#book recs on her bc why not
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henry-fox-biggest-stan · 1 year ago
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I'm sorry but "Sappho wannabe" is the BEST first impression I've had of anyone ever
Thanks! And is 100% true.
I’m obsessed with her, she’s actually my favorite writer.
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greenerteacups · 3 months ago
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Hi GT,
Forgive me if this is a stupid question, but I absolutely love the recs you've given (you've introduced me to tomione, and I love it!) and I was wondering if it's possible to give you some recs in return? There are some books and fics that definitely have dramione / got vibes, and I was wondering if I could share them with you!
So glad you've enjoyed them! Feel free to rec me anything you want. I've read most of the classic recs in terms of fic and adjacent content (Cruel Prince et al), but I'll try anything that's well-written. My tastes run towards weird and/or audaciously creative stuff, and I can forgive a lot of weaknesses in plot on the grounds of (1) ambition or (2) character work. My turnoffs are instalove, protagonists who can't fail, and most Y/A (I'm not a hater, I swear, I just need characters who can say "fuck" when their leg gets chopped off.)
I'm also a fan of weird and fucked-up dynamics.(Wuthering Heights was my favorite book for a while, and as a teenager I wrote an AU in which the book ends on a long sex scene where Heathcliff fucks Cathy's ghost and then immediately gets murdered by Catherine 2.) Obviously, I am very normal.
#greenteacup asks#my beef with Y/A is mostly expressed in a dissonance between tone and content#LOVE the content. dystopia fantasy horror sex and blood — awesome. but question. why are they all saying 'darn'?#like in the vampire diaries where they'll watch people get eaten and then 2 episodes later be like 'omg SCHOOL DANCE'#(EDIT: actually in fairness. on the vampire diaries. it was mostly just caroline that did that. unfair example my apologies)#& i distinguish this critique from a common bitch-and-moan complaint about tv shows being interested in 'girly' things#like relationships and social standing. that is not my complaint. that shit is delicious. i will chomp that shit for days#my issue is that when the stakes oscillate wildly from episode to episode and i can't tell what the main thing is#like sorry. a story with murder in it is always going to be about murder. you can't make it not about murder#unfortunately! many have tried.#and in general i have difficulty reading about teenagers bc—#(she says having written 600k words about them OKAY I KNOW. i contain multitudes.)#because they're either mini-adults (preferred flavor. jude in the cruel prince nails this) or like leetol babies to me#and unless it's something like the hunger games where the Leetol Baby thing is part of the story#i'm like. hang on. you're 12 what are you doing here#percy jackson was hard for me to re-read as an adult for this reason#which is why they're enjoyable for teenagers! because as a teenager you DO feel like an adult#and you like reading books that treat you like one! nothing wrong with that! healthy even!#only then you get past the teenage years (mashallah) and you get stuff like twilight#where of COURSE bella doesn't think twice about 117 year old man falling in love with her#because he looks like a rich mysterious 17-year-old hottie#but you reread it later and it's like um well. that. could be explored a little more maybe.#i'm not even necessarily opposed to it. candidly. still team edward. i just think the dynamic should be more fucked up and juicy.#which Y/A authors are often reluctant to do. like. COWARDS! face the nasty consequences of your narrative decisions!#anyhow. you didn't ask for any of this. please give me your recs lovely person you seem very nice.
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johnnyy-guitarr · 16 days ago
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( vaguely ) rambling about lego endurance under the cut lol
when i went to the lego store in person i talked to a guy who worked there about how excited i was about endurance and he told me i was the first person he knew who had expressed interest in it and i felt SO proud and so cool honestly . i wish i could tell him i got it ! and the lifeboat too ! bc he's a big part of the reason i was there online immediately when it dropped, he told me they go so fast and i was like oh shit okay and waited in the fucking queue and spent 45+ minutes in a panic trying to get her but i don't actually live near the store so i can't tell him and i'm so unnecessarily bummed about it . please mister lego store employee i know you'll never see this but i hope somehow you know i got her anyway 🙏
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neonsbian · 1 year ago
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reading this book that someone in my writers group recced me bc they said it reminded them of the novel im working on and uh....these characters need stop talking abt twilight before i kill myself
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vanhelsingapologist · 8 months ago
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how's the weezer-taylor swift fusion goin?
well it wasn’t worse than raditude so it has that going for it. but! being slowly pressed to death by puritains from salem massachusetts is a better experience than listening to raditude so that’s where I’m at.
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jvzebel-x · 2 years ago
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"After, in the torchlight, he wondered at the marks on me, the red around my neck, and the purple on my arms and chest where he had gripped me. He rubbed at them, as though they were stains, not bruises. 'The color is perfect,' he said, 'look.' And he held up the mirror so I could see. 'You make the rarest canvas, love.'"
x. "Galatea", Madeline Miller
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orestesimp · 2 years ago
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RED FLAGS ║ PART 13 | FINALE
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CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS
Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)
Summary: The end is the beginning is the end. Or alternatively: You finally get to have Marc's beautiful face buried between your thighs.
Content: will cause unrealistic sex expectations.
Word count; 17k (guys I'm so sorry)
Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist
[PREVIOUS]
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Your face, small and pinched and dirty, looks back at you from the tiny mirror in Steven’s loo. The unflattering fluorescent lights aren’t doing you any favours. Eyes wide and strung out. A burst bottom lip. You look dreadful. 
Your clothes are soggy and cold underneath Marc’s somewhat drier jacket, mucky with grime and mud (and god knows what else), clinging wetly to your skin. 
You look like something the cat dragged in. 
You shiver. The idiom feels a little too on the nose, considering you were dragged across East London’s dirty concrete not even an hour ago. Just… not by a cat.  You shiver again, harder this time, trying not to think about it.
A shower. Marc sent you in here to take a shower. “Go get clean,” he’d said, “Warm up.” 
Right now you feel like you’ll never be warm again.
Marc’s jacket comes off first, and you hang it carefully on a hook, running two fingers over the cuff. You stare at it for a moment, fighting the urge to clutch it to your chest and bury your face in it. On autopilot, you reach out to undo your wristwatch instead, fingers running over the bare skin for a moment, searching, before you stare down at your wrist in confusion. 
Right. Your watch is gone. 
Or… not gone. Probably still out there in the alleyway, lying face up, cracked glass and all, on the concrete in the rain… next to the carcass of some invisible monster.  You shake your head, pushing away the image. It’s as good as gone, then, isn’t it? You’re certainly not going back out to search for it at this point. You’re bloody well never going down that alleyway again if you can help it. Hell, even going outside ever again might be off the table.
Pulling the shower curtain aside, you start the shower and peel off your ruined clothing, letting everything plop in a solid, sodden mass on the corner of the bathroom floor.
The muscles in your arms and shoulders are stiffening up and threatening to cramp up as the last bit of adrenaline abandons your system, leaving bruises and all-encompassing exhaustion in its wake. Your knees throb with the leftover pain. The water stings your scraped shin when you step under the spray. 
At least it’s warm. 
The heat of the water feels like a balm on your aching limbs, and you close your eyes, tilting your head back under the spray, trying to let the comforting warmth relax you.  
In the darkness behind your eyelids, the shower sounds like rain. Your nakedness feels like vulnerability. Like maybe you never made it back. Maybe you’re still out there, in the narrowness of the alley, under threat from an otherworldly creature that you cannot see, let alone fight. 
Your chest squeezes painfully sharp, and your eyes fly open, half expecting to see the hazy moonlit sky overhead. But no, there’s nothing but the expanse of the blank white ceiling. 
You’re still here in Steven’s shower. Safe, or as safe as it gets right now.
Dropping your gaze, you watch the blood and muck sluice down your legs and onto the tiled floor in rusty red-tinted waves to pool on the tile floor. The dirty water leaves lines of fine grit behind as the rest is sucked down the drain. 
You feel strangely numb. Like some part of your brain (probably an amenable survival mechanism) is trying to block out what happened so you don’t go mad. But maybe it’s too late for that. After all, you were a hair's width away from meeting your maker tonight at the claws of an invisible blob monster. 
It’s impossible to not think about. An irritated half-healed scab itching to be scratched. You turn it over in your mind, trying to process the fact that the supernatural is real—or those creatures were, at any rate. And apparently Marc dons a mummy costume and goes out into the night to battle them like he’s magical girl Sailor Moon. 
God. All of this is right proper insane, isn’t it? You want to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness.
You almost died; your understanding of the world as you know it has fundamentally changed; yet none of it feels real. The world itself doesn’t feel real. 
The water by your feet is running clear now. The dirt and grime finally washed off, but the film of exhaustion still clings to your limbs. Turning off the tap, you step out, grabbing the towel Marc left for you in the corner by the door. Your eyes linger on the set of clean clothes waiting for you underneath, folded into a neat square. 
You can't reconcile the man who does this for you with the same man that pummelled a supernatural monster into a whimpering pulp without hesitation. Didn’t recognise the Marc you thought you knew in the man in the alleyway standing over the creature and curb-stomping it into the ground with cold and blank disdain in his eyes. Couldn’t see that man in the Marc who escorted you home and gently bullied you into the shower. 
Reaching for the clothes, you quickly dress and pull aside the accordion door only to find the very man you were thinking of right outside the door, arms crossed and back plastered to the closest wall as he stands guard.  
You barely cross the threshold before he's already pushing away from the wall and moving in to guide you gently but firmly towards the kitchen like a particularly insistent herding dog.
There’s a fairly extensive first aid kit laid out on the counter, well used by the look of it, and you try not to think too hard about why that might be. 
"Up," Marc commands, curt as ever, swatting a hand down on the surface of the countertop, and you feel like a lamb being rounded back into the pen. 
A ‘please’ wouldn’t have hurt him, but you let it go with just a glare as you shuffle over, too drained to put up a fight over something so small.  You lift your arms to brace against the countertop, getting ready to hop up, and flinch a little as your shoulders twinge and ache. 
Marc is in front of you in a heartbeat, watching you with worried eyes and a furrowed brow. His hands hover, like he wants to help but doesn't dare to touch, and any testiness in you fizzles out at the sight of him.
You give him a small nod, barely able to complete the motion before his hands come down on your waist, lifting you. Even though you’re expecting it, the loss of ground beneath your feet feels sudden, unbalancing you, and you gasp, hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself. 
Part of you expects him to drop you, but he doesn’t. Marc’s warm and solid under your palms, strong muscles bunching as he perches you on the counter. 
Blood rushes to your head with furious speed. It must be from the sudden change in altitude. That’s what you tell yourself no matter how doubtful that is considering the standard kitchen counter height is not even three feet above the floor. You're not exactly climbing the Himalayan mountains. But you don’t want to think of the more probable reasons right now. 
You're still reeling from lightheadedness when he lets you go in favour of busying himself with the large tin box on the counter, rifling through the arsenal of medical supplies, and sets down what he needs next to you. Then he's dragging a nearby chair to position himself in front of you. Sitting so close he's practically nestled between your legs. 
It does nothing to help with your newly discovered vertigo symptoms. 
"I’m going to check you over for injuries now,” he says perfunctory, pulling you from your thoughts, “Left leg.”  
You stretch out your leg into the air, glancing down at him, unsure of where to rest it. There’s no space on the tiny kitchen stool. Do you just… put it down in his lap? On his crotch?!?! Or–
Marc's hand wraps around your ankle, and his executive decision-making ends your flailing, as he gently guides your foot to rest against his thigh. Then his head ducks down, and he starts to inspect the patch of scraped skin on your knee, dabbing gently at the scattered dots of blood with a square of clean gauze.
With how tender and swollen everything feels, you expect it to hurt. That at the slightest pressure on your skin, it is bound to sting and snag and tear. But it doesn't. Marc is gentle, barely pressing down and showing such minute care as he tends to you that you barely feel the brush of the cloth at all.
It's such an impossible contrast. The tenderness of his touch as he fusses over you, placing a plaster on your knee, compared to the brutality you’ve now seen him capable of.
You still can't make sense of it. What happened, or what that invisible monster in the rain was. Why Marc was out there. Or what he meant by that being "what he does." 
"Marc," you start tentatively as you lean forward to get his attention, "What happened toni--"
“Wiggle your toes,” he interrupts. 
His odd demand cuts off your line of thought. “What?”
“Try to wiggle your toes for me”, he repeats, without looking up. “Want to make sure you didn’t get any nerve damage.”
You frown, you’re not blind to the fact that his request conveniently just cut you off from asking a question that undoubtedly Marc doesn’t want to answer. Still, you comply, angling your foot upwards and wiggle your toes for his inspection. 
Whether you passed his ad hoc medical examination, Marc’s expression isn’t giving you any clues. His face is as stoic as ever as he sets down your foot. He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over to your right side to draw your other foot into his lap. 
Marred with bruises, looking like something that got mangled in a bear trap. Your right foot does not make for a pretty sight. It’s swollen and bleeding sluggishly from long gashes where the blob monster’s claw-like grip must have broken through skin. 
It's a gruesome picture, but miraculously, the injury doesn’t seem to be too serious. It stings more than it actually hurts, and it’s not even bleeding much anymore. Not even worth a trip to A&E really, as you doubt it’s deep enough to need stitches. 
At least that’s the assessment based on your own limited medical knowledge. If you based the severity on Marc’s reaction, you’d think it needed amputation. 
The line of his shoulder is pulled taut and reminds you of a live wire. Mouth set in a grim tortured line. He has the expression of a doctor about to give the nearest kin some heartbreaking news as he’s staring down at your foot with haunted guilt in his eyes. 
"I'm all right. I’m sure it just looks a lot worse than it is," you tell him. 
He doesn't meet your eyes or reply for that matter. Instead, he begins to gently tend the wound. Mouth pressing down so tightly his lips go pale white from it. He dabs away the oozing blood, carefully applying antibiotic ointment to the worst of the broken skin, and covering them with large squares of gauze that he tapes in place. It’s all quite professional, really, the practised ease that only comes with repetition. 
You wonder how many times he has done this before. You wonder how much harder it must be for him to suture his own gashes and gaping wounds. Wonder how long he’s been doing this by himself, fighting these hellish creatures. These things that you still have no bloody fucking idea as to what they are. 
"Marc,” you start tentatively, “what was--" A ticklish sensation rushes through you. In panic, you think a centipede is crawling down the sole of your foot. You instinctively jerk your leg up and away, nearly kneeing Marc in the face before you realise what’s happened. 
