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songmingisthighs · 2 years ago

Text

Two Is Better Than One

February Filth Fest - extra; size training/size kink, ftfwb (?)

group : ateez

pairing : mingi × reader × yunho

genre : smut

word count : 5.5 k

warning : mdni, explicit sex; piv, threesome, size training, size kink, friends with benefits relationship, teasing, unprotected sex, creampie

a/n : i am but a human, i was tempted to write this and i couldn't help myself. this was not planned for fff but i just asgnsognspso i can't not, yknow ? i am a whorish whore, i am an A B O M I N A T I O N. and i kinda went overboard with this, i didn't even realize i was rambling away. anyways enjoy :D

buy me coffee ?

Mingi's sweater felt comfortable on you, it was warm and it smelled like him. Not just his perfume, but his own scent. You've always loved the fact that he appreciated fashion down to the fabric and he ALWAYS has a keen eye. What you loved most about it was how Mingi was always willing to share his clothing items with you. And thank God he did because it made the conversation you were having with Mingi WAY easier.

"So... you want to have sex with me..." Mingi started off, looking at you, who were sitting on his bed with your legs pulled to your chest, confusedly. "As friends," you intercepted, making Mingi smack his forehead sardonically, "Right, of course, as friends, because you... Want more experience?" He asked, making sure he didn't heard you wrong. You huffed, cheeks red in embarrassment, "And because I want to get used to guys who are... You know..." You trailed off as you waved your hands at his general direction, avoiding eye contact with him, "On the bigger side."

Truly, you wanted the ground to split in half and swallow you whole because that was hard to hear, say, and experience.

It all started when you went out with your girlfriends a couple of nights ago. Their open discussion about the partners they have been with came up and soon everyone was describing the penises they've taken. While you didn't exactly have a weekly quota to fill, the number of your sexual partner was still on the normal side but one thing that your friends caught on was that the size you took were usually those in the medium to the small side. Then the jokes rolled in and you hated that. Obviously, you could've lied, you could've made the claim that you had actually taken a man whose dick is monster sized but the words died in your mouth. But at the same time, an idea popped into your head. Your best friend. Or his roommate.

Mingi chuckled, making you groan because you thought he was going to make fun of you. "Why did you think of me?" he asked, voice void of malice or tease, simply curiosity. But his question didn't make you feel better because you were forced to tell him how you thought of him in the first place. You'd have to be honest that you checked him out more times than you could admit in whatever clothing he wore. It was a known fact that Mingi looked like a damn model and that fucked you up quite a bit. You would have to confess that whenever you and he go swimming, your eyes would automatically zero in on his crotch, watching how the fabric of his swim trunks clung onto his crotch, perfectly accentuating his OBVIOUSLY BIG-looking dick. Mingi waited for your answer, but all he could see was how your face had gone a deeper shade of red, announcing your embarrassment to him wordlessly. As his eyes trailed down, he took notice of the way your legs clenched together, the expanse of your knees appearing down from his sweater that was too long for your body and your bare knees touching. Your state let him know what you were thinking, and what your answer was to his question. Or at least an idea.

You were surprised when you felt the bed dip right by your foot and even more so when he took your legs and pulled them to either side of his body. When you looked up at him, Mingi was sporting a mischievous grin, staring at you with a knowing look that made you visibly swallow the lump that was forming in your throat. "Been checking out my goods, haven't you?" he teased, adding a chuckle at the end to further let you know that he was being a tease. You pouted and were about to kick him with your right leg but failed as he managed to pull the leg and slung it over his left shoulder as he simultaneously pulled you closer to him so that your hips were on his lap and your upper body lay flat on your back. "Do you think I'm hot?" he asked, tilting his head slightly to the side to faux innocence while his left hand tickle the skin on your upper knee where his hand rested. You rolled your eyes and mindlessly mumbled to him, "Of course, I think you're hot, I fucking have eyes," not realizing that Mingi could hear you perfectly. Pleased with your answer, Mingi chuckled and leaned forward to trap you under him with his hands on either side of your head, "Is that why you wanna fuck me? You want to tell your friends that you had sex with your hot, big-cocked best friend?" he teased, face coming closer to yours that you could feel his breath fanning on your face. "Look at me," he demanded, forcing you to look up at him, staring into his eyes to see a glint of both playfulness and want.

When Mingi dove down to take your lips in his, you were caught very off guard. You didn't expect your talk with Mingi, your request, to be taken so seriously by the man to the point that he was now on his way to let you know how it feels to be taking a cock with a size that you've never tried before. The intrusion of Mingi's tongue in your mouth made you gasp. Mingi took that chance to fully explore the cavern of your mouth, moaning into it as he pressed his body close to yours as best as he could. Your right leg which was on Mingi's shoulder was folded in half while your left fell around his waist at the pressure of his body against you. You could feel his dick pressing against your core and your head was swimming with the thought of finally being able to feel its shape after the long time you spent only oggling at it when given the chance. It didn't occur to you how perverted you sound but you quickly shove the thought away to enjoy the feeling of Mingi on you.

You took a deep breath, gasping for air even when Mingi pulled his mouth off of you. "You're wilder than I expect you to be, (y/n). I never thought you'd be so ambitious that you wanted to be used to taking a big cock," he chuckled on your skin, his warm breath tickling your skin and the vibration of his voice travelled to cover the area where his lips made contact. "Or maybe you just wanna see and feel my cock inside you, huh? Using that lame fucking excuse just to appear innocent," his head lifted from your neck, smirking down at you as you felt his hands moving inside his sweater that you were wearing, eyes widening when he realized what he felt, "You're not wearing a shirt under this?" he asked, pleasantly surprised. You pursed your lips and shook your head, not knowing why he was so surprised, "I never wear anything underneath when I borrow your clothes," you stated simply.

The new information entered Mingi's ears and run around his head continuously until he was able to understand what it was you were saying. The guttural groan that left Mingi's throat made your heart clench, stomach drop, and pussy weep. "There goes my fantasy coming true," he said before quickly pulling the sweater you wore off, exposing the flimsy sleep shorts you were wearing along with your bare breast. "You thought of me?" you asked, having your turn teasing him with a mischievous grin on your face, expecting him to deny you or even to poke back at you in retaliation. But instead, you saw him nod as he gently kneaded your breasts, his hands rough and firm but his movements were so soft and careful as if he didn't want to harm you, "Of course, a girl like you, how can I not? The day you first wore my shirt, I jerked off at the thought of you masturbating in it, the day we went swimming, I had to excuse myself so I can imagine cumming on your tits. You don't know how much I wanted to see you naked like this," he confessed, tweaking your nipples to make you moan out loud. "Well," Mingi chuckled as he eyed your sleep shorts, "More naked than this I supposed."

Mingi spared you a glance, seemingly asking for permission from you even though he could just easily strip you naked and has his way. Even in this position, he was still your gentle giant of a best friend, ever so considerate and kind. Though the reality was that you were about to find out just how rough he could be.

With your permission through the nod you gave, Mingi carefully let your left leg off of his shoulder so when he take your bottom off, there would not be any intrusion. The hands that were on your breasts slid down your body, his fingers catching on the hem of your shorts as he purposefully let his thumb rest on your mound, directly on your nub. The pressure he put made you whimper out, surprised at the suddenness of it. Mingi leaned his body down to press his lips on your stomach so he could drag it down as his hands work efficiently, pulling both your shorts and your panties off to finally expose you in your naked glory to his eyes. When you felt your bottom was free of clothing and the pieces were tossed somewhere on Mingi's floor, joining his sweater, you felt his lips rest on your lower belly. He peppered kisses around the area and only in that area, not going lower which made you frustrated as your cunt could feel his presence so close to it yet it wasn't getting the attention it deserved.

"Is this what you two do when I'm not around?"

You snapped out of your pleasure haze and looked to the side to see Yunho standing in the doorway of Mingi's room. His face was neutral safe for the high tilted arch of his left eyebrow as he took in the position you and Mingi were in. You moved to cover yourself but Mingi remained unbudging, even displeasedly grunting at you. "Am I interrupting?" Yunho joked, chuckling at how you were scattering to try to cover yourself while Mingi looked like he couldn't be bothered.

Finally, with a final push, you were able to get Mingi off of you. In return, he pulled you close to him, shielding your exposed front side from Yunho as he kept a possessive arm around your waste. Perhaps you were seeing things, but for a second you swore you saw something like disappointment flashing on Yunho's face. "You're back from the gym?" Mingi asked, too casually for your liking considering the state you were in. Yunho nodded at Mingi's question dropping his gym back in the hallway, near Mingi's doorway, "Yeah, San wanted to do legs today and I took a shower there before coming home," he shrugged before nodding towards the both of you, "Now, care to tell me what this is?" he asked whilst simultaneously taking his slow steps into the room, closer to where your bare body was, making you subconsciously lean closer into Mingi. The way your body curled to avoid his gaze made the corner of Yunho's mouth twitch, almost breaking out into a grin.

Casually, Mingi shrugged at his roommate, "(y/n) here wants to try taking a big cock so she asked me," he said oh too simply which earned him a slap on his chest. The impact caused him to jolt slightly and turn his gaze from his roommate to you, "What? That's what you told me!" he whined, bottom lip jutting out in a pout while you glared at him, "Well you didn't have to tell him that!" you hissed, embarrassed and annoyed that he so cavalierly shared that intimate information with his equally hot friend. "Whoah," Yunho interrupted just as Mingi was about to answer you, "If you wanna try taking a big cock, why not ask me?" he asked directly at you. Your eyes widened, surprised at the question Yunho asked you. Never in a million years would you have expected to hear such a question from Yunho. He was casually offering himself for you to use.

To be honest, it wasn't like you hadn't thought of him. Between Yunho and Mingi, you were more used to Mingi and you were just so used to being open to Mingi that it was a no-brainer that Mingi was the first person you go to. Just like how you know Mingi was big, you know that Yunho was big too. You can't exactly compare the two because you haven't seen their bare cocks (yet), but you could make an estimation in your brain. But now Yunho's offering his cock for you to use as well if you need it. You were pretty sure your brain was making up shit in your head.

Snapping you out of your shocked trance, you noticed that Mingi was laughing heartily, "Oh dude, she liked you saying that, her pussy was clenching!" He announced. Your eyes widened out of surprise as red covered your face from embarrassment while Yunho broke out chuckling with a grin on his face. "Mingi! How could you say that!?" you scolded, slapping him on his chest again before trying to get out of his grasp in favour of hiding under his duvet but his grip was too tight on you. It was comfortably tight but very restricting, you tried wiggling around to get out but all you found was that you were still trapped and your pussy was rubbed just right on his thighs.

A pair of hands suddenly placed themselves on your shoulders, instinctively making you look up. Yunho was staring down at you with a smile so gentle but in contrast, his eyes has a teasing glint to them. "Don't worry baby, I find it VERY endearing that you want me too," he said in hopes that his words would comfort you even slightly.

At his words, your eyebrows furrowed, noticing something that he said. "I'm sorry, 'too'?" you asked, not sure whether or not you heard correctly. Yunho nodded nonchalantly as if the information he just revealed was common knowledge and/or no big deal at all. But the look on your face said otherwise, it showed him that you really didn't know that you were wanted by him all this time. And Yunho found great pleasure in it, he felt a wave of arousal coursing through him once again. The first time was when he hear Mingi said that you wanted to take his big cock and fit it in your cunt (he was paraphrasing, of course), and now this. You never considered the possibility of Yunho wanting you. He revelled in the knowledge that you were just so precious, especially to him.

The hands that were carefully placed on your shoulders soon made their move, pulling you back so that your body fell onto his toned, strong torso, releasing you from Mingi's grip. Yunho then swooped in to kiss you in his upside-down position. It was quite awkward but it felt nice because somehow Yunho made the position work. Whilst your mouth was occupied by Yunho, Mingi took you off of his lap so he could slide back slightly to reposition and take off his clothing. "Yunho, look," Mingi called, taking Yunho's attention away from you momentarily to point at his grey sweatpants, specifically on the spot you sat on his thigh, "(y/n)'s cunt is definitely dripping. Look at the pool she made," he pointed out, grinning proudly. While Yunho smirked at that, you looked at it in utter horror. "Dude, don't tease her like that, that's actually so hot," Yunho said as he licked his lips, hungry for your taste, before diving down to attach his lips with yours again, not giving you a chance to react his words.

