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golbrocklovely · 5 months ago

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the rakish gentlemen // sam and colby

A/N: just a general statement across the board: i'm not going for historical accuracy here. i did a very small amount of research for this, most of which was based on the language and some of the societal norms but even then, it wasn't a thorough search. so if things are incorrect or not quite right… that's why. also this is heavily inspired by my new found love for bridgerton, so anything in the story that reminds you of that (show or book wise) - that's also why lol anyone that writes regency romances or stories, props to you bc the formal English alone made me want to off myself. just kidding… but not really. anyway, i hope you enjoy this one. it was fun to write once i got the hang out it. lmk what you think and i'll see you guys with another fic (hopefully) soon :)

prompt: being out in society was enough of a challenge, but overhearing two very sought after lords' snide remarks about you made you want to give up altogether. that is until you hatch a plan - make them beg for your hand in marriage, and then leave them high and dry. it should be simple enough. || AU!regency era sam and colby x fem!reader

trigger warning: formal english (lol), historical inaccuracy, lots of 'samuel' and 'cole' so if you don't like that don't read lol, snc are kind of dicks but they turn it around by the end somewhat, just a whisper of smut but not really, cliff hanger ending??, heavy on gender norms of the time period so be weary of that if that's something you don't like, bit of angst, everyone is of age/in their 20s

word count: 6347

~~~~~~~~

The weather in London during the middle of spring was the absolute best time of year, according to most in the Ton. To Miss Y/N Y/L/N, it was the most splendid of weather to promenade with one's closest confidant, and for her that was Miss Amelia Ruteledge. The two had been inseparable since childhood, living across the street from one another. And coming out in society together only strengthened their bond over the last two seasons.

"How eager are you for Lady Gillingham's masquerade ball this evening?" Amelia asked, coyly stealing a glance at Y/N.

"I can hardly wait. I am positively elated." Y/N replied dryly, her faux smile wide.

"Y/N, must you indulge in sarcasm?" She questioned.

"Yes, Amelia. I must," a quiet laugh fell from her lips. "It is hard for me to be excited for yet another ball, one where I will again be doomed to the corner of the room, watching as others dance."

"I had presumed you enjoyed observing." Amelia teased.

"It is not as fun anymore, ever since your courtship with Viscount Throne began." Y/N sighed, wiping away pretend tears from her cheeks, "Alas, my spinsterhood is in full bloom."

She shook her head, patting Y/N's arm sweetly, "Don't be ridiculous. You are nowhere near being a spinster."

"I'm two years out in society with little to show for it. One might believe I had contracted the plague, given how much the gentlemen of the Ton disregard me." Y/N rolled her eyes, her voice bitter.

"You mustn't say that. You are an absolute catch, by all accounts." Amelia argued, looking into Y/N's eyes.

She huffed. "Thank you. But your opinion apparently is the only one that is favorable towards me."

"That is simply not true," she protested back. "I believe many gentlemen in the Ton would admire you once they were acquainted. But I would not be surprised if your charm and wit intimidate them, thereby causing their reluctance."

A cheeky smile appeared on Y/N's face. "I couldn't have said that better myself." The ladies giggled, continuing down the walkway towards a small pond. Y/N glanced upwards, noting the eligible men coming their way. Grabbing Amelia's arm, she yanked her behind a tree close by, pressing her back tightly against the oak.

Amelia furrowed her brow, "What ails you?"

Y/N hushed her, looking over Amelia’s shoulder. "I don't wish to speak to anyone else presently. Particularly suitors."

"So you think hiding behind a tree is wise?" She blinked.

Y/N wanted to glare, but held back. "Guess I'm not as witty as you thought."

Amelia peaked behind the tree, their maids coming closer to them. She gestured for them to stop, not wanting the men Y/N was so flustered by to notice. The maids turned towards each other, giving a knowing look, and faced the pond instead.

"Did they leave yet?" Y/N whispered.

Amelia hummed. "No. They are still coming our way."

"Damn." She cursed, scrunching her face.

"Speak louder. I am sure your coarse tongue will make them leave hastily." She gaped.

Y/N held back more careless words, doing her best to remain calm. "I am certain that any gentleman has heard far worse words than a solitary curse from a lady's lips."

Amelia peaked again, her eyes widening. "Oh, you are correct about that. Did you see who was coming?"

"No. I just knew it was three gentlemen." Y/N dissented.

"It's Mr. Beaumont... with Lord Golbach and Lord Brock." Amelia choked out.

"Ah, even worse than I imagined." Y/N gulped.

Lord Samuel Golbach and Lord Cole Brock were some of the most sought after men in all of the Ton. Eager mamas and anxious daughters alike pined to be seen affectionately by the two Lords. They were not only rich, but handsome - a deadly combination. And with years of friendship under their belt, they were basically family to one another. Everyone out in society knew - to get in good graces with one, you had to be liked by the other.

But even with everyone wanting their attention, they were seldom to give it out. The rakish behavior displayed by the two was known throughout, which confused Y/N deeply. Why play cat and mouse if one knows it's not trying to be caught? Why pretend to be an eligible bachelor if there were no plans to seek a wife at all?

Y/N knew to stay away. She had no interest in them, moreover.

"Mr. Beaumont, I do believe you are one of the funniest men in all of London." Cole chuckled, clasping the man on the shoulder.

Edward bowed, "Such high praise coming from you, Lord Brock. You two are going to tonight's ball, yes?"

"Of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world." Samuel grinned, glancing at Cole knowingly.

"I must ask, are there any ladies that have caught your eye this season?" Edward continued.

Samuel shook his head, "Unsurprisingly, no. Cole and I have very high standards. So high, in fact, it has been impossible to find anyone worthy of matching with."

"How incredibly rude." Amelia murmured.

"I am confident there are several ladies in the Ton that would be worthy of becoming your wives. What about Miss Mullens?" Edward mentioned.

"Terrible dancer." Cole quipped.

He questioned, "How about Miss Walford?"

Samuel frowned. "Her character is sorely lacking."

"Miss Ramsbury?" He puzzled.

"Beautiful indeed, most obnoxious laugh I've ever heard however." Cole jeered.

"Miss Y/L/N! What about her? She seems well." Edward exclaimed.

A silence filled the air, Y/N only hearing the sound of her pounding heart within her breast. While she may not have harbored interest in either Lord, the notion of their thoughts about her caused her skin to tingle thrillingly. She had never heard a man speak of her in any way, romantic or otherwise. She was eager to know.

Both men snickered, an almost childish laugh cutting through. Samuel cleared his throat, "You must be joking, Beaumont. That lady, would be the last on our list to ever be courted by us. Remember, we have high standards."

"Not even worthy of considering, if I'm honest." Cole sniveled.

“I suppose those are the lower ranking ladies of the Ton.” Mr. Beaumont chortled.

Amelia moved to jump out from behind the tree, ready to give all three gentlemen a piece of her mind. Y/N grabbed her arm, yanking her close. She motioned for her to remain silent, listening once more to the Lords and Mr. Beaumont.

"It is getting late, good sirs. I must be arriving back home soon for late afternoon tea with the missus. Good day, Lord Golbach. Lord Brock. Best of luck on your endeavors." He bowed, the Lords following suit.

Y/N finally turned to all three gentlemen, still covered by the oak tree. She watched as the Lords went off in the opposite direction as Mr. Beaumont. She waited until they were far enough away, taking her first breath in for what felt like years.

"I cannot believe those men!" Amelia screeched lowly.

Y/N slid down the tree, resting her head back, exhausted. "It's incredible, really. Dare I say... humbling?"

"Calling them rakes is the nicest thing I can think of. They are-" She started.

Cutting her off, Y/N placed a hand up. "Save your words, Amelia. Heaven knows I'm thinking far worse than you."

She stared at the ground for a moment, replaying their words over and over in her head. It hurt to hear how cold they were towards her, someone they had never even had a single conversation with.

"Lord Golbach and Lord Brock don't know you, Y/N. And by the way they speak of strangers, they don't deserve to know you either. No wonder no one has won their affections. They have far too much for themselves." Amelia retorted. She fanned herself, feeling her skin growing hot with anger.

Y/N mumbled. "High standards, remember?"

"I have heard of the numerous rejections they’ve given to the ladies of the Ton. It's astonishing how sought after they remain." Amelia declared, utterly appalled.

Rejected. The word echoed in Y/N's head. No one knew that feeling quite like her, especially not the Lords. Who could ever reject them...

Abruptly, Y/N jumped to her feet with an incredulous smirk; an idea rushing to the forefront of her mind.

"Pray tell, what is that look for?" Amelia queried.

"I believe the Lords just need a dose of their own medicine." She sang snidely.

Amelia raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"What lady in all of the Ton has ever rejected them? Every girl and mama swoons at their feet; that's why they feel they can judge and dismiss anyone they want, regardless of how perfect a match the lady might be," Y/N stated. "So... what if that is turned on them?"

"How?" Amelia leaned back against the tree, studying her friend.

"Tonight's ball. It is a masquerade. Those two have never spoken to me, not once in all of the two years I've been out. Yet somehow, they've already declared I'm not worthy to be their wife just from mere appearances alone. Well, what if they aren't worthy enough to be my husband?" Y/N's eyes were wild, a mischievous glint sparkling within.

She gasped, "You're going to reject them?"

"I shall make them plead for my hand in marriage, only to desert them after all." She boasted.

"Do you think you can do that?" Amelia cocked her head to the side.

Y/N rolled her eyes, "I plan to beat them at their own game. I am sure they won’t know what to do with themselves when a woman is actually disinterested in them. Plus, anything else my charm and wit can make up for… hopefully."

"Are you sure your skills are up to the challenge? This could possibly ruin you if done incorrectly. A man won't take his pride being scorned." Amelia worried, holding Y/N's hand briefly.

She gave Amelia's hand a gentle squeeze, "I have been watching for two seasons what works and what doesn't. I've always been too frightened to be myself, to be vulnerable. But I have nothing to lose tonight. I am not interested in them, and they do not even see me as a potential match. I have to do this, for my pride alone."

Y/N strutted away, nodding to her maid to follow her. She stopped for a moment, turning back to Amelia. "After tonight, no more Miss Wallflower."

~~~~

Luckily for Y/N, being friendly with the modiste had its perks. For one, she was able to have some alterations done to her gown long before the ball. She was used to wearing more muted colors; colors that faded her into the background of any dance. But now, staring in the looking glass at herself, her rose colored gown almost sparkled in the candlelight.

She knew this would be one of the more flashier gowns, even for a masquerade. Lady Gillingham's balls were always known as being a bit uptight; the masquerade was the only one where going against her rules was allowed. But most in the Ton dared to not break them even so.

Y/N felt a rush of nerves hit her. Would this be enough to cause the Lords to notice her? She hoped. If not, her whole plan would be foiled.

The carriage ride to the Gillingham estate felt like an eternity. Y/N fanned herself repeatedly; the cool night air doing nothing for her warm skin.

Amelia and Y/N wrote to one another to meet at the Gillingham lineage painting that adorned the entrance. Both ladies concurred that the face of Viscount Gillingham in the painting always looked like he was cocked eyed; something they both had jested about their first time out in society. They knew that was their spot to meet if they needed to step away from it all. But tonight, because of their masks, they wanted to be able to find a familiar face in the crowd if anything was to go awry.

Y/N pulled her cloak tightly to her bodice, making sure her dress was covered. She gazed around the foyer of the estate, the grand ceilings always making her feel so small. She could hear the ball had commenced, a fanciful melody being played by the orchestra echoed down the halls. She waited under the painting, glancing at all of the attendees coming through the doors. Which one would be Amelia and her Viscount?

Rounding the stairs, a golden dress shone in the corner of Y/N's vision. She turned, making note of the matching locks of hair.

Along with their meeting spot, Y/N and Amelia devised a query only they knew. Y/N studied the woman, finally speaking. "Excuse me, have you ever read Emma? It is one of my favorite novels."

"There is nothing like staying home, for real comfort." Amelia quoted, relief hitting her at the sound of her friend's voice.

Y/N sighed, "Oh thank Heavens it's you Amelia. I thought you might already be in the ballroom."

Amelia shook her head, "I informed you I would wait until your arrival to enter the ball."

Y/N gazed over Amelia's shoulder, looking for someone. "Where is your Viscount?"

She smiled, "He had affairs to tend to, and said he wouldn't be able to make it tonight. So I'm all yours."

"You don't have to stay with me all night. Just until my plan works on the Lords." The girls locked their arms with one another, slowly walking towards the ballroom.

"They've already arrived. I saw them come in moments before you." Amelia whispered low.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, "Well, let's make our grand entrance then."

As the ladies walked into the ballroom, Y/N noted that they were the last two to enter. She held her breath, staring over the railing of the beautiful marble stairs. She could feel all eyes turn to her and Amelia. Amelia trotted down the stairs, her gloved fingers holding the banister gently. Y/N waited until she was at the bottom, and began her descent.

Now was the time to woo over the men of the Ton, she thought. She untied her cloak, letting it fall off her shoulders; leaving it on the stairs. Light gasps fell from around the room. She knew her alterations would cause a stir, but gasps? She was taken aback by such sounds.

Not only did she go gloveless to this event, but her slightly lowered neckline showed off her most precious of jewels in more ways than one. The modiste spoke of how most of the Ton was not breaking Gillingham's rules, disregarding the whole point of a masquerade. Y/N knew this was her time to shine. To become a rule breaker.

Lord Golbach and Lord Brock were rule breakers themselves. And even more so, heartbreakers. They were aware of this too. Samuel and Cole gave each other a quick glance, noting the breathtaking beauty dressed in rose coming down the stairs.

Eligible gentlemen from around the room scurried over to Amelia and Y/N, doing their best to introduce themselves quickly. Cole smoothed out his suit jacket, parted his way through the crowd and reached Y/N in no time.

Y/N was taken aback by all the men surrounding her, never having this much attention before. As she glanced up, her eyes immediately made contact with a pair of striking blue ones. The pleasing smile, the chestnut hair, the almost devilish gaze.... she knew it could only be one man.

"Miss Rose, lovely to make your acquaintance." Cole bowed, speaking over all of the men pining for her.

She scrunched her face, confused. "Do you believe that to be my name?"

He blinked, "No. I'm simply calling you that because of your gown."

"Oh..." Y/N cleared her throat awkwardly, returning to a more disinterested persona. "How clever."

"May I accompany you to the floor?" He asked, his voice as smooth as silk.

A man in the small crowd let out a scoff, "Good sir, I do believe I was-"

"I think I can speak for myself, your grace." She turned back to Cole, a playful smile on her lips, "I'm afraid you aren't the first to ask. But if you care to wait, I'll gladly dance with you second."

Lord Brock was surprised, but he chalked up this misunderstanding to her not knowing who he was. No one ever denied Cole a dance. Even those with cards completely filled out. He bowed graciously, moving out of the way so she could be guided onto the dancefloor by the other gentleman.

By his short stature, Cole could tell it was Viscount Davis. While he did have a lot of money, he was a tiresome presence to be around. And surely, Miss Rose would soon find that out herself.

And Y/N did, in record time. Being eye-level with a gentleman was not exactly something she was used to, but all it did was make her very aware of his eyes stealing glances at her bosom. The song ended rather quickly, the Heavens listening to her pleas. Before she could even curtsy at the gentleman, Cole was already next to her, waiting to join her in the next dance. She almost laughed at how eager he was; how easily her plan was playing out. They bowed to one another, and the music slowly began. His expert hands slid into hers, warm and welcoming. His close proximity made her aware suddenly just how handsome he really was. She could understand, for a moment, why so many ladies fawned over him. And her heart skipped a beat.

"Would you be alright with me breaking the rules this evening?" Cole chimed in suddenly.

Y/N cocked her head, "That depends on what you intend to break."

"I would like to tell you my name, and perhaps you will tell me yours?" He wagered.

"Perhaps..." She trailed off, detached.

"I'm Lord Brock. And if you glance over your shoulder now, the man by the refreshments table is Lord Samuel Golbach." He motioned with his head behind her.

Y/N did peak, noting the eyes of Samuel following her and Cole around the room. "Hmm. Interesting."

"May you wish to tell me yours now?" Cole smiled.

"No, I do not." Y/N shook her head plainly.

"I am surprised. But maybe I shouldn't be," Cole spun her, pulling her back into him. "It appears that you resemble me in many respects."

"And what respects are those?" She questioned.

"If I may presume, you seem inclined to forge your own path. You do not heed merely because it was asked of you." He remarked honestly.

Y/N felt her heart skip again, damning her feelings internally as she kept up her charade. "And you have been able to deduce all of this from the mere twenty minutes I've been in this ballroom?"

Cole smirked confidently, "What can I say? I possess the ability to read others well, particularly charming young ladies."

She held back the urge to roll her eyes at his response. While she wanted to beat him at his own game, she didn't want to be rude. "And how well has that worked out for you, my Lord? Since apparently you and Samuel can't seem to find a match."

Hearing Sam's name fall from her lips was shocking, but that alone made him like her more. She was feisty, and he enjoyed that quality in a woman. "Having standards set high has caused some issues, yes. But maybe I will find the one tonight."

"Have you already encountered someone that has peaked your interest?" She inquired.

"I would say so. It shouldn't come as a shock since you're the only one I've danced with tonight. And the only one I plan to." He brought his face closer to hers, flashing a charming smile.

"How delightful," Y/N mimicked his look. "I cannot say I feel the same, unfortunately."

His face dropped instantly, "I beg your pardon?"

Y/N wanted to relish in this moment for forever, but the music was slowly coming to an end. "Oh, my apologies, my Lord. I thought we were speaking candidly."

"You... you don't enjoy my company?" Cole stammered. Stammered.

"Well, you are an accomplished dancer and pleasing to the eye and yet... I am unable to see you worthy as a potential suitor." She curtsied dramatically as their dance finished, her mischievous eyes sparkling from the flames of the candles. "My deepest gratitude, my Lord, for being my second dance. If you'll excuse me, I must go see my other suitors, however."

Y/N turned away, swaying her hips sensually as she walked over to Amelia. Her skin felt like it was on fire from where Cole had been touching her. Even though she hated admitting it, something about Cole was mesmerizing. Intoxicating, even. If she hadn't heard what he said this afternoon, she could see a world in which she would fall for him.

But she couldn't focus on that now. She couldn't believe she had actually done it. She successfully rejected one of the Lords.

Amelia gaped, staring at Y/N. "I'm in awe of you, truly. You are a goddess amongst men."

"I feel like I'm going to faint." Y/N grabbed Amelia's arm, keeping her back turned towards the dancefloor.

"Really?" Amelia pushed her glass to Y/N, who nodded a 'thank you'.

"Sort of." Y/N downed her lemonade, the refreshing citrus drink calming her nerves only slightly. "Is he still looking over here?"

"If by 'looking' you mean casting daggers, then indeed, that is the case. And," she giggled nervously, "try not to faint when I tell you this, but Lord Golbach is making his approach."

Y/N swallowed hard. "You jest."

Amelia gave a weary smile, "No, but I must make my getaway."

She backed away quickly from Y/N, who called out, "Wait, Ame-!"

"Miss Rose, how wonderful to finally meet." Samuel interjected suddenly.

Y/N took a deep breath, spinning on her heel to face him. "Lord Golbach."

He raised a brow at her, "You know who I am."

"How could I mistake a face like yours for any other?" She replied with a sneer tone.

Sam sucked his teeth, her biting tongue captivating him immensely. Ladies hardly ever truly said how they were feeling around him, and it was refreshing to hear such honesty. "I would entertain that notion if Cole had not informed me of disclosing my identity to you."

Her smile dropped, "I would still be able to pick you out in any crowd, my Lord. I would just have to look for the trail of broken hearts and I would instantly find the two of you."

"My reputation makes me sound harsh." He deadpanned.

She held back the urge to roll her eyes, "I think you and Cole are, in fact, harsh. Reputation or not."

A playful grin rose on Sam's face as he reached out his hand towards Y/N. "Dance with me, Miss Rose."

"And if I say no?" She responded defiantly.

"I will leave you be," he answered. "But what fun you will miss, declining a dance from a gentleman whom you have already passed judgment upon."

She was surprised by Sam's charisma, his almost flirty nature. She politely took his hand, allowing him to guide her onto the dancefloor. Bowing, she steadied herself.. She was not used to this attention, especially from such desirable gentlemen. She knew deep down she shouldn't like teasing the Lords, but part of her enjoyed knowing they found her coveted.

He gazed down at her, inspecting her. "Your gown is quite suitable. You must come from a high ranking family."

"Thank you," she replied plainly. "And yes, some would say that. It helps that I am acquainted with the modiste in town, as well."

"Really? Not many are like you in that way. I've always found it odd how the higher ranking families in the Ton look down upon the working class." Sam admitted.

Y/N nodded, "Truly. It is such a pity. They are no different than us, the only major thing is that we were born into wealth."

"We are all human, after all." He concurred.

"Respecting our fellow man and cherishing the relationships we have and can make should be number one priority. It's a shame how many in the Ton don't see that." She remarked.

Samuel raised his eyebrows, spinning the young lady in time with the music. "You are one of the only women to think so. Many I have courted never spoke of such qualities."

She could feel her skin grow warmer with annoyance, "Interestingly, my beliefs stem from other women I've had the pleasure of knowing. How often do you ask any? Or do you merely go off of appearances and assumptions alone?"

His face dropped, a bitter smile resting on his mouth. "You and I must be similar in that regard."

