanilla, wished his hands were back in her hair telling her she was going to be okay.

She wished. Because that was all she had left.

“Just you two?” Harrow asked, his voice a wisp of smoke in the dark tomb that seemed to be closing in on them as the men steadied their aim, fingers resting on the triggers, “The rest is silence. I remember the first morning, I woke up knowing Khonshu was gone. The quiet was liberating,”

Harrow pocketed the scarab that nestled in his palm, stepping carefully towards them, his damn stick tapping at the floor like death had come knocking.

“And you, little dove,” Harrow turned to her, her eyes a cold glare, twitching with every knock of the wooden cane against the floor, “The truth can be just as liberating as being rid of the voice that controls you. But maybe, you already know that.”

She couldn’t disagree more. There was nothing liberating about what she’d done to Frank. She was a woman haunted, forever tainted by that day. She was ruined, she couldn’t believe she’d ever thought she could be fixed.

“Why don’t you tell him the truth?” Harrow goaded, her insides shrivelling as she saw Marc’s chocolate hues flick to her for a moment, “Ask her, Marc.”

“Marc, I can explain-” She said, eyes locking onto where he clenched a tight fist around his weapon, Harrow's words cutting her off.

“You’re a free man. And ofcourse with that freedom comes choice.” Harrow continued, “You can choose to pretend not to see the guilt writhing under her skin like a serpent. Or, you can choose to keep dear Steven safe,”

“Safe from what?” Marc snapped, his hackles raised at Harrow’s words, as if there was ever a moment of doubt he would choose anything over Steven’s wellbeing, or perhaps it was the way he questioned her that did it.

“Safe from the woman who slaughtered her own boyfriend, maybe?”

Harrow’s tone was soft, gentle, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb upon the room, a tidal wave of cold overcoming the space between them.

“What?” Marc scoffed, almost a genuine laugh emerging at the levels Harrow was willing to stoop to in order to get the ushabti, including making up ludicrous tales, “What kind of shit is that, you can’t honestly think I’d believe that-”

He looked back to her, expecting confusion, aghast, anything except the deep pools of guilt encompassing her entire being as she stared at him.

He went cold.

No. No, please, no.

He said nothing, did nothing, not even when she tugged a lip between her teeth to keep it from wobbling.

“Please,” She whimpered, stepping towards him with empty hands, “Please, I can explain,”

Only he stepped back, and with it ripped whatever remained of her soul away from.

His eyes no longer were warm nests of mousy brown, his expression no longer soft as he took her in, his jaw tight and feathered with hesitation.

“I can explain, please listen to me,” She begged, she wasn’t above sinking to her knees and pleading against his knee in tears, “I was going to tell you, I tried-”

“You lied to me?” Marc bit, his face empty of whatever it was that he’d regarded her with before. The hands in her hair as she bathed were a million miles away, the kindness that had shone upon her like a warm summer now pelted her like hail in a storm.

“It wasn’t like the others, I had to-” She said, her hands shaking as she dared another step towards him, only for him to take another step back, “I thought you would understand,”

“I killed people because it was service to Khonshu, or-or because people's lives hung in the balance, not because I chose to,” He snapped, drawing his hand away from her like she’d burned him with her very being, “You killed your own boyfriend? You told me you stole- you lied to me,”

“No.” Steven’s voice was a whine, a bleat of agony inside the headspace, a man who was watching the only thing he’d ever had for himself slip away, “No, she wouldn’t Marc, she-”

“Please, just listen,” Her eyes had welled now, “Please, I- Marc, watch out!” She jumped at him, not missing the way his knuckles had quivered on the axe at her sudden movement, only for her to shove past him and descend onto a figure that had been moments away from grabbing the Ushabti.

It was like a switch had flickered then, and the rest of the room was invited into their conversation.

Marc slashed at one of the men who dived for her, snapping his forearm clean in two, the rifle falling from his grasp, and she clawed at the guards wrist, ripping through tendons and flesh like it were fabric.

He heard another of the men squeal as she slashed his face, he cut down another of Harrow’s men with a swift blow to the arm, ichor spurting over his hand at the contact.

He barely even blinked an eye as he threw the battle axe at the next one in his path, though he hadn’t even felt the handle leave his palm as it hit its mark and another one of the men went down.

He knew it made him somewhat of a hypocrite. But it wasn't just the blatant lie that had caused his walls to clamp down around him. That man, whoever he was, had been her boyfriend. And Steven... If he hadn't known something so telling about her, how could he be sure she wouldn't flip and do the same to Steven.

She wouldn't. He wanted to say he knew she wouldn't lay a hand on the man clawing at his brain in torment, but Marc felt he didn't know anything about her anymore.

She had killed someone. His dove, his innocent dove, that he had spent weeks feeling like filth for so much as touching, feeling as though he had ruined her, only to find out she was just as tainted as he was. She had lied to him. She had every chance, every moment he showed his soft underbelly, to tell him the truth, and she hadn’t. He was supposed to keep Steven safe, and he was dropping walls left right and centre for someone who could have had him lined up as her next target.

Dove’s head whirled around when she heard him grunt, fearing he had gotten a barrel to the face, or even a rogue fist. She took a sweeping glance at him from head to toe, the relief tangible in her bones, seeing he was rattled and angry, but not bleeding.