You reacted, however, when Mingi bend your legs on your knees and spread them wide enough to fit himself in between them comfortably. Yunho was preoccupying you so well that you didn't realize what Mingi was up to until you felt his fingers probing your pussy. The feeling was so sudden that you gasped and detached yourself from Yunho but your hand clung to him for support. "You're so wet (y/n), did you start leaking when we started talking about your need to fuck a huge cock?" Mingi asked, smirking cockily as he began to enter you. At the feeling of your opening clenching down on him, Mingi shuddered and exhaled sharply, your tightness was thrilling to him. "Did your previous partners not fuck you right or something? How can you be this tight?" Mingi groaned the more he move around in your pussy, even pulling you slightly forward to him, slightly detaching you from Yunho slightly.

With you preoccupied with Mingi, Yunho took this as a chance to pull away so he could take his shirt and pants off as he kept a close eye on you and Mingi. Mingi had you repositioned by now, laying down on the bed as he busied his mouth with teasing your opening. Yunho felt his dick hardened at the sight of you moaning, back arching with your pebbled nipples pointing to the sky, arms going wild, moving around aimlessly due to the pleasure Mingi was giving you. You froze however when Yunho slotted himself behind you, allowing your body to rise slightly as he rested your head on his chest, moving you around as if you weighed nothing. "I want to touch you too," Yunho whispered in your ear, making your body shudder from the words he used and the way his breath blew on your earlobe. In a flash, Yunho had your left leg in his grip as his right arm reached down your body to dip into your sopping cunt. Your eyes rolled back at the sensation of Mingi's tongue in your hole and Yunho's middle and ring fingers gently pushing your lips apart. "Oh, you're enjoying this so much, aren't you, dirty bitch?" Mingi smirked at your pussy, his lips moving against the flesh that caused you to wince slightly at the unfamiliar feeling. Yunho chuckled at the way Mingi called you a bitch, knowing that despite him sounding like he was degrading you, he really wanted you just as much if not more. "I bet if we try to fuck her, we'll slip right in," Yunho pointed out, making you clench at the thought of taking Mingi and Yunho. "Oh, she likes that, she WANTS that," Mingi chuckled, unlatching his mouth from your cunt while leaving his fingers in your hole, coaxing more of your juices out, "Do you think you're ready to take us, baby?" he asked, wanting you to give him the signal to proceed. Frantically, you nodded, and your hands flew to both Mingi's and Yunho's that were stimulating your cunt, stopping their movements momentarily, "Please, I really need your cocks," you pleaded, glazed eyes staring up at Yunho before going to Mingi.

In a flash, both men took off the rest of their clothing and positioned you so that you were sandwiched between them. Yunho held your body steady with his hands on your waist in front of you as you placed your hands on his broad shoulders. Mingi on the other hand was situated behind you, your legs opened and your ass above his lap with his dick poking at your hole and his hands situated just above Yunho's, his fingers directly on your underboob, softly caressing the skin in a comforting manner. "Are you ready?" Yunho asked when he saw the worried look on your face, "Mingi's going to let you get used to him first and we're going to have the gravity do most of the work," he explained, smiling at you. "You seem to know the mechanism, have you done this before?" you nervously joked, staring down at his obviously large cock. While Yunho laugh at your jab, Mingi spoke up from behind, "Kinda surprised that you let me go first, but thanks man," he grinned. Yunho nodded and shrugged slightly at Mingi, "Yeah, you're smaller than me so between the two of us, she might be comfortable taking you first." Mingi furrowed his eyebrows and let his left hand off of your body for a bit to punch Yunho on his chest, "The fuck are you saying, we're basically the same size!" he protested, not liking that Yunho called him small. Technically small-er but still, Mingi didn't like that. With a roll of his eyes, Yunho nodded in Mingi's general direction, "I'm just saying, yours looked slightly slimmer than mine," he reasoned. Mingi was about to say something when you groaned and turn to glare at Mingi and Yunho, "Okay, can you both stop logging at each other's dicks and help me with my problem?"

The tip of Mingi's dick intruded your hole with a shift of his hips, effectively shutting you up as the annoyance on your face changed into one of shock; your eyes rolled back and your jaw went slack. Yunho's eyes darkened at your expression, delighted that he was able to get a front-row seat to look at what a big dick did to you. "I'm sorry baby, how is it now?" Mingi mocked, hands going back on you but this time it covered your tits. "S-so- so big," you gasped out as you inhaled sharply. The tip was bigger than you expected and maybe Mingi's tease was right earlier, maybe your previous partners have not been fucking you correctly because the feeling in your cunt was nothing like you felt before. Your previous experience was nowhere near what Mingi was giving you right now. "That's it, take your very first big cock," Yunho said, eyes trailing down to look at the way your thighs trembled slightly from Mingi's intrusion, "Do you think you can take more?" he asked. You bit your bottom lip as you mulled it over, thinking how even the tip affected you that much, were you able to take more? But hell if you weren't determined. So you quickly nodded to Yunho, your left hand reaching back to Mingi's knees to let him know that he could try to slide in more.

It was a good thing that Mingi made sure you were wet first because when he pushed in, you could feel a slight burn. His dick was stretching you out and it was uncomfortable, to say the least. With a whimper, your body dropped forward, the hands that were braced on Yunho's shoulders now enveloped it completely as you held on for support. Mingi was about halfway in your cunt when he stopped, wanting to make sure you were used to more of him before he could slip in more. Practising self-restraint was so hard for Mingi as your walls were clutching on him so tight it was like a vice. Yunho saw how Mingi's head hung low and his biceps trembled slightly and he could only imagine how amazing you felt. The more he thought about it, the more aroused he got, he could feel his cock twitching and from your position, you could feel it too. But with being so overwhelmed you couldn't even make a comment about it.

"You're doing so good, baby," Yunho cooed to comfort you, his hands gently caressing your thighs in assurance as Mingi dipped his head down to pepper kisses all over your back. "I wanna do better," you groaned out, surprising both men when you voluntarily sunk down with a cry as your head was thrown back. Your senses were overwhelmed as you could hear your heart pounding in your ears and your eyes watering, your skin felt slick with sweat and your thighs felt like they were burning. "Shit," you cursed when you felt yourself not being able to take more. You swore it felt like Mingi's dick had no end as you take every inch of him but still felt more. Both men knew it was the most you could take at that moment and they were amazed at how you were doing so far. To distract you, Mingi played with your breasts, flicking both nipples and massaging the soft flesh as Yunho reached down to stimulate your clit. You were glad they did so because although there was still pain from your hole being stretched, you could feel that pleasure was doing such a great job distracting you.

"You felt so amazing (y/n), how could you keep your cunt away from me this long? I should've fucked you from the moment we met and have you fucking yourself on me this whole time," Mingi moaned when he sneakily tried to move slightly and was delighted when he heard you hum lowly in pleasure instead of wincing. Hearing Mingi use such language and talk to you in such a way was thrilling, you loved hearing how much he wanted you and now hearing that he was lusting after you made your head feel fuzzy and your stomach churning in the best way. You couldn't even help but clench down at Mingi's dick which elicit a groan of pleasure from Mingi.

Yunho raised an eyebrow at his friend's statement and scoffed, "What makes you think she would've even wanted you? Maybe she wanted to fuck herself on me instead," he questioned. Mingi raised an eyebrow as he slowly pulled away and pushed back in again, making you bite your bottom lip to suppress a moan. "She came to me first to ask for help, if that's not proof, you're crazy," he scoffed. "Please," you started, head dropping even lower to rest on Mingi's shoulder, "I asked you because we're just closer and- ah," you whimpered when Mingi bucked up slightly, "You were here." Yunho couldn't help but laugh and peck you on the lips, "See, Mingi?" he teased, lifting his arousal-covered fingers to your mouth so you could taste yourself and clean them for him, "You were just available so technically speaking, you have the same opportunity as a dildo," he poked. In disbelief, Mingi propped you up better in his strong grip and pressed his cheek to yours, "Oh, so you wanna get used to me so when you seduce Yunho, you can take him like a champ? Can you believe that Yunho? (y/n) here wants your cock as she's fucking herself on my cock," he chuckled darkly as he eyed his friend.

In a flash, Mingi began moving in and out of you, teasing you by going as far as slipping completely out of you and bucking back in. The impact would've sent you tumbling forward but Mingi was holding you in a jealous vice. It was probably a bad idea that you poked fun at him like that but you honestly couldn't complain when Mingi was taking you so well.

The pleasure seemed to dull your attachment to reality because just as Mingi pulled out, you felt something thicker entering you. Your eyes widened as you tried to shake your head to regain your senses. It was blurry, but from the way Yunho was staring deep into your eyes with his teeth gritting, you realized that he had pushed his cock inside you. If it weren't for both men's grip on you, you were willing to bet that you would've slumped down because you couldn't feel your legs. You were sure they were shaking, but you couldn't really feel them.

"Fuck, how did you not immediately fuck her, Mingi? She's so tight and warm," Yunho groaned through gritted teeth, trying his best to not immediately snap his hips up. With his length (which you were sure not all of them) inside you, you could definitely tell that Yunho was right, he was bigger than Mingi in terms of girth but their lengths were maybe the same. "Shit," you moaned out, hands clutching onto Yunho so tightly that your nails were digging into his skin, "More, I need more," you stated, surprising both men. "Are you sure?" Mingi asked, pushing your hair away with one of his hands to look at your face better, "Don't you think you need to adjust first?" he worriedly added, genuinely not wanting to hurt you. But you were determined, nodding firmly and even pushing yourself off of him to situate yourself in a straight sitting position, "I will get adjusted by having you both fuck me," you stated, pouting at Yunho that made him just positively melt, "Please?" you begged.

Both men shared a look and nodded, wanting to give you what you were asking of them. They repositioned their hands so they could have a better grip on you before Yunho began moving slowly to accommodate your adjustment. Thankfully, having taken Mingi beforehand and with the slick you produced, Yunho found it easy to move and you did not feel as much pain as the first time. After a couple of thrusts, Yunho finally moved to slip himself out and Mingi slipped back inside you. The difference in girth was a blessing for you as you felt like you were given the chance to take a breath momentarily. The pain was almost completely gone at this point, all you could feel were pleasure but you knew that you still couldn't take them both harshly. You were glad that both men were putting you first and moving slowly, proving to you that they indeed kept up with their words that they wanted to help you.

They fell into a rhythm soon enough, slipping in when the others slipped out, stealing moans after moans from your mouth from pleasure. You felt like you were in cloud nine, finally understanding why your friends made such a big deal about taking a large sized cock. Although, you'd have to admit that it wasn't just because of their size that you were having such a pleasurable time. Had it not been for the fact that it was your friends helping you, you might not be having this much fun. You loved their possessive yet caring grip on you as they made a mess of your cunt. You were sure that there was a pool right underneath you, a mixture of your cum and their precum dropping onto the sheet bellow.

You didn't even realize when you finally came. Mingi had just re-entered you after Yunho bucked up into you harshly when your body froze and your muscles tensed up, your thighs closed slightly and your head was thrown forward onto Yunho's shoulder as you climaxed dramatically with your body shaking. Mingi's eyes rolled back as he felt your pussy clenching and gushing, the warmth of it was enough to make him cum inside you, not having enough time to pull out.

When you and Mingi slumped back, you rested on top of him as he supported his body weight with his arms, you noticed Yunho towering over you with a smirk on his face. "My turn," he said as he started to pump his dick in his hands. You watched him trying to get himself to cum using the image of you being so spent on top of Mingi and you can't help but think that it was hot. Your pussy clenched down onto Mingi's dick that was still inside you, forcing a mixture of both of your cums to leak down to your ass. Mingi moved to spread your legs widely for Yunho, letting them rest over his own legs as if he was telling Yunho where to cum. Yunho's eyes zeroed in on your puffy lips, hole stretched with Mingi's still hard dick in it and glistening with arousal. It didn't take much for him to reach his climax and painted your pussy and stomach white with his cum. Even when he dropped back, you could still see his tip spurting out the white liquid and his cock twitching.

Finally, when things wind down, you closed your eyes and let your head rest on Mingi's shoulder. The room was filled with the scent of sweat and sex, no one talked so it was quiet save for the sound of the three of you panting, trying to catch your breaths. Despite the tiredness, both men were proud of what they did, happy even that they were able to help you. Sure, you didn't take them completely, but they took their win as they didn't hear you complaining.

What surprised them was what you said when you opened your eyes again, lifting your head to look at both of them before announcing your plan.

"Give me 10 minutes, we'll go again."