"Possibly, yes. However, you are the one with a reputation of casting aside women you don't deem fit enough to be courted." Y/N argued, glaring.

He scoffed, "My apologies for having-"

She interjected, "High standards. Yes, I know."

The dance slowly began to end, her grip falling limp in Sam's hold. An anger unlike Y/N had ever felt was bubbling inside of her. Her grace and dignity almost flying out the window when she looked up at Sam, who seemed perplexed by her words. "I thank you for proving my assertions correct."

"And what exactly where they?" He narrowed his eyes.

"Your character is sorely lacking, and I will never want to court or be married to a man like that." Y/N spun on her heel, pure fire filling her veins. She ought to not have become so agitated, but she was unable to restrain herself. While both men played innocent and kind to her face, she knew of how mean they spoke of her mere hours ago. The sole reason they were like this was because of their ignorance of her identity. She had been taught her whole life to be respectful, to both men and women, no matter what ranking they were. And to see such blatant disrespect come from such a high caliber of men in the Ton infuriated her to no end.

This is who was supposed to be the aspiring husbands in the marriage mart? Being a spinster did not sound too bad after all.

Y/N wanted to find Amelia, but decided against staying in the ballroom. She ventured off to the entrance, standing at the portrait. She paced for a moment, trying to calm her nerves. She heard footsteps coming from the ballroom, expecting Amelia to be following her. But two men walked through, Samuel and Cole.

Her eyes widened as she watched them search for her. She rushed up the stairs, finding the closest room and hiding inside of it. It was a study, most likely Viscount Gillingham's. She closed the door swiftly, praying they hadn't seen her do so. She scanned the room, her eyes landing on the window. Fresh air sounded absolutely wonderful to her. She walked over to the window, attempting to open it.

The door swung open, Sam and Cole staring at her quizzically. "What do you plan to do? Shimmy down the garden wall?"

She huffed, turning to the gentlemen. "Do you take pride in stalking ladies or is that just an extracurricular for you both?"

"You have a surprisingly mean spirit for a lady. You must have suitors lining the street waiting for your hand." Cole sassed, stepping into the room.

"Well, as long as you both aren't in line, I shall have decent prospects." Y/N sniveled.

Samuel ranted, "Pray, what precisely is your objection to us? You do not resemble any woman we've previously courted. Why do you harbor resentment?"

"I do not have to have been courted by you to dislike you, Lord Golbach. Perhaps I find your inability to care for a woman's heart atrocious and that alone sparked my malicious feelings." She rebutted, her hands firmly on her hips.

"Did we hurt a sister of yours? Perhaps a friend." Cole responded, almost in jest.

She shook her head heatedly. "No. No. As humorously as that would be, you hurt mine without ever courting me. So congratulations are in order for that feat."

Both of the gentlemen's faces dropped, annoyed. "How?"

"I overheard you, today, at the park. Along with your friend Beaumont. You all had such a delightful time picking apart different women, none of which measured up to your standards for one reason or another." She spat.

Cole shook his head, almost trying to reset his vision. "A-And what is wrong with having standards?"

"There is nothing wrong with that," Y/N grunted. "The problem lies in how you go about finding those standards. Let's not play foolish here: you both know how sought after you are. And you also know that you most likely won't be finding a match anytime soon. So why be out in society?"

Sam’s eyes rolled for a moment. "Are we not permitted to partake in revelry?"

"You can, but not at the expense of women's hearts or reputations!" Her voice boomed off the walls of the study. The room fell silent, the men watching her with wide eyes.

She continued passionately. "Do you know how completely ignorant it is to badmouth a woman to one of your fellow gentlemen? It is already hard enough as a lady to find a suitable husband when you have every other lady fighting for said affections. But to have fellow men berate and downgrade you as if you are a second-prized poodle is humiliating. Because if you two think that way about me, how else do the other men of the Ton feel? How am I supposed to navigate a labyrinth I had no realization I was in?"

Both men were stunned into silence, but finally Cole spoke. "We should be wiser with our words, yes. But it's not exactly easy for us, either."

"Oh please." She murmured, exhausted.

He moved towards her, shaking his head. "We are told to act a certain way, to be men. The rakish behavior we have to put on is all but a front. At least for him and I. It is exhausting wanting to be open and vulnerable and honest when no one reciprocates those feelings back. So it's easier to put up walls and guard yourself and pretend to be something you're not. But in the end it all hurts the same."

"But you're a man. And not just any one, a prominent one. You could..." Y/N exhaled. "Change what is expected."

"It is not that simple. And it's already a lonely road for those that do not follow what is to be asked of you." Cole paused, swallowing. "I often wonder if a love match is something I will ever find, or if I'm doomed to face a marriage with a woman that is a complete stranger to me for the rest of my days."

She frowned, "Find someone to love, then."

Cole bit his lip harshly, holding back his hurt, "I wish I could. I wish my family would allow that. There are certain expectations I've been destined to meet since birth that I wish I could shake. But it's not as simple as it sounds."

Y/N looked towards Sam, "And what about you?"

"I... I don't know how to express myself. At all," he muttered, stoic and awkward. "This life of mine is not even remotely fulfilling. And I am afraid I am wasting it being someone I never wished to be."

For a moment, Y/N's heart ached for both gentlemen. She stared at them, and they were no longer men, but boys. And for the first time in years, when she expressed exactly how she felt without fear of rejection, she felt like a girl again. The brutal honesty of being a child with no expectations placed.

"I apologize for being so… careless." Her demeanor softened, "Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed so harshly.."

"No. Your honesty is refreshing. I don't think anyone has called us out in years." Samuel commented.

Cole smirked, "Or ever, really."

She giggled, and genuinely smiled, for the first time all night. They smiled back, their grins earnest.

"You have the sweetest of laughs. Almost like honey." Samuel complimented.

She bowed her head, doing her best to hide her blush. "T-That is very kind of you to say, my Lord."

Cole chimed in, the men sharing a look. "May I ask you a question, Miss Rose?"

Y/N nodded, watching them as they drew closer to her.

"Would it be alright if I call upon you tomorrow?" He asked.

Samuel added, "I too, would wish to do that, as well."

Her eyes widened, "I beg your pardon?"

"You are merely unlike any lady I have ever encountered. Unlike any we have met before. And I am certain that both of us would cherish the opportunity to become better acquainted with you." Cole explained genuinely.

"Even after I've insulted you to your face?" She sassed.

"Even more so, yes." Samuel's eyes glimmered mischievously.

Y/N questioned, "Are you sure that would be wise?"

"I would say it's about as wise as you being in a room, alone, with the two of us. Unchaperoned." Cole's voice deepened, causing Y/N's eyes to flutter.

Y/N suddenly became very aware of how close the Lords were to her. Her lips parted, wanting to gasp, but she was rendered speechless. She glanced between the two of them, watching as the space between them and her came to an almost close. Her back was up against the window sill, and she could feel the heat of Sam and Cole's bodies rolling off onto hers.

She closed her eyes tightly, savoring the moment. This was her first time truly feeling stirred by the presence of a man. Multiple men.

"But you are gentlemen." She choked out.

His eyes darkened. "Of course. We would never do anything untoward an honorable young lady, like yourself."

"All you have to do is say so, and we'll stop." Sam uttered huskily.

Cole spun Y/N to face him, her mouth falling open in surprise. He stared at her devilishly, his eyes taking in every part of her slowly. A breath blew across the back of Y/N's neck, startling her. She glanced over her shoulder through hooded eyes to see Sam, closing the space between her and him. His mouth danced up her neck, stopping right under her ear.

"Do you want us to stop?" Cole whispered softly.

Y/N shuddered a breath, his hands cupping her waist as he stepped closer to her. His mouth was on the other side of her neck, peppering light kisses up and down her throat. Y/N closed her eyes, her chest heaving as her breath fought to catch up. Y/N had had one kiss before in her entire life, right before coming out into society. And she had heard whispers of what... intimacy, between a man and woman was like.

But this was a whole new world for her.

Heat pooled low in her stomach as the men traced their lips over her skin, breathing her in. Sam's hands rested lightly on her lower back, tracing up and down her corset lining. Cole's hands rubbed up and down her bare arms, goosebumps rising in their wake.

Their bodies were firm up against hers. It was almost like a waltz the way the Lords' movements guided her. She was entranced by it all, following their every direction. Then, suddenly it hit her.

She won. And not only did she win, but the clock was very close to midnight. And it was time to leave.

Y/N took a deep breath, something she felt she hadn't done in ages, and slithered her way out from between each man.

"Well, gentlemen, this has been a lovely evening. But I must be getting home." Y/N stated calmly.

Both men were stunned into silence, again, by her. "Wh... What?"

"Did I say something surprising?" She gazed innocently at them, then headed towards the door.

Samuel and Cole stared at her in awe, an almost amused smile resting on their lips. She truly was incomparable.

As she opened the door to the study, Samuel called out, "You must tell us who you are, at the very least."

She paused, her hand resting on the handle. She had considered making her getaway, not letting them know who she was. But part of her wondered what their faces would look like once they knew it was her, Y/N, that left them this way. Hot and bothered.

She untied her mask slowly, holding it delicately in her hands. She turned back to the Lords, gazing at them both.

"Goodnight, Lord Golbach and Lord Brock. I hope you have a splendid evening." She bowed, and rushed out, taking the stairs quickly.

Sam and Cole stood in silence for a while, reliving the moments they had just shared with Y/N. Neither one could wrap their minds about what took place, or that it was Y/N - of all people - that had caused these feelings to occur. Feelings that both men had not experienced in a very long time, if ever.

Sam stuck his hand out to Cole, raising an eyebrow at him. "May the best man win."

Cole smirked, grasping his friend's hand tightly. "Indeed."

The gentlemen knew only one of them would win Y/N's heart. And now it was time to see who could ever conquer such a feat.

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bunnwich · 3 months ago

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Say Bunnwhich, I'm kind curious...

What got ya to love Lil Lion Leona in the 1st place? :3

WHY DO I LIKE LEONA???

Sorry for the long yap as usual but, I feel like every once in a while ppl ask me this very question and I feel like I have been in twst hell for so long it’s like ancient history now. VGBHNJMK

TBH I very strongly disliked Leona's character when he came on screen when I first started to play twst. I found Chapter 2 to be very flat compared to Chapter 1 and I had very little sympathy for him and his backstory. To me, it was clear he was just the "hot, brooding character" archetype and I had no interest in him whatsoever.

HOWEVER, when I became more active in the fandom, my friend @comingyourlugubriousness and others began to ship my Yuu with him as a joke bc of my said dislike. And, yeah I begin to write lil scenarios where they’d interact and challenged myself to make a logical way he would even be interested in my Yuu in the first place?

THAT GOT ME THINKING and I saw how he used to be characterized in fics and stuff and I really just didn't agree??? Even to this day, I feel like some ppl go in two extremes with him. 1.) Where they wash down his personality in order for him to fit in into this “prince charming role" OR 2.) They make him the worst bastard ever, which can lead into certian problematic connotations.

When I went to write my own fics I had watched all of his vignettes and understood better what his true personality is. The main story does not do much to make him likable to a general audience sometimes IMO. And so I became interested in how and why so many ppl interpret his character so wrong?? (My opinion ofc)

And so my journey began as prob one of the biggest Leona apologists ever.

To answer the question better I guess. What do I LIKE about him?

I like him bc in order to enjoy him you really have to read between the lines and do your own work as a fan to find the intriguing parts of him! It's just fun!

I actually find him very relatable, his burnout and seemingly ultra competitive but still “work smarter” not harder attitude is something I gel with and feels very realistic for someone his age.

YES, I think his design is nice but honestly it's the least interesting thing about him to me. I will always enjoy long hair on men that's no secret. According to some friends I "have a type” but eh.

I like that he uses his sorta rude and grumpy ruse to scare ppl off. I personally subscribe to the idea that underneath all that sass he's just a lil cantankerous grandpa stuck in a 20 year old’s body, who likes to yap about chess and dead languages.

He’s a nerd and likes books.

He's a true hater. 💚

I feel like he'd never judge your appearance, for eating too much or being lazy.

I feel like he's a caretaker and would always look out for you.

I think he'd be a good teacher and big brother and a lot of his more amiable qualities remind me of my own S/O who is so, so smart and charismatic and who I love very much!

I say "I think/feel" on a lot of this bc TBH the headcanons I have made for him over my time in the fandom are probably 80% the reason I like him, yk?

SO, if I had to sum it up that probably why! I could say more but I’ll spare ya’ll. 💚💚💚

#ask #ren speaks🌱#leona kingscholar #From a character perspective #he's just so interesting to talk about idk #like there's even so much I wanna ramble about with the new event but I will save my thoughts.

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uglypastels · 1 year ago

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Darling pls would u mind writing a fic with OPLA Buggy where the reader is like a big fan of him. The type that wants his autograph, likes his shows and stuff like that and so Buggy melts for his little supporter and tries to impress them more and more bc for once he’s loved 💗🥰

no but i absolutely love this idea!! thank you so much for requesting it

masterlist | inbox - requests open

warnings: drinking. slightly dark themes - it's buggy after all. but nothing explicitly mentioned.

His Biggest Fan

How he did not notice you staring was a miracle. You knew it wasn't right, but how else could you make sure that it really was him?

Well, it probably didn't require that much to figure it out. After all, how many other pirates had long blue hair, a red nose, and that kind of make-up? At least, around where you were from, none.

That is why you had never expected to see him walk into this dingy little bar with his crew. You watched him from your table, from the edge of your cup, switching glances between his figure and the wanted poster that hung on the wall- more as an accomplishment than a warning, really- among the many others.

15 million Berry. A pirate doesn't get such a bounty for nothing. You had heard the tales of the Flashy Fool, the Genius Jester. The Ringleader of the most notorious outcasts and freaks in the East Blue, and somehow, he was sitting only two tables away from you.

You kept your eye on him the entire night, constantly egging yourself on to just go for it, to walk up to him and say something, anything.

Finally, encouraged by another large drink, you decided to make your move and walk over to the table.

He was sitting at the head of it, looking unimpressed as his crew drank the bar cry, smiling but never laughing at the jokes being made, generally uninterested by the conversations, thoughts far away from the island you all found yourselves on.

You cleared your throat, trying to call out his name, but it just got washed out by the noise around you. After another lost attempt, you tried to tap his shoulder, but before your hand reached it, his hand snapped up, nearly slapping you in the face.

'What?' He snapped alongside his limbs, looking over at you. His eyes glared with anger momentarily before softening up the slightest amount when he realised who was trying to speak to him.

'I'm sorry, sir.' You did your best to stop your voice from shaking. Some of his crew had stopped their conversations to look over at what their captain was doing, and you tried to ignore them as much as you could. 'Are you the pirate... Buggy?'

The acknowledgement sparked something up in him, and the corners of his wide smile grew even larger.

'The one and only,' he nodded his head, pleased, 'and who may you be?'

Nervously, you introduced yourself and watched him mouth your name to himself, grinning that wicked grin of his.

'I've heard a lot about you- about the things you've done. It's- well, it is quite impressiveve.'

'Why, thank you.' He cocked his head to the side, almost in bewilderment at the fact that someone might have found his accomplishments noteworthy. 'So, is there anything I can help you with?'

'Oh,' well, now that you were here, you weren't really sure what you had expected from approaching the pirate. 'No, I just wanted to- I'm not really sure.' You laughed off your own nerves and the silliness of the situation.

'Now, now, honey, no need to get so shy with me.' He picked up his drink. 'Tell me, are you a pirate?'

'Me? Oh no,' you, who never had left your small island and lived your days working on your family's farm outside of town, where the only form of excitement was to meet the fascinating figures that sailed by the harbour. 'I'm just-'

'A fan?' Buggy filled the gap in for you. 'Admirer?'

'I suppose so.' Your cheeks flushed hot.

'Never considered just sailing off into the distance? Seeking treasure and fame? No?' He read your body language as you responded to him with a shaking head. 'No. I wouldn't think so.'

He smiled at you, and so the quick turn from this kindness to the manic yell he shot at his crew, who had been giving him interested looks, was startling 'What the hell are you morons looking at?' he shouted out. The shock of it was enhanced by the fact that he reverted back to you and his smile just as quickly afterwards.

It should have scared you. Perhaps it even did, but you easily could have mistaken the fear for excitement. There was just something so raw and refreshing about the pirate captain, something you had never seen in any man before.

Buggy leaned over the table to look up at you, knuckles under his chin. 'But I bet you would want to go on a big adventure, hmm?'

'Uhm...'

'Go out into the world, follow your dreams? I'm sure there is something out there you'd want?' But was there? Your world so far had been so small that dreams had never even felt like an option.

When you didn't answer, Buggy sat back in his chair. 'Perhaps not. The pirate life isn't for everyone, is it, sugar?' He chuckled. 'Anything else I can do you for? An autograph maybe?'

'Oh, I don't mean to bo-' you didn't want to seem like the annoying kind of "fan", after all, but Buggy wasn't having any of it.

'Nonsense!' He clicked his fingers, and someone at the other end of the table got up and ripped the captain's wanted poster off the wall. They handed it to him as Buggy pulled a pen from the inside of his coat, signing his name in large, scratchy letters. 'Anything for my... biggest fan.'

Another hot flash came over your face as he handed you the poster.

'Thank you,' you said, unsure. Surprised. For an infamous pirate with a bounty of millions of Berry on his head, he was nothing like you had expected him to be. Not with that smile he gave you or the wink he had sent you off with.

And so, you left the bar. A big smile adorned your face, and you thought of your interaction with Buggy for the rest of the night.

And he did, too. He kept you in his mind's eye as he listened to his crew's schemes on how to take charge of the island they had just sailed to. The plans they had for the citizens. He could already see it take shape. The biggest audience he's ever had, all sitting and watching him. Crying and laughing with him. With you, his number one fan, as his special guest of honour.

Oh, the plans he had for the two of you.

#buggy x reader #buggy x y/n #buggy the clown #buggy fanfiction #buggy blurb #buggy fanfic #buggy fic #one piece fanfiction #one piece fanfic #one piece fic #one piece blurb #blurb #fanfiction #fic #fanfic #request

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hedwig221b · 6 months ago

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Fic authors self rec!

When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤

I got tagged by @cozyrosykay, thank you, love!

This is gonna be interesting…

Predators

He was born for this. Nature itself whispered into his ear where he should put his hands, how to twirl his tongue just right and when to bite. Stiles knew well enough that his saliva was currently working its magic on this unfortunate man, making him hungry, lustful, and insatiable. Soon, all his thoughts would be consumed by Stiles.

And, just this once, Stiles would allow Derek to consume him.

I still consider this my best work (yet! bc I'm writing something currently and y'all… it's a contender). But it's so fucking good, I'm sorry, but it is! Each time I finished writing another piece, I closed the doc and told myself that this is the best thing ever. I love how gentle Derek is with Stiles, I love how persistent he is with his love, almost arrogant with his confidence. He's like oh well, Stiles is confused but it'll pass. I'll be here anyway. Forever. !!!!!! I love Stiles as a creature, and I love him embracing the darkness and being unapologetic about it. I love this fic so much.

Eros Mania Amor

“I am just reminding you that Stiles is married. To me. All you can do is imagine, and I get to do all of those things you��re dreaming of to him. Yes, I know. I know everything you and others think,” Hale opened his eyes and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His smile was despicable in its selfishness. “I know what you dream of when you look at his lips—”

“Stop it.” Jordan shook his head.

“— because I am the same as you,” the wolf ignored him. “I imagined everything you did, it’s just happened that my dream became the life that I get to live. He is here,” he tapped his own temple, “and here,” he tapped his chest. “And you would have to kill me to get us separated.”

This fucking fic… I was high on reading Dracula, and I love classics, and I definitely put all my love for it here. I love the language in this, the intrigue, the misleading. I also love when sterek's love is so overwhelming and unbreakable. I also kinda ate with the imagery in last sentences... I ate in general with this fic lmao

Torn Apart and Set Anew

“Someone’s here,” Stiles whispered, feeling weirdly numb.

The metal latch clicked. With ice filling his lungs and his fingers shaking terribly, Stiles swiveled his head in the direction of a window and froze for a beat of a second.

There was a face behind the glass.

Forgettable and plain, but at the same time familiar face.

This deserves more attention, and it's probably my fault for putting a weird summary resulting in it not getting a lot. Anyway, I love the suspence. I love Stiles' stubborness and I love the plot twist. About that: I like how I make it obvious who's the villain and (I hope) the reader thinks they already got the plot twist... But then the real plot twist comes and it's like... FUCK. Also Derek in this is soo…. ugh... and the ending!!! Asffgghjjkhgrjsskr

Treasure

“I know you don’t trust me,” Derek grunted. When Stiles inhaled to retort, Derek caught his chin and pressed a finger against his lips, making the boy freeze in place, eyes impossibly wide. “Don’t argue. I expected it. Wolves don’t trust easily, too. I just wanted you to know that… I’m sorry. I was selfish and didn’t see what was in front of me. You don’t need to worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

It was a thought that grew in his mind, spread to his heart and took root there, reincorporating into a deep desire and a vital need. Derek will take care of him and his little pup, he’ll bring the hearts of his enemies and put them at the boy’s feet. He’ll court and he’ll conquer.