Your eyes fly downwards to Marc who is entirely unfazed by the close call as you stare at him in shock. His index finger rests on the arch of your heel and you blink up at him in a dumb stupor, not believing your eyes.  
Did he just– did he just fucking tickle you?!
There’s no hint of wrongdoing in his expression. No grin, or crack in his stony facade. He is unflappable as always as he continues cleaning your wound with a straight face. 
"Needed to check if you still had sensation in that foot," he offers up as an explanation as if he thinks that tickling was a perfectly reasonable thing for him to do in the circumstances. 
You frown, biting down the tart comment bubbling in your throat. You want to call him out on it, that you know what he’s up to and he’s acting like a child. But you know that the moment you do, the conversation will derail into an argument and in the flare of your temper, you’ll lose track of your questions. You’re pretty sure Marc knows you well enough that that’s exactly what he is aiming for. 
Gathering a deep calming breath into your chest, you steady yourself before you take a second shot. 
"What was that thing in the rain?" you ask again. 
He acts like he doesn't hear you. "Roll your ankles side to side," he requests instead. 
Irritation prickles your face. This bastard is still trying to evade your questions. 
"Marc," you start again, "what was--"
"Press down your weight on my hand with your foot."
"Marc!" you bark. 
He finally drags his eyes upwards to meet yours without bothering to lift his chin, seemingly as detached and reposed as ever. But there's something else in there too. A tiny flicker as you hold his gaze, and he has to look away. 
He looks… scared. 
Scared of what you don't know. The man practically single-handedly beat three monsters straight out of a Lovecraftian horror story with his bare fists tonight. With strength like that, you don't think anything should ever be capable of scaring him. 
"Can we talk about what happened tonight?" you ask again, trying to keep your voice even. 
His head ducks back down again, and he busies himself by rechecking the bandaids on your injured ankle. 
“There's nothing to talk about,” he murmurs offhandedly, but his hands betray him. 
There's no mistaking it. Even though his shoulders are obscuring your line of sight, you don’t need to see it in order to feel how unsteady his hands are. How his fingers stutter against your skin as they trail over your ankle.
He’s not letting go, as if he’s afraid that if he wasn’t holding onto you, you’d get up and walk away.
Gazing down on him from your vantage point of the counter, Marc doesn’t look as imposing as when you were looking up at him from the rainy concrete in the alley. From up here, he looks small and scared even. 
Even though there is nothing in this flat that should intimidate him. No invisible monsters lurking in the dark shadows behind Steven’s piles and piles of books. The scariest thing in Steven’s flat is dust mites. 
No, the only thing Marc is scared of, you realise, is this conversation. 
That’s what Steven told you, wasn’t it? That 'there are things that Marc hasn't told you.' That 'once you know everything,’ Marc thinks ‘you'll walk away'. 
It’s the final puzzle piece, slotted into its rightful place, and you can finally see the picture that was blurred out before, crystallising in startling detail. 
This is it. This is the big secret. The thing that Marc hasn't told you. 
You get it now. Why he has avoided you all this time. Why he stayed away even after you told him you love him. 
Because how on earth would anyone even begin to explain what happened tonight to someone who wasn’t there? 
How could he possibly have explained any of this to you before now? How would he possibly convince you those things out there (whatever they are) were real without dragging you into danger, head first, to see it with your own eyes? 
Didn't you struggle with the very same thought when you’d first tried to tell Marc what you’d seen in the alley on your own before all hell broke loose? The fear that he wouldn't believe you. That he'd think you were insane. 
Even if he had managed to explain and get you to believe him– what then? 
You can understand it. Why he was convinced that you would leave not just him but Steven as well, causing further collateral damage, if he told you everything. You can see from where he was standing, why he’d worry. 
But this is where Marc is wrong. You still want this. Him. Them.
"What happened tonight, it doesn't change how I feel about you," you start, and his hand on your foot spasms, grip tightening. It’s how you know your guess was right on the button, so you press on. "What I told you on the phone, I still mean it. I–"  you hesitate on the word. 
The last thing you want is to spook him away again by repeating it. It might be too much too soon. Instead, you settle for second best. 
"I want you to come back. Steven and I both do."  
Marc lets go of your foot. You can see his hand shaking despite Marc’s attempt to make it stop. His fingers flex and curl in agitation until he gives up and reaches up to drag it through his matted curls in frustration. 
“You don’t want this,” he says quietly, and his face is still turned downwards, staring at the floor refusing to look up at you. 
Knowing Marc, you know that he could very well mean the situation or himself. After everything that’s happened tonight, the part that upsets you the most is that he still feels this way about himself. 
"I do," you counter, saying the words with the whole of your chest. “I. Want. You. I want all of this.”
In the face of your certainty, he flinches, face pinched as if telling him you want him is a physical slap that pains him. It takes him a second to recover, to shake his head in refusal as he stares down at the floor like it committed a great wrong against him. 
"You want a normal life. Steven can give you that if it’s just the two of you. I can't,” he tells you. His voice, low in that weary and tired tone you overheard in the bathroom. 
"I don't need you to give me a normal life. What does that even mean? ‘Normal,’” you say derisively. “I don't need or want normal if it means you're not there Marc. That's not the life I want.”
He's still not looking at you, biting the insides of his cheek, and you can almost see the walls closing in around him before your very eyes. 
"You said you wanted me safe”, you say, ducking your head to try to catch his gaze, and you manage to see his eyes peer up at you from his lashes, as you continue. “And happy. I'm telling you now, I'm not going to be happy if you're not here."
Marc’s eyes widen with alarm. “You were awake?”
"I–" you start, but he cuts you off before you finish. 
“You were pretending to be asleep?” 
"No, I thought I was dreaming, I–"
“What else did you hear,” he asks. There’s panic in his voice, and he’s already rising from his seat in preparation to flee the room. 
Fuck, how are you fucking this up this badly this fast? Seeing his distress almost makes you want to backtrack, to fold it up and call it a night, try again tomorrow maybe. Because you know in his mind Marc is already bolting for that door, ready to leg it and put as much distance as he can between you and him. 
But… your mind flashes to the weight of his gentle touch on your shoulder. To his fingers brushing away the hair on your forehead. To his quiet voice as he whispered, 'I love you too'. You know what you heard in the dark: a testament of Marc’s feelings for you, and it emboldens you. 
“Marc.�� You lean forward, reaching out to take his hand in yours. He stiffens with a jolt as your fingertips brush up against his knuckles, and you can almost see the line of his shoulder vibrate. But he doesn't make any moves to pull away at your touch. 
“I want you. Do you want me?” you ask. 
He stills. Marc looks at you for a long unflinching moment. It’s the same conflicted set in his jaw when you were standing next to him in front of Gus’ tank. The same hesitation written over his face when you were watching him through the back window of the taxi as it pulled away from him in the night. That same pained look when your eyes met in your office before he fled from you. 
His mouth parts with hesitation, but then he bites down and grinds his jaw hard enough that you think you can hear his molars grate from where you sit. “What I want doesn’t matter,” he answers you stubbornly. 
It's enough to make you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him back and forth and scream into his face. 
“It does!” you say, almost half-shouting. “Of course it matters. You matter.”
"Don't. Don't do that.” Marc shakes his head, and he moves his free hand over yours, gently prying it off of him. “Save that for Steven. He deserves it. Deserves… you. I… I don't.” 
“And what about what I deserve,” you demand, fed up to the gills with his tendency for self-sacrifice, “What I want? Don’t I deserve to decide for myself?” 
That seems to catch him off guard. For once he doesn’t have a ready response, just glares at you, his jaw still set at that impossibly stubborn angle, but his eyes are full of so much pain that it hurts you to see it. You reach out again and cup his cheek.
"Remember that night Gus died? You came to me for help. You said I was the only one you could think of to ask, and it made me so happy that you did. I want you to ask me for things.”
There’s another moment of indecision in his eyes. The upper half of his body tilts in your direction, almost like he’s reaching for you, even if he won’t let his hands do so.
"I just want to be with you,” you continue, “I want to be your person. The person you come to when you need something. Can’t that be enough?"
His eyes are glued on you, mouth gaping open. For a moment you think you've succeeded, managed to stun him into silence and maybe even convinced him. 
It doesn’t last. 
He closes his parted mouth and clamps it shut until it’s compressed into a thin determined line. Then before you can react, he’s abruptly pulling away, turning with wordless efficiency, and walking away from you.  
"Marc?" you call after him, but his determined stride doesn’t even falter,  "Marc!"
Oh goddamnit! 
You hop off the counter, your sore ankle twinging when you land on it, but you ignore the dull ache as you run after him. 
“You don’t have to do this, Marc!" you shout. Slinging your arm out, you only just manage to catch him by the back of his shirt. Your fingers grip onto the fabric for dear life to stop him from getting further away, "You don’t have to do everything on your own. You don’t have to be alone. Steven and I are here. Stop running away from us! We want to support you. Please! You can lean on us.” 
He stops, turning about sharply, fire and brimstone in his eyes. The fuse of his already short temper burnt to a crisp. 
“You and Steven were never supposed to know about me or get caught up in any of this,” he snaps. “I’ve– My life is dangerous. It’s not safe.” 
“Yeah, I noticed the red flags already, you dunce. I still care about you regardless!”
“I don’t want you to care!” Marc roars, and it hits you with the force of a punch to the chest. 
You suck in a sharp pained breath, and he must see the hurt in your face because his eyes soften slightly, but his voice is no less emphatic, “You can’t go poking around in my life. Running out after me in the middle of the night. It's dangerous! You got hurt tonight. You could’ve been killed!"
And that does it. The pain of his implied rejection, the scolding tone, the way it feels like he’s blaming you for getting yourself hurt. It all rubs you the wrong way. All of the patience you had in you up until now evaporates, replaced by a fiery heat burning up your chest until it comes to a boiling point.
“Me?” you bite back indignantly. “What about you? Running around in a bloody Halloween costume in the middle of the night. Fighting invisible monsters? What if you got hurt? What on earth were you doing out there?”
“This is exactly why you needed to stay away from me. You do not want or need my fucking mess, okay!?"  
“Yes, I bloody well do! I'll take your fucking mess, Marc—every speck of it—as long as I get to have you too.”
His gaze bores into yours, eyes dark like spilt ink and brimming with anger so stark it practically sparks. 
“You really want to know what I do? Why I was out there tonight?” he asks, voice quieter, but the anger is still there, simmering just below the surface waiting to erupt. 
The sudden change feels like a gauntlet being thrown down, challenging you to a metaphorical game of chicken, daring you to back away and run for the hills while you still can.
You stand your ground, heels digging into the floor as you nod, swallowing the anxiety you feel pressed up against your throat like an acidic heartburn.  
“I serve Khonshu. I’m his avatar,” he says matter-of-factly as if it’s the most sensible thing in the world. As if any of this is supposed to make sense to you. 
It doesn’t. It makes no fucking sense at all. 
Your mind scrambles to connect the dots. Khonshu? Avatar? What the hell is he on about? Avatar as in James Cameron’s Pocahontas in space? And Khonshu? What even… You can’t even begin to think of what that is supposed to mean. Don’t recognise it save for a passing familiarity that it’s a word that Steven has used when passionately serenading you with facts on Ancient Egypt. The connection between the two is lost to you. 
“What is… ‘Khonshu?'” you ask, and this time, you don’t have to drag the answer out of Marc. 
He answers you willingly and as plainly without varnish as before. “Khonshu’s the ancient Egyptian god of the moon. Years ago, I was stabbed and left for dead. He saved my life and in return, I work for him now.” 
There’s no hint of emotion as he says it. He’s not pleading for you to believe him despite how fantastical it sounds. Not trying to convince you of anything. Marc is leaving it to you whether or not you believe him, almost like he wishes you wouldn’t. Like this bizarre rambling will hopefully finally send you packing and out of his life. And that’s… how you know he’s not lying to you. 
“Work for him… how?” you ask. 
His eyes flick upwards, grinding his teeth as if he’s biting down on a curse, before his gaze settles back on you. 
“I swore to protect travellers of the night.”
And once again, that tells you absolutely nothing. What does that even mean, ‘Travellers of the night’? As in prostitutes?! 
Marc’s obfuscation and frankly dodgy-as-fuck explanations have your blood boiling. You’re almost positive he’s doing this on purpose to get you hacked off, and he’s succeeding. 
“Can you speak in plain English?”
“I take care of bad guys so they don’t harm good people. Protect civilians who can’t protect themselves.”
“So you’re… what? Like a supernatural police officer? A monster hunter? A guardian of the night?”
He grits his teeth. 
“Something like that.” The answer is dismissive, and so is his attitude. He folds his arms across his chest, trying to distance himself from you, casting a glance at the door. “Satisfied? We done here?”
“No! No, we’re not ‘done here.’ We are the furthest thing from done. I already told you, Marc. Nothing that’s happened tonight changes how I feel about you.”
He shakes his head, jaw set mulishly, before tearing his eyes away and turning towards the front door. 
And that just won’t do. If you let Marc walk out now, you know he’ll do everything in his power to avoid you for the rest of his life.
Moving quickly, you dart around Marc and slide between him and the door. In your single-minded hurriedness, you bump into the small table by the door, sending several things clattering over and probably adding yet another bruise to your already abused body, but you don’t care. You cannot let him leave. Plastering your back to the door, you stand tall and raise your chin, prepared to act as a physical barrier if you have to.
Marc’s eyes narrow into slits, a snarl of pure exasperation erupting from the back of his throat.  
“Move,” he orders, taking a step closer to you, but there is no real threat behind it. He doesn’t reach out to touch you; doesn’t grab you or shove you out of the way
He just looks at you like you are an actual obstacle he cannot surpass. But you know that he could move you by force if he wanted to. It’d be easy for him to force his way out of the flat with little effort. 
Between the two of you, physically he’s the stronger one. You’ve witnessed him take out supernatural monsters tonight. If he wanted to, he could shove his way straight through you. Carry you into another room and lock you in. Could easily snap every bone in your wrist in the blink of an eye.
But he won't. After all this time, if there is one thing you’ve learnt about Marc, it is that harm is only ever his last resort. 
The man is squirmish at the prospect of physically harming a goldfish. Would rather visit all the pet shops in all of London in the middle of the night to find a mythical one-finned fish to avoid that outcome. At the core of him, he wants to shield and protect, not break. 