She needed to set this right. She was a liar, she knew that, she was a murderer, she knew that aswell. She didn’t deserve any of the kindness she’d been shown, she’d known she was on borrowed time the entirety of their friendship. She had known this was coming any day now.

It still hurt like a bitch to be confronted with the truth. And the truth was Marc glared at her like hated her. Marc wanted nothing to do with her, as liar, a con, an actress. A whore.

She had to fix this; if she even could. She had to try. For Steven.

Dove had gotten all of one step when Harrow pulled the pistol out of his jeans.

It was like a slow motion picture from there, like she was in the back seat trying to steer the wheel, sitting front row of the audience as the movie played out in front of her.

Harrow lifting the gun at Marc’s chest, pulling the trigger once, his aim true enough that a crimson hole bloomed through the man’s sweater in seconds, spraying out of the wound and onto his outfit.

She heard herself scream, heard his name coming from her in a deafening squeal, something weak and horrified in the tone. She heard the second bang of the bullet leaving its chamber, puncturing in the gut in a second deadly hit, Marc’s body stumbling back as the wound poured faster, harder, his eyes glazed into an entirely empty concoction.

She heard herself call him again, didn’t realise until it choked through a sob that she was crying, inconsolably actually. He swayed for a moment, before the weightlessness took over and he tipped backwards on his heel, and his cold gaze fell to hers for a split moment of reprieve of what she knew was coming.

She didn’t even realise until she had crouched over where he’d fallen into the water that she was sobbing, didn’t realise until the tears started falling on his face that she was crying over him, over every word she was supposed to say to him.

She didn’t realise until the heartbeat she adored so much, the one she’d planned to spend every morning pressed up against, had stopped beating, and Dove was swept up with a feeling she despised.

In all of two seconds, Dove was all alone again, and Marc and Steven were dead.

TAGLISTS.

KNIGHT IN SOHO TAGLIST

@shirukitsune @s-u-t @ahookedheroespureheart @willowseason @imonmykneessir @acceptedbyace @broadwaytraaaaash @mythicalmo @stevenknightmarc @avery88 @fandombrackets @thelostlovedone @raythecomputerart @nyctophile-moon-child @unknownduck0 @emily-roberts @cheshirecat484 @lockleywife @strangeobsessed d @thebestrouge @0bsessedwithfictionalcharacters @dumbhxeredrose @badbishsblog @jvexoxo @sxftie-mari i @mythical-goth @cillmeslowly @wildwallflower24 @ameliashideout @moonsua1 @latenightcravingz @blackqueengold @jesfreedark @uncle-eggy @onefinnedwonder-fm @homuraak3mi @animechick555@1800-get-alife @peachipeachy @hoemadegrace @raineisms

#marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector imagine #moon knight x reader #moonknight imagine #moonknight x reader #steven grant fanfiction #marc spector smut

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marc-spectorr · 2 years

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love you like the sun came out

ˣ pairing: steven grant x reader

ˣ summary: steven spends an evening with two of his absolute favorites— the egyptian exhibit at the museum and you.

ˣ warnings: purely fluff + cheesy love declarations but we need it ;_;

ˣ a/n: this is just a ficlet i whipped up after bawling my eyes out at the end of episode 5. marvel better watch out bc i’m sending them a bill for my therapy this week lololol. hope you enjoy!

- ☾-

“...And over here we have Osiris, the god of the underworld,” Steven enthusiastically points out, his pure excitement seeping from his voice. “Osiris had been the pharaoh of Egypt until his own brother Set murdered him out of jealousy.”

He stands beside you, oh so full of glee, and you couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face. It’s quite endearing, causing your heart to flutter out of control. Steven had practically counted down each day leading up to this moment— a casual date at the museum, the first of what he hoped would be many more to come.

Acting as your personal tour guide, Steven saves the best for last. The Egyptian exhibit is his ultimate favorite, something he couldn’t wait to share. Spending time with you surrounded by the most fascinating artifacts in ancient history is the cherry on top of an already perfect evening.

“What happened after?” You question Steven, your genuine interest fueling his eagerness.

“Well, Set dismembered Osiris’ body and disposed of it into the Nile. Osiris’ wife Isis was devastated by his death. She then decided to search for her husband, and when she did, she put him back together and used her magic to resurrect him!”

“Ah, isn’t that romantic?” you quip, and it earns you a light chuckle from Steven. “Tell me more, babe?”

“Y-Yes! Hmm… let’s see who we else we’ve got here—”

For the next hour or so, you follow Steven as he jumps from one antiquity to another, revealing to you the story behind each one. It’s obvious to almost everyone how fond he is of Egyptian lore. He’s always so passionate when it comes to it, constantly spewing out historical tidbits with every chance he gets.

You adore it, of course. You adore how happy and animated Steven becomes as a result. It makes you truly happy seeing him this way.

“So, this pretty lady right here is Hathor, goddess of love and joy. She’s also the goddess of music, and she— oh, um… Y/N?”

“Oops, sorry, I missed it. You were saying?”