I have my issues with this fic but ELI!!!! KIRA!!! DEREK!!! iykyk lol but yeah I often go back to this fic just to reread Eli parts, I loved writing baby Eli, he's gonna come back in Jane Eyre au for sure. I also never cried this hard during writing a fic, not before and not since. That scene... One of the best scenes I've written, the grief is so raw and scolding... shit I might reread this...

your fangs against my skin (the sound of your bones)

This was it, then, huh? It was that easy for Derek to invite someone to his den. Someone other than Stiles.

He healed the wolf. Stiles killed his tormentor, mended his blood and bones, and let him sleep beside him. But none of it was enough.

He wasn’t a spark, after all, but a witch — evil and alone, locked up in his tower.

Witches didn’t get happy endings.

One of my recent gems, I would even call it mild in terms of darkness and angst. It's a comfort fic for me. I love how relaxed Derek is around Stiles, how both of them crave each other's comfort and give it so easily. I also loved Stiles' witchiness, he's so weird and fun lmao, also LYDIA

Tagging gently in case y'all already did this: @dear-massacre @renmackree @endwersed @nerdherderette @thotpuppy @invisible-storyteller @eevylynn

#sterek #sterek fic #stiles x derek #eternal sterek #sterek fanfic #stiles stilinski #derek hale #derek x stiles #sterek ao3 #sterek fic rec #teen wolf fic rec #teen wolf fic #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf au #sterek fanfiction #my fics #fandom game

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trashcanwithsprinkles · 1 month ago

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hi! I wanted to ask questions about how you proceed to write:

Do you have a general idea with plot twits and such figured out? like general guidelines and then go crazy and write these amazing fics or you just go with the flow?

How do you establish world building? Like, all the fics I've read from you (which are more than great) got lots of info in the world building though strangely enough (in a good way) I wasn't lost on it? Like Cyanide Narwhal has crazy lore to it with lots of characters and stuff going on but as you read you get what happens even though hundreds of stuff happen at once. HOW DO YOU DO IT :0

How do you write so smooth also? Like going from one scene to another makes total sense without there being a cut? (idk if i make any sense sorry ^^').

Finally, how do you explain feelings so well? Well not explaining directly but making us FEEL *looking at cyanide narwhal and i think you're so good (and i'm nothing like you)*. I think that the description of them interacting helps w it (like the way Zhongli looks at Ajax (i am melting please thats so cute-) but even the interaction between Ajax and the kids (big brother behavior)

oh god

i do always have a general idea on how the story is going to go, like what plotbeats i want to hit and what i want to happen. but since it's not a good idea to marry to one path, the details for how things happen or how we get from point a to point b specifically i usually come up with on-the-go, and i do leave room for modifications. like i have a million fic ideas and scenes i want to write but i never actually write any if i cannot picture two things: 1, what the point of it is (the main climax, the main mystery, etc), and 2, how it ends. (the reason why most wips don't make it past a couple chapters is bc i struggle to picture the ending accurately, or how to get there)

i genuinely have no idea how to explain the world building, i'm sorry lmao. if i really had to think about it, no joke, i think i'd say this was stardew valley's fault. yes you read that correctly. more specifically, the earmuffs item. now- it might not be evident as it is rn w the way i write, since it's been a while since i've started doing my worldbuilding like this and obviously it's evolved and gotten more complex w time, but- for those unaware, stardew isn't a game you play for the worldbuilding per se. for the deep world lore. especially pre-ginger island update (1.6?). but there IS worldbuilding, it's just you don't really see it, it's not the point of the game. you're there to grow crops tend to animals suffer in the mines and get a partner. that's it. but you know there's more outside the town and the valley. you know the biggest city nearby is called zuzu, you know what the sea is called, you know there is a war going on in the background, you know there is an empire involved, you know lewis might be the mayor of the town but he's still under the governor of the region. you know there's witches and spirits and elemental beings and aliens n shit. the fucking earmuffs were sort of like my epiphany years back bc their description says they're lined w artisanal velvet from castle village. what the fuck is castle village?? were you ever going to tell me about it outside of those fucking earmuffs? does it even matter? no. it doesn't matter. but just because it doesn't matter doesn't mean the earmuffs stop being an artisanal item from castle village. just because it doesn't matter what the sea is called doesn't stop it from being the gem sea specifically. the fact that you only care, gameplay-wise, about your farm and pelican town- it doesn't stop your country from being at war, from being called the ferngill republic. the world of the game exists outside of what matters to you for the plot. and so even if you're never going to find out some of these things if you don't look, they're going to be there anyway.

i don't know if that makes any sense. it probably doesn't LMAO a probably better way to explain it is like- write stuff the same way you hear our own world being talked about irl. does it matter for the 'plot' of your day if your mother says she's going to one specific supermarket? no. does she still call it by name? most likely. that's just how it works. you know it exists because this is the world you live in, regardless as to how much it matters to the actual 'plot'. it's not there exclusively to serve the purpose of aiding the plot, but because it's a part of your world and therefore must be connected to the world beyond you. the world will only read like it's lived in if the characters speak about it like they actually live in it.

i'm not actually sure that answers the question now that i think about it. it's just- i trully don't know how to answer it. i don't know what i'm doing that makes it interesting and not a complete mess to read even if it IS a complete mess. the only explanation i can think of is that: that i write the characters interacting with their world as though they actually live there. the plot is just something that happens to an already existing, already established world.

also i think you might be merging lore and worldbuilding with plot. yes, the worldbuilding and lore in my fics are absurd, but that alone i don't think would be hard to keep up with. it's the plot also being absurd what makes it seem like there's a lot going on at once (there is, just- in two different fronts). like there's not a million things happening at once in the worldbuilding - there's a million things happening at once in the plot. you're finding out a lot of stuff about the world at the same time, is the thing. anyway,

scene transition without the cuts being smooth i also am not sure how to explain. that's probably on me for not following scene structures properly tbh. so uh- no clue here chief, i'm sorry. i don't even have a guess as with the worldbuilding.

with the writing feelings i do have somewhat of a guess- it genuinely might be some undiagnosed brain fuckery i have. kinda like how the inside joke of asexuals being shockingly good at writing sex scenes goes. if you have a different-than-intended perspective on the stuff, it would probably lead to a different approach to writing it. but other than that i also am not sure

i think the main takeaway is i don't know shit LMAOOOOO

#anyway uhhh #i hope that was an interesting read even if i know i only answered like. one question properly #my bad #ily <3

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asimplearchivist · 1 year ago

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‘ 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ steven, unbeknownst to him, meets the love of his life at one of its lowest points. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader word count ☾ 15.7k a/n ☽ [gif credit] ⤏ aka my personal love letter to one steven grant (and myself, because I want to be loved like I love just once).⤏ i am going to be completely honest on this one, guys: this is a borderline self-insert fic that is 100% self-indulgent on my part bc i have felt like shit the last two months and want to treat myself. ⤏ i kept it as a reader-insert because a) some people (including myself) enjoy experiencing different ‘pov’s of reader-inserts, per se; b) it’s easier to be kinder to and romanticize myself when it’s ‘not me’; and c) i feel that it’s still vague/inclusive enough to be counted as a general reader-insert versus labeling it strictly as a self-insert/original character. i really only describe personality traits and the reader being petite, really (bc nothing comforts my 5’0” ass more than knowing i would actually be able to kiss the boys without craning my neck all the way back tbh). i use a few southern colloquialisms, too, just fyi. :) ⤏ typical moon knight fanfic disclaimer: I don’t claim to know very much about did beyond what I’ve gleaned from both the show, the various meta posts I’ve read on tumblr, and from other fanfics themselves, so please forgive and correct me on any glaring discrepancies/issues I may have presented here (or link me any posts that discuss more accurate representations of did, perhaps—that’d be greatly appreciated). some of the terminology/technicalities escape me. I tried my best to get their voices and characterizations just right, and I sincerely hope I succeeded bc they’re very special to me. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER ☽

The first time Steven met you, it was strictly by happenstance.

He had always considered himself a man with many friends. Although his routine was relatively simple compared to other Londoners who thrived in social settings and spent all of their free time anywhere but home to mingle and chase tail, he had familiar faces he saw frequently. He committed their names to memory when they’d give them off-handedly, he made a point to speak to them in passing even if he or they were otherwise occupied, and he kept a mental list composed of all the details he was able to glean strictly from observation when they didn’t readily volunteer the information.

Perhaps it was a little silly. All lot of them had trouble remembering him, sure, but he couldn’t hold it against them—tons of people had trouble keeping track of faces and people. Sure, JB never quite got his name right even after Steven had worked at the museum for a couple of months by now, but he was a busy man monitoring the security cameras all day long and stayed distracted (with his infatuation with otters, no less—as endearing of a trait as any for someone with a secret soft side). Donna stayed in a tizzy, always worked up over something beyond her control (Steven couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be dealing with the higher-ups trying to meet goals and attempting to exceed them). He didn’t really dislike them for it, even if it had grown rather grating as of late. (Even if it would only take them both a moment to look at his conveniently given and placed nametag.)

Crowley didn’t talk much, all part of the gig, so Steven didn’t hold their one-sided conversations against him, either. The gentleman with the broom cart (whose name Steven never had managed to catch, as gruff as he was) seemed only to ever respond with grunts. The security guards, the tour guides, the usual suspects on the morning and night bus rides…Steven interacted with them all, and they had enough good graces to acknowledge it most of the time.

Over time, however, as his dreams (or perhaps more aptly named nightmares) grew more vivid and more bizarre, as he seemed to lose track of time more and more (how exactly does one manage to miss an entire weekend when one isn’t a blackout drunk?), and as Steven’s anxiety led him into taking more and more precautions to make sure his self-diagnosed sleepwalking disorder didn’t strand him on the other side of London (again), it became more readily apparent that those people with whom he took such care to converse did not seem particularly inclined to return the favor. Sure, he’d accidentally nodded off a few times leaning on the other passengers in the morning bus, ran a little late at times getting to the museum (much to Donna’s ever-increasing ire), and maybe got a little carried away with his nattering when he got invested in something he was excited to share information about, but…would it really kill someone just to respond long enough to reassure him that he wasn’t virtually invisible?

It was one such morning after he overslept, convinced he was late, and worked himself into a right and proper state trying to get to the museum on time that he realized that it was, in fact, Sunday, not Saturday. Much to his bewilderment but proven by his phone, the museum stood barren and closed, doors locked and lights off. He stood at the entrance staring at his dumbfounded expression in the glass for a good five minutes, thoughts racing as he tried to recall anything about the previous day. There was no way he slept an entire day, right? He hadn’t been staying up too late trying to manage his disorder, even if he had been running a little tired lately.

His distress was punctuated by a fat, chilly droplet landing right on his nose. The early spring weather was unseasonably cold this year, leading to an abnormally wet season (as if rain could ever be abnormal in London, but the meteorologists remained convinced), and within seconds of Steven turning and trotting down the steps the skies parted and released their torrential downpour as if just to spite him specifically. Everyone else in the immediate vicinity, if they weren’t holed up in their cars or the myriad establishments bordering the museum district, already had their umbrellas up to shield themselves from the frigid onslaught, ambling along and circumnavigating the puddles lingering from the storm the night before..

Steven shrank into his coat, tugging the collar up and over his head as best he could as he crossed the street and aimed for the first building he saw with its neon, ivory OPEN sign glowing against the gloom—on the corner directly across from the museum entrance. The door was heavy, the handle cold enough he was surprised his palm didn’t stick to it, but he managed to pry it open and tumble inside.

A few people glanced up from their tables to give him a range of skeptical to humored looks before going about their business. Steven hedged to the side of the door in case someone else came in, dripping onto the old hardwood with no small amount of regret.

It was a coffee shop. Comfortingly warm against his numb face, he basked in the scents of espresso and sweets permeating the place. His attention was caught by the bookshelves on the wall to his right, and he was entranced—all until a barista slipped out from the kitchen and addressed him with a croon. “Oh, goodness, look like the weather caught you!”

Steven almost accidentally ignored you thinking that you were talking to someone else (for so rarely did someone speak to him in a tone that wasn’t irritated or dismissive). After his cursory glance in your direction, he did a double-take, realizing you were looking right at him.

“Yeah, I—looked at the forecast wrong, methinks!” he responded sheepishly (and he had—he’d been expecting Saturday’s overcast mist, not Sunday’s shower). “I’m makin’ a right mess, aren’t I? I should probably go before I warp the stain—”

“No! No, just wait a second.” You raised a placating palm before dipping below sight behind the counter. You emerged and rounded the corner next to the display case holding a towel, walking right up to him and offering it to him with a sympathetic smile. “I can’t count the number of times I thought I could beat Mother Nature,” you joked. “It sucks that it’s been so cold on top of it. I’m surprised I haven’t gotten sick.”

Steven accepted it graciously, muttering his earnest thanks as he went about mopping up his sopping curls. Once he’d wiped all the rain he could off of him, he handed it back to you. “Hope I don’t get one, neither,” he responded. “It just wouldn’t do to catch cold in the middle of all this, would it? No.”

You chuckled a bit, eyes glittering with mirth. “Maybe it’ll help if I get you something hot to drink?”

Steven glanced at the menu hanging on the wall behind the counter, eyes rounding a little at the prices. He’d overspent on books again after payday, so he was having to be a bit more frugal this week than usual. “Oh, no, don’t go to the trouble, I’ll just call a cab and get a ride home before it gets too bad.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” you assured him, wringing the towel between your hands. You hesitated only a heartbeat before you leaned in a little closer, smile turning a bit bashful. “I’ll make it on the house, how’s that sound?”

Steven normally considered himself one to give where charity was concerned, but he had to admit that the sound of something warm on his urgently empty stomach was divine at the moment. He cleared his throat, glancing towards the other customers still wrapped up in their own little worlds. “No, I couldn’t—wouldn’t want anyone jealous that they’re not gettin’ the special treatment, you know.”

“It can be our little secret,” you offered quietly, winking conspiratorially at him.

He blinked, heat creeping up into his face. “Oh, well. If you insist, then…just this once?”

“All right.” Your smile lit up your entire face, and you headed back behind the counter to deposit the towel in an unseen hamper.

Steven followed, training his eyes on the menu—the standard fare was reasonable, with alternative options for dietary restrictions. A lot of the custom concoctions did seem lovely, and he was a tad surprised to discover that they served breakfast and lunch, also—with vegan options, most notably. “Wow, I never even knew this place existed. I must’ve been walkin’ right by it this whole time.”

“Do you work at the museum?” you inquired, folding your arms over the counter and propping your chin up in your palm.

“I do, actually,” he beamed, though it was dashed a tad with his next confession. “I want to be a tour guide one day—you know, I’ve been studyin’ up for it and all—but they’ve got me in the gift shop. For now! They said they’d move me up with a new position becomes available.” They said that they would consider him for the role, but Steven clung to his hope that they’d soon realize how bloody good he’d be at it, as hard as he’d been working for it for so long.

“You always have to start somewhere,” you replied warmly. You gestured to the shop around you. “This is just to hold me over ‘til I’m finished up.”

“Are you a transfer student?” Steven asked.

Your brow rose slightly, but your smile didn’t waver. “How observant. Most people ask me how I got lost on this side of the pond.”

“It isn’t often I see Americans anywhere but in the more touristy spots,” he agreed, “but the university is quite prestigious. You must be very academically successful if you landed a transfer scholarship like that.”

“It took a lot of work,” you admitted, “but it’s been worth it. I never thought I’d do anything like this, and I would’ve laughed at you a couple of years ago if you’d told me I’d move this far away from home. I’ve never really been the traveling type, but I’m so grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to do so.”

“What are you studyin’?” Steven inquired. An English major, perhaps—you struck him as the literary type with your articulation, despite your soft, southern drawl.

“Oh.” Your face darkened and you fiddled with the hem of your sweatshirt—dark gray, warm flannel, with a silver astronomical design embroidered into the front. “Well. I went to a university back home and got a degree in writing—” Nailed it! “—but I was notified at graduation that I qualified for this so I thought why not? It’s a bit self-indulgent, really, as I’ve always been a history nut, but I’m, um…” You reached up and scratched the nape of your neck, glancing away as though embarrassed. “...focusing on Egyptology?”

Steven’s brows shot halfway up his forehead. “No kiddin’!”

“Nope,” you confessed, a bit sheepish. “I picked up a book with pictures of King Tutankhamun’s treasures when I was three and I’ve been in love with it since. Maybe it’s a little niche, but it makes me happy—I’m taking other history classes, too, so I’ll end up with an Ancient History major with a minor in Egyptology—that’s just my main focus since I always wanted to be an Egyptologist when I was little. I don’t know that I could ever stand the heat, though, so I’m happy with writing in the comfort of my own home.”

“No, that’s great!” he raved, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m a bit of a history buff meself! The museum has a huge Egyptology exhibit coming up next month, so I’ve been brushin’ up on it all. You know, in case I get to audition.”

“Oh, yeah?” you tried, emerging from your shell just a bit. “Do you have a favorite period?”

“New Kingdom, definitely,” he said immediately. His heart was thrumming, and he was trying (in vain) to contain at least the majority of his enthusiasm. “There’s just so much material to go through. All the texts recovered from Deir el-Medina fascinate me to no end!”

“Yeah, Paneb was a right bastard,” you joked. “He had the whole town stirred up all the time. But we’re not going to talk about Ea-Nasir.”

“Oh, yeah—imagine keepin’ all your hate mail for posterity,” he returned, strumming his fingers against the inside of his sleeves. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m an Old Kingdom gal,” you said with a chuckle. “Pepi II’s letter about the pygmy won me over. Not to mention all the drama with Teti’s assassination. The workmen’s village at Giza? Oh, how could I pick one thing?”

Finally! Finally, it felt like Steven was talking to someone that spoke his language!

“It’s really hard to, isn’t it?” His stomach was starting to grumble. He cleared his throat, tamping down his anticipation just enough to concentrate on the matter at hand. He glanced up at the menu again, a little remiss with some of the unfamiliar choices—most of those displayed were coffee, but he’d been trying to curb himself off of it in favor of cutting out caffeine altogether for a better sleep schedule. “I, um…sorry, got a little sidetracked there. What would you recommend that’s decaf?”

“Oh, I love chai,” you told him. “Most of the teas we carry are decaf, though we do have decaf coffee, too. We’ve got all the usuals like chamomile, mint, Earl Grey…” You tilted your head slightly. “I’ve been avoiding caffeine since I was a teenager—it makes me antsy.”

“How do you normally take your chai?” he queried, curious.

“As an iced latte,” you said. “Cold foam, cinnamon, whole milk. I like it warm, too, especially this time of year, but there’s something about it iced that I can’t seem to part from—maybe that’s the southern upbringing in me.” You gestured to the equipment behind you. “Would you like to try it?”

“Yeah, sure! But with oat milk, please?”

“You’ve got it, darlin’,” you beamed, and set to work immediately. “I usually drink a small since it’s a bit sweet, that okay?”

“Certainly.”

Never would Steven have thought that he’d find such a deeply kindred soul a stone’s throw away from his workplace he’d never even noticed before today. He had to confess that he was charmed by you almost instantly. It had been a while since he’d met someone so engaging and open—not to mention generous and drop-dead gorgeous to boot! Ironic, really, that the foreigner was treating him more kindly than his native kinsmen. What did the Americans say about southern hospitality?

“Thank you so much,” he said when you returned with the cup and set it in front of him. “It looks great!”

“Go ahead and try it,” you suggested, “and if you don’t like it, I’ll replace it for you with something else.”

Steven had absolutely no intention of telling you to your face that he disliked your favorite beverage, even if he did decide it wasn’t to his taste—much less make you go out of your way to make him another free drink. But as he sipped the heady, sweet mixture the spices melted over his tongue. Despite being served cold, the flavors warmed his mouth and settled cozily into his belly.

“Oh,” he suspired, licking the foam from his lips, “that’s lovely. You’ve won a convert.”

Your smile was nearly blinding with delight. “I’m glad! It’s not for everyone, certainly, but those who do like it always seem to love it. No in between, I guess.”

Steven resisted the urge to suck the entire thing down, folding it between his hands instead as he committed more details of your appearance to memory. Your black apron was a bit big for your frame, dwarfing you a bit, but your sweatshirt did, too—your jeans were well-fitted but not snug. You were wearing very little makeup, just a touch around the eyes, but it emphasized your lashes like a fawn’s. While comfortable, if a bit plain, your ensemble made you seem like the epitome of homey.

“How long have you lived in London?” he asked after another delightful sip.

“Since the start of spring semester,” you said. “It was a big adjustment to show up at the tail end of winter, but I think I’ve gotten the hang of it now for the most part. I still get lost occasionally, but that’s why Google Maps was invented. I’d be up a creek without a paddle without it.” You leaned against the counter again, bracing yourself on the stained surface and gazing up at him as if there existed no other person in the world. “I live right next to the campus, but I work here to get away even though my scholarships carry most of my bills and fees. Ironic, though, ‘cause I don’t exactly consider myself a socialite.”

“You’ve fooled me,” he said with a chuckle. “Bit odd bein’ an ambivert, yeah?”

“I really only talk a lot when I get excited or when I’m with people I’m comfortable being around,” you confessed shyly. “I’ve been told I talk too much about stuff nobody really cares about, so I try not to bother anyone.”

“Now who on earth would have gone and told you that?” he pressed, heart aching all the while. How many times had he been told the very same thing, sometimes with less polite wording?