And towards you? He would never use brute strength on you. Would never hurt you. Would give his very life to make sure you’re safe and unharmed. Happy.
In front of you, Marc takes another step forward, closing the distance. His commanding presence crowds you in against the doorframe until there’s barely any space between you anymore. 
Marc is angry. Jaw tense, shoulders tied up in a tangled knot, nose flaring like an angry bull emitting a bright and blaring warning signal for you to move. But you stay put because if he’s a bull, then that must make you a matador, practically waving a red cape at him to come charge you.
He’s staring down at you again. That look in his eyes, like he knows what is best for you. That same stern gaze when he swore you to secrecy, deciding what was best for Steven. The determination there that tells you that this is not up for discussion. 
It’s a recurring pattern with Marc. He decides what he thinks is best for everyone else, with no consideration of what the person in question actually wants. 
“Last chance,” he warns, through gritted teeth, “I won’t ask again.”
Marc probably thinks this is a threat. But it’s only because he can’t see himself, the pain-filled eyes that look back down at you. Nothing is menacing about it. 
“I’m not moving,” you tell him. 
It’s only a fraction of a second, but you catch his eyes flickering to your lips. A near-growling sound tears out of his throat, and then he’s moving forward further into your space.
What is he–?
His hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you to him, and then his lips are on yours. 
Oh.
Marc Spector is kissing you.
It’s hard and demanding, his lips crushed to yours, clearly driven by the frustration and anger that seems to vibrate just under his skin. But it doesn’t matter. You have dreamed of kissing this man for so long. Even with the harshness, you can’t help but respond to him, meeting the brutal press of his lips with your own more eager one. Mouth parting in invitation for him. 
Something shifts. 
All the fight goes out of him, leaking away like hot air out of a punctured balloon, whatever anger was there fizzles out of him, and you feel him melt against your lips. The kiss slips into something softer, sweeter. Something that steals every ounce of oxygen from your lungs. 
You don’t know how long it lasts, the only thing you know is that it doesn’t last long enough. If you could have the choice, you’d want it to last forever. 
It doesn’t of course. Marc retreats from you with an unsteady step. His eyes are etched with shock as you take him in, brows pinched and pupils wide, and you already want to kiss him again. 
The two of you have been here before. Staring at each other from so close a distance that your foreheads are inches from touching. Except this time it’s not in front of a fish tank with an imposter goldfish between you. A stray curl falls into his eyes and tickles your nose. It’s the hint of clean linen, the note of coffee you brew for him every night that he will unfailingly drink because you made it for him. It’s the smell you wake up to embedded in Steven’s sheets. 
You want this man, all of him, to be yours. 
Your face tilts up to him. So close, his lips ghost over yours.
“Marc,” you whisper, and his eyes flicker over your face. “Stop running.”
Part of you expects him to stop you again. That he will pull back, eyeing you like you’re something dangerous, the way he did that night in front of the fish tank. 
He doesn’t. 
You tip your face forward even further, your nose dragging along the bridge of his.
“I love you.” 
You can hear the sharp inhale just like last time you said it over the phone when you did not know if he was on the other end or not. When you didn't know if the sound was imaginary or real. Now you know. 
You couldn’t see his face then, but this time you get to. The pinched furrow between his brow, that look in his eyes that makes your heart seize in your chest. There’s no doubt about it now. 
"And you love me,” you say. 
His lips part, and you brace yourself for another protest or denial, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his head does the slightest tilt forward. A nod, you realise. 
“Yeah.” He whispers it so quietly you nearly miss it at first. 
You smile. Happiness surges through your insides, weaving through your ribs until you think that your chest might burst. 
Marc Spector loves you. 
You swallow in relief, smiling even as you feel a sting prickle the corner of your eyes. Then Marc leans down and closes that infinitesimal space between you, bringing down the final barrier of separation that he has maintained since you met him. 
It’s a soft press of his lips to yours. So soft, it’s scarcely there, but it feels perfect all the same, a fluttering warmth that you can feel down to the curl of your toes. 
It’s an admittance. An invitation. A sign of trust. 
Marc kisses you again and again with lingering kisses that he deepens with each gentle press of his mouth to yours. His hand moves to cup your face in his palm, cradling your cheek like you're the most precious thing he’s ever touched. 
You feel like you ought to be surprised by how gentle he is, but you’re not. Not at all, because of course he’s gentle.
That’s the thing, isn’t it? Marc’s hardness is all smoke and mirrors, hiding the vulnerable softness that lies under the hardened skin. Beneath it all, Marc is protective and caring, kind even. 
And now, you finally get to have him in all his confounding complexities. This stubborn, kind, impossible idiot, right here in your arms. 
You pull him closer, even as you keep kissing him, fingers twisting into the brushed cotton of his shirt, and he lets you. Head leaning down as he adjusts his angle so he can slant his mouth fully over yours. He’s pressed up against every single inch of you, from his knees to his chest, your lips fused and somehow it’s still not even close to enough for you. You tug his collar, encouraging him to come even closer and he does, obedient, in a way that you’ve never known him to be before. 
Stepping forward, he follows your lead, inching closer, until the solidness of his chest presses you flush to the door. His arm comes to brace the side of your head, hand cupping behind the back of your neck, and you realise only belatedly it’s the reason why your head isn’t colliding with the hard wood behind you. 
Not that it would matter if you did. You don’t even think you’d notice if your head went through the wall right now. Too focused on the softness of his lips. Too lost in the quiet, near-silent humming sound he makes as he kisses you that sets your nerves alight. 
God, he’s perfect. His closeness is heady. There’s a growing hunger in your stomach that makes your limbs shake and tremble. After all the time he's been away, hiding from you, you feel starved for this. For him. You want to bite his neck, lick along the protruding line of his collarbone and swallow every inch of him down to the marrow if he’d let you. 
For all the gentleness that Marc is showing you, you have no intention of returning the favour. Your teeth sink in, biting down on his bottom lip, and he lets out a quiet involuntary gasp into your mouth. Your veins burn at the sound. Fuck, you want him to make that noise again, that careless pitch of pleasure that sounds so unguarded coming from him. You want to bite and nibble and scratch and claw and have him make every noise known and unknown to mankind. 
You drag your teeth along the swell of his lip, and he shivers, eyes squeezed firmly shut like he’s teetering on the very edge of his self-control. Then you nip down again. 
His hips stutter forward involuntarily, and he curses, the sound breathless and raw, like you tore it out of him before he was prepared. It’s all you want. To hear that sound again and again and again. You want to hear his tiny moans in your ear, the involuntary muffled growl as he buries his face into your neck trying to keep quiet, hear him gasp ‘fuck’ in barely audible decibels. You want everything. 
Hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, you haul him closer as if he wasn’t already pressed alongside your body. Thighs nestled between yours, the coarseness of denim scraping against your bare legs. You can feel the hardening bulge trapped between you, and you want him to grind against you, to rut into you mindlessly until you can feel his cock twitch against the softness of your belly. 
But Marc isn’t showing any signs of obliging you in that department, and you’re not willing to stop kissing him in order to give him directions. Instead, you arch your back away from the wall, tilting your pelvis until you rub up against his crotch. He jolts hard at the contact, the line of his body wracked in shivers with a gorgeous groan that is cut off too soon. 
"Shit!”  
His hand leaves your neck. Then he’s pulling back and away from you in retreat. You immediately miss the warmth of his body, reaching up to try to chase after the loveliness of his lips, but he stops you. A gentle but firm hand comes down on your shoulder, pinning you against the wall. 
You stare up at him, and you’re not sure you’re breathing anymore at the sight of him. You should be used to how preposterously beautiful this man is by now. But you never are. Each time feels novel and so much worse–no, better than the last time. The collar of his shirt is stretched and askew. Curls a mess against his forehead. Lips, slick and kiss-swollen as his mouth hangs open, chest heaving as he pants. 
As stunningly pretty as Steven is when you’ve succeeded in making a mess out of him, to do it to Marc is something else entirely. This orderly, neat freak of a man who makes it his life mission to repress his emotions and jam them shut inside of himself with a tight lid. You did this. You’ve made a mess of him. It’s electric, your veins buzz with the thrill, and your brain is screaming for more. 
Your hand reaches up, fingers carding through his hair as you reel him in by the back of his neck. Your mouth finds his, kissing him hard before he has time to overthink it or, god forbid, change his mind and try to bolt again. His mouth parts, and you swallow the soft oomph of surprise that escapes his throat and lean in, licking desperately into his mouth. If this is all you get, you want to try to savour him. 
Marc doesn’t stop you this time. Instead, his hands settle on your waist, fingers digging into your hips as he’s pulling you closer. It has the whole of your back from the base of your spine to the tip of your nose tingling. 
This time he’s the one grinding into you, the hard outline of his cock pressed tight between you. Even through the thick layer of denim, you can feel how hard he is, and you shiver pleasantly.
You moan into the kiss, rising on your tiptoes to meet him. There’s not an inch of space between your bodies, and you swear you can feel his cock twitch against your hip. 
And fuck, fuck– that’s– 
You need to get him in bed now before you hitch your legs and clamber onto his thighs to climb him like the trunk of a tree. Why the fuck did the architect place the bedroom section at the opposite end of the flat.
Stepping one foot sideways, you tug at the neck of Marc’s shirt to steer him towards the bed. There’s no resistance. He shows you the same obedience as before, easily letting himself be pulled by you as you start walking blindly backwards, navigating the two of you through the junkyard of Steven’s mess. 
Any second now you’re expecting to trip over the damn ottoman, except this is Steven's flat, not yours. And this isn’t Steven; it’s Marc in your arms. Steady and composed in his every step, with none of the charming incoordination of Steven. No, Marc steers you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Arms bracketing your side to make sure your hips don’t bump into any hard-edged furniture, preemptively pushing back a teetering book from the shelf before it even has the time to leap off the ledge. 
Marc—beautiful, stubborn Marc, who is as immovable as a rock in his decisions—is letting you pull and tug him in whatever direction you’re choosing to go. Kissing you with each unbalanced step backwards, like you’re the only air he ever needs to breathe. 
There’s a flicker of light as you pass Gus’ tank, and it dims when you move past Steven’s desk and the telly. God. It’s a journey of fewer than 20 feet that should take you less than ten seconds and not the eternity that it seems to take. 
When you finally feel the fine, gritty sand beneath the sole of your foot, it feels like victory. The soft brush of the sheets pressing up against your calves is the rope of the finish line that you’d never imagined you’d reach. 
You want to memorialise this moment somehow. Etch it into your memory so you’ll never forget. Carve it into the wooden beam structures of this very flat so it’ll outlast you both. 
Marc’s hands on your hips guide you gently to a stop, and you realise with a rush of giddiness that you’ve finally reached your destination. You break the kiss long enough to sit down on the edge of the bed, and you don’t even need to tug at the corner of his sleeve for Marc to dutifully follow you down. He helps you lay back and leans in after you, the firm weight of his body settling over you, pressing you down into the mattress. 
The weight of Marc feels perfect, as his head tips down to your face, kissing over the curve of your jaw to your neck. He’s pressing open-mouthed kisses down the line of your throat and the swell of your chest. It’s tender. Reverent almost.
Marc is unbothered by the cotton layer of clothing that separates his mouth from your bare skin as he goes. His mouth grazes your knuckles, kissing the inside of your wrist. He’s soft yet insistent. Hungry but slow. God, he’s slow, infuriatingly so, to the point where you wonder if he’s taking the mick out of you. 
His lips trail a row of devoted kisses against the bare skin of your stomach where your shirt has ridden up, barely lifting the hem up and letting it ride up against your ribs as he puts his mouth there too. If it didn’t feel so good to have his mouth on you, you’d consider it torture with the pace that he’s going. You’re aching, everything inside is pulled so taught and tight you might burst out of your skin.
Those cotton soft curls tickle against your thighs on his way down, and you spread them for him in a not-so-subtle invitation. But Marc doesn’t pay you any mind, that earlier obedience that had endeared him to you is nowhere to be found now. He continues down, knees sinking into the sand lining the perimeter of the bed until he’s kneeling down in front of you on the bed. 
Then he stops. 
You hold your breath waiting for him to continue. But nothing happens, and your first instinct is that he’s changed his mind again. You’re almost lunging after him. Fully prepared to tackle him down with a wrestling move you’ve seen on the telly and pin him against the sand and wooden floor. 
But he’s not moving away from you. 
Opening your eyes to peek, you lift yourself on one arm, tilting down your head to find yourself staring back at those pitch-dark eyes. 
You’re not prepared for the sight of him. Of Marc on his knees, peering up at you through his lashes, like you’re a solemn prayer that he’s clinging onto by his fingertips. The vision of him flattens your lungs, taking any oxygen away with it. He’s looking at you like you’re something to be protected and cared for. As if you’re all he’s ever wanted and would never allow himself to have. 
Marc’s bending down again, lips brushing your skinned knee as his warm breath ghosts over the raw skin. He goes over every scrape and scratch with his mouth. It’s his way of atoning for ever letting you get hurt. 
And as good as that feels, as much as you never want him to stop. You need more. More than this torturous, drawn-out pace that he’s giving you, or you think you’ll tear your hair out by the roots and go mad with it. 
“Marc.” You’re trying to say it with urgency, maybe even hint at your annoyance, but it comes out as a high-pitched, delirious plea, “Marc please, I need–” 
He doesn’t answer you with any words. Instead, his hands come to the side of your hips, fingers slipping into your sleep shorts, hooking the hem of your knickers with them as he pulls them down. 
“Lift,” he commands, in the same brusque way he had before when ordering you to sit on the kitchen counter. But this time you’re only too eager to comply. 
You’re so excited you nearly deal a high kick to his face, miraculously missing him by only a couple of inches. 
From the corner of your eye, you swear you catch an amused half-smile quirking the corners of his lips. But before you can take a better look to confirm it, he ducks his head back down, even though you think you can see the line of his shoulders shake from what might very well be laughter. 
But your mind doesn't get to linger on it for long. His hand curls over your thigh, and he settles your leg on his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the inner side that his mouth can reach. Then he hooks your leg over his back, and sharp heat settles deep in your stomach.
His warm breath fans against the bare skin raising goosebumps in its wake. He continues to lick  over the softness of your belly. Nipping at your hip and the insides of your legs, covering every inch of you he can reach with his mouth. Purposefully avoiding the slick ache between your legs where you need his mouth and tongue most. 