Snapping out of your daze, you see Steven seemingly become worried as he starts glancing at the floor, now unsure of himself. He must have assumed that you were no longer interested or had grown bored, which was extremely far from the truth.

Before you could speak, an announcement plays over the speakers—the museum will be closing in fifteen minutes. Your heart sinks to your stomach when the smile on Steven’s fades, his tone expressing disappointment as he mutters, “I guess that’s it for today.”

“Wait, Steven,” you said, taking a few steps forward to close the distance between you and him. “We’ve got fifteen minutes still. Please, continue.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to keep you up so late. I know I’ve been talking non-stop in the last hour, and it’s fine if you want to go home.”

A heavy sigh then escapes your lips. “Steven—”

“Maybe Donna was right. Maybe I’m just not cut out to be a tour guide after all—”

“Steven!” You catch his attention, stopping him in the midst of his ramblings. “Sweetheart, where is this coming from?”

He shrugs emptily. “I-I don’t know. I thought that perhaps I went overboard with the whole mythology thing and probably lost you as an audience somewhere along the way. It’s okay; I’ve been told that I tend to be a bit too much, and I should have toned it down tonight. Gosh, I just ruined our date, didn’t I?”

You’re quick to shake your head no at his last statement. Exhaling, you cup his cheeks, your eyes then searching his. “Steven, this night has been perfect for me. I love each minute of it and want even more. I love how excited you get when you share these stories, and I love listening to every word you say.”

You pause for a second, glancing at the figure of Hathor on the side. “Goddess of love, right?”

“Yes,” Steven nods, “Joy and music, too. Also, she’s the goddess of the sky and fertility and—”

You don’t let him finish this time, not when you suddenly capture his lips in a sweet kiss, one he doesn’t seem to mind at all. It’s slow and tender. Gentle, like the kind of man Steven is. You hold him close, feeling him smile through the kiss, which only ends when a patron walks past and clears their throat. Prude.

“Well, in the presence of Hathor, I would like to say that I am in love with you, Steven Grant, and would love nothing more than to listen to you talk about Egypt all day and night.”

The smile on Steven’s face widens to a grin. His doe eyes lock onto yours, admiring you as if you’re the most beautiful creation since the great pyramids of Giza themselves that were built thousands of years ago. “In the presence of Hathor, I too wish to declare my love for you.”

“Well, there you go. Now that that’s out of the way…” you giggle, squeezing his cheeks and then placing a small peck on his nose. “We have around ten minutes left at the most. You’re going to tell me everything there is to know about Hathor until security kicks us out. Afterwards, I’m immediately buying us tickets online for next time so that you can finish touring the exhibit with me. Deal?”

Steven is left momentarily speechless, and you take advantage of his buffering mind to steal yet another kiss.

When he finally does find his voice, he gives you a little laugh, and it is absolute music to your ears. “Sounds like an amazing deal to me.”

#steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #moon knight x reader #steven grant fanfic #marc spector fanfic #oscar isaac #steven grant imagine #marc spector imagine #moon knight #moon knight fanfic

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weirdprophetess · 1 year

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its been eight months and im still just in awe of dance fever. florence calls herself mommy in one song and demon daddy in another. in the same song she calls herself mommy she makes fun of asshole dudes who project their mommy issues onto women. in the first song shes no mother shes no bride she is king. shes a girlboss shes a war criminal shes a lunatic. shes the next virgin mary and shes never going to die. she drinks blood she cant get off the bathroom floor she has more catholic taste than the devil shes gilded and golden and shes your girl. she doesnt know where to put her love she just keeps spinning and shes going to dance herself to death. shes blown apart her life for you her bodys hit the floor for you she cant see you she cant hear you everything she thought she knew has fallen out of view. gods gonna be sorry he messed with her if she can stop crying into cereal at midnight. she practices resurrection every night shell open her mouth yes shell take it all is she quiet enough for you yet. shes always running from something shes back in town she wants the rats to spin around her feet with you.

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botmilf · 5 months

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Botmom: Optimus Affiliation Debrief

Wyatt (Botmom) considers him her closest friend and confidant. He was probably the quickest to earn her trust simply by how he carries himself, and the gentleness in his tone. Optimus is usually the one to pick her up from work late at night (she’s a bartender at a local strip club) and during their drive back to base, she lets him talk about whatever’s on his mind. She’s made sure to create an environment for the bots where nothing is off-limits for discussion. If they have questions about things, she wants them to ask.

Optimus and Wyatt’s talks during their long drives aren’t always Q&As about Earth culture, though. He sometimes talks about the things that happened on their journey to Earth. Some would say that Optimus never directly talks about his inner conflicts most of the time. But if you pay close attention to his debriefs, or how he manages to find a way to criticize every decision he’s made, it’s all laid out for you. Wyatt has figured this out over time. She has an entire google folder of blogs and articles she’s favorited by therapists and psychologists, and even dabbled in attending a little bit of grief counseling after her sister died. All of this has helped her navigate these deeper conversations with Optimus in such a way that allows him to know he’s truly being heard and understood.

Given the fact that the bedroom at the missile silo is shared by everyone on Team Prime, they mass displace to conserve energon while recharging and so that Botmom/Wyatt doesn’t have to spend a mint on mattrasses to cover the floor with—even though, admittedly, she already has lol.