“Oh, not exactly like that,” you rectified in a hurry, “it’s just…you can tell, you know? When someone isn’t really paying attention to anything you’re saying. I usually get interrupted anyway, so sometimes I find it easier just to keep quiet.” Your skin darkened again, and cleared your throat as you dipped your face to conceal it with a hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I went into all that. See? Rambling too much—words got away from me.”

It was like looking into a mirror—so much so that Steven almost felt a bit of deja-vu.

“No, don’t be sorry,” he said softly. “I understand completely—really, I do. Better than you might think.”

You raised your gaze back up to him, and he understood at once why the philosophers and poets both waxed so romantic on the concept of windows to the soul. He could see your tenderness, your diffidence, your sincerity all there in your jewel-like eyes.

“People talkin’ over you all the time,” he continued with a low murmur, looking down at the cup when the intensity of your stare grew too much—just like looking directly into the sun, “actin’ like you’re invisible or somethin’. Gets frustratin’, yeah? Couldn’t even bother to act like you’re there, could they? No. Seems like too much to ask.”

“Yeah,” you said somberly, but when Steven dared a glance up at you, your expression was one of complete understanding. Never before had he felt so seen. “It doesn’t help when you’re really not a people person to begin with.”

And now that Steven considered it more deeply, he realized that you were right—why did he prefer to stay home rather than go out? Keeping company with a goldfish certainly wasn’t an extrovert’s definition of a good time. Hell, the only reason he really went out of his way to engage with those on the fringes of his daily routine was because he felt it was rude not to because of constant exposure, not because he was itching to have the conversations themselves. He worried constantly that he’d overshare or annoy people, when most wouldn’t even think of it.

He let out a soft laugh, pressing a palm across his forehead.

You quirked a brow, your expression perking up just a bit at the sound. “What?”

“I just realized I’m not really a people person, either,” he said, shaking his head. “Thought all this time everyone else was just awkward at social interaction.”

“Oh,” you chuckled, and there was that ephemeral sparkle of mirth back in your eyes. “Well. Better late than never, right?”

“Right.” He paused, then set the drink on the counter to fish around in his pocket for his wallet. “Here, since you’ve been an absolute angel—”

“Oh, no, please,” you said, waving your palms at him in an attempt to dissuade him, “it was my pleasure. Finding someone else as big of a nerd about Ancient Egypt was tip enough, thank you. You’ve made my whole day.”

And even though his morning thus far had been an utter disaster, Steven believed that you had made his entire day, too.

“Well, all right.” He pointed a finger at you with a wry, toothy grin. “But next time you won’t be able to talk me out of it.”

“Next time?” you echoed, and the unadulterated hope in your eyes made his heart clench.

“Yeah,” he said, “where else will I be able to order the ambrosia of the gods? And nerd out about ancient civilizations? Not all baristas carry a double-edged sword like you do.”

You bit your lip, rolled the hem of your sleeve between your fingertips, and looked down and away. “Oh, stop it. It’s really just a hobby.” You gave him another cheeky smile. “But, if it would make a difference to you, since you seem the type…” You leaned in across the counter, and Steven found himself copying the action as though you had magnetized him. “...there’s a bookstore upstairs, too.”

Oh, bloody Nora, as if you weren’t already perfect enough.

It wasn’t until Steven returned home, soaked to the bone and shivering from the cold that seeped into his bones after running from the cab into the apartment building, that he realized he hadn’t thought to ask you for your name. And he was normally so reliable about it, too! He kicked himself for it the rest of the day. He hadn’t even looked to see if you’d been wearing a name tag (pretty sure you weren’t, because he would have noticed it, surely), but he had been so disarmed by you in general that every other thought had flown from his brain.

After that, with the scribbled ingredients on the cup immortalized forever via a picture saved on his phone, he developed a fast habit of stopping by there at least three times a week. He had to rearrange his budget just a tad to ensure it did not turn into blatant overspending, but all the teas were excellent and the food was even better. Oftentimes he’d grab at least one meal from there one the days he did decide to go, which varied depending on how terribly he’d slept the night before. Most of the time he opted for lunch since he was afforded only a half-hour break and it was the closest spot to the museum. (The vending machines didn’t have much in the way of variety, vegan options notwithstanding.)

He learned your name the next time he saw you, which had taken a couple of separate attempts—evidently you’d been filling in for someone else for extra hours that dreary morning, as you usually came in for the closing shift during the week due to your morning classes, and typically were station in the bookstore upstairs, at that. You’d confessed that a lot of the part-timers were still inexperienced, and the staff oscillated so much that you had to juggle multiple positions throughout the week in order for the business to keep up efficiency.

Steven decided, at some indeterminate point a couple of weeks later, that you must be sunshine incarnate. Even if there was barely any daylight seeping through the brumous mantle looming over the sleepy city, you lit up the place with your warm smile, easy laughter, and gentle soul. He could spend countless hours talking to you, although he was usually only limited to the time allotted between him ordering and someone else coming in to do the same. After he got off work late after inventory (again), on the rare occasion that he’d missed lunch and needed supper, you gave him some of the free handouts the employees were allowed to take home and let him sit and talk while you locked the place up.

It was just so easy. Where he’d struggled to even introduce himself properly without making himself out to be a bumbling fool with everyone else with whom he’d interacted, fighting against an invisible current of perceived disapproval and rejection, engaging with you was as natural as breathing. You shared so many adjacent passions with him, the both of you had never once run out of topics to peruse. When either you or he would bring up something with which the other was unfamiliar, all ears would be given in total enrapturement. You got him. You understood him. It was such a relief to have finally found someone with whom he felt comfortable enough to natter on about the Edwin Smith papyrus for a solid thirty minutes without ever losing interest. Neither still had he stopped to imagine what it would be like to be so caught up in what someone else had to say, because you sure knew a hell of a lot about mythology, too—listening to your humored yet romanticized renditions of the tales delighted him to no end.

Your book recommendations were always impeccable, likewise—although you did primarily focus on fiction unless conducting research for your own books, your taste in storytelling relied upon well-developed, detailed, and impactful characters that carried the plot rather than the other way around. (You seemed to genuinely enjoy all of his recommendations, too, despite your general avoidance of nonfiction other than history, much to his relief.) You had a soft spot for romance, whether it was found in modern, historical fiction, fantasy, or sci-fi settings, and Steven took careful note of your mentioned favorite stories, scenes, and characters when he read them himself. You’d both even started annotating and trading books to exchange reviews, and your infectious adoration of certain authors and series decidedly did not help his book collecting problem—although you confessed that you shared the same issue (only to your bank account, though). The used section of the bookstore upstairs was his dream, really—he never thought he’d manage it, naively, but he was actually starting to run out of bookshelves in his flat.

You were fiercely intelligent, hilariously witty, and unbelievably kind—a breath of fresh air where London normally left him suffocated. You were the one ray of sunlight that could pierce the gloom that would encroach on the fringes of his mood no matter how badly he felt. Visiting you was the one routine that kept him grounded, even when he only seemed to lose track of more and more time as he went along—it kept him sane, seeing the way your whole face would light up like a supernova whenever he’d slip through the door. It made him feel normal.

So when a full month had flown by since your first meeting (a happenstance for which Steven would be eternally grateful), he found himself relying on your anchoring presence more and more. The occasions that he was waking up from sleepwalking in completely random places around London were increasing at a worrying rate. No matter how many additional precautions he added to his flat in feeble attempts to keep track of and prevent the episodes (each one perhaps sillier than the last), he never could seem to determine any rhyme or reason for them. His dreams (and sometimes they edged into the territory of nightmares) were growing more frighteningly vivid and visceral by the night, even if he was following every technique suggested by Google to help mitigate his condition.

The evidence was stacking up more rapidly against everything that he’d thought he knew than Steven could neither comprehend nor keep up with—despite thinking that nothing about him could ever be anything but ordinary, a small part of him was truly starting to wonder whether he’d somehow dodged a psychiatric diagnosis all of his life. He felt like he was going mad, watching the lines between what he’d thought were conjurations of his sleep-deprived mind and what he’d been convinced was reality inexplicably blurring beyond any conceivable recognition. ( Was he mad? Had he always been mad?)

Dreaming that he had woken up in the Alps with a frankly ludicrous series of events following shortly thereafter was one thing—the angry booming voice in his head notwithstanding. Discovering that Gus had been mysteriously replaced overnight was another (because there was no way he had regrown a fin—he’d double-checked every pet site reputable enough). Finding out that he had lost track of an entire weekend, accidentally standing up a date he didn’t even recall initiating in the process, almost pushed him over the edge—it had certainly dragged him to it, nevertheless.

Then the secret compartment in his flat, the burner phone and mysterious key, the countless missed calls from a stranger named Layla, who had sounded so deathly worried about whoever in the bloody hell Marc was…Steven didn’t even want to think about the second new voice in his, grave and severe and sounding a little too much like his own to be of any significant comfort, or the mummified apparition of a plague doctor, or Lovecraftian eldritch horror, or previously undocumented cryptid that suddenly decided to start haunting him, for that matter.

But Harrow was real. His odd little cane with the creepy, glowy eyes was real. The magic scales tattoo on his arm that moved without him flexing his arm and changed colors on its own was real. His followers were very, very real. That jackal, with the frothing, rabid, snapping teeth and the milky, glassy eyes and the malnourished, gangly limbs and the wicked, scrabbling claws and the deathly, musty stench was, somehow, terrifyingly real, despite having been invisible to the security cameras.

The security cameras that had captured Steven’s own grim scowl, resolute brow, and defiant, dark eyes—but it wasn't Steven, because he didn’t look like that, even though he shared the same face with the stranger on the footage.

Marc. His name was Marc.

Why is he stuck in my bloody head?

Marc’s property damage, somehow having managed to kill the ghastly creature, if the lack of physical remains and other evidence indicated, and save his life ( ...their lives?) in the process—and at the very least, Marc had kept his word on that front—ultimately cost Steven his job. Several thousand pounds’ worth of property damage, in fact, which somehow Steven was going to have to be able to afford paying off (in increments, at least) to avoid legal prosecution—while also being suddenly and unexpectedly unemployed.

Bloody hell. The not-so-patient request to turn in his bloody nametag had somehow stung more than the pamphlet handed to him boasting the most excellent psychiatric care in the city.

(...He was mad, wasn’t he…? How had he not known? How had he missed all the signs?)

Left remiss with very few ears into which to confide, he spoke in Crowley, always the listening sort. He expelled his tizzied thoughts until he was able to regather them into some vague semblance of order, and decided his next course of action: to chase the one lead he had to hopefully deduce whoever Marc was. It seemed simple enough, although daunting. A simple image search would take him to the location associated with the logo attached to the keychain, perhaps the only source of answers to all the questions brimming in his harried head.

He wanted to know. (But should he?) He had to know. (...Did he really?)

Reeling with inconsolable stress, insurmountable anxiety, precarious emotions, and now the tumultuous internal debate of whether to delve into the affairs which Marc had warned him very explicitly not to, Steven turned to the only other person whose word he valued and trusted above all others in his immediate vicinity (save, perhaps, his mum).

It was mid-afternoon by the time he crept into the coffee shop, and fortunately it was vacant as a couple of university students breezed past him with paper sacks laden with books tucked into their arms and laughing raucously as they headed back out into the sunny spring day. Another barista was slumped behind the counter scrolling on her phone, so Steven knew you were stationed upstairs instead.

He picked his way gingerly up the winding wooden staircase, wincing every time his weight caused a plank to creak in protest. He avoided looking at the narrow windows for fear of seeing any more reflected shapes in them that he couldn’t control, eyes trained resolutely on his feet as he focused on regulating his harsh breathing in an attempt to manage his racing heart.

It was in this way that he ran right into you upon stepping into the bookstore proper. You carried a stack of new prints taller than your head and nearly dropped them all upon impact. Steven’s arms latched out to steady them and you, apologies already spilling from his lips before he could even think of a comprehensible reaction. “Oh, bullocks, sorry—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve been watchin’ where I was going— bloody hell, where’s my mind?”

“Steven,” you laughed breathlessly, recognizing his subdued voice and fluttering hands without even seeing him, “it’s okay! No harm done, see? Not a one dropped.” You lugged them over to the display table and set them down on the vacant surface with a soft grunt, swiping your sleeve over your shining forehead. “Whew! Updating all the new publications is a pain. My back’s killing me. I’ll definitely regret all this tomorrow.” You turned back to him, all sunshine and smiles with your terracotta sweater and the gold hoop earrings (clip-ons, he knew, because you’d never had them pierced) dangling amongst the loosened locks framing your face. “It seems a little early for your lunch break, Steven. Are you off today or have I just managed to lose track of time again?”

Your innocuous, innocently humored phrasing should not have sent him spiraling again, but…after the last week of hell that he’d endured, who in their right mind (because he surely wasn’t in his) could blame him for the already tenuous grip on reality he’d been clinging to with only whitened knuckles and sheer force of will?

Your expression fell instantly as tears welled more quickly in his eyes than he could reign them back in, slipping over his cheeks.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry,” he blurted, face burning as he reached up to swipe away the undeniable evidence of his breakdown—in front of you, of all people, Christ alive, he really was losing it—with the edge of his sleeve…to no avail. More tears followed immediately thereafter, blurring his vision, dripping from his chin as he ducked his head and buried his face behind his covered hands. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what’s come over me, I—”

There was a split second of silence on your end, though he scarcely noticed it but for his pulse raging in his ears and the deafening roar of his thoughts deafening him to any other sound. He barely registered your urgent call over your shoulder further into the bookstore, muffled by the harsh rasp of air dragging in and out of his lungs faster than he could dictate. He was shaking all over, adrenaline coursing through him a kilometer a minute, and his knees were on the verge of giving out from beneath him.

The warmth of your fingers curling gently—always so gentle, you were—around his wrists provided just enough of a distraction to open his eyes again, almost afraid of what he might see. But as you tugged his hands away from his dampened face, standing so close that your clothes were brushing against his and your breath fanned over his face, your eyes drew him in and dragged his thundering thoughts to a murky but much more manageable muddle.

Your brow was wrinkled with worry, mouth set in one of the few frowns he’d ever seen on your otherwise sunny disposition (even when harassed to no end by customers of the ruder variety, although your customer service smile was, decidedly, much colder and not nearly as welcoming). Your eyes were brimming with questions, but you uttered none of them, only, “Come on, there’s a quiet corner in the back.”

Steven allowed you to lead him by the hand like a child through the winding, ceiling-length bookcases into a musty reading niche set up with a lounge chair and ottoman next to a window spilling golden light onto the floor and highlighting every mote of dust that floated through its brilliant stream. You guided him to sink into the chair with a light hand on his shoulder, adjusting the ottoman back to give you enough room to sit directly in front of him. Your knees pressed into his, and when he shakily extended his trembling, open palms with a desperate snivel most people would have found repelling, you only laced your fingers with his and squeezed his hands tight enough to let him know that he could do the same.

“What’s wrong, Steven?” you murmured, beseeching him with your fractaled irises—the sunlight was illuminating every last shade and striation of color in them, more brilliant a palette than the shade ever granted justice. It gilded the edges of your features and the sweep of your fawn-like lashes in gold leaf. “Did something happen?”

Boy, didn’t everything happen—all during one weekend, no less?

The broken, wet laugh that leapt from his lips didn’t startle you, but it did make him jump. He lowered his gaze to focus on your hands clasped firmly in his, studying the creases in your palms, the whorls and arches of your fingerprints on your fingertips, and the light, faded smattering of scars in between—all to avoid the magnetic intensity of your gaze. “What hasn’t happened?” he croaked, throat burning with the effort it took to speak without loosing the gut-wrenching sob clawing ferociously at the pit of his belly. “I can’t sleep, I ruined my date, I lost my goldfish, I managed to get fired from the most pathetic excuse of a job anyone could get for something I didn’t even do, and I think I’m quite literally going mad.” He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting, feeling more tears slip out and trickle down his flushed cheeks. “Nothin’ seems real anymore. I can’t keep track of time. I’m seein’ things that would make an asylum patient have nightmares, but then it’s all comin’ back and tryin’ to eat me, and—” He clamped his mouth shut with a whimper, dropping his chin to his sternum to shut out the intrusive thoughts digging into the back of his mind. He unconsciously ripped his hands free from yours and knotted his fingers in his curls just to feel the ache. “—oh, God, I can’t—it’s too much, I—”

“ Steven, ” you said softly, hands threading through his arms to cradle his face and to thumb away his tears as you leaned in and nestled your forehead against his hairline, lips brushing his brow as you continued to murmur in a low, soothing tone that pierced through the noise like Apollo’s arrow, “it’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you—nothing’s coming after you in here, okay? Just our quiet, little safe place. I want you to breathe with me, okay? Just a little, I know it’s hard to concentrate, but just try for me, okay? You can breathe between if you need to. Want to try? Okay. In…one, two, three, four…out…one, two, three, four. And again. That’s it. You’re doing so good, darlin’, just focus on me. Feel my hands? And my knees? The chair, your feet on the ground, my forehead. Smell the books, the candle, your cologne, my perfume? Hear the traffic outside, the music in the other room, my voice? Okay. Good. Look at me, Steven. Please?”

He raised his head, trembling still but not nearly as close to convulsions as he’d been mere minutes prior, and you interlocked your fingers with his once more to hold them between you as you drew back just enough to peer unflinching into his eyes.

“Good. There you are, darlin’.” Your gentle smile was as precious as molten gold. “You see the books, too?”

He nodded once, unable to tear his eyes away from you. Had you always looked so divine or was he still experiencing delusions?

…No. No, he couldn’t be, because there was nothing about you that wasn’t so blissfully, sincerely, relievingly real. You were just that ethereal. How had he never noticed it before?

“Okay.” You squeezed his fingers lightly. “Can you tell me one thing that you can taste?”

“My…my tea, from this morning. Ran out of oat milk so I had to drink it straight.”

“There we go.” Your expression tightened just slightly at the edges, scanning his own carefully. “Better? Just a little?”

“A bit, yeah.” He sniffled again, swallowing roughly and finally managing to look away. “Sorry about that. You know. For…breakin’ apart in the middle of your shop like that. You…you didn’t have to stop what you were doin’ just to give me a pep talk.”

Your brow furrowed. “Steven, you were having a panic attack. I wasn’t about to go back to sorting the BookTok smut table while you looked on the verge of collapse.” You shook your head slightly, as if in disbelief. “You wouldn’t have come to me for no reason, so I can take ten minutes to help you calm down. I’ve been running around like a headless chicken all morning and I haven’t had enough time to stop. I’ll be fine.” You squeezed his hands again. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I’d fix it if I could.”

Oh, how he wished that you could. He’d let you do anything you wanted if he could just feel normal again.

“Do you want to talk more about it?” you tried gently, tilting your face down to gaze up at him through those utterly enchanting lashes. “It’s okay if you don’t. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, for whatever you need, whether it’s to listen or just to sit with you.”

He swallowed, nodding jerkily. “Yeah, it’s—just complicated, yeah? A lot to take in. I really don’t mean to be a bother, I just needed—”

“Steven Grant, you are not a bother to me.” You single-handedly stole the breath you’d helped him regain not minutes prior. “You can tell me anything, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I…okay.” He drew in a deep, shaky breath, held it, and released it in a hiss from between his chattering teeth. “I’m…investigatin’ somethin’. It might be dangerous, I don’t know. But I’ve got too many questions to avoid it anymore and I…I’m scared. Terrified, really. Everything seems like it’s fallin’ apart and I’m losing grips on it the tighter I try to hold on.” He blinked away another fresh onslaught of tears filming over his eyes with no small amount of frustration. “I feel like it’s my only option, to move forward, you know? I just…wanted to make sure I’m not hallucinatin’ everything around me first.” And that was the reason he’d come here, wasn’t it? Because you never failed to make him feel safe and secure and human, no matter the storm.

You studied him for a long moment, considering. But instead of accusing him of being a loon, you only tipped your chin to seek out his gaze once more—and he, like a moth to flame, was inexorably drawn to it. “Do you want me to go with you?”

The offer took him by surprise, but he knew immediately that it shouldn’t have. You had a protective streak a mile wide—he’d observed it in your fierce defense of your coworkers against irate and lecherous customers alike, as well as the thinly contained fury you’d only had enough strength to withhold in all but your tone when he’d finally vented to you about Donna for the first time. As much as he’d like to see you rip out her cheaply applied extensions one by one until she cried, he had made you promise never to start a fight with her. That you would offer first to accompany him to a destination he’d unthinkingly labeled ‘dangerous’ before anything else, regardless of currently sitting in your workplace that demanded more of you than it ever should any single person, reassured him—but he couldn’t ask you to get involved. He wouldn’t, because it was dangerous—whatever was going on inside his head (and outside of it) was something he was increasingly suspecting was beyond the scope of his present comprehension. The last thing Steven wanted was to get you hurt, too, just by proximity.

“No,” he said firmly, and your brows rose slightly. “No, I don’t—thanks for the offer, I really appreciate it, but you shouldn’t…I don’t want you at risk.”

“I don’t want you at risk, either,” you pointed out softly.

“I…” Well, shit. “...I know. But I’ll be okay. I think. I know! I’m just going to take it real careful and just see, yeah? It’ll…it’ll turn out all right. Right? Yeah.”

Your grip tightened, and your gaze turned sharper than he’d ever seen it, even at your most agitated. Deadly serious, with no room for avoidance—as if he’d ever want to avoid you. “Steven.”

He stiffened. “Y-yeah?”