Fuck, you could kill him for that. 
“Marc.” His name is a whine between your lips. It sounds pathetic to your ears, but you don’t care. You’re not above begging. Not if there’s a chance it will get you more of this, of him. 
“Please, Marc, just– I need you to–” 
“Baby,” he murmurs, cutting off your pleas. It’s almost reproachful, but it doesn’t matter because that’s not what your mind is focused on. This is the first endearment Marc has ever used for you and it sounds so sweet on his lips. Makes you feel loved and cared for despite the admonishing tone. 
“Be patient,” he scolds, but there’s so much fondness in his voice for you, it makes you lightheaded. “I’m gonna take my time with you.” 
There’s only a brief second as you catch a peek of the pink tip of his tongue, glistening against his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he dips down. Heat crackles throughout your limbs, and your lungs pull tight in anticipation. The air around you thins, and for a moment as you try to desperately swallow down the air in your throat, the room seems to tilt. 
Then he gives you his mouth, and as cliche as it sounds, it’s heaven. A long, controlled press of his tongue through your wet and slick folds. Endorphins rush through you to the top of your head, and you can’t help how your body reacts, arching up against his mouth with a gasp that is punched out of your lungs. 
Then he does it again, and somehow, though you can’t even fathom how it’s not defying the laws of science and time as you know it, he goes even slower. The velvet softness of his tongue drags with an unhurried press across the seam of your pussy until he reaches the apex and licks with a silken glide on your wet clit. You nearly swallow your tongue to tamper the whine trapped in your throat. 
This is not the pace you were expecting. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on your part, but you thought he’d be impatient. Almost anticipated that his movements would be sparse and efficient like every other aspect of his life, pushing you to a high-speed climax like a carcrash.  
This is not that. This is Marc taking his own sweet time. His tongue is a slow decadent drag against your clit, and you feel his warm breath ghost over you, inhaling the scent of you as he takes you in. 
Sweet heady pleasure climbs up the back of your thighs, filling your stomach with it. It’s so much, you don’t know if you can fit it all within, all the emotions that are welling up in your chest to spill out of you. Your fingers grip his solid shoulders to anchor yourself. You roll your hips against his mouth in an attempt to urge him on, but he refuses to take the hint. His tongue makes a slow, thorough exploration, interrupted only by the open-mouthed kisses that he presses against your mound, your hip, your cunt. 
You can feel the tension in his shoulder under your thigh. Can hear it in the quick rasp of his breath, but still, his pace remains slow and measured. Steadily kindling the smouldering heat beneath your skin, lick by torturous lick. 
It’s perfect. Hot as sin and twice as glorious, but you could scream with how agonisingly glacial the build-up is. A strange, high-pitched sound escapes you. An unflattering blend between a moan and a sob. It sounds like you’re in pain when all you feel is pleasure, and then you hear Marc shushing you again. This time softer, comforting even. 
“It's alright. You're alright. You can take it for me,” he says into your skin, mouth pressed against your clit with a warm hum that rumbles through your flesh. Your veins drip with something sweet and honeyed at his tone. 
Marc is so exacting, not at all like Steven’s wild hunger. His tongue laves at you, warm and wet, with an unceasing gentle pressure, gliding over and around your clit. Decadently slow, but never stopping. The feeling is intense and unrelenting. Somehow dragging you closer and closer to the edge but never quite enough to push you over. 
Digging your heels into his back, you tilt your hips as far as the strain in your muscles will allow you to get closer. You rock yourself against his mouth, and Marc groans, a pleased, encouraging sound, even as his hands grip the flesh of your waist and hold you firm against the pillowy softness of the bed to make sure you don’t try to ride out your own pleasure against his face at a faster pace than he has set for you.  
You could scream with frustration. If the left hemisphere of your brain responsible for speech wasn’t so severely compromised by Marc, you would be screeching until your throat goes raw with it. Instead, you hiccup a broken sob, his name quiet and cracked on your lips. 
"That's right. You're alright," he soothes, as he presses his forehead against your stomach. If you didn’t know better, his voice almost sounds a bit shaky, slurring on the last word as he bends back down and puts his mouth back between your thighs, onto your sensitive flesh and gently sucks. 
Those unruly curls tickle against the soft skin. You only meant to brush his hair away, but as soon as your fingers curl into the soft heat of them, you can’t help but grip tighter at the silky touch. Carding your hand through the curly locks. 
You don’t mean to tug, but the careful drag of his teeth against your clit sends a sharp electric jolt up your spine, short-circuiting your lungs and sending you clawing at his curls for dear life. It should not feel this good, and yet you find yourself chasing the sensation, nearly buckling over, as your heel digs into the firm muscles of his back to anchor yourself. 
You can’t even look anymore. Why torture yourself with the sight of him buried between your legs. Cheeks dusted crimson, and those breathtakingly expressive eyes burning into yours as if he’s trying to memorise every minute detail of your expression. You can see his jaw working on your pussy. Can feel him as his tongue keeps sliding hot and insistent without reprieve against your overstimulated clit. 
It’s so much. Too much. All your senses feel overloaded. Your vision goes blurry. You’re not sure if it’s tears that are stinging behind your eyelids or if they cross at the back of your head as everything dims and darkens, like a fuse box blowing out. It’s all too much, and you’re being dragged under and drowning in the sensations. You need to pull up above the surface to breathe again or you’re sure you’re going to die. 
You grab at Marc’s hand like he’s your life preserver, and he weaves his fingers between yours. It’s surprisingly intimate, as he squeezes your hand back, pressing your intwined hands to your hip bone, reassuring you he’s right there and—fuck, it’s… It’s so much, too much. 
It’s chaos. A mayhem between your violently beating heart and burning lungs. You think there must be something wrong with you. Can’t possibly contain the pleasure that keeps pouring and pouring into you. For a fraction of a second, as your mind is torn apart by the sensations, and you are convinced that you must be having a heart attack. What other explanation could there possibly be?
“Ma–Marc, I–I’m– Fuck, oh god, oh fuck."
Marc eases back, “It’s okay.” He presses his mouth to your clit and kisses it, and the slick sound his mouth makes have you trembling and shaking so hard you’re convulsing against the sheets. “You’re okay,” he soothes. “Let go. I’ve got you. Come for me.”
Warmth floods your veins touching every part of your body, humming through every nerve and cell as your orgasm washes over you. It’s hard and unforgiving. Your body is trying to claim revenge on you for allowing it to take so long as it did. Everything else around you disappears, pulling you under with a vengeance that blots out your vision and all sounds with it. 
But it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters to you anymore is how everything in you tingles pleasantly. It lingers long after it’s over, and you can still feel it from the tip of your fingers to the curl of your toes as you come down on Marc’s tongue. 
His face is still buried between your thighs. His tongue curled against your entrance as he laps every drop of slick out of you. Drinking you down and swallowing every trace of your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for long moments until finally he’s satisfied and drags his head up your body. 
“Did so good,” he praises, voice raspy and raw as his tongue trails a long affectionate line down your femur. 
He presses his mouth to your knee with the same gentle care he did when he’d applied plasters. It’s intimate. Sweet. 
Part of you feels silly to feel this affected by such a simple affectionate gesture considering what preceded it, but your heartbeat flutters at the touch. 
It doesn’t matter that you’ve barely just come down from your orgasm or that you’re still throbbing and sensitive between your legs. Limbs so wrung out, they’re tingling and numb. You’re already craving the closeness of him all over again. 
“Marc,” you call out for him, arm outstretched in an invitation for him to join you on the bed. 
He doesn’t move, and it takes you a few moments, your mind fuzzy around the edges with the afterwaves of your orgasm to register that something's wrong. Everything is blurry and obscured by a warm haze, and you have to blink through the watery periphery of your vision before you can see him a bit more clearly. 
Still on his knees, Marc’s mouth parts slightly open, like he maybe wants to say something but he doesn’t know how. There’s hesitation there in the tenseness of his jaw as his eyes flick away from your gaze, as if there’s still some invisible barrier that he won’t let himself cross.  
It is a little bit ridiculous. After all, what barriers between you are there possibly left to cross? You and him nearly died together tonight. You love him, and he loves you too. Bloody hell, he’s just spent the better half of this night with his head buried between your thighs. There’s no stone left unturned.
But you know it’s not that simple. There’s a deeply embedded seed in Marc, buried under his skin and flesh and left to sprout for decades, long before you came along. Making him doubt himself and his place with you. It doesn’t matter how far you two come. He might always struggle with letting himself have what he wants guilt-free. Because he still doesn’t think he has a right to, that he doesn’t deserve it. 
You plant an elbow on the mattress to raise yourself. But your arms have turned into boneless gelatine, wobbling under your weight, and you nearly topple over. Marc moves so fast, you only register a blur of movement, before he’s by your side. Steadying you with his hands on your shoulders. 
“Easy. Lie back,” he says, eyes narrowed and worried, as he’s ushering you back down. The man’s got a protective streak a mile wide. 
“Marc, please—” you start, but you don’t have to finish. 
He breaks with your plea, and his knee dips into the bed, fully climbing in. His arms brace your sides as he lowers himself onto the bed. 
“What, baby? What do you need? Tell me.” He says it like you only have to speak the words, and then your every wish will be his command.  
There’s no fight left in his tone anymore. Voice gone soft. Any internal doubts have melted out of him. The look in his eyes as he gazes down on you tells you that Marc would give you anything you ask for. This man would insist on throwing himself under a double-decker bus if he thought it would make the ride a tiny bit smoother for you. 
And oh… You get it now. 
It’s taken you far too long, but you might have finally solved the puzzle that is Marc Spector. For all his aversion to let himself have even a morsel of happiness, there’s always been one overriding drive. There’s one thing that towers above the shame and guilt. One thing that’s more important to him than everything else. It’s in the way he’s always trying to meet the needs of those he cares for. Their happiness. Steven’s. Yours. 
All you need to do is ask for him. 
“You. I need you. Want you. Please.” 
You can see it in real time as it happens. How the last traces of hesitation in him crumble, replaced by a determination that carves into those rich brown eyes. He drops forward, then he's sealing his mouth over yours like he’s signing on the dotted line, giving himself over to you.  
It's everything.
Marc leans back again, fingers hooking into the hem of his t-shirt and dragging it off over his head in a single fluid motion. There’s no tangling of fabric, and it doesn’t get snagged as he tugs it over his head. There’s none of the clumsy adorableness of his alter. Marc undresses with practised ease like it was choreographed for the sole purpose of making your heart race faster. 
Good fucking grief, you might’ve already seen this man before you naked on more occasions than you can count. But as he towers above you, skin golden in the dim light, the sight of his bare chest feels novel in a way that has your heart dropping to your lungs that must be entirely medically unsafe. You can’t help but stare shamelessly. 
Chiselled and hard from the top of his head to his toes. You remember being surprised by how fit Steven was the first time, but somehow on Marc, it seems right. His physique reminds you of mythic Greek heroes memorialised in marble, and you're taken aback at how soft and warm he is under your hands. That he's human, made out of flesh and bone, and that he shivers as you drag your palms across the bare skin of his chest and stomach. 
The anticipation crackles in your thighs, burning with a searing intensity at the thought of undressing him, gingerly unwrap him like a decadent present. But you’re greedy and have none of Marc’s patience. You wrench at his belt with little to no finesse, reaching down and wedging your fingers along the hem of his jeans to shove them down forcefully against the generous curve of his ass. You tug hard enough that you hear Marc choke out a wheezed breath, but you’re not even paying it any attention. 
His hardened cock slaps against his stomach with a heavy thud and everything in you roars to attention at how thick and swollen he is for you. You feel heavy with need at the sight of it, and your brain is on autopilot, acting without conscious thought as you’re already reaching forward. Your knuckles skim down over his stomach before greedily wrapping your hand around his cock. 
A deep groan tears out of his chest, and his hand snaps up to grab your wrist, holding you still. He clamps his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, inhaling heavily through his nostrils, breathing in and out with great struggle.  
As much as you enjoy getting a rise out of him, you’re not trying to make things difficult for Marc on purpose. At least you don’t think you are. But you can’t look away from his cock. You can feel it straining and twitching in your hold, can see the trickle of glistening precome welling up from the flushed tip. 
Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, practically salivating as your thumb gently drags over the slick wetness there. The touch has his hips bucking, stuttering into your hands with a sound that sounds suspiciously close to a whimper. Your cheeks burn and tingle, your whole body flashing hot. 
“Fuck,” he snarls and knocks your hand away, “You fucking ruin me, you know that?”
You want to retort that he’s the one to talk. Point out that he’s left you a dripping slick mess that’s soaked into the bedsheets and mattress and made them unsalvageable; that your thighs are an aching mess and you’re still swollen and sensitive from his mouth. But all vocabulary flies out of your head at the sight of him, as he replaces your hand with his own, wrapping one large hand around his cock.
Your heart stutters somewhere in your chest, and the breath in your lungs still with anticipation as he drops down to settle himself into place between your legs, knees nudging against your thighs to spread you wider for him as he notches the fat tip against your slick entrance. 
His eyes lock on yours, the tip of his nose brushing alongside yours. He leans down to kiss you again, mouth warm and slick. You can still taste yourself on him, tart and almost sweet. Then he pushes inside of you, and your mind goes numb.
The first slide of him inside you is perfect. A sweet filling stretch that threatens to blot out everything else into nothingness.
Even though it’s your first time with Marc, your body already knows him. Craves every inch of him, and he’s willing to give that to you now, inch by slow maddening inch as he eases inside. Large hands clutching your sides, as his hips press forward and he works himself inside you. His cock pushes deep until he’s buried  to the hilt. Then he stills, shuddering. 
“Shit—,” he groans, dipping his head to press his face into your shoulder. “You gotta be kidding me.” His voice sounds shaky and strained. You’re not entirely sure what he means or what he finds so implausible. If he can’t believe he’s finally inside you after all this time or how good it feels. You just know you can’t believe it either. 
It's flawed logic, but you’re not exactly coherent at this moment. Lungs squeezing tight in your diaphragm, you’re only capable of sobbing nonsensically at the consuming sensation of him filling you. Can barely focus on the warm tingle on your spine that settles over you. Your mind has been filled with cotton, soft and hazy as he’s completely sheathed inside, as deep as he can physically be.   
Marc holds there for a long moment, his breath hot on your skin where he pants against your collarbone. He doesn’t move. Hips pressed flush against yours, taking his time to let your body adjust to the girth of him. 