Though, how can they say no?

fff taglist :

@senpai-of-doom @doom-fics @kawennote09 @cherryxsang @ssaboala @k-drizzle @stfuayu @fariylixie0915

taglist :

@rdiamond2727 @bobateastay @kodzukein @phenomenalgirl9 @skzatzloveismonsterous @memorymonster @thesolarplanetarysystem @dreamlesswonder86 @maddiebabyxoxo @imababywolf @do-you-actually-care @marievllr-abg @ilsedingsx @wasteitonserendipity @bbymatz @noonaishere @jo-hwaberry @honeyhwaaa @ateezourstars @yoonjunshi @yoongiigolden @camillelafaye @charreddonuts @jcngh0-hq @kpopnightingale @starryunho @atinct @mirror-juliet @hyuckilstan @jayb17 @kpoplover718 @imswitchbabemox @haatohwa @youngestdelacour @x-bluee @erinaimeexx @blackb3ll @mingiholic @angelicyeo @vampcharxter @meowmeowminnie @marvelous-llama

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nocturnalrat · 1 year ago

Note

Hear me out…

1610! Miles comforting reader after she get jealous because of how much he’s been around Gwen and he’s just touching and kissing her in all the right places and makes sure that reader knows that he loves her and only her 🙈💕

Thank you for the great prompt! I had lots of fun writing this. :p <3

---

It was truly infuriating.

You hadn’t seen each other in a week due to school work keeping you busy, and there had been a surge of criminal activities in New York, which is why Miles had been occupied most of the time as well.

And now, when the two of you were finally able to hang out again, he kept talking about someone else entirely.

You were lying on the bunk bed in his dorm room, listening to him ramble on about the adventures he had lived through last week.

“You should have been there, the way Gwen incapacitated the guy was like something out of a movie.” He gesticulated frantically with his hands as he vividly described last night’s care chase.

"That sounds really fascinating," you grumbled.

After hearing your unfazed (and slightly sarcastic) tone, he looked up from his chair. "You don't sound very impressed, though."

How could you have told him that his constant stories and songs of praise about Gwen were starting to annoy the heck out of you?

Jealousy was an ugly emotion. To confess to it was shameful, exposing; you wanted to be the easy-going, cool and confident kind of girlfriend, but Miles was making it really hard for you to not seethe with anger and discontent.

"Everything okay?" he asked, and you avoided his gaze. Lying was easier when you didn’t look him into his eyes. They always were too honest and seemed to notice too much.

"Sure," you said.

He saw through your charade immediately, and climbed onto the bunk bed to be closer to you. "There's something bothering you. I can tell."

"You can't tell shit," you said before you could stop yourself. There was anger in the pits of your stomach threatening to take over.

"Did I say something wrong?"

Yes.

"No."

"Then why are you frowning like that? It looks like you’re ready to kill someone. It better not be me."

Fuck. Were you really scowling that obviously?

"You and Gwen get along great, huh?”

"We certainly do." He tilted his head. You recognized that look on his face – it was the same one he had when struggling to solve complicated math problems. "Why’d you bring her up?"

"Why do you keep bringing her up?" you snarled. "We weren’t able to have a single conversation in the last few weeks without you mentioning her a dozen times. Not to mention the fact that you spend way more time with her than you do with your actual girlfriend.”

Shoot. Now you had done it; you had shown weakness.

Miles stared at you incredulously. "Wait a minute - are you jealous?"

You crossed your arms and looked pointedly at the ceiling.

"Absolutely not."

"Nuh-huh. That's why you're pouting." He grinned, and his lighthearted reaction only intensified the nauseating feeling of jealousy. "You know, part of me wishes you could come with us when we're patrolling, just so you could witness how much I talk about you when I'm with Gwen. But the other part of me is terrified of you being with us, as it would be incredibly dangerous for a civilian.”

"Yeah." Biting sarcasm. "I'm sure that's what you talk to her about."

"It is!" He scrambled over to you and leaned in close. "You don't have the faintest idea how important you are to me, do you?

"Can’t be that important, judging by your behavior.”

"Not that important!" he repeated indignantly. "I think about you all the time. How you're doing, what you're doing, if you need anything - always. You're the first thing I think about when I wake up, and the last thing when I go to sleep!"

"Well, you sure as hell don’t act like it,” you mumbled.

“What do I have to do to make you believe me?” He brushed an unruly strand of hair from your forehead, and the gentleness of his touch loosened the knot in your stomach the jealousy had caused. You had only recently started dating, so every little touch of his felt all the more exciting.

You looked at him, and his wide eyes were filled with worry.

“Do you guys have to hang out so much?” you asked reluctantly. “How would you feel if I suddenly spent all of my time with an attractive guy who was single?”

He furrowed his brows. “Well, I wouldn’t be thrilled,” he began slowly. Then he shook his head. “Okay, scratch that, I’d be really pissed.”

You almost laughed. He was just like you.

“Then you know exactly how I feel.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth. "You really have no idea, do you?"

The almost-kiss had distracted you, and it took a moment for you to reply. “No idea about what?” you asked, a little breathless.

"About the things I'd do to make you happy." With a tender gesture, he took your face in his hand and caressed your cheek. "I love you more than anything in this world." The kiss that followed made any doubt you had disappear in an instant. He was telling the truth, that much was evident. “Next time, you can just straight up tell me what’s bothering you. Although I have to say, I kind of like it when you’re acting all jealous and cute.”

“Fuck off,” you said, but it was with a smile. You playfully tried to push him off of you, but he buried his face in your neck.

He was stronger than you, and his weight was pressing against you in a way that made it impossible for you to escape. Not that you wanted to - not when his lips had found your neck and left a sensation so new and good that you couldn't help but let out a sigh of contentment.

“I love you,” he said, His voice was so full of affection that it warmed your heart. “Only you. Always you. I won’t be patrolling with her as much in the future, I promise.”

At times, you wondered how someone as great as him had ended up with someone like you. The room was bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun. His eyes shimmered with an amber-like hue; the smile that graced his face was a breathtaking image.

He appeared radiant in the sunlight, and in his presence, you felt a profound sense of peace and trust overcome you.

#miles morales x reader #miles x y/n #1610 miles is the cutest i love him so much <3 <3 <3 #miles morales x y/n #miles x reader

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 8 months ago

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Chapter 9: Wedding Bells or Gong of Destruction?

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy. This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter nine of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 3.3K

Warnings: References to sex, Cursing (a few times), Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, a little OOC, pining, fluff, some angst.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Philadelphia 1941

You paced at the foot of your bed, wringing your hands together, heartbeat frantic against your ribcage as your world seemed to spin to a stop. You didn't know whether you wanted to laugh or cry, scream or sob, throw up or have a stroke. Your entire body was electrified with your nerves, popping and crackling loud in your ears as the impulses jumped from synapse to synapse with ease.

And it was Howard's fault.

After three years of courting, of you trying to make up excuses to lengthen the distance between you two, of trying to find a way out, of trying to find a way to tell Ben that you loved him, it had finally happened, Howard had proposed. It wasn't out of the blue, you had been courting long enough and you were well past the age of usual engagement, something your mother continued to point out, but that didn't make any of this any easier.

Your eyes drop to the offensive chunk of jewelry on your left hand. Not only was it the ugliest ring you’d ever seen, but it was from the wrong man. You knew that deep down in your bones, knew it the second Howard came to Sunday night dinner and dropped to one knee in front of you. Hell, you knew it the second you met Howard for the first time. He was nothing compared to Ben, no one was.

You had looked Howard in the eye stunned, unable to speak, then raised your eyes to your father and mother hoping to find your voice and a plausible excuse, but before you could give him the honest answer you knew in your heart to be true, your mother had shouted "Of course she will!"

Because she's controlled everything else about my life, of course she'd do this as well.

Your tried again not to think about how ugly the ring and how it was utterly wrong for you in every way. When Howard dropped to one knee and opened the velvet box, all you could think of was Ben. You wondered what ring Ben would have chosen for you and wondered if the ring from him would have been right. He knew you better than anyone else.

Which begged the question: shouldn't your fiancé?

You tried not to compare your best friend to Howard, because you knew who would win. Every time you began to compare them, Ben had more pros than Howard did. But you couldn't keep waiting for Ben, didn't want to. Howard was promising you a future, a family, marriage-

A loveless one. The thought is immediate and makes your heart seize in your chest.

You knew that a marriage with Ben would be different, filled with passion, romance, love-

But he doesn't love you. So basically if Ben married you it would be the same for him as you marrying Howard. A one-sided love.

Despite dating Howard, you still allowed Ben in your life. Ben stayed over whenever he wished, walked with you to the park, stole you away for drinks in the bar down the street where Howard wouldn't be caught dead in, and took you to the occasional baseball game. Howard didn't drink and he didn't like being outside. Those moments with Ben made you feel more alive than you'd ever felt and then you'd meet Howard later and try to summon the enthusiasm to sit with him at dinner, all the while you were still buzzing with happiness from seeing Ben.

It made you feel like a traitor, feeling that good and thinking about another person while Howard tried to be everything you wanted.

Whenever Howard would kiss you goodnight, it made you feel like you were kissing a statue, cold, unfeeling, and despite his attempts to slide his tongue in your mouth it was passionless. And it made you think about what Ben said about Howard's name and what he would be like in bed, as improper as it was. You think back to all the moments you and Ben had been pressed against one another when you woke up in the morning, how perfectly you fit against him. Whenever Howard tried to hug you or hold you close it was all wrong. He wasn't tall enough or broad enough, not to mention sometimes you thought if he'd even be able to pick you up. Howard was more lanky than muscular, certainly not as strong as Ben, who picked you up one time on a dare from Adam when you were all really drunk.

Howard didn’t make you feel warm when he touched you accidently, he didn’t make you feel brave whenever your mother was around, and he certainly didn’t make you feel as happy as you did when you were with Ben. Not to mention he never let you draw him, said that there were more important things that he could be doing rather than siting there posing for you.

Howard wasn’t spontaneous. He’d show up exactly on time, call when he said he would, time every single minute of your dates and he certainly never tried to surprise you the way Ben did. The only time Howard ever seemed excited about anything was when he was talking about the fiscal progress of the United States in comparison to Europe, which he weaseled into every conversation you had together.

Even when he asked you to marry him it sounded more like a business proposal than a happy moment. You always thought that when you got engaged the other person would make at least some confession of love. He hadn’t done that. Howard successfully sucked the life out of a moment you thought you would remember forever. You couldn’t even remember what he said before he got on one knee, just the awkward silence and the feeling of dread that clamped tight around your heart when he asked you the question that ruined your life.

Legally am I bound to this, because technically my mother said yes for me?

You wondered if Howard proposed because the U.S was finally joining in the war or if he genuinely loved you. He brought by flowers often, roses even though you liked lavender more, brought by caramels even though you liked chocolates, and sent you books on the financial history of the United States that were helpful when you couldn't sleep at night, they sent you right off, not to mention you'd started sketching street scenes in the pages making them much more interesting, but you weren't going to show Howard that. His head would probably explode.

You sigh again, pacing faster at the end of your bed.

Howard wanted a quick wedding within the week before he shipped out to military training on Friday, and maybe you should be scared about your fiancé going to war, but the only person you were worried about was Ben. He'd probably also join the military to prove something to his father and take your heart with him when he left. You knew that Ben was the only one you wanted to hold your heart in his hands.

You look back down at the ring on your finger, filled with dread and thoughts about a passionless future.

How am I going to tell Ben?

The tap on your window is familiar, but frightens you, because you didn't know how to tell him or how he'd react. Each time you brought up Howard around him, Ben would make a sarcastic comment and change the subject. You think about the night you danced together, when Ben said that you couldn't be Howard's and also his friend.

Does that mean he'll never want to be apart of my life when we get married?

The thought makes your heart break. You couldn't imagine a life without Ben and you didn't want to, but you could image a life without Howard.

Ben is crouched in the window, a wide smile on his face, but this time he doesn't wait for you to let him in, he rolls up the window himself and he crosses the room to hug you.

The hug surprises you. You were usually the one that initiated them, but the hug breaks something in your chest and you hug him back tighter than you ever had to stop the tears from falling, pressing your face into his rumpled suit.

"Hey Sweetheart." Ben pulls back, but frowns when he looks at your face. "What's wrong?" Ben's hand gently cups your cheek, trailing warmth where his fingertips touch. You're surprised at the boldness of his touch, but you ascribe it to the alcohol, given the sharp tang of whiskey that floats through the air between you.

"Nothing." You clear your throat, stepping back so his hand falls and covering your ring finger on your left hand with your right nonchalantly. "How are you?"

Ben frowns for a minute at your reaction, but then shakes it off. "I've got great news." He smiles so wide that it makes the urge to cry rise in the back of your throat again.

You knew that as soon as you married Howard he would forbid you from seeing Ben. He already had after the night at the dance hall, but you didn't pay attention to him. Unfortunately, you knew that once you were married you wouldn’t be able to defy his wishes. You respected what marriage represented far too much to cross that line.