At night when Optimus is comfortably mass displaced, Botmom will invite him to rest his helm on her chest if he can’t sleep. She strokes his finials, his crest, anywhere she knows is receptive to gentle touch. While Optimus doesn’t have any concept of what breasts are, necessarily, he does find them very comfy and warm, and he’ll just, like, press his face into her cleavage. It doesn’t make Botmom uncomfortable in the slightest. She knows it’s completely innocent, especially because the bots have zero sense of what body parts on humans are viewed as sexual.

There are only two times when Wyatt has begged for anything in her life. The first was when her sister was slipping away—she begged the doctors to save her, even though deep down she knew there was nothing else they could do. The second time was during the missile silo attack in Season 3, when Optimus volunteered to stay behind. Wyatt begged him to let it be her instead. Because she knew that without him, Team Prime would inevitably fall apart, and Earth would be doomed anyway. She knew sacrifice would mean nothing then.

Wyatt was ultimately dragged away by Bulkhead and Miko. While they were wandering the States, waiting for Autobot life signals, Wyatt made Bulkhead pull over a few times so that she could go off for a few precious moments to collapse behind a tree and sob/panic. She didn’t want Miko to have to see that.

Later, when Optimus was resurrected by the Forge, Wyatt told him that by sacrificing himself, he practically handed the fate of the Earth to the Decepticons, because again, without him, Team Prime would’ve completely deteriorated and the Decepticons would’ve fucked up a whole lot more than just Jasper. She basically has that pissed off, panicked Sandra Bullock in Birdbox moment with him where she’s like, “If a situation like that arises again, you fucking leave me behind and don’t stop for even a SECOND to look back. You don’t sacrifice yourself for me, don’t come back for me. You save yourself!”

I'm going to do one of these for each of the bots because believe it or not, quite a few of ya'll have asked for this! Stay tuned. Ratchet next.

#Botmom #Transformers OC #OptiWyatt

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psychedeliccc · 6 months

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body and soul.

warnings : none

(Based on a request by @kiyoomean)

word count : 1.3 k

Masterlist ★

Whispers travelled throughout the walls of the common room along with the scent of an experiment gone wrong. Admist the night the moon above shadowing the floor filled with viles and potions.

"Bloody dark out here. " you heard a familiar groan echo.

"I can help. " You spoke, breaking the quiet silence that followed the boy's voice, the feeling of hope running throughout your blood.

"Who the - sure, whatever go on. " you heard him murmur.

you walked, rather, floated across the room to carry a lamp beside him to help him.

Except,

Well,

you couldn't.

"Wait I can't, there's a lamp to your left. " you sighed realizing your transparency.

"Thanks." The boy whispered as he reached for his left and caressed his palms around it, opening the lid.

He lit it.

A pause.

He hollered.

You saw him flinch as he covered himself with his arms.

"Why are you yelling? Never seen a ghost before?"

He looks back.

He sighs.

"Of course I have, just...never...you. "

You paused and realized this was someone you had seen not less than a few hour let alone spoken with.

"Mattheo is it? "

"How'd you know? " Mattheo replied, a bit frightened, taking a step back.

"We've literally spoken a few hours ago -

my name is y/n. " you uttered, giving him a blank stare.

"Hard to recognize you with all that lack of color. " He joked followed by an anxious titter.

" I need your help. "You ignored his comment.

He sighed.

"with?" he asks as he walks forward slowly.

"You might be wondering how I got myself in this situation. " You continued.

"it does concern me now that you mention it. "

He recalled as he stared back at you.

You scoffed.

°°°°

"Merlin." Mattheo faltered as he scratched the back of his neck.

"- and I need your help resurrecting me from the dead. " you finished.

" how do you you expect me to do that exactly? "

"That's where your physical mobility comes to my advantage. " You smiled.

"Great, meaning you know exactly how to do it, you just need to instruct me? "

"Well, about that. " You stuttered.

"You don't know, do you? - mattheo sighed,

Why can't you just ask Dumbledore tomorrow? " He continued.

"If I am unfortunate enough, I will be seperated from my physical body and remain a... well in this case I'd say a ghost. "

"Let me get this straight, you even manage to get yourself in a situation where you 'accidentally' kill yourself and find a poor random stranger with the hopes of looking for water, and ask him oh so very spontaneously help you revive your decayed soul? " mattheo blanked, looking at your floating body.

"you're completely off, I didn't kill myself nor did I intend to, I was practicing spells for the sake of reviving a already dead Spectre.

" Oh and, be careful, my body, well physical body is right behind you. Mind you. " you interrupted.

Mattheo jumped as he looked to his back, accompanied by your dead corpse laying on the cold floor of the common room,

you looked dreadful really. No wonder he jumped.

"This is going to take all night. " Mattheo exasperated looking back at you, your phantom.

"Better get started, it's almost 9 . " You whispered hovering closer to his ear.

"Stop that. " Mattheo flinched at your cold breath.

°°°°

mattheo had singlehandedly collected each and every one of his potions reference books and spellbooks including novels studying deep into each chapter.