“If anything happens,” you told him slowly, “I want you to call me, okay?” He opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted him for the first time in the two months he’d known you. “I mean it. I’m not going to push my way into your business, but if you ever feel like you need help, do not hesitate to tell me. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he suspired. Why was his mouth dry all of a sudden? When had he started sweating? Was his blush as obvious as it felt?

You regarded him for another moment, scrutinizing his expression—perhaps for any traces of falsehood—before nodding and releasing his hands. You reached into your pocket and drew out your phone. “What’s your number?”

Steven recited it to you nervously, fiddling with the hems of his sleeves. You typed it in, saved it, then sent him a message that buzzed in his back pocket. (He never thought that he’d get your number in a context quite like this .)

The lapse of silence continued, stifling in its weight, until your expression softened once more into something far less grave. “...Do you trust me, Steven?”

The answer came without hesitation. “Of course,” he breathed.

Your eyes were so damned deep, he’d drown in them willingly. “All right. Just know…whatever you need, okay? I’m just a phone call away.” You swallowed, then glanced away for the first time since he’d walked into you. “I don’t like seeing you scared. It scares me. ”

He was about to apologize on reflex, but the words died on his tongue. He noticed that you, too, had started to fidget with your fingers, rolling a wrinkle in your jeans. He reached out and laid his hand over yours, drawing your attention back to him. “Where’d you learn that trick? You know, the one about the five senses?”

“I had really bad anxiety when I was a teenager. Had an acute spell for about six months straight that made me hate sleeping because the thought of waking back up to deal with it all over again the next day kept me up all night. I lost a lot of weight because my stomach stayed upset and I didn’t have an appetite at all—it took a long time to go back to eating normal afterwards because my stomach had shrunk.” You looked so vulnerable, uncomfortable with baring yourself just a little bit more to his sympathetic gaze, but doing it anyway—all for his undeserving benefit. He squeezed your hand, this time. “I did a lot of research at the time to find ways to mitigate it. Figuring out the biological basis of it helped me to rationalize my triggers and responses so I could understand how to manage it better. It’s fight, flight, or freeze at its most dire state—so once I learned that, I was able to talk myself down by convincing myself I was safe.” You traced the roughness of his palm, and a flicker of something passed over your face before he could register it. “That trick isolates stimuli so you can focus.”

“That…that makes sense. I’ll have to remember that one.” He cleared his throat quietly. He hadn’t known—you hadn’t told him any of that before, never had indicated that you’d had such a rough time of your anxiety that you so often made light of in passing. “I’m so sorry you went through that. It sounds horrible.”

“It was. But it taught me to be more aware of how my mind and body work, if nothing else. And despite all the hardships, I never looked for a way out, just…a way through. And I did get through it.” You sat up a little straighter, cleared your throat, and glanced through the bookshelves before you returned your attention to him. “Are you sure you don’t need me to…?”

“I’m not going to ask you to play hookey for me,” he told you, smiling and using what was hopefully a playful tone. It seemed to work, because the tension in your shoulders eased a bit. “I will let you know if I need you.”

“Promise?” you prompted, extending the pinky of your free hand.

“Pinky promise,” he assured, linking his with yours and marveling at how petite you really were, dwarfed by the breadth of him. He’d never really noticed that, before, either. (How had he not?) “I’ll let you know what I find out, yeah? Once I get it all straight in my noggin’.”

You nodded as you both stood and started to weave your way through the labyrinth back to the main area of the bookstore. “I’m holding you to that, Steven Grant. If I don’t hear from you I’ll be putting out a search warrant.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” he fibbed—just a little, because he hated seeing you worry like this. He’d evidently never really given you good reason to worry about him before, and he felt immeasurably guilty despite the comfort you’d brought him. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” You flashed him a small smile, less enthusiastic than usual. “Now that you’re not working, we could actually eat together since my lunch break’s always later.”

Tentative, as though you didn’t want to send him over the edge again. He appreciated it more than you’d ever know.

“I’ll be here. Just give me about a fifteen minute heads-up so I can make it on time?”

“Will do.” As he approached the exit, you reached out and brushed your fingertips along the blade of his hand, arresting him on the spot. “Steven. Please be careful.” You glanced over at the other clerk with his back turned towards the pair of you, organizing the table you’d abandoned in favor of bringing Steven down from the brink. “I care a lot about you,” you confessed softly. “I don’t ever want to see you get hurt.”

Steven sucked in a sharp, shaky breath, folding his hands over his stomach on reflex. His body sagged and his heart puddled into the pit of his belly. “I care a lot about you, too, love. But you don’t have to worry about me gettin’ hurt—just think about the other guy! I’ll just give them the ol’ Grant one-two!” He shadow boxed to punctuate, and your quiet chuckle soothed his fluttering nerves. He stilled, then, and dropped his arms to his sides awkwardly. “...And thank you. Really. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t…you know. Likely would’ve gone right bonkers, yeah?”

“You’re always welcome, Steven.” You hesitated, fists tightening, before you reached out to grasp his arm lightly, only enough for balance, and Steven’s rattled mind struggled to keep up with your hurried motion and didn’t catch up until after the fact—you leaned into him, all sweet perfume and warm softness, to press a chaste kiss to the dried, tacky tear tracks that would surely leave salt on your lips. You were back down flat on your feet and a full pace away from him by the time his mouth dropped open, and your embarrassment was glaringly obvious. “Take care. For me?”

“Of course, love,” he said softly, watching perplexedly as you nodded, mouth thinning, before you darted around behind a bookcase and out of sight.

Oh. You were shy.

Steven pressed his fingertips to his tingling cheek all the way down the stairs, stumbling a couple of times before he convinced himself to get a grip before he did break his promise and accidentally kill himself not two minutes after the fact. He floated through the coffee shop back onto the street, sinking his back against the wall, and closed his eyes to reclaim his breath.

The first genuine smile of unfettered delight he’d had in what felt like eons wormed onto his face, and Steven let out a dreamy sigh. He shifted, caught a whiff of your perfume, and realized that some of it still lingered on his coat collar. He resisted the sudden urge to bury his nose and to revel in it, clearing his throat and fishing his phone out of his pocket instead to start off his investigation by determining which storage company Marc’s key belonged to.

Your text waited for him, poised under his thumb. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Steven. Laters, gators! :)’

His cheeks ached with the widest smile he’d had in his life.

When the plane from Cairo landed at its destination in London’s biggest airport close at nine-thirty, well past dark, approximately two weeks later, Steven finds that he has never felt so tired in his (admittedly limited waking) life—even during the time of depriving himself of sleep in an effort to control his supposed ‘sleeping’ disorder. He’d…dozed, he supposed was the only way he could describe it, while Marc had fronted during the flight. Leaving Layla in Cairo had been hard on him (both of them, really), so Marc had needed some quiet time to himself.

Steven couldn’t quite find it in himself to blame him in the slightest.

Marc and Layla had finally squared things away after Khonshu had finally released them—both Harrow and…their relationship. While Layla finally understood Marc’s motivations for all his blunders (and him personally, more clearly than she ever had in their married life, sad as it was to say), they both agreed that it would be for the best to go ahead and part ways. Too much damage had been done, the foundations of their relationship fractured by all the secrets and half-truths Marc had kept, and he had shattered her trust with his noncommunication.

She did make it explicitly clear that the entire ordeal in no way stopped her from caring about him (and now Steven, she made sure to add), however—Marc’s relief had been palpable, even while Steven had kept quiet and to himself listening to them discuss everything in the dingy motel room they’d shared the previous night before he’d departed. They mutually agreed to keep in touch, because while Marc had freed himself (and therefore Steven) of Khonshu’s servitude, Layla was still working with Tawaret as her Red Scarab. Hurt though he was (with mostly himself to blame, he’d admitted), Marc was protective more than anything—and though Tawaret had wormed her way past his initial suspicions with her sincere desire and success in helping them crawl their way out of the Duat, historically he didn’t exactly have a healthy relationship with Ancient Egyptian deities.

He hadn’t spoken much to Steven since then, but Steven was okay with that. Marc was a man of few words, he’d learned, and Steven suspected that it was best to give him space—regardless of when (or if) he ever decided to talk about it. Steven would be there for him either way (figuratively and literally). He’d need to make sure to remind him of that fact when they were both a bit better rested and recovered from the world-ending battle that they had managed to win by the skin of their teeth.

Steven hadn’t had the pleasure of knowing Layla very long—and while perhaps some of his initial attraction to her could have been attributed to him inheriting at least some of Marc’s own memories, feelings, and familiarity via sharing the body, Steven was grateful that they could remain friends, at least—it spoke lengths of how close she and Marc truly had been, for her to still be willing to stay in contact despite everything that had happened. She’d made sure to send them both off with a tight, rocking hug for each of them, pressing a tender kiss to either cheek as they had seamlessly traded places per her request without so much as a shudder.

“Take care of him, okay, Steven? And you stay safe, too,” she’d murmured into his ear, her mirth belied by her melancholy. She’d paused, then reached up to adjust the lapels of Marc’s jacket lying crooked across his clavicle. “I trust you to do what I couldn’t.”

“I’ll certainly try my best,” he’d returned with a timid smile as she’d drawn away with sparkling eyes not only from fondness. He’d tried to ignore the stinging in his as he’d cleared his throat of the quiver that had threatened to creep into the back of his throat. “He’s a bit of a git when it comes to lookin’ after himself, yeah? But I’m kind of stuck with him, so…good to try to make the best of it, you know.”

“Thank you.” She’d seemed earnest in her gratitude, then, easing back another half-step. “For helping us. I owe you more than I fear I could ever fully repay.”

“You don’t owe me a thing,” he’d returned easily. He liked Layla—perhaps, in another life, he could have loved her, too, if things had turned out different, or if Marc had given him the opportunity. Marc’s envious accusations at the dig sight hadn’t hit quite so close to home as to ever confirm such feelings in himself—she was still virtually a stranger, in spite of him fearing for her life and trusting her with his without hesitation—so while he ached to see things between her and Marc end like they had, all he could focus on was that he was thankful they’d had the opportunity to meet. “You take care of yourself, too, all right? Don’t get into too much trouble kickin’ tail and takin’ names.”

She’d let out a wet laugh at that, not-so-subtly swiping at her eyes. “I will, Steven,” she’d said, and then Marc had taken over.

Until now, anyway.

Steven understood completely why Marc needed some time to himself after all that—perhaps better than anyone. It was why he was extremely grateful that, once all the process of checking out and fetching luggage was done, Marc receded in silence to the back of their shared headspace and left Steven standing at the front entrance of the airport with a flagged cab waiting expectantly for him on the drive below.

He hefted Marc’s duffel a little higher on his shoulder, curling his hands around the strap, and descended the steps quickly. He settled into the back seat, wrinkling his nose a bit at the faint but pungent scents of sweat, alcohol, and puke lingering there.

“Where to, mate?” asked the cab driver, sounding as bored as Steven would admittedly be if he had to drive people dead on their feet home in such dreary weather as this—it had stopped raining, thankfully, but mist still hung in the air and puddles littered the ground, causing any nearby lights to glisten and glitter off the wet surfaces.

Steven hesitated.

He…hadn’t really thought this far ahead, admittedly. He realized with a start that he hadn’t been home since Harrow’s cop friends…lackies… whatever had snatched him under the guise of a real investigation and arrest. It was probably a mess after they had ransacked it. It would be a miracle if not-Gus was still alive. He’d be lucky if none of his nosy neighbors had broken in to pilfer his things.

Steven fiddled with the strap pensively, evidently taking too long for the cabbie’s thinning patience. “Hear me, mate? Where do you need to go?”

It was almost instinct, the way that the coffee shop’s address spilled from his lips with some embarrassment—embedded into his memory since he’d ordered rides there on his days off. The cabbie flicked on the meter and took off once he’d entered it into his phone, and Steven tried to suppress his flustered response at agitating the man because what harm had he caused by waiting a moment longer than what was considered punchy? Nothing. It wasn’t Steven’s fault that the man was irritable. (What cabbie worth his salt relied on Google Maps, anyway? But then again, what cabbie worth his salt couldn’t be bothered to order a deep enough clean after toting about what must have been the cataclysmic aftermath of one hell of a stag party?)

Seeing and doing everything he had in Egypt had given Steven a slightly different outlook both about people in general as well as himself. People were, mostly, harmless—unless they were trying to resurrect and put into power an entombed goddess of destruction, anyway—so what difference did it make that Steven existed in the same place and time as them? It didn’t give them the excuse to be rude or dismissive or critical. Plus…while they’d given up that fancy healing armor (and that rather snazzy suit, unfortunately), Steven could still defend himself if need be. He had access to Marc’s muscle memory now that no more barriers stood between their psyches—he’d held his own against Arthur bleedin’ Harrow quite well, if he did say so himself, thank you very much. He’d still have to get used to the motions, sure, but…never before had he felt more capable and assured in his own abilities. He had Marc to thank for that.

Even still, as he steadied his breathing and calmed his heart, Steven frowned and directed his gaze out of the window to focus on the streets rolling by outside. The coffee shop didn’t close until ten, and you usually didn’t make it out while locking up until ten-fifteen. But because Marc had left Steven’s phone in London (in his storage locker while getting supplies, Steven suspected), Steven had been unable to contact you at all. Given the domino's effects following him leaving the coffee shop in pursuit of Marc’s unit, he hadn’t had time enough to memorize your number (and believe him, under any other circumstances, he would have done so as soon as he would have had the chance). He’d promised you lunch the next day, as well as to check in to let you know he was all right, but by the time Steven had woken back up post-jackal boxing extravaganza, he’d had to deal with Marc’s…less than ideal interrogation techniques.

Things only had…devolved from there. Steven really and truly didn’t care to give any of it much more thought—not until later, when he could see clearly without his eyelids drifting shut.

Steven wrung the hem of the jacket’s sleeves between his fingers, worrying the inside of his cheek while he did so. Even throughout…all of that…Steven had found his thoughts straying inevitably—gravitized, perhaps—back to you, over and over, no matter how hard he’d tried to concentrate on…well, you know, saving the world. Even when he’d been distracted, and terrified, and fighting for his life, he’d recalled snippets of memory so visceral he’d glanced over his shoulder more than once to make sure he was just imagining things.

Your features drenched in sunlight like a goddess in your own right. Your eyes glittering as you tittered in genuine mirth at once his silly little jokes he cringed over every time he departed from your reassuring company. Your smile warming him inside as much as your meticulously brewed teas did going down. Your lilted, soothing drawl, the shape your mouth formed as you’d snowball into a lecture on how ridiculous all the internet conspiracies about aliens building the pyramids because the Egyptians were too primitive to accomplish such feats but the Romans were esteemed geniuses of their time with all their architectural novelties, the unfettered passion that brought such vivacity to your normally demure, soft-spoken demeanor.

He had missed you. Terribly so. More than he would’ve expected, but he was unsurprised.

You’d no doubt have loved to have seen Egypt with your own eyes—you’d confessed your daydreams about it to Steven on a couple of different occasions, had told him how long you’d wanted to take a vacation there to visit all the sights and witness them for yourself. You’d shared, mortified and only after some gentle prodding on his part, that you’d even constructed an itinerary, once, complete with hypothetical flight times, prices, and locations, hotel reservations and rates, eateries recommended by locals, starting from the delta and traversing all the way up to Abu Simbel, as well as every notable tomb, temple, and archaeological site or tourist spot in between. “Maybe one day,” you’d said, so wistfully yet despondently that he’d wanted for nothing more in that moment than to sweep you up and take you there himself.

At the time, he had pictured your reactions to Cairo, Giza, and Alexander the Great’s no-longer-lost tomb with perfect clarity—your excitement would have known no bounds. You would have stopped to inspect and decipher each artifact and inscription if you’d had time enough to do so, ecstatic at the chance to lay your hands on such marvels (respectfully, of that Steven had no doubts). Steven would never have wanted you involved in such close and constant proximity to danger, but he’d still imagined it for his own sanity. You’d been his lifeline, in a way—even with his fleeting, misplaced infatuation with Layla—the thought of not making it back to London, back to you, was what had kept him going at the most harrowing of points.

As partial as you were to the mythology, you’d have been beside yourself to discover that the deities so long thought fabled—for better or for worse—were as real as anything else in this odd little home humanity called Earth. He’d sooner throw himself back into the ravenous sands of the Duat than have you anywhere near that bloodthirsty pigeon, but then again Tawaret had been an angel by comparison, so…maybe you interacting with her wouldn’t have been too bad.

You were his first recurring thought whenever he’d wake (whether he had emerged to the front or from slumber), and you’d been his last thought when Harrow had shot Marc—panicked, screaming, terrified knowing he’d failed to keep his word. When Khonshu had forced the breath back into their lungs, Steven had nevermore felt such relief at proving himself wrong.

He’d convinced Marc to loan him a little spending money, after all was said and done, and had visited a secluded marketplace to browse the vendors’ wares. He’d found a little statuette of Djehuty hand-carved from lapis lazuli, about as long and as wide as his index finger, and while the merchant’s asking price had been outrageous (and because Steven had no talent for haggling, try as he might), Marc hadn’t scolded him too badly for shelling out the questionable stack of bills. It wouldn’t go far in the way of a peace offering, perhaps, but he could use it as some sort of proof if things didn’t go over well.

You weren’t naturally a skeptical person, though, he reminded himself. You had taken him at his word during his mental breakdown without even batting an eye. You valued honesty and communication above all else, prided yourself on your integrity, and Steven knew that you would at least hear him out and consider his (rather implausible) story before you rejected it.

Maybe he could still salvage this. Maybe he wouldn’t have to give Marc one more reason to blame himself for something he’d claim that he ruined. You were a reasonable woman, driven by logic and intuition rather than emotion and feelings. Steven had always admired you for that, for your tendency to avoid taking sides, to play devil’s advocate, to balance and weigh all options, thoughts, facts, and opinions before daring to formulate your own.

A keen little set of scales you were, weren’t you? Yeah. If only you’d have been there, somehow, to help sort out his and Marc’s mess—it likely would have gone a lot smoother and faster. (Maybe they would have actually managed to balance before it had almost been too late.)

“Most everything down this way is closed for the night—you sure you want me to let you off here? Or would you rather me take you someplace else?” groused the cabbie as he eased to a stop on the street corner (because of course—why would any cabbie worth his salt take a man to his requested destination only to offer a longer drive if but to rack up a higher meter?)

Despite Steven’s increasing indignation (he was firmly placing the blame on his and Marc’s shared jet lag because he was just so tired and he would never normally get so irate by a man doing his job, no matter how lazily), he hesitated. Only the security lights were visible through the sheer blinds drawn over the windows to conceal the interior, and he couldn’t make out your shape at the till or anywhere else, for that matter.

Perhaps it had been wishful thinking to hope you’d still be there, or even on the shift for tonight at all. You’d probably worried yourself to death fretting about his sudden silence—no, scratch that, you definitely had fretted. Was he going to have to call the nearest police station to have them take down a missing persons report? Had you even filed one like you’d threatened to? Or had he inadvertently hurt you by what could in any other conceivable circumstance be taken as ghosting to the point that you no longer cared for his well-being?

The thought made his heart clench. It ached more than he might have been readily willing to admit. Oh, he had gone and messed things up royally, hadn’t he? The one person who’d actually treated him like a person (outside of Marc and Layla, of course) could very well hate his guts now. It sickened him, almost made him want to lock himself away in his flat and curl up under his duvet and hide for the rest of eternity.

But he couldn’t. Not on the off-chance you had recalled his concerns, had believed his worries, and still thought him innocent in the matter. Not if you were still waiting for him.

“What’ll it be, mate?” drolled the cabbie, muffled by a gargantuan yawn he didn’t bother to stifle. “I’d rather not sit here all night, you know.”

“N-no—I’ll stop here, thanks.” Steven patted through Marc’s pockets until he found his wallet, then rifled through the neatly organized mixture of bills until he found English currency as opposed to Egyptian—with enough for a decent tip, because Steven always tried not to be a knob. “You seem like you’re workin’ on fumes, mate, you ought to go home and get some sleep.”

“Sleeping’s for the dead,” he deadpanned, and Steven let out a breathless little chuckle as he shuffled out of the cab onto the curb and watched it round the corner and out of sight.

If only he knew.

The air was warmer than before Steven had been carted off to another continent, a bit muggy as the humidity settled like cobwebs in his lungs. He grimaced and unzipped the jacket, edging closer to the windows to squint inside properly.

Still no signs of life. Steven rested his fingertips on the dribbled glass, dropping his head. Marc still had the storage key in the bag, somewhere—he supposed that he could try going and getting his phone, but that would run the risk of the business not being open at all hours and require that much more time to charge the blasted thing back from the brink. Perhaps he’d be better off to wait until the next morning to try to sort his life back out—he wouldn’t be able to stand staying on his feet for much longer.

“ ...Steven? ”

He stiffened, straightened in an instant, and turned to see you standing at the corner, keys still dangling from your fingers after locking up and coming around the back. An impulsive glance at Marc’s watch told him that you’d finished up early—it was ten on the dot. Your expression, bleached by the cold ivory streetlamp looming over your head, was slack in disbelief.

Steven—despite having rehearsed over the last two weeks what he could possibly say to explain himself, to apologize for his abrupt absence and radio silence, to entreat you to at least hear him plead his case, to beg for your forgiveness and to seek it by any means necessary just so he could talk to you again—fell terribly short of his expectations as the moment came…and went.

His greatest shortcoming, that: his seemingly endless supply of words failing him when he needed them most dire.