His mouth is on your bare skin, pressing kisses to your lips and then the apples of your cheek, before he drags himself downwards to mouth at the side of your neck, and under your jaw. Hands roaming along your ribs and hips like he cannot stop touching you. It’s devoted, loving even, the gentleness to his touch. It makes everything all the more overwhelming for you. He’s ruining you, with every caress on your flesh, and kiss to your skin, and he has barely even moved yet. 
And god, you need him to. 
"Marc."
He doesn't seem to hear you, mouth continuing to dot lazy kisses across your clavicle. 
"Please.” You arch your back towards him, but you don’t get very far with his weight flattening you down against the bed. 
“Marc, need you to move," you try again, voice high-pitched and needy, but you could be pleading to a stone wall for all the good it seems to do. His hips don't move from his position, immovable like a boulder. Instead, his palms fan out against your ribs, fingerprints permanently searing into your skin with the heat of his touch. 
You can’t take it anymore, everything inside you is screaming, bursting at the seams for more and you wrap your legs around his waist in an attempt to force him deeper. To move. 
Your heels dig into the rounded curve of his ass, and he jerks and gasps. You can feel his cock twitching inside you, as those stupendously gorgeous eyes flutter open. He’s looking at you again, stirred from the spell and the soft expression on his face hardens with determination. 
"Yeah, baby. I got you," he says, and he finally complies. His hand comes to rest on the small of your lower back, tilting you up to him as he moves again. The hard drag of his cock slides out of you until only the blunt tip rests inside, and then he thrusts back, unhurried and deliberate. 
Slow simmering pleasure bubbles up in your veins and you have to swallow it down with a hiccup of a sob. It's still the same ruthlessly slow and thorough pace. The one that tells you he won't be rushed, won't be hurried, even as he's giving you exactly what you asked him for. 
Stubborn. Unreasonable. Maddening. You won't survive him. 
The next thrust is demanding. It strikes heat along your spine and squeezes the air out of your lungs, until there's none of it left so you can fit more of him inside. A strange squeaky noise punches out of your throat, and in panic you clamber onto him.
He does it again. Hips dragging back as he pulls himself away, altering the angle of your hips with a small adjustment as he cants your hips upwards again. This time he lifts you further up than before and he pushes his way in with an almost testing stroke. His eyes narrow as he gazes down on you, brows furrowed in concentration and you realise what he’s doing. 
Marc is slow and exacting, studying your every reaction, learning the best way to intricately pull you apart. 
Staring up at him like this feels like you’re witnessing your own demise as it unfurls. Those unwavering eyes are focused on you, watching your every expression. He’s tilting the angle of his thrusts until he drives the pleasure deeper inside you with devastating precision until there is nothing left of you. Until tears are stinging in the corner of your eyes because you’re sure that you can’t fit more within you — the pleasure and him— and then he does somehow. 
He catches your leg, hitching them higher so that he can slide a few inches deeper. The angle shifts, striking against something raw and overwhelming. You think you go blind with it and you swear you see stars collapsing behind the darkness of your eyelids. 
"Yeah, there we go." His voice in your ear is calm, but he also sounds proud and pleased, and you're not sure if it's with himself or you. It’s all you can hear, and then he’s moving again.
A rich pleasure fills you at the slow glide of his cock dragging out of you, and then he pushes inside again, deep and determined, until his cock is kissing that deep perfect spot that robs you of your ability to breathe. 
“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Can feel–” he groans, rolling his hips into yours, and it’s fucking devastating. 
Your mind goes blank. A clean slate with no thought left in you except how good it feels. All you can do is moan and whimper, hands clutching desperately to his shoulders. "Oh– Oh, god. Marc, I– oh!"
He groans, slanting his mouth over yours and swallows the words down, cradling your head with his fingers. Soft doting presses of his lips to yours. 
"Fuck, you feel so–" His sentence is cut off, and you never get to hear the rest of what he was going to say. 
His mouth is on yours again and it’s nothing like the starved and overwhelmingly eager kisses you’re used to from these lips when it’s Steven who’s kissing you. This is slow and measured. Patient and deliberate as he takes his time with you. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to tell you a secret. Like he’s entrusting you with something important, to protect and to keep for him. 
His finger rubs small circles under your ear, his hips slow and consuming as he fucks his cock into you. His arms never leave your side. Mouth never lifting from yours. His whole body pressed as deeply into you as he physically can. 
It feels like a confession. 
The ‘I love you’ that he can’t bring himself to say in front of you and can only admit to in the dead of night when he thought you were asleep. 
His kiss is a soft and devoted touch. A complete contrast to the rest of him, as he continues to thrust into you, fucking his cock deeper inside you and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up. 
It’s pleasure. It’s aggravation. It’s love and a defeat and a million other contradictory emotions between you and Marc that may never be resolved. 
And you’re not going to try to. You’re happy to take him as he is, cracks and all. You accept it, his lips pressed against yours. Accept his demanding rhythm as he drives himself into you deeper and deeper. Accept the insistent heat that curls at the base of your spine, until it is a searing and smouldering burn and sparks like ember, numbing your legs with it. It is threatening to consume your very being and burn you into ashes as it flares bright in your lungs and you can no longer breathe as the pleasure of it is ready to overspill, and—
“Baby, you close again?” 
And fuck, that’s—that’s— Your stomach tenses up again. The warmth spreads, twining and branches out along every single vein flooding it with blinding bliss until you’re dizzy with it. 
You’re trying to say yes, trying to nod, but your body isn’t responding to your will anymore. It has a mind of its own, and all it wants is to be closer to Marc, to grab onto him and never let go. Your limbs are wrapped all around him, legs locked around his waist, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders so hard you know you’re breaking skin. The only thing you’re still in control of is to helplessly squeeze down tight on his cock as it slides thick and heavy in you. 
“Oh fuck, that’s–” his voice sounds pitched and almost vulnerable, the arm curled around your leg, squeezing tighter. 
Pleasure builds in you like the tide, rising slow and steady but inexorable, filling you until there's no room for oxygen or thoughts or anything else except the consuming push of Marc’s cock inside of you. 
And then it breaks, ecstasy streaking out along your every nerve, overwhelming and inescapable, threatening to wash you away with it, except that you’re pinned, held safe by the grounding weight of Marc’s body and the reassuring press of his forehead against yours as you come on his cock.  
You open your eyes to find yourself staring up at him, still bleary-eyed and drunk on bliss. You can only make out the colour of his eyes, the dark ink of his hair. But blurry as he is, you’re intimately aware of how he can see all of you. The glazed look that you must be holding in your half-open eyes as wrought out with pleasure as you are. The hair plastered to your forehead. The absolute mess of a state he’s left you in, and how debauched you must look in front of him. Face to face, all of you bare and uncovered, there in its unembellished form for him to see. 
But that means you can see Marc too. As your vision clears, you can pick out every small detail of his expression. The subtle tic of the muscle in his jaw. The furrow in his brow. How his mouth is slack with pleasure. Those rich eyes of his are blown wide open until they’re left exposed. You can see it clearly now, how he’s clearly trying and struggling to hold back. The vulnerability that he’s been trying to hide from the world the entire time you’ve known him. 
Not for the first time, as he holds himself above you, you find yourself marvelling at how beautiful he is. Identical to Steven, yet worlds apart. 
Steven is hope and light and the curve of a gentle smile. Marc is sharp lines and dark shadows and heat behind his pained eyes. Jagged edges to Steven’s soft curves. Jaded cynicism to Steven's cheerful enthusiasm. Dark secrets and carefully hidden skeletons lurking in closets to Steven's forthright honesty.
And god help you, you love them both beyond measure.
The weight of his body is pressing down against you now. Every inch of the smooth golden skin pinned against yours, warm and flushed against your heated flesh. He grinds himself against you, needy, and desperate. There’s no longer any rhythm or logic to it. Just an instinctual primal need to get closer. You spread your legs as wide as you can to welcome him deeper, to take all of him as much as you can even as your thighs ache in protest from overexertion. 
His mouth moves against yours, stuttering and trembling, and it takes you far too long to register the words that are coming from him. 
“Fuck, baby, fuck I’m–” he chokes out brokenly against your lips, his hands on your hips holding on tighter. 
He stills, and you think maybe this is it, that he’s about to come. Anticipation rises in your chest, and you hold him tighter, body clenching down in preparation. 
But he doesn’t come. Just holds himself there, shuddering against you, his forehead against your chin, panting breaths, hot and humid, against the base of your neck. His cock is pulsing where it’s buried thickly inside you. Thighs quivering and barely able to keep them upright where they’re pressed between yours. You know that he wants to come. Needs to come. You just don’t understand why he’s refusing to give in. 
“It’s okay, Marc. You can let go. Come for me,” the words are a struggle to get out. Your voice hoarse and scraped raw in your throat. 
There’s a long moment of stillness, then he heaves a sigh so weary it makes your heart clench, as he starts shaking his head.
“No,” he grits out, voice low and determined as it so often is.  His head comes up, dark, fuck-drunk eyes meeting yours, jaw set at that stubborn angle you’ve come to know so well, and he says it again. 
“No. I– I’m not–“ He cuts off, shaking his head again. “Fuck, not yet,” he says. Then he rallies through, lifting his body away from yours and drives himself deep inside you with a shudder. “Not ready. Don’t want this to end.”
It sounds like a plea, and you’re not sure who he’s pleading with, you or himself, and there is a pang of pain in your chest for him. Because this idiot still doesn’t get it. 
It’s like he’s never known softness. Hardness forged from a lifetime of a man who’s always had to hold himself up without respite. There’s a loneliness in it, of being the one who always has to take care of everyone else with nowhere to put down his burdens. 
Fondness swells up in you and there is nowhere to direct it except for the object of your affection. You wrap your arms tighter around him, smoothing one palm over the sweat-slick, heaving muscles of his back, and whisper reassurances into the hair above his ear. 
“Marc,” you breathe out and at the sound of you calling his name, his eyes snap up to yours. “Nothing’s ending.” 
His arms buckle and he lets out a small choked sound that almost sounds like a whimper. He looks like he can barely hold himself up anymore.  
“You have me,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to his. You kiss the arch of his jaw and mouth at the column of his neck. “Have had me for a long time.” 
He tenses at your words, whole body trembling above you. But he still refuses to let go. 
How many times will you have to keep reaching out to this impossibly stubborn man before he starts believing that you mean it?
Your hands come to the sharp edge of his cheekbones, cradling this face that you have fallen in love with twice over. Not just because it is Steven’s face. Not just because he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. But because it’s Marc too. 
“I love you.” 
At your words, those determined eyes pitched with dark concentration blanks into a stupefied daze.  
His head tilts slightly, a movement so small it doesn’t register at first that he’s nodding. Then his face drops closer, pressing his lips to yours. The line of his shoulder softens under your locked arms, lowering himself down onto you. His hips sink into you, his cock dragging thickly inside you as deep as it goes. 
You watch in awe as his mouth falls open, eyes rolling back, and you can feel it as he comes inside you. Pulse after devastating pulse. 
And god, he’s so beautiful like this; unruly curls wild and ruined, cut cheeks a faint crimson, skin slick with glistening sweat in the dim light. So perfectly undone and at peace. The pulse of his cock inside you as he spills himself deep inside you is almost secondary.
You bask in it. The warmth of his arms caging you in, his forehead pressing down firm against yours. The feeling of him so deep inside you, you’ll happily drown in the feeling of this man after waiting for him so long. His body slumps, dropping his weight on yours, completely depleted. 
His cock is still hard, arms still trembling when Marc shifts on top of you, trying to raise himself on one elbow. It's too soon for him to move, you don't want him to move, want him to lie on top of you forever.
Logically, you know it’s out of consideration. He’s probably worried that he’s squishing you, but an irrational fear swoops low in your stomach at the idea that he’s going to leave again. Your fingers dig into his forearm, dragging him back towards you. 
He lands on top of you with a quiet and tired grunt in your ear, but there’s no other protest from him. Marc lets you, shifting ever so slightly to make sure that his elbow doesn’t jab into your ribs as he settles on top of you. Then he stays, and you get to listen to the slow steadying of his breath, as the erratic rise and fall of his chest ease into something more even. 
The two of you stay this way for a long time, staring up at each other, with half-lidded eyes worn from exhaustion without speaking, and you catalogue his face as it cycles through a series of micro-expression with each second that ticks by. 
If this was when you’d first known Marc, at first glance, each expression would have looked the same to you. But you know him well enough now that you can tell that the tiny pinch of his brow means something is troubling him. That the narrowing slant of his eyes means he can’t find the right words to express it. That him biting the inside of his cheeks means he’s hesitating on whether he would be offloading on you. Every detail says just as much as Steven’s openly variable animated expressions. 
His eyes blink in quick succession, and Marc takes a deep heaving breath as if bracing himself. Then he’s lifting himself up and away from you by his forearms, slipping out of you to a sharp pained hiss as you whine in response at how empty you feel at the loss. 
He rolls to the side of the bed next to you and settles there, and you feel a bit nervous about what’s going to happen next, because you don't know what is going to come.
“Is this still what you want?” Marc asks. 
He’s looking at you as he says it, but somehow you feel like he’s looking through you, eyes not quite meeting yours. His voice sounds impassive, and if you haven’t spent so much time with him by now, it could easily be mistaken for disinterest or even boredom, instead of the defence mechanism that you know it is. 
“Yes, of course, it is,” you say without hesitation.  
There’s no response from Marc, he’s lying so still next to you. So quiet you can’t even hear him breathing anymore. If it turned out that he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open you wouldn’t be surprised. 
You turn onto your side so that you can scoot even closer to him as you watch him. One sole stray curl is draped across his forehead, and it’s fallen into the line of his big gorgeous brown eyes. So ridiculously pretty, this one. 
Yeah. This is definitely what you want. Him.  Steven. Both. All of them. 
“You’re– okay with all this?” he asks hesitantly, and he looks genuinely puzzled as to why you would be. “With... what happened earlier too?” 
A breathless huff pushes its way up your chest. “I don’t know if ‘okay’ is the right word here, Marc. I’m not sure how to deal with the revelation that gods and monsters are real, and there’s a very high chance I’ll freak out about it tomorrow or next week. But…”
You press a kiss to the side of his cheek as you draw your eyes up and meet those rich expressive eyes of his. There’s no mistaking it, you feel it, in the same way that you do for Steven. Even if it’s different… there’s no doubt in you, haven’t been for a long time about this. 