" what spell did you use exactly? " Mattheo hummed as he went through a textbook, switching each page.

" I believe it was called anima seperatio or something like that." You recalled.

"Godrick's sake. " Mattheo cursed under his breath, looking for the exact page.

"I didn't mean to be my own subject. " You sighed.

"So who's soul did you intend to seperate from their body? " Mattheo asked, eyes glued to the book as he flipped a few pages.

"I intended to do the opposite. " You replied, hovering above him.

"Meaning? " Mattheo asked.

"I tried to resurrect myrtle. "

"Moaning Myrtle? " Mattheo questioned.

"Yeah, I feel bad for her, to be honest, I tried to learn two spells, one to resurrect her, and another to make her young again."

"So she wouldn't die the second you would revive her. " Mattheo finished.

"Exactly." You sighed.

"But how would you make her younger as a spirit, she died when she was, 14,I suppose."

"Thats what I was trying to figure out. " You huffed.

Mattheo chuckles.

"What's so funny? "

" nothing. " Mattheo smiled to himself, hiding his face.

"Bet you think I'm an idiot. "

"I didn't mean that. "

°°°°

"I've found it, I just need the ingredients. "

"Oh finally , it's been 30 minutes now. " You sighed in relief.

"Merlin, says right here the potions gonna take 2 hours to complete. "

"Meaning we'll finish before dawn, brilliant. " You smiled.

Mattheo smiled back in sympathy as he went to collect the ingredients.

"Thanks by the way. " You whispered as mattheo kept the required items beside his cauldron.

"Thought you'd never thank me. " Mattheo grunted as he attempted to open a bottle of dragon scales.

"Three of those. " You replied as he managed to open the lid.

"Thanks."

You smile.

"Why would you help Myrtle at this time of the night anyway? " Mattheo asked, eyes still on the cauldron.

"Its her birthday tomorrow. " You replied with a smile.

"That's really considerate of you." Mattheo smiled.

"Thanks Matty. " You sighed.

"Excuse me? " he hesitated.

"Yes? "

"What did you just call me? "

"Matty."

"Weird."

"Talking about yourself i see." You replied.

"We've just met and you've already arranged me a nickname? " Mattheo questioned as he poured two spoons of pearl dust into the cauldron.

"Of course I have, surprised you haven't. "

"I haven't what? "

"Arranged me a nickname. "

Mattheo chuckles once more.

"What's so funny? " You raved.

"I think 'nincompoop' suits you well. " He bursts out into little chuckles as he smiles back at you.

"Was I supposed to laugh. " You scoff.

"You're offended and that's all that matters."

°°°°

"Are you done yet? " You yawned as you dramatically pull your head back.

"I'm more frustrated than you, love."

"Aww." You teased

"What."

"You called me love. " You smirked.

"I call everyone love, I'm british. " He joked.

"you called me loveeeee. " You teased Monotonously.

"You want this potion or not? "

"Sorry."

"That's more like it. " He smirked.

°°°

You stared at the window admiring the admist of the night, the stars soaring above the midnight sky and aligning almost perfectly in the most elegant of shapes and patterns.

Your eyes followed mattheo's presence.

"Done yet? " You asked.

"30 minutes left, I've brewing it, needs time to settle. " Mattheo ensured.

"Great." You spoke as you flew over to him.

"Wait how exactly are you going to drink this potion though? " Mattheo questioned.

"Put it in my mouth. " You spoke.

"In your dead body's mouth? " Mattheo asked.

"Yeah, read the instructions like 15 times when you were brewing it. " You yawned.

Mattheo yawned back.

°°°°

"Done! " Mattheo rejoiced, jumping in happiness as he poured the potion into a vile.

"Do it then. "

"Right." Mattheo answered as he went towards your corpse, which now smelled like decaying animals.

You observed as mattheo poured the potion into your mouth, opening it with a spoon.

You felt a weird pulling force upon your misty body as you poured back into your physical body.

A loud gasp filled the room as you opened your eyes in a sudden minute.

" Bloody hell. " You cursed as you attempted to get up.

Mattheo offered his arm and you pulled yourself up.

"Thank you so much Matty. " You chanted as you pulled him into your arms, forming a sweet hug.

Mattheo pat your back and hugged you back, then leaving you out.

You smiled and he smiled back.

"You're amazing you know that? " You whispered.

Mattheo smirked.

"Tell me something I don't know."

"You and your cocky face. " You laughed.

"But seriously, I'm extremely thankful. " You continued.

"I need sleep. " Mattheo yawned.

"You may leave, I'll clean up this mess. " You smiled.

"Not on my watch, I'm cleaning, you're sleeping. "

"Matty." You smiled.

"Hmm."

"No way I'm going to let you clean. "

"How about you help me? " Mattheo stared at your eyes.

"Thank you Mattheo. "

"You're welcome, love. "

#mattheo riddle angst #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle #ghost #moaning Myrtle #new #matty #cute mattheo #Halloween special yall #i really hope you like it #i really tried 😭#slytherin boys

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noahhawthorneauthor · 7 months

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There's something about queer cozy reads that soothes the soul. Speaking of, I'm hosting a Read-Along for Phantom and Rook on Halloween!