"Um me too." You smile tightly, your heartbeat so loud you wonder if Ben can hear it.

"Oh. Well-" Ben begins to say, wanting to let you talk.

"No. Please, you go first."

He won't tell me what news he has if I say my piece about Howard.

"Well, I've been thinking about what you said to me the other day about trying to figure out what I want-"

You remembered the conversation clearly. It was another day at Fairmount Park and it was an attempt to get Ben to start thinking about his future, though when you had told him to figure out what he wanted you hoped that it meant he would consider you, consider turning your friendship into something more. Your heart surges, hoping that this is it, this is Ben finally saying that loves you, that he wants to be with you.

"And I'm finally going to make something of myself." Ben's green eyes shine brightly with his excitement.

"Huh?" Your heart sinks.

"I talked to my dad." You don't miss the way Ben's jaw tightens when he says it. "And I've decided to enlist-"

"Enlist! Ben-" It takes all you have to beg him not to go, not to leave you here. Because you knew that you couldn't live without him and the thought that he would die overseas in a war destroyed you.

"Wait, listen." Ben smiles wider, confusing you. "My dad has friends in the war department, friends that are looking for volunteers for a military project."

"A military project?"

"It's a serum or an injection that's supposed to make us stronger, better-"

"What do you mean?" You ask mildly confused. You hadn't heard of the government announcing any kind of experiments or projects in the newspapers. Surely Howard would have told you about it, he was always boring you with things like that.

"I'm a not a scientist" Ben shakes his head. "But all I know is that they're looking for volunteers and they want men and women."

Surprise flits through your mind. It was odd that they were also asking for women. Although you knew that the military was beginning to accept women in their ranks, it was still surprising that they wanted female volunteers for a government project. Especially if they were experimenting on them.

Like lab rats?

"What are you saying?" You're still confused as to what he's trying to tell you, unusual given the fact that you were usually very good at reading him.

"I want you come with me." Ben can hardly contain his excitement, his smile is so wide it nearly splits his face.

It was the last thing you expected him to ask. "What?" You blink.

"I don't want to do this without you." He says in a tone that makes your heartbeat stop. "And I want you to come with me." He repeats.

Your immediate reaction is to scream yes, let him take you away from all of this, but then you remember Howard, and your mother and feel the weight begin to settle on your shoulders again.

"Ben I can't." It breaks your heart to say it to him, to watch how his face falls.

“Why not?”

"Howard is-"

"Come on, you really think things are going to work out with that son of a bitch?" Ben shouts so loud you're afraid that he'll wake up your parents.

"He loves me-" You begin to say, the urge to cry coming back strong, burning against your eyes. Because now it was that you were choosing Howard over him, even though you didn't want to, it was what your mother wanted. The future she laid out for you.

"You don't know that." Ben snaps, rolling his eyes.

"Ben, he-" You struggle to find your words, taking in a deep breath to strengthen your voice. "He- he proposed. I mean it's been three years, we're both of age-"

Ben's eyes drop to your left hand and this time you uncover your hand so he can see the engagement ring. His shoulders tense and the muscle in his jaw clenches and unclenches.

"When did he ask you?" Ben says in almost a growl.

"Tonight. He came to dinner, my mother is so excited-" You successfully keep the tremor from your voice, but it quickly feels like you're running out of air.

"But you're not." Ben mutters

"Of course I am-" Your voice cracks with emotion.

"No you're not." Ben raises his gaze to look at you. "I know you." The look in his eyes is unfamiliar, almost afraid.

But Ben isn't scared of anything. You try to remember a moment that he acted afraid, the only time is the memory of when you first met, when his father was looking for him and you lied to help him hide. Ben was fearless, it was something that you admired about him. You could always rely on him to have your back, be strong when you knew that you couldn’t be. To see him afraid was different.

"Ben-" You try again.

"Please." His jaw clenches together. "Don't marry him. Come with me."

"What?" You blink a few times to comprehend what he's asking.

Is he saying that he wants me to marry him? To run away with him?

"You're worth a hundred of him and I don't want to do this without you."

"Ben you're asking me to give up my future, my life-" You say trying to strengthen your resolve.

As unwelcome as Howard's proposal was, it was a future of sorts, what Ben was asking you was to dive into the unknown and you weren't sure if you were strong enough to do that. To leave everything you knew behind you and go with him. But apart of you was thrilled. Maybe it meant that Ben cared for you, needed you and this was the only way that he knew how to tell you. The three little words jump to the tip of your tongue again, the words you wanted to say when you danced together under the twinkling lights all those nights ago.

"You mean the future your mother wants for you." Ben sighs.

"Ben-"

"You’ve been trying to please her your whole life. Please don’t do this for her. Don’t marry him for her." Ben says, trying to catch your gaze, but you look down at his chest for a minute.

"But-"

"You are worth more y/n. And even if she can’t see your worth I can."

"Ben-" You look back up at him, trying to find the courage to tell him that you love him.

He stares back at you, green eyes wide and honest before he takes your hands. They're warm and rough, familiar in the best way. "Tell me that you want him. You’ve never lied to me before and I don’t think you’ll start now."

Your words die on your tongue, because you know that you can't lie to him, you never could.

"Is that really what you want? To spend the rest of your life with him? If it is I'll leave, but I want to hear you say it." His eyes are filled with promises that make your voice catch in your throat, like two blazing green fires that see through you. Ben might have acted aloof with other people, but he always paid attention to you and knew what you were thinking. No one knew you as well as he did, well except for the most obvious thing.

No it's not what I want. All I want is to be with you. The thought is immediate.

"But what about my mother-" You say, squeezing his hands.

"If you come with me, you'll never have to worry about her ever again." He says. By now tears are trickling down your cheeks, frustration and confusion building in your chest. Ben was promising you a future with him, but you couldn't understand if he was doing it because he wanted to be more or if he wanted you with him because you were his friend.

He drops your hands and instead brushes away your tears from your eyes. "I know you don't want to marry him."

"I don't." You whisper. "But I don’t know if I'm strong enough for this-"

“Do you trust me?”

Your hands come up to the front of his chest before you can stop yourself, feeling the warmth that surges underneath your palms. “Of course I do.”

His eyes are inviting, pleading, filled with emotion. "I swear that I will be strong enough for the both of us." His hands cup your cheeks. "I swear that I will look out for you like I always have. I swear that I will never leave you. And I don't want to leave you behind. Please y/n. Come with me." The earnest look in Ben's eyes makes you cry harder, but you know that all you want is to go with him.

You don't want him to go and leave you here, where no one understands and the future that you see is cold, emotionless, and the path dark. You see the coming years with Howard, living together, having children, lunching with other women you hardly know and talking about nothing that mattered.

When you were with Ben everything you talked about seemed important, every moment with him was fused with wonder and expectation, you were never disappointed and were always excited about what you would do together even if it was something as mundane as sitting on a bench with Ben talking while you painted. You could imagine spending the rest of your life with him.

But could he imagine the same thing with you?

The future you see with Ben is warm, inviting, filled with promises you know that he’ll keep because he’s never broken a promise to you no matter what.

But you wonder if it's the promise that you want.

You stand there in the silence of his plea, hearing the ticking of the clock on your bedside table, the sound of cars outside your window, and the sounds of the night vibrate through you bones.

He wasn’t saying that he loved you. He wasn’t confessing his love. He wasn’t making a promise to marry you.

But maybe this was his way. Ben had never been the best at expressing what he was feeling, but the look in his eyes, the way his fingers hold your face to his-

It spoke volumes.

“Yes.” You whisper. “I’ll come with you.”

Ben’s smile breaks your heart as he pulls you tightly against him, laying his head on top of yours as he hugs you and sets every nerve ending on fire. Because the hug is different. It’s filled with the unspoken words between you, the memories you’ve shared, and the great unknown that stretches beyond both of you.

And you cling tight to him, the only part of your future that’s certain.

Or so you thought.

a/n: I know, I know there's a lot of unresolved tension.😂 I promise it will all make sense and that it is going somewhere. But I will say the next few chapters are kinda... rough and are painful to write, but I can't wait for y'all to read them.

Thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series let me know :)

Taglist: @roseblue373 @anundyingfidelity @cheynovak @cassiecasluciluce @muhahaha303

@deans-spinster-witch @kayleighmeister @demodemo909 @fruitfacess @bobbobbobinogs

@bughill126, @simplyfixated @sleepjam, @tiredstrangerr @freefallthoughts

@onlyangel-444

#soldier boy x you #jensen ackles soldier boy #soldier boy #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy/ben #the boys amazon #the boys fanfic #jensen ackles #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy x y/n #the boys series #the boys tv #soldier boy fic #jackles #the boys season 3 #the boys s3

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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 11 months ago

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The Hobie fandom has a lot of smut, and with a character so accepting on so many fronts, it means so much to me to see trans!readers being taken into consideration.

As a trans guy myself, I love seeking out ftm!smut. But often times, I often can't read them. Many times I'm left feeling unseen, reduced, or even feminized.

And I wanna talk about that a bit, if it's okay.

My take and feelings on FTM!smut - As a Trans Guy

Ngl as a trans guy myself I do feel a bit alienated by a lot of FTM!reader.

I'm gonna be honest - I feel like most ftm smut is written exactly as it would be a cis woman, just with the pronouns changed. Which is understandable, but not really how it works.

Cis women and trans men don't have sex the exact same, just because they're AFAB.

And I feel most smut writers haven't gone out of their way to research the sexual experiences of trans men and how we navigate the world.

Hobie smut is pretty vulgar, and I won't complaining! As a character, he has a high volume of smut, and probably the most diverse range, with Black!reader, ftm!readers, and male!readers being more common than most fandoms.

Black!Reader focuses on the unique experience of black people when in a relationship together. This unique experience is at the basis of black!reader.

But when we approach Ftm!reader - very often, our unique experience isn't reflected.

It's just assumed that because we are AFAB - there's no need to look deeper at the closer unique sexual experience trans men have - or to read up about it.

Most ftm!reader fic does not attempt to use affirming sexual language for trans men at all.

T-dicks - ie, natural clitoris enlargement you get after taking T - is a thing a lot of transitioning Trans men have.

But they're never called T-dicks in fanfiction. Only clits. It's very rare that a ftm!reader is described as having a dick - because so often the only dicks cis people recognize are natal dicks, and surgery-constructed ones.

Many cis writers may never even considered referring to a trans man's clitoris as a dick - pre or post T. They may see it as confusing to the reader, when it's not.

T-Dicks are dicks. Bottom growth didn't give you a full 3-4 inches, but you absolutely have growth and there are trans men that can penetrate with T-dicks - without surgery - if with the right partner.

The words pussy and cunt are used liberally in nearly all ftm!smut, and while many trans men are okay with these terms, I think a lot of cis writers ignore or do not know that often, terms like those can cause heavy dysphoria in a lot of ftm readers.

I don't think cis writers ever question if they might be making readers dysphoric - or showing them in a non-affirming way.

I feel like some writers believe that changing pronouns and calling the reader 'handsome' is really all it takes. Just write usual fem smut, change the pronouns - and done!

In reality, a large part of the ftm community feels uncomfortable with the word 'pussy' - and would much rather stuff like 'front hole'.

A poll on 'What do you call your downstairs?'

And I'm not saying that you can't call a trans man's genitals a pussy. And I'm not saying that a trans man calling his genitals a pussy is wrong.

I just feel like cis writers do not consider the dysphoria of their trans readers, when writing trans smut.

I feel like most cis writers don't actually seek out accounts of trans men and their sexuality.

I don't think they ever consider that these terms, talking about wetness and penetration (which many men on T can have problems with because of vaginal atrophy and dryness), breast, clits, cunts, pussy -

I don't think cis writers ever question 'Is this accessible for ftm readers that might have dysphoria? How can I make this accessible or easier for trans men who have bottom dysphoria?'

'How can I make this more affirming of them as men?'

It's the assumption that, because we're all AFAB, because we have vaginas like cis women - then naturally we must all fuck the same regardless of gender, the only thing changing being the pronouns.

That's not true.

And also - Trans Men are never really written like gay men.

Trans men having sex with men is gay sex.

And even though most writers write trans men with male OCs - they hardly ever write their sex as if they are gay men.

99.9% of the time, it isn't written that way. Its always written as if it's 'straight sex'.

The experience of how gay men have sex is never really taken account into these fics, which makes me feel like a lot of writers don't see it as gay sex at all.

At most, the ftm reader may be described as a bottom - but never as an otter or twink or bear or cub or leather or anything.