“What I’m sure of is that I want to be with you. You and Steven. No matter what. I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said. I want to be your person as well as his. And– and I hope you can be mine.”  
Marc tentatively draws his hand towards you, fingertips searching across the length of your arm until he finds your fingers and weaves them with his. 
The palm of his hand is warm and sturdy, sending a pleasant buzzing sensation across the back of your neck. It’s your favourite thing in the world, whenever Steven does this, and you’re pretty sure it’s going to be your shared favourite when Marc does it too. 
“Yeah”, he finally says after a long moment, “I’d like that.” His voice is soft and quiet, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies swoops your stomach at his warm tone filled with affection.  
Tilting your head upwards, you close the distance between you, pressing your lips to his. It’s sweet and tender as his hand cups your cheeks protectively, like a promise that he’s not going to run anymore and it makes your toes curl into the sheet until you’re giddy.
You clutch at him, hands cupping the back of his neck and lace your fingers into those ridiculously soft curls of his. Marc shivers against you, and you smile like a loon as he ducks his head and buries his face into the crook of your neck contentedly, and exhale deeply. 
Who would have guessed that post-sex, the man would be the world's most grumpy cat turned soft and cuddly, asking to be petted. You comb through the matted locks and the blunt tip of his nose nuzzles into your damp skin. He makes a quiet, content little sound somewhere from the back of his throat like he doesn’t want you to stop and who are you to deny him? 
Your fingertips trail his scalp, from the nape of his neck to the crown of his head, when it occurs to you that you should probably be more careful with his head. 
He was flung several feet in the air and landed head-first into a concrete wall with a bone-cracking sound that still makes you sick to your stomach. You continue to card through his hair, mapping him out in search of any signs of injuries, but you can’t find any and your fingers still. 
It doesn’t make sense. You weren’t put through the ringer in any way near what Marc was tonight and you’ve still ended up with your fair share of scrapes and bruises. But there’s nothing on Marc. 
No swelling, no bumps. No wounds. 
On top of it all you’ve spent the better part of this evening, pulling and tearing at his hair. Your nails had been digging so deep into his shoulders you might as well have been excavating for gold and he hasn’t so much as hissed or flinched in pain even once. 
There’s a faint muffled sound of complaint from Marc as he lies on top of you. It’s so distorted that it takes you a few moments to appreciate that they’re words.
“What's wrong?” Marc asks. 
“You don’t have any injuries. You were hurt.” 
“I was wearing the suit,” he answers in his typical deadpan manner. No background information, no context, no painting out a scene for you. To Marc, the limited information he’s given you should make perfect sense to you. 
You grimace, and you’re just about to have a moan at him, when Marc seems to realise how confusing that explanation must be. He lifts his head from your neck as he continues. “Khonshu’s ceremonial armour. It protects me. Heals me when I need it.” 
An image of the swirl of bandages wrapping itself around Marc’s body to form an otherworldly magical suit plays out behind your mind, and you can’t resist teasing him. 
“So you transform like Sailor Moon and then fight evil at night?”
Marc lifts his eyebrow inquisitively, with a completely blank expression. “I don’t know what that is.” 
“Really? Sailor–” you sputter, shocked he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “Steven would know that reference.”
“Steven has too much free time,” he sighs, but the fondness hiding under his gruff tone is unmistakable. 
The playful jab at Steven brings a small smile to your face. The levity of it is a nice change of pace from the whirlwind of seismic events and paradigm shifts tonight, because there’s been a lot to take in. Much of which, you’re pretty sure you haven’t fully taken in… Don’t even know how to start to process it. 
Ancient Egyptian gods are real, and your boyfriend—(boyfriends? Just exactly how involved is Steven?)—is some kind of indentured fighter priest who battles invisible monsters—also real—for one of them. 
What is the correct reaction to a revelation like that? How does one even begin to mentally process that? 
“Any other questions? Now’s your chance,” Marc says. 
There is no hostility like before and this time you don’t have to drag it out of him with the persistence of a detective in an interrogation room interviewing a suspect as you ordinarily have to. 
You’re not entirely sure how you feel about that, except that you’re a little bit stunned and you realise that something has shifted between you and Marc. 
He’s… opening up to you. 
You look up at him, and he meets your eyes steadily. There are a million things you still want to ask: What’s the deal with his and Steven’s mum? What did he and Steven go through while they were away? How did he almost die, and how on bloody earth did he manage to just stumble upon an ancient Egyptian God to end up in his service?
Marc hasn’t moved from the spot as he observes you. Still seemingly expressionless, except… 
There’s a tension to the set of his shoulders, isn’t there? And he’s too still—even for Marc… It hits you all at once he’s holding his breath, the line of his lips set in a thin nerve-biting straight line.
He’s waiting for you.
Regardless of how hard Marc tries to hide it, trying to school his expressions, there’s only so much his body language can repress. The ring of his eyes is dilated and vulnerable. 
He’s nervous. 
Marc’s jaw tightens in anticipation and maybe something a little like fear, and it makes your chest ache with an overwhelming need to protect him. Those other questions can wait. You have all the time in the world together. Right now you want to make him feel as safe and cared for as you do. You want to make him smile. 
"So..." you begin, and you see him stiffen, watching as he braces himself like he’s expecting a blow. It’s how you know you’re making the right decision. "Do you actually like my coffee?"
His eyes widen and he sputters out "You– Your–" then barks out a laugh. 
Even in the dark, you can see it, a soft smile on his face that illuminates the darkness of the room with it. A gentle curve, as the dimple of his cheeks carve a deep dent into those hollowed cheeks, the soft crinkle of lines around his eyes. It’s like nothing you have ever seen before. It’s bright and uninhibited. An electrical socket has been plugged in and every nerve in you is flicked alight with excitement. 
It stuns you and takes your breath away, and for the longest moment, you forget about everything else. 
Because god, he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life. 
It takes you several seconds, maybe even a full minute to compose yourself enough to ask him again. 
"Well...?" you prompt, and you’re gifted with the pleasure of watching him try and fail to hide that perfect smile.
"It's… a little more complicated than that," he says, and you narrow your eyes at him, trying to look playfully peeved while tampering your own smile that’s twitching at your lips and failing.
"I like that you make it for me," he tries.
"That wasn't the question, though."
Marc shifts in the bed, scooting closer to you until he’s brushing up against your knees. That small but near-magical smile is still on his face. 
"Tell you what,” Marc murmurs, as he tightens his grip around you, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat-slicked curls tickling your nose. “Tomorrow, let's make it together." 
His voice is so assured, it feels like he’s promising you a certainty, and you trust him with every inch of you. 
A warmth spreads in your chest, and you can feel the dopey grin pulling at your lips until your cheeks almost hurt, but you can’t stop yourself and you don’t think you want to either. 
There is so much that is still unresolved, so many more things you need answers to, but it’s a good start and that’s good enough for tonight. After all, as Steven would tell you: you have all the time in the world.
“That sounds perfect,” you tell him. 
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When you wake, the morning light is filtering in through the large windows. The sun is blinding and makes it difficult to see anything at all. 
Reaching out your hand, the spot next to you is cold and empty, any residual heat long gone from the sheets. You’re alone in bed again. 
Marc has really got to stop fucking doing that. 
“Marc?” you call out, but there’s no response. You hesitate for a second before adding, “Steven?”
“Here.”
Then you hear familiar noises coming from the kitchen, and the tension in your chest melts away at the sound of porcelain clinking together. There are no folded clothes by your side, but to your surprise, your watch sits on the nightstand, cracked face turned up, waiting for you. 
A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your stomach warms at the sight. Marc must have gone back to retrieve it while you were asleep. 
You sit up on the bed, bending over to grab a discarded shirt from the floor as well as your knickers from last night, and pull them on, smiling to yourself as you start to make your way across the flat to join him in the kitchen. 
The familiar sweet, bread-like smell wafts out to greet you, and you falter.
Pancakes? That isn’t right. Today’s not Sunday. 
In the bright morning sun, you see him standing, with his back turned against you over the kitchen stove. Wearing only his jeans, bare from the waist above, the carved muscles of his back flexing as he flips the frying pan with a dramatic flair. Even before he speaks, you already know what’s happened.  
“Morning, sweetheart,” he greets you. He's turning his head just enough to throw you a quick glance, and a one-sided crooked smile. 
You stop in your tracks. The cadence is alien, the smile off, but you recognize it immediately. 
Not Marc. Not Steven. But you have met this man before. 
That first night at Steven’s; the man you woke up to who looked at you like you were a stranger; the man who followed you to the lift to return your watch; the same man who towered over the invisible creature with nothing but cold contempt in his eyes as he snuffed out its time on earth with precision and brutality.
All this time, you thought that the first night you’d spent with Steven was also your first encounter with Marc. 
But Marc doesn’t call you sweetheart. Marc doesn’t flirt. Marc doesn’t smirk like he’s trying to imitate something he’s seen on the telly. 
This is detached and impersonal, like he’s not really smiling at all. When Marc smiles it’s snow thawing in the spring.
 It’s funny how you didn’t see it until now. Marc was never the wolf. 
You cross your arms against your chest, planting your feet firmly on the floor, standing up straight and tall as you confront the man before you. 
“You’re not Marc, and you’re not Steven,” you say and you shift on your legs, puffing out your chest in a display of put-on courage. “Don’t you think it's time you introduced yourself, seeing that you’re in my boyfriends’ flat?” 
The man huffs out a laugh, and his accent is different when he speaks again. A New York accent, you think, but almost cartoonishly so, like he’s watched one too many Martin Scorcese movies. It’s oozing out of every word as he speaks with a slow and nasal hum. 
“Nothing gets past you, does it, sweetheart?” 
He sets down the frying pan on the stove, turning it off before he wipes off his hand on a flower-patterned tea towel and extends it towards you, a polite invitation to shake. 
“Name’s Jake Lockley.”
You take a step towards him, and maybe you should be nervous—afraid of this stranger wearing your boyfriends’ face—but the panic and fear from that first night you met him is absent. That painful pounding in your chest is no longer there. 
You accept his hand, looking up into this man’s familiar eyes that are staring down at you in an entirely unfamiliar way. Not Steven’s wide and adoring gaze. Not Marc’s protective and gentle attention. No love resides in those eyes for you at this moment, just curiosity. 
But you’re not scared this time. 
Because come what may, you already know the most important part. Whatever happens next, whoever this Jake turns out to be, it’s not going to change your mind about Steven or Marc.
You’ll take them as they are. Red flags and all.
THE END.
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Author's notes
This is the end. I wish I was more coherent to write a meaningful and heartwarming message about what this story has meant to me. How grateful I am to everyone reading it, but I do not think I have any words that can do it justice.
The only thing I can say is thank you. Thank you for reading this, whether you've read this from the first chapter, or whether you only read the first chapter or you've only read bits and pieces. Whether you've commented or liked or reblogged or simply just lurked-read, from the bottom of my heart thank you for giving this story your time, I'm really grateful to you all.
A big thank you to my friends who have listened to me whine and bitch and moan and generally emotionally terrorised them with this story, and especially thank you to my cowriter: thirstworldproblemss who has been put through the ringer with this story and suffered alongside with me. I love you the moooooooooooooooooooosetest
a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.
#i’ve been trying to get my thoughts in order but i just can’t#first of all thank you guys for writing and sharing this beautiful story#it must feel great to have completed this book even though it’s probably also a little sad#i know wr all enjoyed and basically worshipped this story#now holy fucking plot twist#it’s so funny because the story is called red flags and it’s about this character ignoring the red flags in her boyfriend#but now i realize that it’s also about us ignoring the red flags in that first ‘marc’ encounter bc marc doesn’t use the word sweetheart and#he isn’t forward like that and he doesn’t smirk#and ive gone back to the first chapter and you guys use words to describe him that 100% fit jake and bc we believe that this is marc#pretending to be steven we think that this is why marc acts that way#WE ignore the red flags and now my mind is blown#*galaxy brain*#it’s just genius#i’m so intrigued#now the smut was top tier my god that man is gorgeous#the whole confrontation was so heartbreaking and the lead up to the kiss 🙌🏼#loved the sailor moon reference we’re showing our 90s#and steven would 100% understand the ref#I’m dying she doesn’t know he has his own little suit oof her knees would weaken faster than santiagos#number one fan of the watch#whoever picked it up from the street is a hero bc i was a little sad it’d be lost all alone (being sad about lost objects is also very 90s)#fic rec#steven grant#marc spector#jake lockley
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dream-with-a-fever · 15 days ago
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What is your favourite hinny fict of all time?
ooh this is a great question!!! several come to mind, because there are some really incredible writers out there who i think capture harry and ginny perfectly in their writing. and i can’t pick one so here goes:
Orchards by @whinlatter
this oneshot is incredible, building up hinny’s relationship over the summer that we see so little of in the books. it’s just so in character, funny and beautiful. you really see their easy dynamic and how perfect they are for each other. i’ve reread it several times and i will do it again it’s THAT good. also her other work Beasts about post-dh ginny and everything that follows the war with lots of flashbacks and added details. it’s really honest and gritty portrayal of grief & recovering from the trauma of a war
The Path From You by @takeariskao3
i am obsessed with this fic. it’s wonderful bc it has all the canon elements but it’s set a few years after the war, and the main plot is completely fresh and new. it’s like a harry x ginny second chance romance, harry is super protective and they’re both like still so in love with each other it’s ughhh *chefs kiss*! it’s so well-written too. i LOVE it.
quick-fire and warm front by @jiilys
these are two oneshots that i think perfectly capture hinny’s relationship after the war. the writing is just beautiful.
Come Stay for The Summer by @ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey
this is such a fun and hilarious text-fic. i’m such a fan of hinny in a different universe, like regular high school / soccer fics. just another fun exploration of their relationship. also basically any of the oneshots by this author are so good.
Bewitched by @starlingflight (apologies for tagging the wrong author!!!)
i loved this fic so much. such an orignal concept — it’s mainly a non-magical storyline but with a twist. loved the characterisations and the non-linear format. so cute and fun and the ending is perfect.! also this author has lots of other wonderful works.