I've partnered up with Fable to give away ebooks to those who join the book club, and if you'd like to participate but prefer audiobooks, let me know! I still have some Spotify codes that I'd be happy to giveaway.

The book club is already set up, link is here. I'll also be creating a Storygraph challenge, and sharing updates on here for those of you who like to quietly participate. It's a great way to celebrate PAR's book birthday, and to prepare for the sequel coming out in a couple months!

Blurb:

Arlo Rook has decided it’s time to move out of Garren Castle, home for orphans of all races, magical or not, at 100 years old.

It’s not the first time he’s left home, but after a setback that landed the Hedge Witch in the hospital a year ago, he ended up right back at square one. But now he’s ready to strike out on his own, despite his friend’s worries that he’s not ready for the ‘real world.’

Then, he crashes into a mess of copper curls and bright eyes, sending apothecary goods and his life into a chaotic mess. Thatch is a mysterious and incredibly wealthy benefactor of Levena, only spoken of but never seen. He requests a night of Arlo’s company and a tour of the city, which Arlo immediately declines.

But that’s not the last time they see each other, and it certainly wasn’t the first. Arlo doesn’t remember him, no one remembers Thatch after he visits, but Thatch never forgot the Witch with a familiar mark on his face.

Thatch Phantom is an immortal, the last of his kind and perpetually bored. When he’s not closing inter-dimensional rifts and corralling demons, he’s visiting his favorite city of all, Levena. Centuries ago, when life was particularly dull, he set up a scavenger hunt for a starving village, providing them with a year’s worth of supplies.

He anonymously returned year after year, upping the ante and providing less practical things, as the village had become a city and was wealthy beyond belief. Festivals were thrown in his honor, and have continued every year since. Hundreds of years later, The Game is still put on by the fabled ‘Scarlet Illusionist’, but no one has figured out who blesses them with the puzzles.

Once again, Thatch is listless and has decided to throw a wild card into this year’s Game. Whoever discovers him will win one wish of their choice, no restrictions. Aside from the obvious, such as no falling in love, murder or resurrection.

What he didn’t anticipate was crashing into the one person whose soul mark flares like a beacon when Thatch is around, teasing the immortal with the one thing he wants most.

Someone to call home.

🍁🎃🏳️‍🌈📚✨

Find Phantom and Rook here!

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thecabinsixwitch · 20 days

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percy jackson & the olympians aesthetics: 10/?

🎨👖Rachel Elizabeth Dare 👩🏻‍🦰🌻

“You have the gift of prophecy. But it is also a curse. Are you sure you want this?”

“It’s my destiny.”

I'm not bad, I'm not good / I drank every sky that I could / Made myself mythical, tried to be real / Saw the future in the face of a / Daffodil / We practice resurrection every night / Raising the dead under the moonlight / And in the gloaming, I start to cry / You're a perfect pearl hung in the sky

~ “Daffodil” - Florence + the Machine

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writingjourney · 1 year

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His Body and Blood | Secondo x Reader

Get in fuckers, we’re bringing Secondo back. Or… at least we try.

Content: 2.6k words, gn!reader, angst, grief, gore/horror elements (there is a lot of blood), injuries, hurt/marginal comfort, 18+ please

This is my entry for the @petrifyingpapas challenge – this week's prompt was "resurrection". Please read with care and check the content warnings! ♡

Masterlist – Ao3 link

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Five human bones. A dead pig. Six liters of blood. Ten black wax candles.

And, not to forget, Secondo’s embalmed body.

Already, you’re sweating, despite the bone-chilling cold in the Emeritus crypt. The howling of the wind outside startles you every few minutes, the rustling of leaves resembling the crunch of footsteps on the path leading into the cobwebbed, musty mausoleum. Painfully tight goosebumps spread out all over your body as the cold has your skin shrinking, hairs standing up almost statically. The subtle warmth of the candles barely penetrates your pores but their warm light grounds you as you mentally prepare yourself for what’s to come.

You tell yourself that it’s going to be fine. He can’t get any more dead than he already is. The worst possible result, you suppose, is the ritual backfiring and killing you in the process. But seeing your dead lover’s body spread out before you, his lifeless face, taut, pale skin stretched over hollow cheeks, narrow, bicolored eyes closed forever, you feel like you already died the moment the poison stopped his heart from beating.

The worst? This is supposed to be easy for you. Sure, resurrection requires elaborate rituals on any scale. It comes with many pitfalls and a high error potential, yes, but you’ve done it before.

You’ve done it before. Five years ago. On a mouse.

But a mouse is a mammal and so is Secondo. Theoretically speaking, the difference is marginal.

With shaky fingers you use some of the blood to draw a pentagram around his body, the candles marking each intersection of its crimson lines. Fortunately, blood and the candles are easy enough to obtain in a Satanic Ministry that regularly practices all kinds of sacrilegious rites and rituals. The human bones hadn’t been as easy to find, considering that they need to be as fresh as possible. Estimating the levels of decay, using the dates of burial under consideration of humidity and temperature levels and consequently identifying a suitable body took you over a week. A nightly trip to the local graveyard right next to the town’s old church to excavate a corpse almost resulted in you being arrested for grave robbery. The pig, however? Well, if you pay the vastly under-funded farmers in your area enough, they’re surprisingly willing to sell you one.