“...Hiya,” he said meekly, raising his hand in a shameful little wave—then groaned internally and resisted the overwhelming urge to bury his face in his hands and pull at his hair in frustration.

Real chuffed she’ll be with a response like that, ol’ chap. Bollocks. I’m an utter pillock, aren’t I?

“S-sorry,” he floundered, face burning as you continued to stare at him with rounded eyes and a gaping mouth. You looked caught between fight or flight but trapped in freeze mode, every muscle in your body rigid as though the sight of him reviled you. His heart twisted, but he couldn’t find it in himself to blame you. He’d be right pissed at himself, too. “It’s…been a bit much, the time I’ve had. I’m proper exhausted after that trip. Not that, uh…not that it’s any excuse, yeah? I’m just having a bit of a hard time not fallin’ asleep on my fee— oof! ”

You’d moved before he could even track the motion. Had he looked away or dropped his head and closed his eyes out of humiliation? Had he almost blacked out again even though Marc made no sign of himself known? Or was he just that tired and you were that fast on your feet? (Of course you were nimble, juggling books and drinks all day long at a breakneck pace. Why would he ever have thought otherwise?)

He supposed it didn’t matter in the end, really, because your arms were coiled around his neck to drag him down closer to your height, your face was buried into his (no doubt grimy) neck, and your hands were trembling as they gripped his nape and threaded into his matted, oily curls as though your life depended upon it. Your breaths were muffled and warm against his throat, as were the tears that smeared against his thundering pulse, and it took Steven an embarrassingly long time to come to his senses and return your vice-like embrace with his own shaking arms.

“You scared the shit out of me, Steven,” you sniffled into his collar like a secret, voice tight and hushed with the ferocity of your feeling. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Steven swallowed roughly, throat tightening and eyes filming over with the familiar hot sting he’d been doing his damnedest to hold down until he’d returned to the safety of his home—but he supposed that he already had, so what was the point in resisting anymore?

“I thought I’d lost me, too, love,” he whispered raggedly, his tenuous resolve crumbling like sandstone as he buried his face in your hair and crushed you against his chest as tightly as your clothes allowed. His tears finally slipped free of his eyes as he squeezed them closed in an effort to shut out the world around him. He could feel your heart hammering against his chest even through all his layers, your earthy perfume saturating his lungs, your inherent warmth seeping into him so like the sunshine you epitomized in his mind. You didn’t give any inclination of letting him go anytime soon, and he had no such intention, either. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you murmured, voice cracking with the strain of keeping yourself in check, pulling your head back just enough to peer up at him with a warbling smile. The hand on his neck slipped around to cup his cheek in your palm, thumbing away the wet streaks trailing towards his chin. Your eyes darted over his features, scrutinizing, as though you were committing the sight to memory—as though assuring yourself that he was really real, really there, really corporeal and not an apparition. “God, darlin’, don’t be sorry, I’m just—I’m just glad you’re okay. Are you safe? Are you hurt? Are you still in danger?” You mirrored your own touch with your free hand, cradling his head as though you held the entire world between your fingers, stroking the corners of his mouth in reverent reassurance. “Where have you been? I tried looking, asking around the museum, but nobody knew where you’d disappeared, and I—I thought—” You let out a sob from between gritted teeth, quivering despite his desperate grip on your upper and lower back. “—I feared the worst, after what you said the last time I saw you, and I tried talking to the police, but they thought I was crazy, and…I’ve nearly worried myself to death wondering where you’d gone.”

Nailed it. Unfortunately. Steven let out a watery laugh, biting his lip briefly before tugging you back under his chin so you wouldn’t see the conflicted emotions fighting for prominence on the limited canvas space of his face. “Oh, love, I’ve been to hell and back,” he joked quietly (one you wouldn’t get, not yet, and one he didn’t particularly care to explain), rocking you from side to side and anchoring himself with the weight of your body against his. “But I never stopped thinking about—about coming back. To you. Not once.”

Your arms slipped under his to squeeze him tight, slowly but surely soaking his shirt with your relief. Steven was uncertain how long the pair of you stood like that, getting progressively more damp from the mist and more chilled from the cooling breeze, and finally he withdrew enough to tenderly pat your cheeks dry with the hem of his sleeve. You laughed a little at that, a frail but joyous little sound, and Steven could hardly contain himself—but you beat him to it.

“You look exhausted, darlin’,” you said softly, face pinching a little as you took in his drawn features. He was sure Marc had sat up through the whole flight, as antsy as he was—the body hadn’t gotten sufficient enough rest in so long Steven was surprised neither of them had yet to collapse. The deep purple semicircles marring the heavy undersides of his eyes were sure to be sights to behold. You traced his brow, temple, and cheekbone with a featherlight touch of your fingertips. “You said you just got back?”

“Yeah,” he responded, eyes fluttering shut at your gentleness with a long sigh. “I wanted…I needed to see you. To let you know I made it back, and that I didn’t mean to shut you out, and…to tell you what happened.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” you pressed carefully. “You’ve obviously been stressed about it. You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable talking about.”

“I want you to know. It’s…it’s important. To me.” He cracked his eye back open, taking in the minutiae of your features, too—you seemed just as bad off as he was. “But I don’t want to be a bother.”

You gave him a sharp look, and your last reaction to a similar statement he’d made rang clear in the back of his mind without you even having to echo your response.

“You just seem tired, too, is all,” he said. “Didn’t want to keep you up any later.”

“I’ll stay up all night if you asked me to,” you told him firmly. “Whatever you need. I meant what I said.”

‘I’m here for you.’

“I…could I ask one teensy favor?” he started, hating how small his voice sounded. “Just this once?”

You quirked an inquisitive brow.

“I…don’t really want to sleep by myself tonight,” he admitted sheepishly. “My place got broken into and…I’m not sure what it’ll look like when I go back there. I…I don’t want to be alone. Could I…?”

“Of course,” you said immediately, already reaching down and grasping his wrist. “You look like you could use a good meal, too—I’ve got some leftover minestrone that I could heat up for you. It doesn’t have any animal products in it.”

Oh, he could kiss you.

“I don’t mean to impose,” he prefaced, “but…that honestly sounds heavenly.”

“You’re not imposing. Come on. The bus will be making its stop soon—don’t want to miss it in case the rain starts up again.”

Steven allowed you to lead him along the street, perfectly content to allow you to guide him. The longer he went, the more difficult it was to stay focused. The late bus, one he’d usually been forced to catch when Donna had thrust him into inventory duty, was virtually empty save a couple of other night workers having finished up their shifts. You settled Steven near the back, setting him against the window and perching yourself in the aisle seat with a watchful eye directed towards the other passengers.

Steven found himself nodding off, forehead pressed heavily into the window, when your fingers tugged his wrist lightly. “Hey. Here, lean on me—I don’t want you to get a crick in your neck.”

Hardly conscious of it, Steven allowed you to direct with a cupped hand his temple to rest on your shoulder, sinking listlessly into your side. The press of your warm palm on his cheek remained as you murmured something he didn’t quite catch, too drowsy to recall anything afterwards besides the sweet scent of chai on your breath.

You roused him at the correct stop, and he managed to keep his wits about himself long enough to take in the new, unfamiliar surroundings. The university campus loomed on the other side of the highway, impressive in its splendor, and your flat was located in a nice but affordable gated complex that he suspected you’d chosen for convenience and security rather than luxury. Multiple other residences lined this side of the road, likely housing the majority of students.

“I’m on the top floor, but luckily they have elevators,” you murmured to him as you used your key card to buzz through the gate and unlock the side door to the main corridor. You led him through the place, let him lean against you while the mechanisms’ hum lulled him, and the first thing you did upon letting him into your apartment was have him sit on the loveseat. “Give me your feet.”

“Oh, don’t—you don’t have to do that,” he protested, even as you kneeled on the carpet and pulled one dusty boot up onto your knee to untie the laces. “Please, I couldn’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking, I’m doing,” you responded mildly. “Steven, you’re a blink too long away from going comatose—just let me take care of you, okay?” Your lips thinned for a moment, conflicted, before you dropped your gaze to your fingerwork before tugging the heavy shoe free and setting it to the side and reaching for his other foot. “I missed you. Let me do this, please.”

He had precious little will to argue, lesser so to refuse any sort of doting you might decide to bestow upon him. Steven Grant was many things, and a weak man was one of them. “I…all right,” he said softly.

“Good boy.” You patted the side of his leg with a wry little smirk that did funny things to his blood pressure, removing the other shoe, and leaving it with its twin. You stood, knees cracking, and made a placating gesture. “Wait here, I’ll be back in five.”

“All right,” he repeated sleepily because he couldn’t help it—his eyes were already falling shut again. He became dimly aware of an added weight draped over him, but it wasn’t until you came back and sank into the cushion next to him that he jerked back awake and realized you’d pulled the heavy knit blanket off the back of the couch over him.

“Here,” you said, pressing a large mug into his hands. “I know microwaved leftovers aren't as good, but I’ll be lucky to get you to down anything before you pass out on me. Again.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, drawing up a spoonful and blowing the steam off it. It smelled divine, and his stomach pinched and growled as though it, too, had wrenched itself awake.

“Stop apologizing,” you said, eyes twinkling. “It’s kind of cute.”

“Only kind of?” he tried, slipping the spoon into his mouth. A salty medley of flavors bloomed over his tongue and Steven was convinced he’d been sent to Aaru after all. “Oh…you never told me you were a king’s cook,” he mumbled.

“I am a bit proud of my cooking,” you chuckled. “I had…tweaked that recipe, to see if you’d like it, actually. I just so happened to have made it last night.” You glanced off to the side, briefly, towards the floor-to-ceiling window that lined the far wall and displayed the heart of London in all its twinkling glory. “Good timing, I guess.”

Steven ate as much as his waning patience could stand before propping the mug between his knees and tentatively resting a hand on yours draped over your thigh. You looked back to him immediately, the only light in the room spilling off to the side from the kitchen and casting all but the curve of your face in shadow. “There’s too much to explain in one night,” he began with a sigh, “and, honestly, it’ll probably take me a bit to work up to some of the…worse stuff. But I did want to tell you what I figured out about my sleeping disorder.”

“All right.” You shifted and contorted to face him completely, folding your legs crossed under you and lacing your fingers with his. “Did you get an official diagnosis, or…?”

He tried to ignore that in favor of staying undistracted. (It didn’t work very well, and he squeezed your hand back.) “Well. Sort of.” He recalled the certainty with which had (sparingly) detailed their ‘insanity’, the clarity with which the Duat had conformed to Marc’s self-perception as an institutionalized patient in an asylum. “It’s not a sleeping disorder.”

“Okay,” you responded encouragingly, expression neutral.

“I have…well. We have…” He sighed, ducked his head, and scratched at his hairline. “...Have you ever heard of Dissociative Identity Disorder?”

“I took a psychology class back home, yeah.” You frowned slightly. “What, like…Multiple Personality Disorder?”

“Yes.” Steven’s eyes were drawn to your hand, and he turned it over to inspect the lines of your palm with his blunt, callused fingertips (no longer a mystery why they stayed in such rough shape, he mused). “I’m, uh…well…it’s harder to…to say out loud, I guess.” He faltered, then, eyes flashing up to beseech your understanding. “I want you to know that we’ve worked things out as much as we could, so it’s a lot better than it was, but we’ve still got a ways to go, I think. Just—just know that we’re sound of mind, and neither of us would ever, ever hurt you.”

“Steven,” you said gently, realization slowly dawning in your softening gaze, “I never once had doubts about that.”

“I…good. That’s good.” He swallowed. He’d seen the stereotypes in popular media just like everyone else ever had, and while Marc had indeed hurt people, his remorse told Steven just how little he’d enjoyed it (that being none). “Okay. So…there’s this little American man that…lives inside my head, I guess. Marc Spector. Bit of a twit when you first meet him, but he’s not a half-bad bloke once you get to know him.”

Steven paused, waiting for a biting remark from the nearest reflective surface—but your offlined television remained passive. He let out a breath of relief.

Your expectant, patient silence spurred him on. “That’s what I thought, anyway—that he lived inside my head, that is. Just started poppin’ up out of nowhere, tryin’ to scare me off of figurin’ everythin’ out. Didn’t realize ‘til later that he was just tryin’ to protect me and being a real sorry arse about it.” Steven pressed the flat of his thumb into the crease of your palm, feeling your steady, calmed pulse thudding against his skin. “Turns out…I’m the one living inside his head.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, but you didn’t interrupt him.

“He had a rough childhood,” Steven continued, voice carrying over into a rush, “lost his li’l brother. His mum blamed him for it…did some things she shouldn’t have. Marc…developed an alter based on a fictional character from his favorite movie.” He let out a shaky sigh, dropping his chin to his sternum. “Doctor Steven Grant, debonair, world-traveled archaeologist extraordinaire.” He cleared his throat, voice lowering. “I think I may have fallen a bit short of his expectations.”

He had only learned the terminology in the snippets of time Marc let him front while he and Layla were still organizing things in Cairo, looking up articles to learn more about their shared mindscape.

“I…remember our childhood,” he said, much more quietly, “but not any of the bad parts. He let me keep all the good memories. I never remembered Mum except on the good days. Learning all this…was really hard. I never thought…I knew I had gaps in my memory, but I didn’t think…I never figured it out until the wall between us got broken down.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “When…when Mum died. I didn’t know. Marc couldn’t control it anymore, and…things happened. He moved to London, got me all set up with the flat and the job at the museum, and he was finishing things up so he could…I don’t know, fall to the wayside and not come out anymore? I’m not really sure how that works…if it would even work, like that.”

He didn’t dare look up at your expression. You’d fallen completely still and eerily quiet.

“So…yeah.” He was whispering by now. “I guess that makes me the fake identity.”

“Steven Grant,” you interjected, voice low and calm, “there is nothing about you that’s fake. I don’t ever want to hear you say something like that again.”

He gulped, peeking up at your resolute expression. “Yes, ma’am,” he croaked.

“You’re the most vibrant, thoughtful, selfless person I’ve ever met,” you said, gripping his hand so tightly he felt your pulse in each of your fingertips—he wouldn’t be surprised if your prints melded with his. “You have filled my life with more joy than I’ve felt in years. I give thanks almost every day that I had the privilege to have met you at a time when I needed you most.” You leaned in closer, eyes sparkling like the stars faintly visible on the horizon beyond your balcony. “For whatever reason that Marc Spector may have created you, he did a damn good job of it. You embody every positive trait anyone could ever hope to have. You are undoubtedly one of the best men I’ve proudly called my friend. And whatever you went through, with him or without, I have no doubt in my mind that you are integral to him, a part of him he idealizes. Even if you’re an alter, not the original owner of this body,” with this, you tapped his shoulder with your free hand, “you are just as important and just as precious to me for it.”

Steven thought he had cried enough, but his eyes betrayed him yet again. Only a couple of tears slipped free before you were smearing them away, steadfast in your presence, knees pressed into the outside of his thigh. He sank into your touch, shutting his eyes in relief.

“You can tell me as much or as little about the rest of it as you want,” you murmured. “And I apologize in advance for anything that I may accidentally say or do out of ignorance—but I promise you, Steven Grant, I will stay by your side as long as you’ll have me. No matter what.”

“Even though I’ve turned out a little crazier than you may have expected?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood with such a feeble attempt at a joke—but the words came out a little bleaker than he had intended.

“You’re not crazy,” you stated, “you’re a survivor. Both of you. And I am so very grateful that you survived.”

Steven did not remember falling asleep after that. He did not remember you taking the mug back to the kitchen and turning the lights out. He did not remember you leveraging him longwise across your loveseat, a couple feet two short for him had he not already been curled up, piling multiple blankets over his lanky form and carefully slipping a pillow from your bed under his head. He did not remember you tenderly combing his unkempt curls off his forehead, gazing at him with love brimming in your eyes, and laying a lingering kiss between his brows.

He did, however, remember in perfect detail the sight of you slumped over in your recliner, facing him, wreathed in the most beautiful golden sunrise he’d ever seen in his life.

#fisara's codices #fanfiction #moon knight #steven grant #reader insert #steven grant/reader #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #moon knight x reader #moon knight fanfiction #steven grant fluff #steven grant fanfiction

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marbl3z · 4 months ago

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tbh idk what this is teehee

confort fic of Sebastian Stardew valley hehehehe.. gn!farmer x Sebastian - mental health/physical health comfort .

Work alcoholic comfort, comfort in general - no angst (unless you count the farmer feeling off but idk)

Gentle strokes through your hair, the soft pitter patter of the rain on the shingles of the cabin you've lived in for about a year now, and the gentle rhythmic breathing of the man above you. He was reading a book, your head in his lap and his long slender fingers gently going through your hair mindlessly. Your eyes felt heavy — maybe today was just an off day? You felt wrong... Everything felt wrong. Your body ached for once and your mind felt like static, you're grateful Sebastian didn't question you when you flopped onto your shared bed and laid your head in his lap. You're grateful he's being so gentle with you to begin with...

He slowly makes his way below your head, massaging your neck gently with his hand, to rubbing slow circles on your back. You wanted to cry.. but why? Everything is great — but you felt empty. Maybe it was just seasonal depression, winter's approaching and you don't spend as much time outside as you did in the warmer seasons. Your shoulder popped as you adjusted yourself, looking up at the man. You blinked a couple times, trying to focus on something other than your thoughts. He glanced down, giving you a soft smile.

"hey there.." his voice is gentle and smooth, soft dimples into his cheeks when his lips curl into a smile — full of adoration and warmth.

You gave him a weak smile in return, your face slowly falling as he continues his gentle massage. You watch his expression become softer as he puts the bookmark on his page and gently places the book down onto his side of the bed. He tilts his head at you, grinning softly.

"you feelin' alright..?" He asked softly, not prying too much Incase you didn't want to talk about it.

You hesitated before nodding slowly, he gave you a soft frown, noticing the hesitation. "I understand.. do you want tea? Some food?" He pushes your hair behind your ear, rubbing his thumb against your cheek. You shrug, uninterested in doing much of anything let alone eating or drinking.

"..just a.. odd day I guess.." you murmur, your eyes slowly closing..

"yeah..?" He hums, giving your scalp a soft massage. He leans against the pillows of the bed, taking a deep breath before exhaling and opening them to look down at you. "You're doing well.." he murmurs.

You look up at him, confused and caught off guard. "What..?"

"with the farm... With everyone — everything.. you've done so well," he meets your eyes, smiling again. "You've done so much, for the community and for me.." he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. "You deserve a couple days to yourself." He finishes.

You laid there, staring at him for a moment. You close your eyes, tiredly smiling as you cup his hand on your face. "Thank you."

He hums, scooping you up into his arms, adjusting his position so your head is on his chest and he lays on the pillows. "I love you, and I'm proud of you." He mumbles against your head.

Your eyes slowly closed, succumbing to much needed sleep. He held you, like he always did when you two slept at night — but this time, you knew you were okay, and tomorrow was going to be okay. It was going to be okay, because he's right there to catch you if you fall.

A/N: felt really bad today bc of health conditions so here's this. I'm working on a lot other stuff for Stardew valley but this was the first thing I finished. It's quite short — it's also midnight here... might go to bed ;3 hope u liked it <3

#Marblez*_#R@mune*_#sdv sebastian #Sdv comfort #gn reader #Gn farmer x Sebastian #Fem farmer x Sebastian #Sebastian sdv comfort #Stardew valley fluff #Stardew valley comfort #Male reader x sdv #Male farmer x Sebastian #Male farmer

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i-just-want-to-destroy · 3 months ago

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Thank you for walking study in demonology! Reading it brought me all the way back to the 2019 bnha era. Even tho im a chronic fandom hopper, every once in a while i got pulled back to the bnha fandom like a clinging abused ex gf, cause i feel like no other fandom has given me the same feels as bnha on ao3. It's probably partly because of bnha being a perfect sandbox for ficwriters, but damn you bnha writers are really sth else.

Your work is such an exquisite, heartfelt love letter to the fanfiction medium in general, and the bnha fandom in particular. I hope your pillow is always cool and your socks always come out of the washing machine in pairs.

What's your favourite part about the fic?

hi thanks so much for this ask! super appreciate the kind words :) i agree wholeheartedly i wldnt have started writing my bnha fics if not for the amazing fics ive read from this fandom.

short answer: my favorite part is the process.

super long answer:

(spoilers below fair warning)

demonology has been a learning process for me and also a very strange experience.

ive always been more of an improv writer where i dont really know where a story is going when i write it. with demonology being the way it is, you can surmise that its been a really crazy ride.

ive mentioned this before but it started as an idea of deku being just your typical satanic style exorcist, and as it is a crack fic, i did write it — at the beginning — purposefully to be nonsensical. all the made up “significant” stuff like affinity, authority, even the importance of names and all that — i didnt know what they mean and i didnt care either, i was just making them say whatever that sounded ominous and ridiculous. (often this is for the sake of comedic timing. it is crack after all.)

some comments say the fic didnt make sense, and i agree bc it didnt to me either. but then it DID start to make sense to me. whenever i started to write a new chapter id read back to whatever bullshit i did the previous chap and only then i understood what the hell the characters r talking about. if you look back to the earlier chapters there’d be a lot of foreshadowings, but they werent written to be foreshadowings at the time. its kind of foreshadowing in reverse, bc i only knew what they meant after i wrote them. i didnt know i was writing a meta multiverse time travel fic, but since i did, i had to commit and go crazy.