FloreatCastellum on ao3 is also wonderful - their missing moments works are so on point.
i also might take this opportunity to self-rec my fic too (lmao sorry) which is-
but i’m a fire, and i’ll keep your brittle heart warm by me hehe
it’s a fic about the beginning and blossoming friendship of harry & ginny during order of the phoenix. basically missing moments and build up to explore how and why these two eventually end up together !
but i am always looking for more fics to read so pls give me recs!!<3
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mediumgayitalian · 6 months ago
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fic rec friday 20
hi!! welcome to fic rec friday. every week, i pick five fics i have bookmarked and rec them with a little review. check them out!
farm to table by @buoyantsaturn*
“There’s another group of kids here,” she said, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. “Said they’re looking for the Ghost King.”
I FUCKING LOVE THIS SERIES. NO WORD OF A LIE IM OBSESSED. i got an ask a couple weeks ago on what i see will & nico doing in their futures and i havent answered it yet BUT this series in particular is never what i would have thought for them and yet it fully and completely convinced me. i love the way their relationship is portrayed here, i love the nuances about will's gender, i love them figuring adult demigodhood out! i love the solace family! this series is another one of those stories that i think back to when im writing bc it's so spectacularly done
2. hopeless case by @restinreesespieces
“Nico,” Jason wheezes as he slams the door to the Hades cabin open. “Nico, I think I’m in love with my best friend.” “No, really?” Nico drawls, barely looking up from his book. Or: in which nico is jason’s wingman this time around.
i was sold on the 'jason is a disaster. nico is also a disaster but more subtle about it' like that SENT me 😭😭 such an apt description of their friendship. and leo wearing crop tops bc there's less clothes to burn and jason losing his mind over it is so real and true
3. seize the day by @restinreesespieces
“-Hey, Jason? Are you okay?” “No,” Jason snaps. “You’re distracting me.” Silence. Leo comes forward. Jason’s back digs into the wooden edge of the table. “I’m distracting you?” Leo’s hand twitches, like he’s not sure where to put it. It lingers in the air between them, making a choice. Instead of a friendly shoulder pat or slap on the back, Jason’s fingers are met with the familiar warmth and completion of Leo’s. Their hands interlock, sliding into place as they’ve done so many times before under the cover of darkness. But this time there’s light, and they can’t escape the bright truth that it brings. “How, exactly, am I distracting you?" or: valgrace dead poets society au (with a happy ending)
this fic was so FUN like jason in theatre....ur so absolutely right. loved loved this story it was such a delight to read like who cares about reality what if everyone is gay at whatever time period we wish forever
4. crush the size of jupiter by @restinreesespieces
“Aw,” he joked. “And here I thought we had a connection.” “Yeah, maybe that’s because we’re tied at the ankle, Solace.” Or: In which Nico thinks he can ignore his budding feelings for a certain son of Apollo, and fate decides otherwise.
the flower symbolism had me GAAAAGGGGEED and nico going oh. oh, no had me CLUTCHING MY CHEST SHDNSJDNS. WHY IS HE SUCH A MESS
5. stars on my skin by @restinreesespieces
“Will,” he says, “I think you’re being silly.” “What?” Will tries to hide his confusion, and Nico rolls his eyes. “You’re being silly,” he repeats. “I told you your bedside manner is okay. So why don’t you believe it? Do you think I’m a liar?” “No! I just-” “Hmph,” he huffs, pretending to be miffed. “I think you’re afraid of nothing. Nobody’s gonna be mad if you’re a little enthusiastic about healing them. That means you want to save them! That’s what heroes do.” “I’m - I’m a healer,” he says quietly. “Yeah,” Nico replies. “Isn’t that what I said?” or: after the quest group to rescue annabeth leaves camp, a ten-year-old nico winds up in the infirmary and meets will for the first time.
BABY SOLANGELO BABY SOLANGELO BABY SOLANGELO IM LOSING MY MIND WHAT IF EVERYTHING WAS GOOD AND EASY WHAT IF THE WORLD WAS KIND TO THEM
thank you for joining me this friday!! happy reading!!
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wrongcaitlyn · 3 months ago
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Ok now that we have a secound tsats book coming out i feel the need to read all the solangelo fics
Do you have any long solangelo fic recs? U feel like I've read them all
of COURSE i do omg i have to admit that a lot of the fics in my bookmarks are shorter ones/oneshots but i think that the solangelo fandom just tends to write more of those?? or at least that's just my experience based on what i've read - but here are some longer fics that are must-reads!! (don't have as much time to write in depth reviews as my past recs so just assume that i have lines of caps lock keysmashes for all of them bc i swear they're incredible)
la vita è fatta così by HowlingAlchemist
When Bianca somehow comes back from the dead, she, Nico and Will are sent on a quest that will hopefully answer some lingering questions. But Nico and Bianca are not the kids that they once were, and things get very difficult as a result. this one is more bianca & nico focused as a plot HOWEVER there's a lot of absolutely wonderful solangelo!!
The Stolen God by @tsarinatorment
Python is defeated. The prophecies are restored, and Nero has fallen. Apollo has not been seen since. His trials are over; why isn’t he back on Olympus? i KNOW that i've already rec'd this one but if you haven't read it. like literally. go read it. seriously. (and also it's another one where solangelo isn't really the *main* focus, BUT there's lots of solangelo content <3)
FAR GALAXIES by @rosyredlipstick
She didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled out her PADD from her coat, slow enough that Nico only slightly twitched. Jason’s transmission was loaded up on the screen—at the bottom, their signature tag was spelled out. “Guardians of the Galaxy. That supposed to be a joke?” “More like an aspiration,” Jason said. - Space, the final frontier. Or whatever. this one's actually one im currently reading and i'm abt halfway through rn and love it!!
okay usually i define a "long" fic as 100k+ words but after looking through all of my bookmarks im realizing that those are literally the only ones i have. so! we're lowering the word count minimum to over 40k+ words bc these are also amazing fics!! (currently wishing there was a way to sort bookmarks by word count)
peach tea by ghosttotheparty
Please Stay by CoolBeesBro
like the sun and stars above by demigodbeautiies
Bad Sons by thesungod
will also subtly self promo my hunger games fic which has a lot of mcd and is very very fun imo
so that's wild it looks like i need some long solangelo fic recs too?? why are most of my bookmarks oneshots??? its actually so funny bc in other fandoms i have a bunch of long fic bookmarks and rarely any oneshots so it's an interesting little statistic. pls drop more recs if you have any!!
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jarofstyles · 10 months ago
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Book Recs
This is literally all over the place and I read a lot of diff tropes, I realize now I read a lot of dark romance which makes sense why Reaper is one of our best fics lol (maybe I need to write more dark harry? Lmk)
But here’s a mixed bag. I’ve read over 400 books in the last 2 1/2 years (again idk I go through them fast lol) and if you want more recommendations in certain genres I’d be happy to do so!
A lot of these are series recommendations as well because I tend to be a serial series reader and I’m trying to find more one offs so if you have any recs I’m so willing to read and tell you what I think!
As always, check TWs before reading and let me know if you’ve read any of these and your thoughts!!!
——
Chestnut Springs series by Elsie Silver- smut is good, (especially in heartless bc a dad x nanny trope ughhhh)
Sinners Anonymous series by Somme Sketcher (search TW)
Windy City series by Liz Tomforde (book 2 is my favorite)
Carolina Reapers series by Samantha Whiskey (hockey romance is one of my faves)
The Sweetest Oblivion- Danielle Lori (mafia, I love the dynamic, search TW)
Little Dove by Layla Frost (gives me 2013 wattpad energy where y/n is sold to 1d but it is dark, age gap, check TW)
Best Kase scenario by Layla Frost- (kase does some asshole shit but he’s one of my faves of her characters)
It Happened One Summer by Tessa Bailey (she’s a hit or miss author for me but I do enjoy some of her books and the smut is some of the better I’ve read in published stuff)
The Seven series Mageriverse by Dannika Dark (shifter/werewolf series, lots of action. Smut isn’t incredible but I’ve loved the series for a while)
Dreamland Billionaires series by Lauren Asher
Dark and Dirty Sinner’s Series by Serena Aekroyd (check TW, mc romance so there’s violence and definitely dark as the series implies)
Wait With Me series by Amy Daws
Bittersweet by Morgan Elizabeth (also gives me wattpad vibes, lowkey imagined Harry as the mmc lol)
Highest Bidder by Sara Kate (check TW, age gap)
PS You’re Intolerable by Julia Wolf (I liked this series but this is by far the best one in it, boss x assistant, asshole but soft for her, fmc is pregnant and it’s not his)
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agendabymooner · 1 year ago
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i think he knows ! lando n. x ofc (alessandro sister!writer!ofc)
"he got the boyish look that i like in a man."
summary: nicola alessandro released a novel under the pen name 'grazie nichols' and everyone made sure that the fans are supporting her. lando norris could do anything but be subtle about the things he knew, and the novel's inspo was one of those things.
content warning: possible use of explicit language, appearance of other fictional characters (hearth sisters, lester ricciardo, etc), dirty jokes (no smut), ofc and lando being menaces, ofc being obsessed with lando, fans trying to come up with theories, ofc's account is private (colabebe)
note: (time check: 12:25 am) i'm sorry i dipped out 😭 a lot happened yesterday: i hung out with the guy (it was awkward lol) went to see the barbie movie with my sister then had a sangria after- i was planning to post something when i got home but apparently i'm a lightweight and was knocked out after. let me know what you think!!! anyway enjoy xx
ps. yes the graphics in here are stuff that i made hehe sorry if they're awful but these are just some last minute shit i made xx
masterlist
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tagged grazienichols
liked by landonorris, alex_albon, arthurleclerc
user1 new booktok rec??
user2 the grid is literally hyping this up 😭 is it that good
user3 MORE FORMULA ONE BOOKS!!!
user4 my wallet: empty
user5 me rn: trying to determine which driver relates to the man in the book the most 🧐
user6 bets on leclerc
user7 hmmm i think its more like estie? he's giving muse
user8 it could be yuki ???
user9 i agree user6 it's most likely shal bc that man is book bf material
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liked by landonorris, pierregasly, danielricciardo
danielricciardo i don't blame them; this book is a bomb ass book 😉 liked by grazienichols
grazienichols 🤪
user1 grazie stop emptying my wallet challenge 🤐
grazienichols 😶 sorry xx
user2 making money just to get to monaco gp- gurl i don't blame you 😭
grazienichols it's getting more expensive as years go on 🥶
f1 monaco gp you say??? 👀
user3 she's making money already just toss the ticket in us broke people's direction 🙃
user4 yeah what she said ^^
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tagged charles_leclerc, loricciardo, estebanocon and 7 other people
liked by colabebe, danielricciardo, arthurleclerc
user1 isn't lester pregnant??? why is she bent like that on the 7th photo? 😭
user2 lester can do things us mere humans can't
alex_albon i am appalled liked by lando.jpg
lando.jpg i can't put too much photos sorry lad
alex_albon i'll remember this.
user3 lando fed us with the hearth sisters content at the slides 2, 4 and 6 and i've never felt this loved since my ex &lt;3
user4 gurl 💀 u good
user5 ESTIE BESTIEEEE 😩 i might bust a lil gimme a sec to chill
user6 the sisters in blue 🤤
user7 who's the third photo?
user8 lester's youngest sister, nicola
danielricciardo loricciardo 🤨 what're u doing?
loricciardo protecting baby ric 😳 liked by lando.jpg
lando.jpg by flattening his head? 😟
loricciardo you just reduced my standing time and increased my bedrest time lando.jpg thx
lando.jpg what 😭 what's gonna happen if you're in bedrest? is the baby's head going to inflate back to place??
danielricciardo landonorris lad. that's not how it works.
arthurleclerc colabebe that pink is nice asf
colabebe thank you art!!! nice seeing you!!!
user9 uhhhhh?!!! arthur and daniel's in-law?
georgerussell63 why am i not there??? 🧐
lando.jpg my bad- i didn't really want you to take of your shirt in the middle of the ballroom hall. not really your night tonight mate.
user10 where is toto?!!!
lando.jpg god love him but he already has enough photo taken by his own wife. give others some chance to make it to my jpg account
user10 understood king 🤌
sylvieeford no max?? he really pissed you off 😹 liked by lando.jpg
lando.jpg yeah, and keep on reminding him that. maybe he'd apologize for once 🙄
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landonorris posted a story !!!
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tagged landonorris
liked by landonorris, danielricciardo, nora_alessandro
danielricciardo my favourite italian-british couple (no offense nora but i don't like georgerussell63 that much) liked by colabebe
nora_alessandro 😒😒
georgerussell63 you're not my favourite aussie either mate 😉
landonorris god gave me an equally obsessed gf and i love him for it liked by colabebe
colabebe just him??? 💔
landonorris me when you: 💗😩😳🤤
colabebe ❤️‍🩹
landonorris look at her
landonorris shes so pretty omg whats her @
oscarpiastri your simp looking ass is getting more obvious
colabebe 🤨 not my fault u don't get bitches 🤡
oscarpiastri do you wanna fight or wha 🤬
colabebe i deadlegged you last time and you ate shit so idk if thats even a question
oscarpiastri landonorris ur rat is at it again
landonorris hey man, that's my simp. leave her alone
mateoales throwing up
landonorris ratio + take L + didn't ask
colabebe cry + whine + sob + complain
mateoales you two are so mean when ur together
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pianistbynight · 4 months ago
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days 1-7 of a slow but meaningful summer
this is really the only part of traumerei that i can play sort of fluently...sort of, because you can still hear some hesitation as i try to remember the right notes 😅
thursday | 08/08/24
Started Leviathan Wakes
Tested out of U1 in Japanese and started U2 (loving its similarities to French cuz more familiarity = faster learning curve hopefully?🤞🏻)
Practiced piano...some old scales to warm up + the Clementi sonatina (coming back to it after a 2-3 day break was a good idea! somehow my steadiness has improved! also coming to appreciate metronome practice. sight-reading for the day = a few new bars on the 2nd page) + playing around with Kinderszenen (at this point I just wanted to hear different sounds and it wasn't very productive practice)
Read more of the HSP book
Most likely will have to revise my goals bc I don't think I can make decent progress in all the songs I wanted to in 4 weeks...like, to bring 1 L7 song to performance level after years of not performing anything + without a teacher will probably take longer than it used to. Not sure exactly what that looks like yet other than that it's definitely not gonna be all of Kinderszenen... 😂
friday | 08/09/24
practice wasn't very good today...i kept making silly mistakes i didn't used to make. i'm tired. that's why. i also forgot to do my japanese lesson. i didn't feel like reading either. i don't remember what else i did that day.