A deep exhale and you struggle to your feet. The scene before you is almost grotesque. Secondo on the cold stone floor surrounded by the bloody lines of the pentagram and violently flickering candles, a dead pig right above his head, ready to be devoured, the rest of the blood filled into goblets for him to drink. You place the bones next to his limbs – two femora, two humeri, the last one, the twelfth thoracic vertebra, resting in the centre of his torso. All of those organic materials need to be absorbed into his body to help him regenerate and find the strength to house his lost soul, to once again become a home for the man you love.

You carefully move towards his face, tears pricking your eyes at the sight of him. Until now, you’ve had your focus on your strict instructions. A ghoul had to heave him out of his stone chamber earlier and you’ve consequently avoided looking at him too closely so you wouldn’t lose your mind. But now it’s getting serious and you’re scared, so fucking scared. The reality of the situation hits you with the force of a gut punch and you have to fight the urge to throw up.

At the same time, a plethora of uninvited memories comes to flood your brain. Countless nights spent in each other’s embrace, stolen kisses in his office between clergy meetings, breakfast in bed every Sunday morning, his broad hand on your lower back guiding you into the shower so you don’t slip on the wet tiles – all the little moments you only fully appreciate once they are lost to you.

A part of you wants to sit on the cold stone floor to gaze at him until you fall asleep. But there cannot be any delays, not tonight. You reach out to open his mouth and give his soul a channel to re-enter his body, but you flinch back when your fingers touch the icy skin of his jaw. It’s unresponsive, no resistance when you reach out again to push it open. His body is a weak sack of flesh and yet he looks so oddly alive in the candlelight. You half expect him to snap at you for waking him up so roughly, despite your touch being nothing but tentative and gentle. But of course nothing happens. Glancing down, you see that the tips of your thumb and index finger are black and white and you rub them together in thought as you force yourself to look at him one more time.

“I’m going to bring you back, my love,” you whisper. “I’m not giving up.”

You stand and take your place at the foot of your ensemble. It’s now or never, you realise, and a sudden determination takes hold of you that pushes any doubts or fears aside.

Secondo taught you all that you know about ritualistic magic and even though at first you’d often cursed him for being stern, too strict with his students, too fastidious and mean, you now understand why. One mistake and it’s over, one mistake and you risk the life of everyone around you, including your own.

The latin words of your incantation flow out of you freely, the result of over a year of intense practice and rehearsals just for this, all while your Papa and his brothers had been carted around for display like animals in a zoo. The sudden burst of anger fuels you and you raise your voice, speaking louder and more clearly than ever before, the tone so distorted that you don’t even recognise yourself anymore. The air around you starts to crackle as the energies gather, invisible to your eyes until you spot the first few green sparks, accompanied by the sound of thunder, shadows dancing along the walls in unfamiliar shapes. The howling of the wind outside has returned as well but stronger this time, growing louder and louder until it reaches the intensity of a storm. You can feel the floor vibrating under your feet as you pass the halfway point.

A low buzzing inside your head makes you dizzy. Suddenly, the candles flicker out all at once. An earth-shattering explosion has the walls around you shaking and splashes of a warm liquid hit your face and chest, covering your whole front in wetness. It’s pitch-dark now so you can’t tell what caused it, but you know you can’t let up, no matter what happens. You opened Pandora's box and your only chance to push its horrors back inside is to finish your incantation, come what may.

More latin words, latin phrases. You’re properly chanting now, the last few verses leaving you in shaky clusters but still confident and rhythmic enough to let any spirit, any demon or otherworldly entity know that you mean them with all your heart. The shades are whispering back at you, deep voices, high voices, speaking in ancient languages you don’t understand. Opening a pathway between the world of the living and the dead is dangerous on any occasion, even more so if you’re trying to coax a single lonely soul back through the veil. You’re forced to ignore whatever is going on around you, have complete faith in yourself.

As you near the end, the thunder is booming, almost drowning out your voice, and you have trouble breathing. The air pressure around you is too high, too intense, and after you finally speak your last words, you feel like you’re suffocating. Gasping for air, another wave of sticky liquid splatters against you, coating your mouth and nose and eyes. You can feel yourself getting light-headed until you can’t tell if the blackness surrounding you is caused by darkness or your slow loss of consciousness. Two more seconds and your knees finally buckle. You drop to the floor, violently panting, lungs burning from the air-loss, and roll onto your back to avoid toppling over.

That’s it, you realise, you did everything right and yet you’re going to die. A few painful attempts at breathing later you stop feeling your body. Floating in weightlessness the pain stops and suddenly you perceive a tickling sensation in your arm. You can’t see anything but you can feel the searching movements of a hand slotting into yours, fingers weaving together so familiarly. Against all reason you squeeze your eyes shut, then open them again. There’s a shadow above you now. No, not a shadow, a scheme, a specter, not dark but made of light. Like the fume of a cigar its edges move, morphing into vague human features until you can make out Secondo in the wafts of smoke. You can see him so clearly now, his hooked nose, severe features, mismatched eyes. He’s hovering above you, forcing your hand over your head. For a long moment all you do is stare at each other.