They see it as AFAB sex.

Cause If I'm getting strictly candid - I feel like if a writer wrote mtf!smut and kept focusing on the girls 'hard throbbing cock and balls' - we'd all be like 'oh wow that's very intense centering on genitals that may alienate some trans women-'

But in ftm!smut focusing on 'wet tight juicy pussy and thriving clit' is standard. It's never really questioned.

And this is not to say 'oh trans women have it better they get better smut-' No. They really don't. I'm just bringing this up to highlight the fact that we should be making sure that trans!smut is accessible and affirming to the trans people they're about.

Seeing a fic in which a gay trans man prefers to use his asshole, like most gay men fuck, is VERY VERY rare.

I feel like most cis writers never consider the fact that gay trans men may want to perform sex in an affirming, clearly coded, masculine gay way.

It's always assumed we use our front hole, are okay with it being called a pussy, have no problems getting wet, or that we don't have dicks (T-dick is a dick).

And because of that - the lack of affirming language and the lack of affirming transmasc experiences makes it very hard for me as a FTM person to read smut about ftm!readers.

I feel like most of them don't actually take our comfort - or our experiences in mind.

I feel like most don't attempt to actually read accounts of trans guys having gay sex, and what that's often like.

If you're a writer who feels guilty of any of this - you're not a bad person or a bad writer. And I genuinely thank you for including us in your work - from the bottom of my heart.

But I want to highlight this -

Trans men having sex is not a 1:1 of cis women having sex. The same way trans women having sex is not a 1:1 of cis men having sex.

Or experiences are unique - and our dysphoria does affect our sex lives, and how we navigate them.

Please, do not let this put you off writing trans men. But please keep in mind that our experience is unique.

So often I read ftm!reader and feel reduced down to my pussy. Without breasts in the equation, so much ftm!smut focuses solely on the pussy.

If you write ftm!reader please please do not let this put you off, but here's some tips I can give as a trans guy

Please do slight research of ftm anatomy, read an article about gay trans men, or go on r/ftm (subreddit) and read some posts about trans men, read some nsfw posts where trans men tell hookup tales.

Advocate has an great article called '16 things I learned from having sex with Trans Men' - which details and dispels 16 myths about trans men in bed. It's written from the POV of gay men who have been with trans men in affirming ways.

This post is in no way meant to be an attack or subliminal at any one writer. If it was one writer, I wouldn't care.

But this is something I've experienced and seen across fandoms and across writers in this fandom too. I feel the urge to write this because searching for affirming ftm!fics - I often come away feeling even more dysphoric.

Not because of the word pussy or cunt or anything -

But because of the erasure of my experience, the idea that my gender doesn't influence my experience of sex - only my AFAB genitals do.

If you write ftm!smut, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, truly.

But I feel like I had to say this.

If you read this far, thank you! This is one of my more personal venting posts but I'm also trying to raise a point and start a discussion. And you reading through this and giving me your time and understanding is already helpful enough, so thanks!

Here's Hobie.

Bye.

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mikanotes · 7 months ago

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happy birthday xiao i love uuuu here’s a really bad fic i wrote while very tired. sorry i couldn’t make anything better but TT oh well! /late spring ft. xiao x gn!reader warnings: none really? they’re dating except neither of them know idk. some existential talk. possibly ooc xiao i’m so sorry & i think that’s it!

A soft, soft breeze drifts through the curtains of Xiao’s room. There’s the gentle pitter patter of a rain calming down and the scent of nearby Silk Flowers. It’s all so gentle that Xiao feels this might be what mortals describe as feeling like one is floating on a cloud.

He stares at the horizon and heaves a quiet sigh, before letting his gaze dart towards a piece of paper on the desk by the window. Again. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t looked at it a hundred times since seeing it appear in his room following his daily patrol and fights against monsters.

Surprise was what he first felt, then something he doesn’t know how to name that made his heart tighten painfully, then something else that made it difficult for him to both look at the letter and look away from it all at once. He still feels that ache in his heart when he thinks about it, somehow, but it’s not really painful. It’s not the kind of pain that causes worry. He figures it’s closer to excitement than anxiety. He’s not sure.

In any case, he’s sure whatever he feels is way too much in comparison to the contents of that paper sheet.

“Hi Xiao! It’s me. I’m sure you know, right?

Is it alright if we meet up at Qiaoying Village?

When the moon is highest, maybe? No worries if you can’t come. If you only have a little time, no worries, it won’t be long. See you there, I hope.”

There it is again… He nearly curses under his breath, fingers coming up to tighten at the fabric of his top, right above his heart, twisting again.

He takes a deep breath and easily dispels the feeling, though he begins to worry about the ease with which something so simple makes his chest react so strongly. He looks up at the moon and decides his incessant checking has lasted enough, before taking a step back and disappearing from his room.

Qiaoying Village is like the Harbor in a sense. It’s full of life, full of people, and the exact kind of place Xiao usually avoids. But a village is always easier. It’s arguably much less crowded and the people tend to have unspoken rules about not being too noisy around a certain time of the night. So when it’s this late, and up from a nearby hill, it’s not half as bad as it would usually be.

“You came.”

He shifts his gaze your way and has to pretend he isn’t surprised. He isn’t, but it took him a second too long to notice you. His heart picks up in speed again and he clears his throat quietly.

Shush.

“You called. What is it?” he asks casually, taking a step closer to you. You’re sitting at the edge of the cliff, your bag settled on the grass with some sheets of paper and flowers peeking out. Is that Qingxin? You hum quietly, eyes trained on the horizon, then sigh. You seem to be pondering over how to answer. “Should I give you more time?”

“Give me a break, is what you should.” you retort, scoffing jokingly. He chuckles silently at that and decides to come sit at your side.

“Is this about my day of birth?” he asks, looking ahead as well, “I told you you don’t need to make a big deal out of it. It’s just another day.”

“It is.” you agree, tone sounding somewhat melancholic. Then you turn to look at him, gaze a bit persistent on getting him to do the same. He swallows thickly and glances at you.

“… It is.” he repeats quietly, blinking. “So?”

“You’ve lived really long. When did you stop celebrating your birthday? Did it become meaningless?”

Big talk. He’s not too surprised. There’s no point in not being honest.

“What if I never started?” he asks blankly. It’s not really meant to be rhetorical, either. “I don’t know what’s meaningful about this. It’s not as if I remember the day, either.”

You laugh softly at that. “No one does. That’s not what’s meaningful about it.” you say, gaze moving elsewhere. He doesn’t look away.

“Then?”

There’s a moment of silence, and he hears you hum faintly. It’s a long enough moment to let his mind wander to the clouds again, to that peaceful and heart-ache-inducing place where he thinks about you. He thinks about you the whole day, then thinks about you when you’re right in front of him. It isn’t the first time it happens, but it does feel stronger when it’s his birthday.

Then to him, this day…

“It’s meaningful in different ways for everyone, I think.”

“Really?”

You turn to look at him and frown. “You look elsewhere.”

He waits. He doesn’t know what for. (For his daydream to end. It doesn’t. You’re the dream in front of him. He’s cursed to ‘look elsewhere’ as long as you’re on his mind, he thinks, but there are worse things to be cursed with.) Then he shakes his head a little bit. “I’m here.” he states, “Why is your birthday meaningful?”

You make a face like you’re not buying his previous statement, for some reason, then huff.

“I don’t know. I can’t tell.”

He’s surprised. He tilts his head a little. “You… Can’t?”

You nod. “It feels like it lost meaning over the years. Maybe because I’m growing older? In any case, maybe it doesn’t actually need meaning…”

“You sound like you’re backtracking because I called you out.”

“You don’t need to point it out. Isn’t cake enough, anyways?!”

He scoffs softly. “Then what are we doing here?”

You look at him for a long few seconds, and this time his mind isn’t allowed to go anywhere. Your gaze anchors him where he sits and he can’t go anywhere else. He has no escape. He can only look at you. “Because I think it’s meaningful. I’m glad you were born, and that you exist, and that I get to exist with you.” you say, and he’s almost in awe at how easily all of this came out of your mouth.

“I…” I don’t understand, is what he wanted to say. But he thinks he feels blessed to be allowed to live a life where he got to meet you. So that just wouldn’t be true. He does understand. “I see.”

It’s been a few years since you’ve known each other. Around four birthdays, he recalls. You’ve been celebrating his birth on this day each year since you two met. It should make sense, then, that you cherish him. It should go without saying that you want to celebrate this day with him. But some part of him still can’t believe you really care this much. Before, he would have never dreamed of anyone caring so much about him they would even remember the day he was born. He thinks he would’ve probably forgotten it if it wasn’t for you.

Birthdays are meaningless for a Yaksha. For someone who lives so long and so alone. However he’s not alone, anymore.

So then to him, this day is now meaningful because you’re there. Because you invited him. Because you continue to remind him it matters to you. Because you want to celebrate that he was born, and that he exists. It’s meaningful because you care about him.

“Should I say it more clearly?”

“More clearly?”

“I hope I can remind you I’m happy you’re here for every year you and life itself allow me to.”

If Xiao’s heart hurt before, then he doesn’t know how to describe the way it feels now. It’s at least ten times worse. You’re really willing to waste this day each year, aren’t you? He wants to sound annoyed but he feels anything but.

“I don’t think…” he takes a deep breath, but it’s shaky. “I don't think it needed to be clarified. I got it.”

You unfortunately seem to catch on to how flustered he is and lean closer. His gaze hesitates between looking at you and elsewhere several times before settling on elsewhere.

“Your embarrassment is making mine disappear. Thank you, really.”

“So you were embarrassed…” Xiao scoffs under his breath, “Didn’t sound like it. Maybe I didn’t pay close enough attention.”

He feels your fingertips touch his face, silently asking to hold him. He lets you.

“Then pay attention.” you say, guiding his face towards yours. Your eyes are close enough to see the moon reflected in them. Pretty.

“I am.”

“Great.” you smile, “Happy birthday.”

Your palm is cold against the skin of his cheek. He swears your skin is usually the warmer one. Is his face warmer than usual?

He looks away. He can’t help it. “…Thank you.”

Your hand is even colder. No, his face is warmer.

Then you pull away and he misses how cool it felt, so he grabs your hand before it’s too far away, and holds onto the feeling of it in his. You hum in question and he just intertwines his fingers with yours before looking back up. It would seem nonchalant if his face wasn’t still so warm, but he doesn’t care too much. If the sky is on his side the moonlight will only be bright enough to see you and nothing else.

You’re the only one he’ll always be willing to celebrate something so meaningless with. You’ve been known (to him) to have a way of making things meaningful by simply being there, anyways. Maybe he should be the one to get you a gift for that. Flowers? He thinks about your bag again and wonders if you didn’t one-up him, already.

“Did you call me all the way here to talk about the meaning of our existence?” he asks, trying to lighten the air. You laugh and get your bag, not letting go of his hand.

“Nah. I got you something.”

He sighs, and smiles. “Of course you did.”

“It’s simple, okay? Don’t worry!”

#xiao x reader #xiao genshin x reader #xiao genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #x reader

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tonicandjins · 1 year ago

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all of the girls you loved before

CHARACTERS: lee donghyuck | haechan x fem reader

WORD COUNT: 3k

GENRE: best friends to lovers, all of the girls you loved before by taylor swift

WARNINGS: none, just fluff

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this has been in my drafts for way too long. hope you like it! please consider donating/tipping me

all of the girls you loved before is the fourth installment from 23 moments with donghyuck

lee naeun, June 2013 - July 2013

Lee Donghyuck’s first love turned out to be the quickest one.

It was a whirlwind romance, like how he would describe it whenever you’d ask him. At thirteen, you and Donghyuck were finally catching up to the rest of your homeroom’s growing pains—both literally and figuratively. Your legs were longer now, albeit Donghyuck’s becoming longer than almost everyone else’s, and you were prettier than most. Letting your bangs grow was a wise decision in the summer, after all. Long gone were your chubby cheeks and you’d learned how to put on some lip tint before jumping on the bus to school. The internet was a better teacher when it comes to styling your hair; you’d never expected hairstyles come with face shapes. Meanwhile, Donghyuck, though his cheeks are still as round as they were in primary school, has learned that the hugs and kisses he used to give everyone in homeroom erupted butterflies all over.

You’d wondered, of course, because among everyone in class, Donghyuck’s probably given you the most hugs and kisses, yet you haven’t quite figured out what they meant when they say he gives people butterflies.