(in retrospect i think it rly did begin with hitoshi and that cat in ch 3. i didnt even know hitoshi was the “main character” until that chapter. i didnt know that cat was schrodingers cat until i wrote ch 8.)

so u can see how crazy, nonsensical and haphazard the entire writing process of this fic is, which in return gives birth to a crazy, nonsensical and haphazard fic. until its not nonsensical anymore. somehow, there actually is a clear logic in the mechanics of the universe. the cats are schrodinger cats, the demons are maxwell demons, entropies are plotlines which are often riddled with plotholes, the hell is production hell, to be in heaven is to be canonized — and lorem ipsum is the empty blank slate state of the universe. authority actually is authority. the fic gave meaning to itself by the end of it all.

comments ask if i waited for bnha to end — i didnt. bnha ending actually fucked a past version of ch 8, now scrapped. but then it actually … made a better version? and made more sense? its weird.

i did know about some things that were going to happen though. since the first time i had izuku do the “you believe [object] exist,” i always knew i wanted it to be turned back to him (“midoriya izuku doesnt exist”). after i wrote ch 6 i also knew i wanted them to “go back to the beginning” with izuku’s “fall” on the rooftop. but i didnt know until i wrote it that hitoshi was going to choose to fall, too. i know im the author but him choosing that shocked me and i found it moving.

if i had written this “properly”, if i had planned it all with better structuring and better pacing and emotional beats and all that — this might have turned out to be a better written story, in another world. as it is right now there are a lot of flaws that it has. but it wldnt have been the same fic. if not for this fuckass writing process, it wld never have reached the form it takes as of now.

and although it was a very difficult road, i can say wholeheartedly that this strange process has been my favorite part. im doubtful ill ever experience a writing process like this again. the story kept surprising me. a part of why i wanted to finish it was because i wanted to know how it ended too—bc i wldnt know until i wrote it.

of course, at the end of it all, none of us know what their ending is. in the end the story still didnt share its secrets with me and i really really love it for it.

haha this is so long sorry i guess this fic really means a lot to me after all. but yes, thats my answer.

i would also like to thank every reader and commenter once again bc i can honestly say without the feedback and support, this would not have been finished either, or become the way that it is. man. fanfictions, huh?

#demonology deku #ask #fic stuff

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peach-and-bugs · 2 years ago

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Hi, I hope you are well, I fell in love with Nat's one-shot, so I was encouraged to ask for a request, well there are two that come to my head with different characters.

"Wow, you really never got out of your angsty teenage stage, did you?" with Teen Shauna (sorry it's just that you see those eyes and they bring back a lot of melancholy).

"Please tell me you didn't hold on to that all these years" with Lottie (1996) and Lottie (2021). I think with this one you can play with flashbacks of seeing what happened in the desert and their relationship in that timeline in 1996 as a reunion in 2021 somewhat angsty.

Sorry the request is so long, although I would like to add that I can imagine both requests with f reader, anyway thank you very much for everything, take your time and take care of yourself. ❤️

💚Flower stems for heartstrings - Lottie Matthews (1996 & 2021) x fem!Reader💚

Fanfiction master list

disclaimer: don't repost my work. I only post on Tumblr and on Ao3. anything else is stolen and should be removed immediately

Summary: y/n finds evidence of her teenage best friend (and secret crush) being alive after all, and a possible way of finding her thanks to modern internet and goes on a personal quest to find her and the truth, all while reminiscing about their teen years...

Warnings: Internalized homophobia, fem reader that dresses both "masc" and "fem", underage drinking and smoking weed, extremely angst but with a good ending

Word Count: 8,758

A/N: woohoo! We've surpassed word count on my longest oneshot with this fic, the record previously being 6,990. And ngl, this might be one of my favorites to date! Lottie is an extra special gal who deserves an extra long one-shot, so of course I'm going to give her extra attention. What can I say, I'm not immune to favoritism. This one was actually so fun! I loved getting to write about excited, young (and medicated, let's be fr) Lottie bc I think we forget just how much the wilderness took a toll on her. She was so lively before, it makes me so sad. But, I hope I was able to give her a little bit of that liveliness back in this fic! I think in the request "desert" was supposed to be wilderness, but I wanted to have the reader be left behind, which adds a whole different kind of angst to the situation. As always, feel free to leave questions or comments in my comments or ask box, and happy reading!💚

Lottie Matthews Tag List:

General Tag List: @summergeezburr

-💚-

You’d only ever felt the way you did now only twice before in your life. Once when word got around that flight 2525 had mysteriously gone down in flames with no trace, and once again when you learned she’s been shipped off to god knows where for some kind of treatment. You hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to her then and she was gone.

It was a sickly green feeling that had you kneeling over with weak knees and a stone throat. Lottie Matthews, the girl you’d had your heart set on for all of these years, wasn’t gone. She wasn’t locked away or dead like gossip has always said. She was alive and well and looked like she was thriving. And how did you find this out? Through Instagram, of course. That might have been the worst part of all of this.

One minute you’re mindlessly scrolling through your feed when an ad for a farmers market in some part of upstate New York, rather than New Jersey where you resided. But the ad featured a booth selling honey, and low and behold, there she was. Well, the photo didn’t give a clear picture of her face, but you refused to deny that it was her, despite how it made you sick. How could you forget that smile of hers after all?

You had to put your phone away after that, but it didn’t help you sleep. A few hours into staring up at the ceiling, restless with gnawing curiosity, you decided sleep wouldn’t come till you found an answer. Rather spontaneously you packed a bag and got into your car. Was this the smartest thing to do? Hell no, but you had the weekend off for work anyways, and nothing stopped you from going, so you drove through the nightstand into the morning and drove by coffee, a podcast, and the straining urge that you needed to know what was going on.

-💚-

At some point in the night, you found your mind wandering as your eyes trained on the empty highway before you, highlighted by your headlights. You reminisce a time long before, even more than 25 years ago. Back when you had been a freshman in high school during your lunch period. You moved to Wiskayok, New Jersey late in the year, giving you an even later start to your first year of high school. You’d relatively been left alone and had decided you'd be alright with that. Not everyone can have friends right? So, alone you sat outside on the school's field, picking at the grass underfoot having already finished your lunch.

Some students around you sat on the track or the stadium's bleachers with their friends, enjoying company and comradery or whatever and you didn’t like to admit how it made you jealous. But what was there for you to do to change it? You refused to look desperate and walk up to random groups of people who would probably talk about how lame you are behind your back-

“Hey, you alright?” the sudden voice in your direction yanked you out of your self-deprecating thoughts. Looking up you had to squint your eyes to try and make out who was talking to you as the sun shone in your eyes till they tilted their head, blocking it. After some adjustment from the sunspots in your eyes, you were greeted with a shy yet warm smile.

“Um, yeah, I’m fine,” you uttered awkwardly, swallowing the frog in your throat that had your voice croaking. The girl chuckled and tottered down to the ground to sit beside you in the grass. She dressed well, was one of the first things you noticed. Her pink skirt and tall white socks were very countering to your grass-stained jeans, scuffed hightops, and t-shirt.

“You sure, because you’re all by yourself,” she said rather matter of factly.

“Well, maybe I like being alone. Think of that,” she arched her brow curiously. “And as far as I know you’re alone too,” she chuckled again with a little huff.

“Tuche,” was all she replied, but she had a stupidly shiny grin on her face. Next, she reached out her hand to shake. “I’m Charlotte, by the way. But most people call me Lottie,” you hesitated for a standing moment, only staring at her hand as you kept yours loosely wrapped around your knees till you gave in, shaking her hand in greeting.

“I’m y/n,”

“Well y/n, tell me about yourself,” she spent the rest of that lunch period at your side, asking questions about you in exchange for the little tidbits you were willing to give her. It was so strange, looking back now, how a because girl decided you looked lonely you'd be driving to upstate New York on a random Thursday night due to your desperation to find her again.

Lottie had always been charismatic. She liked people. She looked at them like puzzles made special for her to figure out. Maybe that was her way of avoiding herself, or maybe she just had a natural curiosity for those she didn’t understand. But from that day on, she hadn’t left you alone. She’d excitedly greet you in the halls, and invite you out with her friends and to late-night parties. She was the one who integrated you into the community and helped you find a place.

But she also became your best friend. However, you struggled to feel like you were hers sometimes. She was so bright and colorful, full of life and boy was she popular. She always had someone with her, unless she found the time for you exclusively, which dwindled more and more as high school progressed. Of course, this is a concern you could talk to her about but you didn’t want to bother. In truth, you feared your feelings were driven by selfishness. You thought you'd never voice it, but oh, how you undoubtedly adored Lottie Matthews.

You felt her encase you when she was close and her laugh was enough to have you swooning. You thrived in her presence and basked in the littlest bit of attention she may offer you. Her touch was electrifying and when she grabbed your hand when she greeted you you felt what had to be magic. But of course, you could never tell. Sure, you knew you were gay and you were so fortunate that you’re mother said it was ok, but you’d never tell, ever. Even if the ache felt like it was squeezing you, you couldn’t lose Lottie. You didn’t want to scare her away and be a freak.

Part of you wonders if that’s why you'd lost Lottie after all. You hadn’t been honest with her. No, that wasn’t rational. A secret didn’t take down an airplane.

-💚-

You didn’t arrive till mid-afternoon, late morning, the sun high above as you made your way towards this market. They had their location posted online, so with a quick search and an input to your mapping app you were all set to go. Moments like that reminded you of how on your road trips with your mother growing up she'd have you read the map in the passenger's seat beside her, your finger tailing over the highways towards the little star sticker added on to be your final destination. Strange how so little time felt like it had passed since then yet a whole life as well.

Venders had been set up for some time now and enjoying the comfortable air as they mingled and shopped. You hooked a tote bag over your shoulder to look less conspicuous (although there inherently isn’t anything conspicuous about a middle-aged queer woman at a farmers market, still. You felt a need to keep a low profile). You wandered for some time, looking for a stall that said something like sunset honey, or maybe it was sunnyside. Something involving both the sun and honey, and it looked like the people working wore a lot of purples.

Honestly, it was a very nice market in itself. Had you had ulterior motives for attending you would have quite enjoyed it. That is still you grew distracted by a florist’s stand. The owner had lovely premade bouquets that ranged in a variety of colors and sizes, but what caught your eye where the assortment of white and pastel metal buckets housing small assortments of different flowers, meant to be starters for gardening. In particular stood out the small purple flowers known for growing naturally back home, in Wiskayok. You tentatively reached out to stroke the petals.

You hadn’t formally been invited to the party, but it was one of those words get around kind of things, she no one was actually invited, right? At least, that's what you'd told yourself as you got ready in your room, obsessively messing with your hair in the mirror. It was one of those beer-guzzling bonfire things that the seniors hosted on the outskirts of the woods now and then. This time, however, the justification was the girl's soccer team going to nationals, and after the whole pep rally earlier in the day, it did sound justified.

You pulled back from the mirror to look back down at your clothes. You'd layered a black plaid dress with thin straps over a white sweater that’s sleeves cut off just below your elbow with tights and docs. You tugged at your coller, attempting not to grimace. Sure, you liked dressing feminine now and then, but when it came to events like this you couldn’t help the anxiety, especially with drunk boys. But still, you wanted to look nice, even if the drinks being served were from a beer keg. It just felt like one of those nights, you figured. You sighed and forced yourself to leave as there was a car horn honking outside, grabbing your backpack along the way as you went. It’d be good to have a quick getaway available to you if need be.

“Have fun, hun! Make good choices for me, ok?” your mom called to you from the couch, watching one of her late-night shows while sipping tea and crocheting something as you went downstairs. You smiled, walked up beside her at the end of the couch, and kissed her forehead.

“I will, mama, I promise,” you forced a tiny smile. She hummed her thanks and smiled, opening her eyes to take a look at you.

“Show me this little number you assembled for me,” she said, taking off her eyeglasses and gesturing up and down with her crochet hook as she readjusted in her seat to get a better view. You stretched out an arm, the other firmly holding your backpack to your shoulder, and did a turn around for her. She smiled wide and gave you playful applause.

“Cute! And do you like it? Everything fits well?”

“Yes, Mom, I promise,” you sighed, trying to refrain from rolling your eyes. It was a new dress you hadn’t worn yet and you knew she was only doing the classic mom routine but you had to go!

“Alright, you go have fun. And tell your friend Charlotte good luck at nationals!” she called after you as you shut the door front door and locked it. You turned, illuminated by your porchlight, and waved to your ride. Van had the passenger window of Taisa’s car down and she waved back with a confident grin on her face. You could hear Depeche Mode playing on the radio as you approached the car. You opened the door and slid inside with a quick smile.

“Thanks for the ride, Taissa,” you said, trying not to sound as shy as you felt. She smiled in the rearview mirror, checking her surroundings as she turned down the radio.

“Yeah, no problem girl,” she said with effortless confidence. You didn’t know Taissa or Van, or much of the school's soccer team all that well, but in your mutual connection to Lottie over the past four years you’d tagged along with them quite often and they’d always been nice to you.

“We couldn’t say no after Lottie was so adamant we were nice,” Van joked quite loudly to Taissa, giving you an up and down with that grin again. You stared for a second, unsure of what she was trying to imply till Taissa smacked the goalie in the arm with the back of her hand, hissing her name to make her shut up as she started driving. The redhead let out an undignified yelp.

“She’s being an asshole. And confusing. Lottie wanted you to come and she knew we’d be the best people to pick you up is all,” you still had a confused look on your face, your shoulders hunched inward.

“Um ok, thanks?” you said it more like a question.

“What she means, is that we like you. And we’ll tell you we like you,” Van chimed in again. She wasn’t as helpful to you as she thought she was.

“Right, ok. Is there something else going on that I’m not cluing in on?” Tai and Van shared a knowing look.

“Ok, so the other day Lot kept going on about how she worries that you don’t feel like we’re all friends, and doesn’t want you to feel like you’re just her other friend that tags along, ya know? So we figured we pick you up and tell you that, because some of the other girls on the team aren't the best at communicating, ya know?”

“Oh. So we're friends?” you sounded far more surprised and eager than you would have wanted to. “And Lottie told you all that? About me, I mean?” Van grinned once more, fully turning around in her seat.

“Yeah, dude! I think you’re really cool actually!” you began to smile more than before and leaned back, straightening up your posture.

“And, yes, Lot had all that to say and more,” Tai added on. You were thankful for the dark car hiding any color that might have rushed to your face.

“She talks about you all the time,” Van blabbed on. Tai gave her a look that told the goalie to keep quiet now. Just as she did you pulled up to another house in the neighborhood that has Lottie sitting on the front porch. She shot up when she saw the car but took a last-minute look at the front door like she was waiting for something. Van maneuvered in her seat to hang out the window. “Hurry up slowpoke or we’ll be late to our party,” Lottie all but yelped and ran to the car after that, toward your side of the car.

You didn’t have enough time to move out of the way and before you knew it Lottie had flung the door open with an exhilarated grin, laughing as she climbed in over your lap to collapse in the seat beside you in the back. She’d picked to wear all pink, which was just so fitting for her. You noticed in particular that she was wearing one of her shorter skirts that she giggled to you about hiding from her mother.

“Shut the door and go!” she said through giggles, and once you had the time to process what was happening you did just that, closing the now-opened door to your right, and Taissa was off. Lottie lunged forward in her seat and punched Van in the shoulder, laughing all the while. “God, fuck you! I could have been caught because of that,” she griped as Van dramatically clutched her arm.

“Ugh, what’s with beating on the goalie tonight? I gotta stay fit for nationals and I’ll be covered in bruises at this rate,”

“Whatever. You’re always covered in bruises, and not all of them are from soccer,” Lottie implied, her hands gripping Taissa’s headrest in front of her so she could lean forward and talk to the two girls up front. That is till she scooted back to give you her full attention.

“Well, you’re liking fine as hell tonight hot stuff! Have you been hiding this little number?” Lottie asked, reaching out to touch the material of the dress you were wearing along your leg. You managed to force a laugh and playfully swatter her hand away with shifty eye contact.

“It’s new. My mom got it for me during our last mall trip. She wanted me to expand my wardrobe or whatever,” you played off causally. Lottie gave you a knowing smile and sighed as she turned to look out the window.

“I think it looks great, just like you always do,” she murmured rather quietly. You weren't even sure you were supposed to hear her. Not long after Tai parked and you all got out of the car. Van yelled something at the crowd that had already gotten things started and there was a low collection of howling and yelling in response to her. Lottie got out of the car before you but stopped and waited by your door for you to get out with her. She said nothing but had that perky smile on the whole time as she watched you expectantly.

“So, whatcha wanna do?” you asked. She shrugged.

“I dunno. Maybe get reeeeeally drunk,” she toyed, reaching out to take your hand like it had become second nature. Tai walked up to the two of you from the driver seat of the car, double-checking as she locked it shut and shoved her keys in her jacket pocket. She made a purposefully obvious glance down at your entwined fingers then back up to Lottie.

“Careful Lot, people might talk,” she said with what Lottie took as a comfortable coolness but it sent a shiver down your back that caused you to think about pulling away.

“Pfft! I don't give a flying fuck! Let them talk!” she announced quite loudly, leaning forward with her free hand on her hip. She turned her gaze back to you and wiggled her brows as she grinned. “Come on. Get a drink with me,” she urged, tugging you away from Taissa.

“Don’t listen to her. No one is looking, and if they are they don’t care. What’s wrong with holding hands anyway?” Lottie babbled on as she pulled you in line for a beer with her. She was still holding onto your hand quite tight as she jumped into rambling about something related to her French class. Maybe a recent test? You weren't exactly sure. Despite everything she’d said before, it felt like everyone was looking, but not because of you. Because of Lottie. She was the pretty, popular girl while you were just the weirdo she hung around. With that idea in your head, it was pretty hard to not be self-continuous. You were so in your head that you didn’t notice her shoving a beer in your hand.

“Wha- oh, thanks,” you stuttered. You'd let go of her hand to get your drink, opting to use both hands to hold it. Lottie frowned as she was handed her drink ans thanked the guy passing them out.

“Hey, you alright? Lost you for a sec,” she murmured. She’d become so gentle all of a sudden. Were you really that fragile? She forced a smile and nodded.

“Yeah, I'm great. Just haven't gotten into the party mood yet, I guess,”

“Oh, ok. Do you wanna step away, clear your head a bit?” you shook your head no.

“Nah, I'm good. I’m just gonna grab something from my bag in Tai’s car, ok?” Lottie tilted her head, almost like she was trying to look at you from a new angle.

“I can go with you,” she offered. God, why did she have to be so attentive and sweet?

“I promise I’ll be fine-” you started only for a distraction to catch your eye. “Hey, Shauna and Jackie are over that way. I’ll meet up with you when I’m done,” you offered, dialing up that chipper tone as high as you could. She finally gave in and nodded, making her way over to her other friends while you crept away to dash toward Tai, wherever she was. You eventually found her after dodging around cars and trees listening to Van argue with a group of boys about something sports-related probably. That honestly wasn’t a huge concern of hers at the moment.

“Hey, Taissa. can I borrow your keys?” Taissa arched a brow.

“You’re not trying to use my car to go joyriding or to fuck, right?”

“What? Oh my god- no. I just wanna get something from my bag. It’s in the car,”

“Where's Lot?” why is that relevant right now?

“She’s with Jackie and Shauna,” you began messing with the loose hair falling in your face, averting your eyes from her. Tai gave you an up and down before tugging at Van’s jacket.

“Van, go with y/n to my car, ok?”

“I was just in the middle-” Van started till Tai arched a brow and she gave in. Tai dropped her keys in the redhead's hand and you were off to the car again.

“Do you already wanna leave?” Van asked, walking backward in front of you.

“No, I just want something from my bag,” Van slowed to walk in stride with her hands in her pockets, watching you as you watched everyone who passed.

“Care to share?” you just looked at her and finally managed a laugh.

“I’ll share when we get there,” upon reaching the car and unlocking it, you grabbed your bag and made your way to a more secluded edge over the party where you’d be left alone, Van trailing close behind till you set your solo cup on the ground, sat down saddle style on an old, knocked-over log to rummage through your bag. You pulled out a baggy you’d been holding onto and a lighter.

“Damn, y/n, I didn’t think you the type,” the goalie said as she dropped down across from you. “Where’d ya get it?” she asked, taking the joint you pulled out to share.

“My older brother. He lives with my dad while he’s going to school and I visited him over Christmas and he gave me a few that I use quite sparingly.

“Divorced?” she asked, referring to your parents. You shrugged.

“Kinda, but not really? It’s weird. They still like each other and get along but they aren't exclusive by any means. Dad works in Cali while mom moved here to look after her mom who’s a few houses down from us,” you explained as you fidgeted with the lighter, fixated on the way the flame moved up and down, on and off. Van snatched it out of your hand during an “off” moment to light the joint now placed firmly between her teeth.

You simply watched her process, lighting the joint and then taking in a long breath before holding and letting it go with a sigh as though she was relieved before passing it to you. She did the same, watching your breath in with your eyes shut only to exhale into the dark, finishing off with a small cough before passing it once again. You could see streetlights from the main road from here, you realized.

“You’re into Lot, aren’t you?” her voice was low to not attract attention, but she was confident in what she had asked. You paused, staring out at the lights just a short walk away. Normally, an insinuation that you were gay would have you panicked. It could have been the weed, but maybe you'd relaxed and found some sliver of comfort in the redhead, your new companion.

