.

:marc spector x reader, brief steven grant x reader but platonic.

:cursing, paper cuts, bootyhole marc, reconciliation homie steven

:angst (not very good but tis angst)

()?: nope

:796.

:trouble in paradise.

/:this isn’t very good but I needed to post something to appease my brain.

“GodI fucking hate you. Marc.”

Paper lightly sliced through the tip of your dampened finger as you cursed the man’s existence while skimming through the packet’s pages. Fresh tears decorated your heated cheeks as your eyes interpreted the last line at the bottom of the page, the final signature before your half of the divorce paperwork was complete.

New ones brimmed in your eyes making your vision grow blurry, while your hand, excluding the pointer finger you’d cut, gripped the corners of the packet.

You didn’t want it to come to this. It seems like just days ago, the two of you were sitting on rocks, overlooking the ocean and sandy shores while discussing your forever together. Hands tightly clasped together like your palms were made to hold the other’s, and soft smiles gracing your lips. Seemed like just yesterday he’d dropped to one knee in Cairo, blazing heat against his back with a green and white scarf tied over his mouth and nose to protect him from the blowing sand. You’d stepped off your four-wheeler, breathless at the clear sight of the descending sun before turning to see him.

A toothy smile on Marc’s face as a simple gold ring with moon-shaped Lapis Lazuli at its center stayed pinched between his fingers. Expensive and way too gorgeous to be laying next to divorce papers on your granite countertops. 

Thoughts interrupted by the closing of the fire escape’s window, you watched as your husband trudged from the threshold to standing in the bathroom with the door left open. You could see his eyes trained on your face and the tears that marked it while wrapping gauze onto his raw and reddened knuckles, yet his cold expression remained unwavering. You could see his eyes occasionally flick back to the mirror in front of him, him exhaling harshly through his nose at every expletive Steven screamed at him through the mirror.

You wished Steven would front. Wished he’d come in to pick up the pieces of glass staining the pathway between you and the man you’d married. Wished that he’d appear with a hug and a sympathetic expression, ready to rework his words and get you to forgive him. But there’s only so many, ‘he didn’t mean it’s a person could listen to before distrusting completely.

Marc moved to stand behind the seat beside you, deep brown eyes rimmed with red from exhaustion, dropping to read the bolded words at the top of the papers. 

Over the last few months, every conversation of yours surrounding the nature of your relationship dissolved into a dramatic argument or sex. Doors being slammed, cold shoulders and passive-aggressive responses had become hourly occurrences when the two of you were home.

You thought he stayed out too late. Woken up more times than you can count on your fingers and toes to the sound of him climbing or falling through a window, the room smelling strongly like disinfectant, disinfectant, and hydrogen peroxide as he tended to his injuries under the moon’s light. He’d roll into bed, pulling your back to his chest ignorant to the cold food you’d spent hours cooking in the microwave or the abandoned candlelight set-up on the island.

You thought he didn’t care anymore. Completely oblivious to the times you’d gotten a new style, black to white braids, decorated with crystals and small moons to symbolize the title he cares so much about. Oblivious to the times you’d restocked his first aid kit, decorating the outside with a ‘God’s of Egypt’ sticker pack, ensuring all the Gods and Goddesses of the Ennead were present to appease Steven. And impassive to the time you’d spend trying to get a singular word out of him about his day.

Instead, he’d brushed you off. Those times your conversations became and stayed arguments he’d yell at you for being overbearing, for asking too much of him, for not giving him space.

You thought he’d fallen out of love with you, so you’d given him the easiest option, you thought he’d wanted.

You wanted to believe he still cared, that this was a simple fluke in your marriage, a small notch on a belt of small and soon resolved arguments but with each fleeting moment and the sound of his heavy footsteps moving towards the door you realized he already was too far gone.

You looked back down at the bead of blood on your sliced finger and stood to grab a bandaid from the first-aid kit Marc had left open, it was as soon as the little Spider-man bandaid stuck to the piece of the opposite side that you heard the door roughly shut behind you, and whatever small strings that held the mess of you together finally snapped.

You’d lost him.

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