In the same year, Donghyuck learned consent. His mother and father gave him a lecture on why kissing people randomly isn’t ideal at his age and why consent is important. Hence, he’d stopped giving everyone random kisses. The last one he’d kissed you on the cheek was a week before summer started—not that you were keeping a record of all the stolen kisses—right when you were about to jump off the bus you and him were on.

Lee Naeun gave the first consent at thirteen. On the last day of classes.

She was moving to the US the next school year. Donghyuck made you wait by the benches as she packed up her duffel back after soccer practice.

She was taller than everyone else. Sporty and ambitious, Lee Naeun was every boy’s kryptonite. Just like how Lee Donghyuck was every girl’s.

“Can I kiss you?” Donghyuck asked. Naeun blushed like crazy. She was taller than Donghyuck, so when she’d nodded, Donghyuck had to go on his tip toes to reach her lips.

You looked away when Donghyuck got his first real kiss, wondering if the sudden pain in your stomach is the same as the butterflies that people get when Donghyuck kisses them.

kim haerin, August 2016 - January 2018

Kim Haerin was Donghyuck’s girlfriend all throughout junior high school.

Contrary to popular belief, Haerin pursued Donghyuck from the first week of classes. You and Donghyuck had moved to a different school after middle school as the one in your hometown didn’t focus much on arts, leaning towards STEM more, which, if you and Donghyuck were being honest, is the last thing you’d want to do in high school. This also meant that you and Donghyuck were new in town—the new girl and the new guy—and that people your age were particularly curious about you and Donghyuck that school year.

Oddly enough, the first thing they needed to confirm was whether you and him were dating. As soon as it was a clear no, you and Donghyuck received flowers left and right. You wondered whether this is what high school should be like and expected Donghyuck to feel the same, but that school year was different. The people liked the extroverted, friends with everybody Donghyuck, so it was easier for him to adjust to the new place and the new people.

They’d started dating the week after school started. Haerin was a part of a big group, the ones who’d studied in the school’s sister middle school down the road, and she knew everyone. She was nice, or so you’ve heard because you didn’t have that many conversations with her to confirm if she truly is, and she’d say hi to you when you passed by her by the lockers.

Donghyuck tried to take you with him whenever they’d hang out, of course, but his attempts could only do much because you weren’t into the same things as they were. Eventually, you’d found your own group and adjusted to the new school all by yourself. It made you worry about Donghyuck less whenever you’d see him all happy and loud like the person he is. While Donghyuck’s name stuck with Haerin’s all throughout high school, yours remain independent. You’d decided you’d start dating when you’re ready.

The only times you’d see each other, apart from the classes you shared, were weekends with your families. You and him talk, of course. Donghyuck at home is different from Donghyuck at school. But it was different. The memories of you and him going to and from school gradually blurred between all the people you’d met in high school.

Kim Haerin broke up with Donghyuck as soon as you all came back from Christmas break on the last year of junior high. She’d started dating the new guy from the other class who transferred all the way from Germany. She’d given Donghyuck a kiss in the middle of the empty gymnasium and told him she’d loved him but the sparks were gone.

Donghyuck waited with you on the bus stop that same day. To this day, he waits with you.

im jieun, November 2019 – December 2019

Im Jieun was one of a kind, and if you could pick, she was your favorite from Donghyuck’s long list of lovers.

She was a couple of years older than you and Donghyuck. How Donghyuck even got the slimmest chance of dating her, you have no idea. She was a freshman in college. You and Donghyuck met her at one of your seniors’ birthday party; they’d hit it off easily. They had the same personality, almost like twins, and were pretty much the perfect couple in your newly found friend group.

That year was the most life changing for him because Donghyuck lost his virginity with her, and for quite some time, similar to when he’d dated Kim Haerin, he disappeared from your life, and not that you’d cared at much at that time because you were also dating your first boyfriend, Na Jaemin.

Jaemin was everything a first boyfriend should be. Gentle and sweet, determined and future-driven, truly the kind you’d want your parents to meet. He’s been in the same class as you since junior high, but he wasn’t the kind to approach women that easily. He was brought up loyal and kind, and it showed with the way he treated you. He asked you out on a dinner for the first date, at an amusement park for the second, and a picnic by the park for the third—which was the same day he officially asked you as his girlfriend.

When Donghyuck had learned, he was as surprised as a best friend would be.

“You never told me you liked Jaemin,” he commented when you’d told him the news. He was sitting on the swivel gaming chair you and him bought as pairs right beside your bed, where you were still half asleep because he barged in at seven on a Sunday morning. Apparently, he learned it because he saw Jaemin’s Instagram story from your date with him last night.

“Because I didn’t,” you groggily replied. You squinted, trying to make up your mind whether Donghyuck’s a dream or not. “I mean, I like him now. But it didn’t occur to me until he started asking me out for dates.”

Donghyuck leaned his head against your chair, kicking his feet off the floor to spin himself around. “You never even told me you went out on dates.”

You giggled. “Are you sulking now, Donghyuck?”

He sighed. “I tell you all about the girls I date. Even the ones I dream on dating. And this one time you finally decided to start dating, I wasn’t there for you.”

You sat up, watching as your child-like best friend spins himself dizzy on your chair. “Check your phone. Every time Jaemin and I went out, I texted you.”

He sighed again, pressing his foot on your bedroom’s floor, stopping so he could look at you eye to eye. “You didn’t tell me it was a date. You said you were having dinner with him, going to the amusement with him, and hanging out with him at the park.”

“We’re 19,” you pointed out. “What would 19-year olds do alone together?”

Donghyuck tilted his head sideways. “You and I are always alone together.”

“It’s different.” You throw a pillow at Donghyuck, kicking off the blanket from your body and moving to give him some space to lay on. “Come here, you big baby.”

Donghyuck’s mouth formed into a pout but occupied the space on your bed anyway.

“I’m a big girl,” you reminded him as he rested his head on your chest. “I don’t need you to be there for me on my first relationship.”

“Ouch,” he mumbled.

“I will always need you in my life, Donghyuck,” you clarified, knowing well how Donghyuck hates being not needed. “Just, not for this one. I might actually, truly like Jaemin. He’s a good guy.”

Donghyuck hummed. “But I’m still your best friend, right?”

You laughed. Because it’s the most ridiculous thing you’d ever heard. Donghyuck will always be your best friend. You were certain no relationship would break that. You and him were past being insecure about your friendship.

“Always.”

Donghyuck broke up with Jieun before Christmas break. The reason, you have no idea. But he’d told you it wasn’t as fun as it was in the beginning anymore. And Jieun was in university, after all, and you and him had SATs to pass and college essays to ace before the school year ends.

You and Jaemin took him out for clubbing that night, in hopes of cheering him up. It was a mystery to you why he’d suddenly decided to end it when the relationship seemed like it was smooth-sailing. They’d even talk about Donghyuck going to the same university as Jieun next year. You didn’t recall any fights within the relationship, so you wonder why.

Donghyuck leaves the club without you and Jaemin.

lee naeun (again), February 2020 – April 2020

Donghyuck learned from Lee Jeno that his first love returned from the US to take her bachelor’s degree in Seoul on Valentine’s day. He found her wandering around SNU’s main lobby on the first day of the spring semester. You and Donghyuck were visiting the university after receiving your acceptance letters, looking for an apartment to share. Jaemin was going to another university, so it wasn’t wise for you and him to move in together, hence Donghyuck offered to move in with you to save up some money for rent and other expenses.

Lee Naeun stood there, still taller than Donghyuck, still the first person who ever kissed Donghyuck’s lips, still the first person you’d ever compared yourself to, wondering what she had that you didn’t.

Like the day they kissed in 2013, you looked away when Donghyuck finally reached to where she stood, wondering why, all of a sudden, many years later, the butterflies were flying all over in your stomach once again.

ginny williams, September 2020 – October 2020

Of course, the first woman that Donghyuck officially dated in university is from the UK. Jeno said he only dated her to show everyone he’s immensely improved in English.

The break-up was proof Donghyuck never improved in English. He didn’t even understand why she was breaking up with him.

park yesol, September 2021 – February 2022

You introduced Donghyuck to Park Yesol because it’s what she wanted for her birthday.

She had invited you to her 21st birthday. You and her, if you were being honest, barely know each other. You only shared a class in Literature once, so at first, it was a mystery to you why she suddenly invited you. When she’d asked if you could ask Donghyuck to RSVP with you, you’d known that it’s all she wanted from you.

Eventually, they’d start dating. Donghyuck, at that time, had been single for almost a year. He thought he convinced you that college was finally catching up on him hence he’d put a stop to his “demanding” dating life. However, Donghyuck is your best friend, and you could see right through him. You knew he liked someone he wasn’t willing to share with you, and he was probably working up the courage to ask that person out, which, when you thought about it, was new. Donghyuck was cunning and ambitious and he knew what he wanted and how to get it. He was never one to shy away from the people he liked, so it was a little suspicious that it took him almost a year to start dating again. You did not figure out who he liked, and you knew he’d only started dating Yesol to get you to shut up about it.

You and him knew it wasn’t a serious relationship because Yesol was dating other guys while she’d dated him. Donghyuck told you it felt like the relationship was just for sex because of his oozing sex appeal; you’d thrown a cushion at him when he’d said that.

Meanwhile, you and Jaemin were almost at pointbreak.

You didn’t want to spend Valentine’s Day being uncertain of the relationship would go, so you broke up with him on the first day of February. Jaemin had gotten an internship in Japan a few months ago, and the company that hired him liked him so much that they wanted to keep him while he finishes his degree virtually. You wished you could say the same, that you loved him so much you also wanted to keep him.

It was finally catching up to you and him, the distance. So, it was better you’d break it off before you and him start failing subjects just to keep a relationship steady.

Two and a half years together wasn’t enough. You and Jaemin wanted to spend the rest of your college years, at least, together. But like he said the night you’d ended it: it wasn’t worth it if it was compromising your mental health and studies. You’d cried so much that night, and you wondered if Donghyuck pretended he couldn’t hear you sobbing from the other side of the apartment.

Come Valentine’s Day, Donghyuck asked you to dress up, throwing a paper bag at you.

The place he “luckily scored” a reservation from, on a busy, fully-booked Valentine’s night, was nice. It was romantic and you were flushed and giddy from all the wine and all of the Donghyuck.

“Why are you here with me and not with Yesol?” you’d asked after the waiter filled your glass.

Donghyuck smiled at you. “I broke up with her two weeks ago.” Around the same time you did with Jaemin. “I figured if my best friend would be miserable on Valentine’s day, I should be, too.”

You laughed. “Well, you don’t look too miserable for a newly single man.”

“I’m not,” he confessed. “I’m never miserable when I have you.”

You reached out one hand, palm facing Donghyuck. He intertwined his hand with yours. And it fit perfectly. Just like the dress he got you.

your name, June 2022 – present (or alternately, sometime in 2005 – forever.)

“Lee Naeun, Kim Haerin, Im Jieun, Lee Naeun again, then Park Yesol,” you enumerate. “You were a ladies’ man!”

Donghyuck whines, begging you to stop as you go through his things in his room, particularly the notes and letters from the girls he’d dated.

You and him are moving out. Graduation is just around the corner, and you and Donghyuck decided to move on to a better place. Your boyfriend got a job in one of the biggest companies in his industry, while you’re yet to find yours.

“Don’t forget Ginny Williams,” he teases, throwing you a love letter from the bunch.

“You did not date Ginny Williams, Donghyuck. It was an illusion,” you scoff. “Tell me one conversation you had with her. A real one.”

“I swear to God, she loved me,” he answers. “Stop playing around and help me in here.”

You stand from the carpeted floor and walk towards Donghyuck as he sorts out the things from his study desk. Donghyuck starts with the tower of books and folders, organizing them alphabetically as he carefully places them on the box labeled as books. The other box is labeled as essentials; hence you start throwing his headphones and speakers and its chargers in. While doing so, you get a hold of a small box that contains what you thought were miscellaneous items mixed in with trash, until you realize what’s inside.

There are a few polaroid pictures of you and him from high school, including a picture of you and him on your high school’s graduation day, some receipts from, now you recognize, the places you’d gone to. There’s a receipt from when you and him took the subway to visit a museum at the other side of the country back in 2018, another from Valentines day 2022, when you and him celebrated being newly single, the old ticket from your senior prom when he’d gone with you, and so many more that you could recognize just from its dates.

“Donghyuck,” you whisper as you look at the box of memories. Donghyuck turns, eyes wide when he recognizes the box you’re holding. “Where… where should I put these?”

Donghyuck loved many girls in his life. You can recall their names in the order of when he’d dated them. You had your favorites and the ones you didn’t like that much. Some of your friends wonder if you’ve ever been insecure knowing you weren’t the first kiss or the first person he had sex with and if you were okay with knowing all of that. You weren’t the first and you wish you’d be the last. The only thing you’re certain of, is that he had always loved you, and that alone erases all the other thoughts.