“I think I do,” you whistled through your teeth at your admission. You turned to meet her eyes when she nudged your shoulder with the side of her hand, passing the joint off again. “Think I’m a lost cause?” Van snorted and shook her head.

“Oh, hell no. That girl’s crazy about you,” Van said with a sigh, leaning back on her hands where she was sitting on the log. “Now, I don’t know what type of way she feels. Sexual, romantic, or just friendship. But there's something there. Lot’s banked a lot on you,” you began to smile again, soft and mellow as you took another hit. After that one, you leaned down to take a chug of your beer. You offered to pass again, but Van had turned her attention back to the party, particularly to Taissa who looked like she was getting shit from Shauna. Even from over her, you could tell she was wasted given how she stumbled around. Van groaned and got up from where she was sitting.

“Keep it. I gotta deal with this,” she huffed as she left. You watched her go, eyes trailing after her to meet with Lottie’s, who was staring right at you, arm crossed over her chest and cup in hand. She seemed to hesitate between you and her arguing friends, but when the debate got particularly loud she turned with a furrowed brow. You watched her go and kept watching till Jackie derailed the entire situation, pulling all the girls away likely to yell at them. With that done, you sighed, leaning back to fully lie on the log, the joint between your lips and legs dangling over either side as you shut your eyes.

“You hiding from me over here?” you opened your eyes. The joint was nearly out as it had just been sitting between your teeth for who knows how long by now. Lottie stood over you, arms still crossed as she held onto her nearly drained drink. you shook your head, sitting up as she sat down beside you on your left, much closer than Van had been. You readjusted, sitting properly with both legs over one side of the log, shoulders hunched. Lottie's arm brushed against yours when she moves. “You didn’t come back,” she simply steed with no malice or accusation in her voice. You shrugged.

“I was getting overwhelmed I guess,” you murmured. “Didn’t feel like talking,”

“You seemed chatty with Van” Again, she simply stated fact. You sighed and leaned down to take another drink. Lottie took the joint from your hand. You watched, then reached for the lighter to give it a second wind. She held it between her forefinger and thumb for you and once it ignited once more it found home between her lips. You watched, sipping your beer. She smoked far prettier than Van had.

“Van’s a good listener guess. Doesn’t talk too much,” Lottie snorted out a laugh at that.

“I don't think anyone has ever said ‘Van Palmer doesn’t talk much’” you chuckled out a soft laugh to match hers. You looked away, out at the lights again. Lottie took another breath in, letting the joint sit between her fingers with her crossed arms. She watched the lights with you, though she might not understand the fixation you seemed to have on them. That is, till she paused, turning fully to watch you. She tilted her head again, unexpectedly brushing her fingers over your temple to guide loose hair obstructing her view out of the way and behind your ear. “Let me kiss you,” she murmured, almost as though she was pleading. You turned back to her. Her hand settled on your cheek, fingertips curiously brushing over the apple of your cheek.

“Don’t kid me,” you whispered, eyes glazing as you darted down to her parted lips.

“Never,” she shook her head ever so slightly. It made her hair sway. You swallowed hard but shakily nodded. That was enough of a yes for her to move in. She immediately dropped the joint in her hand and the hand tracing your cheek found home on the back of your neck. Her now free hand rested behind your ear, stroking your hair as you latched onto her waist, using your left hand to hold you up on the log.

She kissed like she knew exactly what she was doing. As though this had all been part of a longstanding plan. She’d envisioned this just as you had, and fuck was it perfect. Her lisp whereas urgent as your own and had it not been a public space you might have let her do anything she wanted to you right then and there. She scrunched her fist into your hair, unintentionally pulling ever so lightly on your scalp and eliciting a sudden moan from your throat which only egged her on further till she had to pull away with you chasing after her.

You opened your eyes wide, lips still parted as you gasped for breath in and out. And then, of course, you got shy, anxious voices telling you she’d regret this immediately. You began to turn from her but the hand in your hair let go and moved to trace knuckles over your cheek and subsequently turn your eyes back to her. She shook her head, murmuring no over and over, soothing you like a child about to cry. And at that thought, the thought of crying alone, you felt the tears spike in your eyes. She watched your brow crinkle as your lip trembled and she pulled you into her chest, holding you as close as she could.

The hand on your neck found your back as the hand on your cheek moved to cup the back of your head. You buried into your neck as you cried, and she rested her cheek against your scalp, murmuring over and over how it was all ok. She kissed your hair, rubbed your back, and rocked you from side to side as your hands vigorously clung to her sweater, fearing letting her go, because what if the magic would be over and gone when she was out of your hands?

But reluctantly you needed to let her go, and eventually, that point came where you emerged from her embrace, the scent of her shampoo and perfume fading from you quickly as you met her puffed, teary gaze. She moved to hold your cheeks in her hands as her breath shook. You held your hands around hers, kissing her palm with a weak smile. Fortunately, that had her let go of a watery laugh. But neither of you spoke yet. You just sat in warm silence till you readjusted to be side by side once more, your head lulled to her shoulder with her cheek at your temple.

“Fuck, what do we even do after that?” you breathed, eyes training down to the long discarded joint and red solo cups with only sips left of beer in them, though yours has spilled at some point, soaking the ground under it.

“I leave tomorrow,” she murmured back. You dressed your lips together before letting go of another sigh.

“I know… we should have waited” she chuckled sleepily.

“I don’t think so,” you hummed your why. “I’ll be excited to get back here. Well, more excited than I already was to see you,” you chuckled, though your tongue dripped with wordless sarcasm.

“Don’t forget about me,”

“Oh, how could I ever after that?” she teased with another giggle. You smiled, nuzzling your nose into her shoulder. With the change in direction, you got an idea upon seeing a small purple flower growing just beside her shoe.

“I know how,” you started, reaching across her side to pick it, leaving a nice, long stem to tuck behind her ear and in her hair. You sat back to admire your work and smiled. “Purple suits you,” you decided, tucking some of the hair behind her ear for a better look at your work. She chuckled with a sniffle, her fingers gently wrapping around your palm, catching you to kiss your fingertips.

“Mam, are you alright?” you were dragged out of your daydream like a shockwave and had to take several moments to ground yourself again, taking in a deep breath. You blinked repeatedly, shaking your head before forcing a smile.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. I was remembering something I needed,” you said with a forced chuckle. The florist smiled, though he seemed a little unsure. You turned back to the flower, petal still gently settled between your fingers. “I’ll take this, while I’m here,” you said as you cleared your throat, gently picking up the small white bucket and giving it to the florist to ring up.

“Ah, Ruellia caroliniensis. But it’s better known as Carolina Wild Petunia. A good choice. Pick it for any reason? I ask everybody that,” he asked, making meaningless small talk. Your eyes stayed focused on the waving petals of the plant as it was gently jostled around.

“It just reminded me of someone I knew, I guess,” he smiled thoughtfully and nodded with a soft hum of acknowledgment before he asked you for cash or charge. You picked charge which resulted in you digging through your purse for your card.

“Oh my god! y/n! A shrill voice called when you weren’t looking and just as you pulled out your debit card. You gave the florist you’re card before turning to look who it might be only to have the Misty Quigley herself approaching you with the wide smile and outstretched arms that you felt you had to reciprocate. She squeezed you quite tight and when she let go her hands remained at your side for a moment as she seemed to look at you in awe.

“Well, what the heck are you doing here?” she asked tilting her head with that smile still plastered across her lips till she gasped “Oh! Are you looking for Nat too?” you furrowed your brow and frowned.

“What? No, I’m-”

“Uh, mam, you’re purchase?” the florist interrupted. You turned from Misty to grab your new belonging, which he had been so kind and bagged for you as well as outstretching your card back to you.

“Yes, thank you so much! I truly appreciate it!” you said as chipperly as you could before ushering Misty out of the man’s stall and towards a clearing. “What, what are you talking about with Natalie?”

“She got kidnapped!” the blond exclaimed, adjusting her glasses. “She was taken from the motel she was staying in back home and we’re here to find her,” she blabbered on.

“Hold on, when did Nat get out of rehab and who is we?”

“I dunno, a few weeks ago I think? So much had been going on and it's been hard to keep track and ‘we’ is me and Walter,” you were still confused about the situation and about to ask who Walter was when the man himself showed up. He’d be trailing behind Misty for some time, just casually in the background. He was so average you hadn’t even noticed him. The man waved and offered a smile. You tentatively returned the wave but still seemed confused.

“I’m not here for Natalie. I didn’t hear about that at all. No, I’m looking for Lottie,” you said rather bluntly. Misty frowned and it was now her turn to be confused.

“Lottie? But she’s been in Switzerland for years-”

“Well I thought that too will I saw this,” you whispered, hissing through your teeth as you frantically pulled out your phone and the screenshot you’d taken of the farmers market Instagram post, zooming in on Lottie and shoving the device into her hands.

“No, that can’t be her,”

“It is. I just- it’s not a great angle but I know it’s her,” you insisted. Misty began to scan the photo curiously, zooming back out when she let out a dramatic gasp and began excitedly smacking at your arm.

“Purple people!” you yelled. “Purple people!” she repeated it to Walter this time, which summoned him to rush over and huddle around your phone.

“The purple people took Natalie!” she explained with far too much excitement for your liking.

“Could they have taken Lottie,” Misty shrugged.

“I dunno, maybe. But only one way to find out!” She shoved your phone back in your hand and began aggressively powerwalking away with Walter tight on her heels. You hesitated momentarily before shutting your phone off and shoving it into your purse, hustling after them.

“Wait! Do you know where to go?”

“Yes! Of course! We found out from the other stalls,” she called back. “Get in your car and follow us!” she sounded far too excited for this whole ordeal, but what other options did you have to find Lottie? You ran back to your car, got in, and started with heavy breath ready to take the next step on this crazy adventure you found yourself on.

-💚-

After quite a bit of driving, they pulled off into a bed and breakfast parking lot and parked. You parked beside them and got out with a frustrated expression.

“We're not going tonight.” Misty rolled her eyes and she pulled her suitcase out of the trunk of what you assumed was Walter’s car.

“Someone,” she was heavily implying someone to be Walter, especially with the annoyed, flat-mouthed looks he gave him “wanted to wait till morning because he thinks the cult will expect us at night,” you gave her a look that asked “really” and Misty threw up a hand, shaking her head as she grabbed onto her luggage.

“I know! Trust me, I know, but captain’s orders,” she huffed as she followed Walter into the B&B. You paused, letting out an exasperated sigh before going to grab your duffle back and your plant. You hear Misty muttering about not using her real name as she and Walter get a room.

“And it's just for one room, right?” the concierge asked. There was an irritatingly comedic back and forth of yes, and no, then both of them settled on no, two rooms would be fine.

“And, um, you can put mine under the name Lady Mallowan,” Misty gave herself a name straight out of Clue or a shitty romance novel and you couldn’t help rolling your eyes.

“Seventeen and eighteen. Up the stairs to the right,” then went back and forth with thank yous as they clumsily took their keys, then started deliberating about luggage when Walter offered to take the suitcase off of Misty’s hands.

“Just one room under y/n l/n is fine, please,” you said simply. You saw Misty and her new boyfriend exchange an appalling look and you had to refrain from laughing.

“Room nineteen,”

“That’s great, thanks” You dropped your things upon entry, but gently placed your plant in its bed on the nightstand before collapsing on your bed with a long sigh. Of course, you'd need to get up and change, but for now, lying on your back in a bed that wasn’t yours was all you could feel like doing. That is till you got up from said bed and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a small paper cup of water that you set on the nightstand as you sat on the edge of the bed. You tentatively opened the bag that held your plant and took it out, setting it on the stand to be out and in the fresh air. You gave it a light drink from the cup before you returned to the bathroom for a shower.

-💚-

You were woken by Misty’s knock at you’re door bright and early at seven-thirty and back on the road by eight after grabbing complimentary breakfast to go. It was a rather long drive to wherever you were going, but you once again found ways to fill the time. That is till Walter took a screeching u-turn that almost caused a car crash on a winding, wet wooded road, but that was a conversation for later. You pulled up beside them and followed as they now stood excitedly outside a green gate that happened to have a matching bee on it. All you carried with you was your tote bag with your plant tucked away inside. Why you felt the need to bring it, you weren't sure, but it felt necessary.

“The bee is where the purple people are!” Misty insistently explained.

“Ok, do we need to call them ‘the purple people”

“Well, yes, but that's only till we get a better name for them. But anyway,” without another word of it, Misty ducked under the gate herself and began walking up the road.

“Ok, we’re getting hit by a car if we do that-” you started but she shook her head.

“It'll be fine. It looks decently short,”

“Well what about my car?” you urged.

“Just lock it! Who’s pulling over in the rain to rob an unattended car out here?” you sighed with exasperation.

“I dunno, maybe people from the cult we’re actively visiting,” you mumbled to yourself.

“What was that!”

“Nothing!” you huffed, following after Misty and now Walter, who had started moving shortly after her. She’d been right though. It was a rather short walk with no cars. You found yourself in what looked like a parking lot in the middle of the woods blocking off yet another road with an even larger fence in front of it. Misty and Walter were actively messing with an intercom system that seemed to have worked as they excitedly returned to your side.

“Alright, so the man on the other end, I think his name was Jack or Jackson- anyway, he’s getting Natalie and she's coming to meet us here,”

“But what about Lottie?” Misty adjusted her glasses and folded her arms with a shrug.

“I thought we could have Natalie confirm that, because we know she’s in there-”

“You don’t believe me,” you interrupted as she began trailing off.

“Well, we do not want to be making outlandish accusations to strangers, I mean-” she got easily distracted by the sound of someone walking down the pebbled path.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Nataline started with heavy irritation.

“Oh, thank God you're safe,” Misty would have hugged her by now had the gate not been in her way.

“Safe? What are you talking about?” her attention turned to you and her eyes widened with further confusion “Hi, y/n,” she added tentatively. You awkwardly waved as she gave you a nod.

“And who the fսck is this?” she gestured to Walter now.

“Walter,” he simply introduced himself with a wave and a light chuckle before going on. “I've heard nothing but wonderful things about you” Natalie scrunched her nose, clearly not caring all that much about what impression Misty had given him of her upon first meeting.

“We're here to rescue you!” Misty eagerly interjected again. “I mean, you-you were kidnapped, right?”

“No. Uh, yes, technically I was, but it's no big deal, okay?” the notion that Natalie’s kidnapping wasnt that big of a deal was bewildering to Misty as seen on her face, but honestly you understood her reaction.

“Lottie sent some people for me, but I'm not being held against my will,” she muttered, twisting her neck as she spoke. “Well, not anymore” It was now your turn to perk up.

“I'm sorry, Lottie?”

“I told you she was here,” you hissed through your teeth at Misty, moving closer to the fencing.

“Wait- as in Lottie? Lottie, who was committed to a mental institution in Switzerland? That Lottie?”

“Yes, Misty, that's the one,” Natalie turned to you once more “I'm assuming you had your theories or whatever?”

“Oh, I’m not here with them-” you paused. “Ok, originally I was coming here all on my own, but we ran into each other, and well,” from there you gave up.

“Wait, Natalie, Natalie!” Misty derailed the conversation once again. “You're gonna have to elaborate,

“Look, she runs a place here, and she's helping me reflect or whatever. So, you and your Hardy Boy can go home,” she looked Walter up and down again about Hardy Boy.

“But…”

“I'm doing a fսcking thing here, Misty. I don't need you getting in my way,” she’d lost patience with the blonde’s interruptions and persistence and in all honestly, you felt bad for her given how she shrank back at the raised tone. But she quickly toughened back up, turned on her heels, and marched back in the direction you'd come.

“She seems nice,” Walter tried to lighten the mood. Natalie sighed with either exhaustion or irritation, watching them go before her eyes drifted to you, still standing in front of her. “You’re not done too?”

“Natalie, I need to see her,” she let out a scoffish chuckle and sighed through her nose.

“Oh, I’m sure you do,”

“I’m serious, Natalie,”

“Oh no, I can tell you are, don’t worry. Just- just give me a minute, alright. Let me ask my guy,” she began to turn but waited for you to nod before actually leaving. You stood still, turning to check your surroundings once more just to be as sure as possible. Natalie returned quite quickly with a man behind her. She shrugged, seeming surprised by the verdict herself as the gate’s electric lock began to unlatch letting you in.

“Uh, my car is still parked with some of my things,” Natalie was already shaking her head.

“We can have someone come and retrieve it all later,” Natalie’s companion started ad Natalie turned, already heading up the hill for a second time.

“But you're not gonna need it!” she yelled behind her. Due to her eagerness to leave the scene, you were left walking beside the strange man who let you in.

“So, I'm assuming you’re Jack or…” you drawled off but he chuckled, appreciating your intention.

“Jeferson,” he cleared.

“Right, ok. Nice to meet you,” you nodded, your hands clutching quite tight to the straps of your tote bag. “Look, I don’t mean to sound rude, but I’m only here to see Lottie not join your… well join whatever you're up to,” he laughed again and nodded.

“Don’t worry. She knows you're here,” a shive rushed down your spine as you realized what was happening. “I’m instructed to take her to you, actually,”

“Oh. wow, that’s just great. Yeah, great,” you whispered to yourself as you bit your lip, questioning if this was going to be a good idea after all. When you looked up again, taking a deep breath you were met with quite a beautiful scene before you. It was a nice, well-organized camp on a lake with cabins and what you assumed were social areas all around and throughout the woods. You paused for a moment to take it in and wonder, did Lottie make all of this?

“Charlotte is waiting this way, Ms. l/n,” Jeferson interrupted your wonderings.

“Mhm, I’m coming,” you had to manually tell your feet to move before you could follow him to the separate cabin that must be Lottie’s. He had already walked up the stairs by the time you approached the porch, taking a moment to appreciate its handiwork before trudging up the creaking wood. Jefferson opened the door but didn’t enter, only gesturing for you to go in.

“Charlotte will be here as soon as she can step away,” he explained as you cautiously walked in. You nodded, turning around to give him your thanks but he was already shutting the door, leaving you to your own devices. For a moment you stood completely still, watching the wooden door anticipating her walking in at any second, but after a few seconds of stillness, your foot began bouncing with building anxiety squeezing at your chest.

“Shit,” you hissed, turning to look around your surroundings and find something to help you calm down. You put your bag on the table, but take the time to take the plant out and set it beside your bag. You rubbed your sweating palms on your pants and began to wander around the single room you found yourself in. Her main space was split into a small lounge-ish office space with a kitchen on the other half.

You assumed the bathroom and her bedroom were down in the back of the cabin and with a craning of your neck you could see in one of the rooms but you decided it best to leave that be. Wandering around the office space you ran your fingertips over the edge of her desk. You peaked over the edge, curiosity winning momentarily before you restrained yourself, instead turning to the art hung on her wall featuring deer and other wilderness things before resigning yourself to the couch facing her desk.

You flopped down rather unceremoniously but couldn't help sitting stiff, hunched forward with your knee bouncing in anticipation. Your eyes trained on her desk again, which was mostly bare of anything decor-like other than the two small picture frames. You forced yourself to look away till your nerves kicked in again and you were back up and taking the large one into your hands. It featured a classic team photo of the soccer team back in high school, but earlier on during your sophomore year.

You chuckled lightly scanning over the baby faces your old friends used to have. Having something familiar to look at was relaxing, you decided. Maybe not the most morally correct thing, but this was an exceptional situation. So, you moved on to the small one, thinking none of it till she got a look and your heart dropped again. Pressed pristinely against the glass was an all too familiar flower, nearly identical to the one you'd been carrying for the past day and a half. Only this one had far more wear to it, clearly showing its age. It had faded in color over time, taking on hues of parchment brown rather than the vibrant purples you’d been familiar with. You traced over the shapes of the petals, likely dry and dusty to the touch by now over its safety net of glass. That is till you heard the carbon door abruptly shut.

And oh, she was perfect. She was sickeningly, stunningly perfect but all you could do was freeze where you stood, grip tightening around the small wooden frame in your clasp out of fear you might drop it if you didn’t squeeze tight. And she stood just as stunned at you. Age had encompassed her face all this time, but it was still her face. The one you had ingrained in your mind, so much more detailed than any photograph. You felt your chin begin to quiver.

“Please tell me you didn't hold on to that all these years" You had to force it out with your breath ad your brow bowed with the strain of keeping it together. And then she laughed. She laughed her laugh, now blossoming with the beautiful thing that is age, just as every other part of her was. She moved toward you as though she was floating. She took her caftan off so smoothly it was like the breeze itself removed it for her. And before anything else, she took the frame from your hands, fingertips brushing together only for a moment. She returned it to its place before shakily turning back to you, tears drizzling from her eyes as she smiled.

“How could I not,” she murmured with a laugh full of exasperated joy as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her hands hovered over your arms as though she feared touching you would break the illusion, but with the way your lip trembled and tears rolled from your eyes as you held back a strangled sob she couldn’t refrain herself. It all felt so new and old all at once and oh, how overwhelming she was, her hands cupped at your face, thumbs stroking at your tears as you let it all go, sopping into her.

Just as she had years before she murmured sweet nothing promising that you were safe and you were here, but not only you. After so much time she needed the reassurance of reality just as much. She pulled you in, just as before and your nose found its rightful place in the curve of her neck as her cheek found your scalp. She held you up and close as your knees began to shake and you had to grip onto her shoulder blades for what felt like dear life. You needed to feel her to truly know that she was here, she was real and she was yours, as were you.

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