His head dips, then, and he leans in ever so slowly. You close your eyes, waiting for his kiss, waiting for that spark of recognition as his body joins yours to make it real. Finally, his lips graze yours ever so lightly but instead of the warmth you expect they feel like pure ice, wet and freezing. You startle awake, coming to in the all-encompassing darkness of the crypt. For a long moment, you lay there in utter shock and disorientation, but then it hits you.

You’re breathing. You’re alive.

As soon as you regain the feeling in your limbs, you push yourself into the direction you assume leads to the exit and fish for your backpack. A minute of uselessly crawling over the cold, wet stone floor until your fingers get tangled in one of its straps and you manage to pull out the flashlight you used on your way here. It won’t immediately turn on and you almost start to cry in frustration but a good whack has it flickering to life. The first thing the light hits is a stone tile on the floor in front of you but you don’t take it in, blinded by the sudden brightness, just move the cone of light into the center of the room in hopeful expectation.

And it’s naive, it’s foolish and idiotic, but you truly expect Secondo to sit there, looking around in confusion, face lighting up as soon as he recognises you. You’re waiting to see his handsome face and fall into his arms, feel him breathing against you, alive and well and yours.

But of course none of that happens.

He’s still lying there just like before, lifeless, static, but what changed is the room around you. The bones are cracked and splintered, pointy shards strewn across the floor. You have to thank Satan that none of the sharp pieces fatally injured you. But glancing down at yourself you notice that even so you look like Carrie did after prom – covered in deep red blood, drenched to the skin. The goblets have all tipped over and are now empty, the walls and floor covered in even more blood and gore, pieces of raw meat, bloody intestines and brains sticking to the stone as you realise that it had been the pig that exploded.

Carnage, there is no other word for it. You’re petrified by the scene until a loud, echoing sob breaks out of you. You run to Secondo and, uncaring of any splinters, drop to your knees by his side. He’s a mess as well, droplets of blood covering his face, but you hug him regardless, rolling half on top of him as your body gets wrecked by the violence of your breakdown. He’s still cold, still unmoving.

Still dead.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

There’s no reply. You stay there, weeping, shaking, apologising. Your body refuses to calm down, the grief fully taking hold of you, and what feels like hours pass until you’re gently pulled away from him. You open yours eyes to plain darkness at first but then another flashlight turns on and you can make out the silver mask of a ghoulette hovering above you.

“It’s okay, we’re going to clean this up,” she says. “We’ll put his body back. You go back home.”

“I-I should do it. I can’t leave him.”

She softly shakes her head. “You need to clean up and pull out those splinters, disinfect the wounds before they get infected. There’s always another try.”

You know what she truly means is that this is going to stay a secret, that they’re going to cover for you as long as it takes for you to either succeed… or give up.

The ghoulette helps you stand, making sure you can walk before her claw-like hand leaves you. There is another ghoul waiting by the entrance, observing you, the same ghoul that helped you with his body earlier. The mask hides his expression but you’re pretty sure the only thing you’d see in his features right now would either be pity or indifference.

You glance back at Secondo before you leave, the pain stuck in your chest like a dagger, and you know that if you pull it out, there’s no way you won’t bleed out. So before you can crumble, you allow the ghoul to guid you outside into the eery silence of the abbey’s cemetery, a soothing hand on your shoulder, a steady presence in your back.

Still, the horror of what just happened clings to you like fog clings to a meadow, heavy and obscure. The reality of it is not hard to grasp: You failed. Something went wrong. One of the many pitfalls must have been your doom – perhaps the bones were too old, the blood too thick, the timing off by a few minutes. There is only one other reasonable explanation for a failed resurrection ritual – a soul that refuses to come back.

The thought has you stumbling, the ghoul’s hand reaching out for your shoulder to steady you. It’s entirely possible that Secondo has accepted his fate. You can’t help but wonder if your hallucination earlier was a hint that he’s reaching out to you – or a final goodbye.

“He would use any chance to get back to you,” the ghoul says as though he read your mind. “Try again until you get it right, little human.”

You nod. In tandem with the adrenaline in your blood slowly dwindling, you can feel the pain in your limbs increasing now, shards of bone stuck to your legs and forearms like tiny knives. Pulling them out under the shower is going to result in some significant blood loss but you can’t bring yourself to care. What is a little more blood on your soiled body? What is a little more pain for your lacerated soul?

After a few more deep inhales of the clear night air, you take a few more hesitant steps on the dirt path, barely any moonlight from above to guide you and your torch left somewhere down in the crypt. In the all-encompassing dark, the ghoul gives your shoulder one last squeeze.

And then you’re alone.

I know this is way out of what I wrote over the past few months but I hope it was enjoyable (?) nonetheless. Thanks for reading, feedback as always much appreciated ♡

Masterlist – My Ao3

#petrifyingpapas #resurrection #secondo x reader #secondo #papa emeritus ii x reader #papa emeritus ii fanfiction #papa emeritus ii #tw blood #angst #papa emeritus x reader #the band ghost #the band ghost fanfiction #ghost fanfiction #secondo fanfiction #secondo angst

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