If you could say so, you’re thankful for all of the girls he loved before because they made him the one you’d fallen for. Every dead-end street led him straight to you.

He smiles. “Essentials.”

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olderthannetfic · 9 months ago

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Genuine question: what's the point of writing fanfic? As in, what's the purpose? No one in the fandom I'm in comments on fics and I even got told off by one person for doing so, as it "encourages bad writers and makes them think they're good". So it seems that it's a lot like book writing, where people work hard and are creative, but instead of getting paid and getting comments on the work, you just sit there silently hoping someone will press the kudos button and make a number go up. I feel like that time and work could be better spent on making something you might get some kind of profit off of. Don't get me wrong, I love doodling fanart, but I don't post it, as I'm aware that there's no point to doing so, and while it's a nice way to fill the time on a commute, it's not something that takes me as much time and effort as fanfic does. So... why do people bother? Sometimes I describe ideas I have and people I know in my fandom will tell me I should write it, but I don't see why. I get more interaction from just saying "imagine if [thing here]" than I would by sitting down, writing for hours, editing and posting [thing here], so what would the point be? I'm not punching down or going "haha women and their fanfic lol!", I genuinely do not get what the point is and this blog feels like it might have someone reading who knows the answer.

Do you make art for profit? Genuine question.

There's nothing inherently wrong with being motivated primarily by external factors, but it's not actually why a lot of people create things, whether it's books or recipes or doodles in a notepad.

I enjoy the actual process of writing.

I think many people lose sight of that aspect in an era where tons of <500-word fics that are mostly outlines and "Imagine if..." posts get disproportionate attention for being easy to consume. But the satisfaction of doing a bigger art piece and doing it right is real and motivates a hell of a lot of creation.

I suppose you might be thinking "Okay, but why not just write it alone and never post?", but I like sharing. Showing off my finished creation is part of the joy, and sharing with other people like me is too. But those aren't quite the same thing as worrying about kudos. It's like dressing nicely when you leave the house because you feel great when you know you look good vs. needing another person to tell you you look good.

To be honest, though, this type of feeling has grown in me the better I've gotten at a craft. The closer my finished projects get to the vision in my head, the easier it is to find them fulfilling and to be excited to share them. When I fall short of my own ambitions, it's discouraging no matter how much attention I might get from others.

I feel like it's time for my regular reblog of Adam Westbrook's video essay series The Long Game.

vimeo

youtube

The third and least known in the series is all about this idea of who you're making art for if you're not getting material rewards in the short term. It talks a lot about autotelicity—being internally driven instead of externally.

But if you really just want clicks, anon, start a blog that accepts anon asks and posts about wanky stuff. Actually tag things, unlike me, so people can find you.

No, writing for attention isn't worth it.

The time investment is too great and your brain will always fixate on the times people didn't respond instead of the times they did.

But that's not actually why most people write.

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commander-rahrah · 7 months ago

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I'm excited to read it too! I'm glad you find it interesting! Don't worry about your post because long! Your thoughts are so interesting!

I agree that Astarion would have to come to terms with Reader/Tav's boundaries too since it works both ways! I definitely feel that Astarion would be too lost in drinking from the blood of a sentient creature to notice the signs.

He would feel ashamed when he's aware of their fear yet they still chose to offer despite that might made him feel like he manipulated them like Cazador did to him 😭

What his excuses are if they try to offer in the early days makes sense! He would be too ashamed & terrified to have such a vulnerable conversation with them yet 😞

He would feel safe enough to bring up their fear after he confessed about everything. He would make it clear to them he doesn't want them to suffer by making them do something they don't want to like he did especially after how much they have helped him & how important they are to him 😭

He would respect their decision if they said it's too much for them. He would support everyone's personal choices & autonomies even though the concept is still new to him 😤

He would need an explanation if they insist on feeding him regardless of their fear. They would explain that not only do they trust him, they love him more than they fear it 🥹

He would only accept if they establish some ground rules 👍 like he did when it comes to physical intimacy & sex which is healthy for both of them!

I know it's unrelated but thank you for adding this because you described me pretty well 🤣 I would definitely react to even the smallest of cuts so Astarion quickly but gently sucking it & giving a small kiss on it would be a fantastic distraction 😳

You're welcome! Thank YOU for entertaining me & sharing your thoughts! I'm glad you enjoy putting Astarion and Tav/Reader in all these different scenarios too 🤍

Here's my idea that I would love to hear your opinion! Just to let you know this is quite self-indulgent XD How would Astarion react to GN! Reader/Tav actually had suspicions that he's using them but still chose to believe that he's not. So when he confessed he manipulated them, they're even not angry at him.

They're sad for how much & how long he has suffered to be the way he is now, but they're also genuinely hurt that he did take advantage of their trust in him. They don't blame him but they admit it still hurts and wants some time alone to process it.

After leaving them be, they would go to him when they're ready to talk to him. They would tell him how grateful they are that he chose to come clean with them despite knowing how it would be easier for him to keep quiet for it, and thanked him for trusting them enough to be honest with them.

What do you think of it? I'm curious :3

Hi Anon! Sorry for the super late response, I let this one stew for a little while in my brain and the other night I had this dialogue idea and couldn’t resist writing a little scene about it tonight! I hope you enjoy ❤️

I envisioned this scene happens half way through his confession, and then imagined the rest of the conversation about intimacy and boundaries would happen afterwards! It’s about 1100 words, and canonical Astarion backstory warnings apply — trauma, dark thoughts, etc.

.·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨

“I just — I feel awful." Astarion’s throat worked silently, his eyes glancing down to his boots. "Look, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan — seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you’d never turn on me. It was easy — instinctive. Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in." He finally looked up at your face, studying intensely for your reaction.

“I—oh,” You pulled your hand away from him as uncertainty flooded your features. He saw your eyes dart back and forth, but they weren’t studying him. No, you were lost in thought. “Oh.”

Astarion licked his lips, his hands ringing together in front of him nervously. “You have every right to be angry.”

“I’m not angry. I thought we… I don’t know what I thought.”

The rest of what he had planned to say vanished out of his mind. Instead it started to betray him, a cruel voice whispering about how he knew you would react like this. Did he really think it would go well?

His pink mouth hung open as he scrambled for what to say, trying to think of how to make this better. But he’d done enough already, hadn’t he?

You crossed your arms over your body, your cheeks flushing deeply. “I feel a bit like a fool. None of it was real, the whole time?”

“Not the whole time,” He confessed as soft, vulnerable moments with you flashed in his mind. The very moments that made him start to drop the act. “It hasn’t been as of late, but before… in the beginning, up until recently, yes.”

His red eyes followed your throat as it bobbed up and down before flicking back up to your face. Your eyebrows were furrowed, your mouth a sad pout.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” Astarion whispered, not daring to move forward.

“I’m thinking… I need a moment.” You admitted, already looking behind you and away from him.

His heart sank, but he nodded. “I— okay. Of course.”

And then you were off, your head down as you stalked away from the edge of the beach and back to the warm glow of camp.

He stood there stunned for a moment, before turning around to stare at the dark, choppy waters in front of him. Hundreds of scenarios began to dance in his mind — what if you went back to the camp to tell the others? Would he be met by pointed blades and blazing spells? He imagined being kicked out, staked, cursed, roasted alive with fireballs. Hand delivered to Cazador as extra punishment for his sins. Anything his twisted broken mind could come up with played like a messed up vision.

Astarion didn’t even try to stop the repetitive dark thoughts. It was what he deserved.

Eventually, the vampire slinked back into the camp some time later — once the sky was inky black and the moon was the only light to illuminate the way back to his tent.

“Hi.”

The sound caused his ears and shoulders to perk up instantly. You were sat in the grass and dirt outside of his tent, your arms wrapped around your knees and pulled to your chest.

“Hi.” Gods, he sounded breathless. But he couldn’t see any weapons or angry barbarians or wizards nearby. That was a good sign, right?

“I wasn’t sure when you’d come back.”

He cocked a brow, “I figured you wouldn’t want to see me again.”

A sigh escaped your lips, “Astarion, don’t be dramatic. I asked for time to think — not for you to leave.”

He blinked at your sharp tone, but nodded his head in slight defeat. “You’re right. And you waited for me because—?”

You brushed off your clothes as you stood up to his height, “I would like to finish that conversation, if you’re ready.”

Well, there was no denying the inevitable.

He nodded his head solemnly, stepping forward to open the flap of his tent and inviting you in with a wave of his hand.

The privacy his tent offered was slight, but this late in the night he knew most of his companions would be fast asleep. Quickly lighting a lantern, he joined you on the fabric floor.

His half-dead heart was thundering, the thrumming sound echoing in his pointed ears that he almost missed your quiet voice.

“I understand.”

“What?” His brows furrowed, looking at you with confusion.

“The stories you’ve told me… your scars… I understand why you did it, why you felt the need to do it.” You explained, your voice and eyes tender as you looked at him in the low light. “But you manipulated me, Astarion. You took advantage of me, toyed with me and my emotions to get what you needed. That hurts.”

Astarion’s stomach twisted into a hard knot, “I know.”

“But you also didn’t need to tell me any of this. You could have kept pretending, kept up the charade until we faced Cazador… But you didn’t. Why?”

Now it felt like his stomach was crawling up his torso and into his throat. Gods, what was this feeling? Why did you do this to him. “That’s what I was trying to tell you before. I failed with my plan. It felt apart the moment I realized… that I had fallen for you.” He admitted, but his fluttering heart made more words stumble out of his mouth. “And I know you probably don’t believe me, why would you after everything I just told you. Trust me, nobody feels more stupid about it than I do.”

You cut off his rambling, “I don’t think it’s stupid. I think that’s probably the most honest you’ve been with me since I’ve met you,” You said earnestly. “It would have been a lot easier for you to keep on pretending, wouldn’t it? Pretend I’m just another mark, another means to an end to get through the day.”

“I don’t want easy… I don’t want to just get through the day. Not anymore.” Astarion whispered across the small tent, staring intently at you.

You cocked your head slightly in question, “And what do you want?”

“I want this, I want us — to be real. You deserve something real.”

“So do you, Astarion. You deserve something real.”

Your name escaped his lips as a choked sob as overwhelming wave of emotion settled over him. “I don’t even know what real looks like. How do I give that to you if I—?”

“Do you trust me?”

The vampire nodded through his tears, “Yes.”

“I trust you,” You said softly.

“After everything I’ve done?” He croaked, waving his hands dramatically, “You’d trust a monster—“

You grabbed onto his extended fingers gently, squeezing them. “Yes, even then.”

He looked down at your hands touching, before intertwining his pale fingers with yours carefully. “Maybe you are a fool.”

You let out a breathless laugh, the sound waking up something in him he’d long thought dead. “Maybe, I am. But you fell for me, so what does that make you?”

Astarion’s mouth twitched up until it matched your smile, “The luckiest vampire alive.”

#commander-rahrah answers #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfic #Astarion X reader #astarion x gn reader #astarion x tav #astarion x gn!tav

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elexuscal · 1 year ago

Note

ficlet prompt: fill in that scene scene where three tried to get mb to take its armor by pointing at it for like 3 minutes while everyone tried to figure out what it wanted

Adjustments

So. The SecUnit thing. The thing with the SecUnits. That thing.

Turi was adjusting pretty well to it all, they thought. You didn't get accepted to a job like this if you couldn't adjust quickly, or if you couldn't handle unconventional AIs. But the fact that the SecUnits looked so much like human made it that much easier to be taken by surprise when they didn't act like one. Like now, for example.

They were going through the ship's armoury, taking inventory, and putting things back where they belonged, after the invaders (or infected colonists, they supposed) had trashed the place. It had been a long-term project to clean the sheer scale of the mess, but they were finally getting things in order. Which was good, because things were heating up with Barrish-Estranza, and they needed to know where their equipment was if/when things finally caught fire.

Turi had been vaguely aware of Three leading SecUnit towards the lockers. (Yes, it was mildly that one SecUnit just went by 'SecUnit'.) They'd glanced at the pair, then away, since both SecUnits were sensitive to that kind of thing. (Which was kind of hypocritical, to be honest, but then when you'd escaped corporate brain slavery, you were entitled to a little hypocrisy Turi supposed.) Mostly Turi's attention had been occupied with ensuring all of the flashlights were functional, while the rest wished they could help sort the weapons, and idly wondered if the captain would let Turi get fire-arm certified during the off-season....

That was when Perihelion poked them in the feed. {Turn around.}

Obediently, Turi turned around.

The two SecUnits were still standing by the locker. Three was pointing at it. Turi would have assumed it was having a silent conversation in the feed, and maybe it was, but clearly that wasn't helping, because SecUnit turned around and looked Turi in the eyes with an expression that could only be described as 'pleading'.

(Well, and irritated. But SecUnit always looked irritated.)

"What is it?" Turi asked, careful to keep their voice upbeat and pleasant.

"It won't tell me," SecUnit groused. Whined, even.

"My armour is inside."

"Right." Turi tilted their head. "Do you need help getting the locker open..?"

"No," said Three.

"No," said SecUnit.

With a click, the locker opened. Peri. It could have done that like two minutes ago, Turi thought. What game was it playing here?

Even though the armour was now sitting there, Three did not move towards it.

"Do you... want to put it on?" Turi ventured. "No."

Okay. Turi tried, "Is it damaged? Does it need repairs?"

"No," said Three. Its expression looked distinctly frustrated at this point.

Perihelion was annoyed too. {Obviously I would not have put it away if it was damaged.}

On their private connection, Turi said, {You can complain when you actually start facilitating this conversation.} The ship huffed.

"Do you need help putting it on?" Turi asked Three.

Again, it said, "No."

By now, their little confused knot had attracted attention. Overse came over from the other side of the armour. "Everything okay here?"

"We're fine," SecUnit said. That's the answer it gave any time now anyone so much as gave a ghost of a suggestion that it might not, in fact, be fine.

"Mmnhmn?" said Overse, more comfortable of expression her doubt than Turi was. "Three?"

"I am fine," Three said, with a stutter on that last word. It paused, "No one is using the armour."

"No," agreed Overse, after a pause. "Not right now. Would you like to be using it?"

"N--" Three began. Then stopped. "Someone should use the armour on the next ground mission."

Turi met Overse's gaze. Overse's eyebrows went up.

"It could be advantageous," Turi agreed. "Depending on the specific mission. Do you want to wear it?" They'd already asked, but maybe it just needed a little more gentle prodding.

Pointing at SecUnit, Three said, "SecUnit is more experienced than me."

Was it? Turi wasn't actually sure. More experienced as a free agent, certainly, but in total? Turi had no idea. Now that she thought of it, How old were each of the SecUnits? And how did age even work for them, anyway?

As Turi was wrestling with how to frame the question tactfully, Overse had managed to narrow in on the more concerning part of Three's statement. "SecUnit is more established on the team," she agreed. "But the armour is yours. It doesn't get to co-opt it from you. No one does."

"Yes," SecUnit said in a rush, "I don't want it."

Brow furrowed and lips twisted, Three said, "Why not?"

"Because I just do." It stepped away, like it was intending to march out of the room, then jerked to a halt. "I won't wear it."

"You don't have to," Turi said, almost in chorus with Overse. Overse tilted her head at them, letting Turi continue. "We have enviro-suits and other field-outfits that can work similarly to armour. Or we could modify this armour, if you'd prefer, Three."

{If we are going to deploy this armour, I recommend altering the color scheme,} Peri interjected with a sneer. {At the very least.} It was currently in BE orange and brown, which obviously would lead to some awkward questions. But no doubt their hyper-competent research transport would have a half dozen other ideas to improve the design.

"But..." If Three said anything more, it was over the feed.

Maybe it did. Clearly something happened the humans could not follow, because that was the point where SecUnit really did march out of the room. Three stared after it, bearing a painful resemblance to Turi's childhood puppy with separation anxiety.

Trying to banish that (somewhat) unfair comparison, Turi turned to Three wearing what they hoped was a comforting smile. "So! The armour! Would you like to make any changes?"

The 'like' word was a tough one with Three. The past month had made that abundantly clear. But it was adjusting. It said, "What changes are possible?"

Yeah, so, okay. They were all still adjusting to the rogue SecUnits thing. But this, Turi could work with.

#murderbot diaries #system collapse #murderbot spoilers #oh look this one ended up even longer

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thebramblewood · 2 months ago

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Apologies if you've answered this before, but I was looking through your asks and couldn't find anything.

Do you have any advice on how you take such good screenshots of your game? You have such a knack for lighting, having variety of shots, and making them immersive.

This is so sweet. Thank you! 🥰

If I'm being honest, it's 90% vibes and gut feelings for me. I don’t have any formal background in filmmaking or photography, and everything I know is by sheer osmosis. There’s a lot of fancy terminology to describe why certain image compositions look better than others. I admire and respect anyone who purposefully keeps that in mind. But I am definitely not that person. I think I’ve watched enough film and TV, though, to subconsciously be doing the "right thing" - or at least what looks right to me.

That being said, I think the best way to improve is practice. If you spend enough time doing something you'll obviously get better at it, even if you don't realize it at first. So the most important thing is to give yourself the patience to grow and the freedom to experiment! At any rate, here are some things I've learned that will maybe be helpful to others.

Camera Tricks: We all know the camera in TS4 can be a little wonky at times. I use Buckley's camera mod. It hasn't been updated in eons but still works as far as I can tell. It gives you more freedom with movement, and I've found it especially helpful for getting shots that are lower to the ground.

Now that I've realized how sneakily useful first person camera can be, I also take advantage of that all the time. There's the trick of making your Sim look in a specific direction. (This works with poses and gameplay actions, by the way! For example, I used it to turn Caleb's head toward Lilith while he was trimming the bonsai tree.) There's the Dutch angle trick explained in this video. This is great for moments of disorientation and unease. I also just straight-up used first person camera to convey Helena's confusion upon waking after being turned.

Also, saved camera positions are your best friends. You can save up to five positions using CTRL+5-9. Then you just click the corresponding number to return to that position. I've used these for so many reasons. By taking two shots in the same position and Photoshopping them together, I've been able to edit Sims in (like Vlad below), fix accessory clashes (the book was in the hat category, so Lilith couldn't actually wear it at the same time as the towel on her head), and to pose Sims in open doorways (Helena had to walk through the door to open it for the Vatores, so I shot both halves separately).

Zoom: I love smashing that zoom button, whether it's zooming way in or way out. Zoomed out shots are perfect for establishing setting or as interstitial shots during a long conversation when you don't want to always focus on Sims' faces. They're also great for the draaama. Extreme close-ups are great for emphasizing emotion or a tiny but significant detail. Playing around with the extremes of zoom is one of the best ways to achieve shot variety!

Focus: I don't think Reshade is a necessity for good visual storytelling, but it does make certain things easier. I rely a lot on depth of field shaders to pull focus in shots. I like using cinematic depth of field especially in conversations to blur some characters while emphasizing others. I feel like this helps ground conversations because it reminds us there are multiple participants instead of always zeroing in on the speaker alone. Another way to play with focus is to allow the angle to mirror the emotions of the conversation. It's an older shot, but I always liked how Caleb seems to cower beneath Lilith's bat form here even though she's technically smaller. And in the recent conversation between Lilith and Helena, I kept the camera to Lilith's back to emphasize her vulnerability and discomfort and put the focus on Helena's reaction to it.

Framing/Angles: I do this by pure instinct, honestly, and have gotten better at getting it right on the first shot over time. I used to take half a dozen shots of the same pose from different angles and choose the best one. Nowadays, I'm quicker to commit and often take only one shot. I've learned that if something immediately tickles my brain, it's usually the way to go. I usually angle shots so that the characters aren't looking directly at camera, as it seems more natural that way. On the other hand, sometimes the direct to camera look can actually work in more confrontational or unsettling moments.

Environment: If I can help it, I don't do my own builds. In some ways, this is a disadvantage because I have to set up the scene within a space that wasn't specifically catered to it. On the other hand, it makes for fun little surprises, like the ability to peek in through a skylight or frame two characters within perfectly placed archways. I like using objects and structures to create interest when I can. I often don't discover things like this until I'm pulling the camera around and randomly happen upon them. I definitely recommend navigating all around to see what you've got to work with before committing to any specific angle. You might find one you didn't even think of!

Lighting: I do what I can with the game's lighting. I avoid placing ceiling lamps or at least turn the brightness down much lower, and I don't usually turn all the lights on in a room at once. I tend to change the color to one of the warmer golden hues to avoid a stark white that washes everything out. I always like when I can get some sources of light into frame because it adds a lot to the ambience. But I've also been using Relight on all of my posts lately. It's an addiction, and it truly makes all the difference. I'll use it to give light sources a stronger glow so they stand out more and also to create shadows on Sims' faces. It's also very good for flashlights and computer screen glow!

After having self-indulgently written all this, I'm not sure how much is usable advice versus rambling musings. I find it hard to give storytelling "tips" because so much of it feels innate and personal and hard to put into generalized terms. I also don't want to imply that every one of my shots is perfect or that there aren't a million other ways to go about achieving good results. But thank you to anyone who's made it this far, and I hope you found it worthwhile. 💕

#asks #the zhaoverse

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gyusimp · 3 months ago

Note

idea: Gyutaro with someone who has a very hard time expressing their emotions outwardly due to being neurodivergent and depressed. Not that they can't, they just was never able to try, or figure out how. They are very blunt, but have been trying to do better with their words and often talk too fast or forget what they were going to say. is this me describing what its like to be neurodivergent? the world may never know- ty if you can do this!

°•𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 [ᴳʸᵘᵗᵃʳᵒ̄ ˣ ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ]

• Thank you for your request, it was a little different than what I usually write because it was a more serious situation so I hope I did it right. I hope you like it and I apologize if there are any errors 💜

The streets of the Entertainment District were a labyrinth of chaos, but amidst the noise, you found solace in the shadows. It was easier to blend into the background, to watch the world pass by rather than participate in it. Expressing emotions had always been a puzzle for you an unsolved one that left you feeling like an outsider in your own mind.

But he noticed you.

Gyutaro, with his sharp eyes and twisted smile, had a way of seeing through the façade you wore. His presence was overwhelming to most, but to you, it was strangely comforting. There was something about his unfiltered, raw nature that felt... honest. In a world where you constantly struggled to communicate, where words slipped away before they could form, Gyutaro's bluntness was a relief. You sat beside him now, the two of you nestled in the shadows of a deserted alley. The sounds of laughter and revelry drifted in from the distance, but here, it was just the two of you.

"You’re quiet tonight," Gyutaro observed, his voice a low rasp. He was never one for small talk, but he didn’t need to be. His presence was enough.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words tangled up in your mind. It was frustrating, knowing what you wanted to say but not being able to find the right way to say it. You frowned, looking away, feeling the familiar sting of inadequacy.

"I’m… trying," you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper. The words felt clumsy, like they didn’t quite fit together.

Gyutaro tilted his head, his sickle-like fingers tapping against the stone wall. "Trying what?"

"To… say things," you said, the words spilling out faster than you intended. "I want to—no, I need to—talk more, to express things, but it’s like there’s this wall, and I can’t—" You stopped, biting your lip in frustration. It was happening again. The more you tried to explain, the more tangled up your thoughts became.

He watched you silently, his green eyes narrowing as he seemed to piece together the jumbled mess of your words. "You don’t have to force it," he said finally. "Not with me."

The simplicity of his statement took you by surprise. You turned to look at him, searching his face for any hint of mockery, but there was none. Gyutaro was being sincere in his own gruff way. You weren’t used to that—someone who didn’t expect you to conform to some social norm you barely understood. "It’s not that I don’t want to," you said slowly, trying to articulate the thoughts that were always so hard to put into words.

"It’s that I don’t know how."

He nodded, a slow, deliberate motion that made it clear he was thinking. "I get it," he said, his tone softer than usual. "I’m not good with that stuff either. Emotions. Words. They just come out… wrong."

You couldn’t help but smile at that. "Yeah. That’s it. Exactly."

Gyutaro shifted, his bony frame hunching forward as he rested his elbows on his knees. "You don’t have to be something you’re not. Not with me. You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to. Just… be here."

It was such a simple thing, but it meant more to you than you could express. You nodded, feeling a strange warmth in your chest—an unfamiliar but welcome sensation. It wasn’t happiness, not exactly. But it was close. Maybe it was enough.

"Thanks," you murmured, the word feeling foreign on your tongue but necessary.

Gyutaro grunted in response, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Don’t mention it."

You fell into a comfortable silence after that, the noise of the district fading into the background. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel pressured to speak or to fill the gaps with meaningless chatter. You could just exist, here in the quiet, with someone who understood the struggle of finding the right words. And for now, that was more than enough.

#gyutaro x reader #gyutaro shabana #gyutaro #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader

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asimplearchivist · 1 year ago

Text

‘ 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.

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