saturday | 08/10/24
drained of all energy. didn't practice. didn't do japanese. just chilled with @zzzzzestforlife for the most part and started reading what you are looking for is in the library on her recommendation. i love how philosophical japanese fiction is fjsjdkdks ☺️☺️☺️ (and more generally, i'm surprised that for a culture so new to me, a lot of their ways are just...second nature to my personality...it was very relieving. but i also feel that if i were to live in such a place full time, i would be staying too much in my comfort zone...i also don't know that i would want to ever live in Japan since there are also some important aspects about my current home that i'd miss terribly. all this to say, i'd like to visit Japan again at some point in my lifetime.)
sunday | 08/11/24
went to bed feeling very drained, frustrated, and homesick. so as you can imagine, i didn't get very good sleep. my bare minimum goals for today are:
japanese lesson
read zesty's book recs (there's the library book, the secret adversary [which she rec'd back to me after i rec'd it to her a couple months ago lol], and leviathan wakes) ✅
monday | 08/12/24
finally read the last of the clementi sonatina! got it to a "meh" level to polish in the next few days. super excited! played a few other pieces after that but i think i should focus on level 7 pieces for now before jumping into something barely readable but still playable. i should've brought some level 8 sheet music with me too...but i guess i can read from my laptop (god save my eyes if i do that lol 😵)
might put Kinderszenen back on the (mental music) shelf for now.
i also read more of what you are looking for is in the library and i just love how much there is to ponder about what was said. insightful fiction is my favorite fiction 💗
tuesday | 08/13/24
finished What You Are Looking For Is In The Library! it's such a good book. it's a short story collection but each story is in the same universe and while each story is independent (convienient for readers like me who like to take their time with books but sometimes take so much time that they forget what the story was lol), they're connected in ways that...you know that feeling when you bump into an old acquaintance in a completely foreign place you don't expect to meet anyone you know? that feeling is what i felt as i read chapter after chapter. it makes the vast world feel less lonely.
in the evening i tried to memorize and get the clementi sonatina up to speed. i guess i must be succeeding because my dad said it'd make mice dance lol. also played a bit of traumerei...trying to read more of it but progress is slower since i need to pay closer attention to which notes to hold and when to let go of them.
wednesday | 08/14/24
started reading sweet bean paste today (another japanese book... they're quickly becoming my favorite type of book.) i like it so far. there's potential for a lot of warmth and emotion in talking about food, which is just 🥰
also started "Databases: Modeling and Theory" on edx... 🙈 i'm auditing so i only have 2 weeks (until Aug. 28) to access the material (because the minimum amount of time needed to complete the course is 2 weeks gahhh). so i need to be halfway by Aug. 19. in theory i can do this if i put in 2h of work each day. it's too hot to play piano during the day, so i can do databases then and play piano at night. yes, i can do this. (i need to get my brain used to a faster, "left-brained" pace anyway in prep for school in september. 🙁)
continuing to polish the clementi sonatina and started reading this kuhlau sonatina which is pretty fun difficult. it's really just the left hand that makes it suck. haven't figured out how to move so that the staccatos are sharp despite the finger pedaling. i can do it slow, but not fast while staying quiet, so i must be doing something wrong. sometimes you just gotta sit on it, i guess.
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ash-and-starlight · 1 year ago
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Books of 2023
the list nobody asked for <3
My reading habits had gone a bit stagnant in the past couple of years so this year i made the effort to engage in reading again and wow books really are good!! who would have thought! Sharing this year's book log with the small reviews i did while reading yeah i am That kind of list lover if u feel like being nosy, (and maybe even help mi crowdsource reading recs based on my likes 👀🤲?)
The left Hand of Darkness - Ursula K. Le Guin Ursula i Need to know your thoughts on omegaver- [gunshot] THAT ASIDE yeah. mrs Le Guin you've done it again. I can see why everyone got their brain chemistry altered by this book.
The Membranes - Chi Ta-Wei another brain chemistry altering book. would love to discuss it with a gender studies major lmao
Satanic Verses - Salman Rushdie its a v atmospheric and poignant story, I know I would have loved it more if I was familiar with the rich religious/cultural background it draws from
The Masquerade Series - Seth Dickinson Crazy insane in the membrane about this series. one of the most compelling worldbuildings I've ever seen, and most importantly it features one of the most crazy wet pathetic scrunkly meow meow protagonists i've ever had the pleasure of reading about.
Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides i liked the writing style of this book a lot! idk how well it holds up re: intersexuality topic, but its a very engaging read.
Dead Blondes and Bad Mothers: Monstrosity, Patriarchy, and the Fear of Female Power - Jude Ellison, Sady Doyle The title says it all honestly, its a beautiful, thought provoking and engaging essay, spanning eras, pop culture phenomenons, and real life events on the topic of women and horror.
The cat who saved books - Sōsuke Natsukawa this was so cute and heartfelt, it will really make you go Ah Yes, this is Why we Love Books <333
The Locked Tomb Series - Tamsyn Muir now when people say there is a girl who is the cursed sacrifice of 2000 infants who falls in love with the sleeping embodiment of the soul of the Earth (barbie) and also another girl who is the only survivor of the aforementioned sacrifice and is. a Jesus metaphor? and also the two girls become one at some point. and every book is a different genre. and god is bisexual. and memes survived the nuclear apocalypse. I can just nod and say so true.
The Area X Trilogy - Jeff VanderMeer Rotating this series in the microwave of my mind at the speed of light it's soSO GOOD!! the movie doesn't even come close honestly u NEED to read the books. and then go touch grass and be aware of every strand in a completely new way.
The Dawn of Yangchen - F. C. Yee nice read! I was more invested in the worldbuilding crumbs than in the actual story lmao, I will forever think about the HEATED airball rivalry between the air temples and about the swt greetings / bethrotal armbands.
Inuit Stories of Being and Rebirth: Gender, Shamanism, and the Third Sex - Bernard Saladin d'Anglure starting w a disclaimer bc I feel like the topic of native colonization was ignored when it should have been way more prominent when talking about the context of where and when these testimonies were collected?? That aside it was very interesting and well put together, with first account testimonies of Inuit elders about their myths, lifestyles and beliefs.
Pachinko - Min Jin Lee i read the book after having seen the tv series (which i also rlly recommend). Very moving story about a family and its generations, from Korea under Japanese colonization to modern day America.
Her body and other parties - Carmen Maria Marchado sometimes I go about my day then I remember this book exists and stare at the wall for 30 minutes.
Dictionnaire de l'impossible - Didier Van Cauwelaert big miss. this collection of articles about "strange impossible phenomenons" sounded so quirky and interesting but i sure would have loved if the author hadnt so clearly picked a side. and also way too much church for my tastes.
He who Drowned the World - Shelley Parker Chan Im not even gonna speak about this one if you've followed me since july you know what pits of insanity and despair i'm in
Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow - Gabrielle Zevin Sometimes!! the book with pretty covers put in the "famous on socials" bookstore section!! are good!! It's about being othered it's about connection it's about diaspora it's about love and friendship and most of all it's about viddy games.
Station Eleven - Emily St. John Mandel reading this post-covid and learning it was written in 2017 was A TRIP. Psychic damage at every page. still feeling very normla.
The Mask of Apollo - Mary Renault Ugh i desperately wanted to like this book because the setup is so interesting and full of potential, but the end result was just. flat. flat story flat characters the plot focusing on the wrong things at the wrong times i was so DONE when i reached the end otz.
Babel - R. F. Kuang LOVED the worldbuilding in this, the "lost in translation" system of magic is one of the most interesting things ive ever read. I think theres something about the writing in general that didn't win me over completely?? but all in all a very good
Red Ocean - Han Song This sure is a Book. That i've Read. its so profundly strange and unlike anything ive come across that i dont even know what to feel about it. i think 90% of my confusion comes from Not Getting Cultural References so if someone has a "red ocean explained" essay plz send it my way bc i couldnt find one.
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girlfriendsofthegalaxy · 7 months ago
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tuesday again 5/14/2024
googled "sample bon mot" in a fit of desperation, considered asking chatgpt to generate me some for 0.2 seconds before the visceral BLEUGH reaction plus remembered that every query is like pouring a 16oz water bottle out on the ground, and figured this series of events would be a better intro than anything else i could come up with
listening
miya folick's Pet Body was off last week's spotify rec playlist. i had liked some individual songs by miya folick (singer/songwriter/alt/indie/dance/electronica) but now i gotta really dive into her discography-- this particular very peppy and upbeat song with dire lyrics is really clicking with me lately as my body overreacts to texas pollen and engages in other known misbehaviors.
the chorus, my god
Proper care and feeding for my pet body
and this verse
I'm just a brain with a pet body Out for a walk until I croak I'm just an ordinary subject In an ordinary book
as my mother used to say, i'm real fuckin sick and tired of being sick and tired!!!
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reading
ough i need to vacuum. i picked up Mrs Vargas and the Dead Naturalist by Kathleen Alcalá for a dollar last summer bc 0) killer title 1) it was a dollar 2) cool cover 3) autographed 4) endorsed by le guin.
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kind of fascinating as an object: weird little lesbian (?) boutique press that's still around, idk ive ever seen a notice about steps they took to ensure the longevity of the physical book before?
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i find myself bouncing off latin and south american magical realism a lot bc i am not in those authors’ intended audiences/i do not have the background to fully appreciate them. i have a bachelors of science. and that’s fine bc that’s the point! this is one of the very few times post-college where i caught myself thinking “man i gotta find a class to take about this”.
even if i do not understand the wider cultural context or the real-life figures she obliquely references in many of these short stories (i am convinced the bird-voiced singer is based on a real singer), i do appreciate alcalá’s craft: true short stories, she makes her point and then ends it. the twist in Reading the Road specifically— woof that’s gonna stick with me for a bit. a perfect little o henry twist of the knife. i wanted so badly to link this specific short story but apparently nobody has used it to teach anything and the book itself is not widely available/on the internet archive/etc. u will have to find this story of a roadside fortune teller (who is current on all her business permits) and one day's fortune telling, by yourself perhaps through your library
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watching
youtube
the prisoner, the seventeen episode british sixties tv cult classic. let's yoink the description from wikipedia.
The Prisoner is a British television series created by Patrick McGoohan, with possible contributions from George Markstein.[2] McGoohan portrays Number Six, an unnamed British intelligence agent who is abducted and imprisoned in a mysterious coastal village after resigning from his position.[3] The allegorical plotlines of the series contain elements of science fiction, psychological drama, and spy fiction.
number six shares a lot of traits with my cat philip marlowe, as they are both hell fucking bent on escaping and all attempts to restrain them just sort of train them to be better at the next attempt? as one might expect from a heavily allegorical sixties show, kind of heavy emotional going so im watching an episode every day or two.
why am i watching this? it's free on my library streaming service (and tubi), and i don't have a lot going on. i love one-season cancelled shows, i love Dad Media, unfortunately i was a navy brat and i do love some cloak and dagger shit. i LOOOOVE a fucked up little town and bureaucracy-as-cudgel. i actually came across this when i wishlisted the game We Happy Few back in 2018, another entry in the "creepy little british towns" genre. have yet to play it
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playing
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the cosmology and general backstory of genshin is convoluted as hell (The Gods are real and live in the sky, but some lowercase-g gods are also rulers of the seven nations in-game) but they have been foreshadowing a grand showdown since the very beginning of the game. one player character cannot de- or re-stablize so many regions and engage in so many power struggles without someone taking notice.
i did NOT, however, expect one of the regional god-rulers (purple) to start planning for this divine war in a side cutscene in a seasonal event. a seasonal event around rock n roll rhythm games. absolutely devastated i missed the pink fox lady's rerun right after i had to give my work laptop back and before i got the PC fixed. this game will not run on my iphone 12 for love or money
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making
bit of a depression hovel situation going on. we are slowly rolling that back tho. finally met my landlord during the HVAC replacement debacle, he said that he bought this apartment in 2009, lived here for ten years, and then his parents lived here for a couple years. i am the first non-family tenant, i think. all of the appliances and fixtures are from 2009. i think the fridge will be the next to go. ANYWAY. i asked him what the deal was with the lack of bathroom vents and HE said when he had an air conditioner put in in 2009 the HVAC guy then assured him he only needed the HVAC vents and closed up the actual vents. which is a load of shit. i am not really excited to live here for another year but i really super can't afford to move and finding an apartment in houston the first time was such a goddamn nightmare. i cannot do three years tho. hopefully something will have changed by august 2025.
i have also, through a special cashback bonus reward on my credit card, a sale, a gift card, and cashing in more cashback money, acquired a cat tree for philip. modeled here by mackie bc we did room swapping again as i was writing this. i cannot be bothered to install curtain tiebacks or properly fold anything, as you can see below
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stick-ball · 1 year ago
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pspspspsp Kevin's trauma and his choice to stay with Thea, why her why not someone else? How does it work considering his characters as whole books/ec , does it make sense or just feel "random"
<Picks you up like a little cat and smooches your head.>
This responce has been sped up by the people who asked Nora on twitter to break Kevin and Thea up, making me see red KillBill style, so:
For me, Kevin's and Thea's relationship makes perfect sense. Maybe it's the realist in me, maybe its the idealist in me, I don't care. When it comes to Kevin's traumas, I think that since most people can't really relate to a majority of them, they get all hung up on the one they most definately can, as in, his mommy issues. When we relate to something, it becomes a really big deal. And here we go! Thea/Kevin suddenly is feared to be toxic instead of being seen for what I think it is: finding love in a hopeless place.
The main issue i see discussed is the disproportion of power at the beginning of the relationship. The main concern is the age difference. I personally don't really get the hate about the age gap between them, because if you read the extra content you will know that while they met when Kevin was 14 and Thea 18, it's not like anything happened between them at that age? First, Kevin saw her as an impressive player, when he did actually see her. That wasn't all that often bcs from what I understand from the EC, Kevin and Riko trained with the Ravens sometimes before they joined the team but a big part of their training happened without them, as well as their life growing up was more detached from the Uni students than people seem to think. And honestly, do you think Tetsuji would just let all the freshmen know they signed into the Yakuza sportsTM? Methinks not, but be delulu if you want I guess. 💋
So anyway, from the EC, it seems like Kevin had a crush slowly build up for Thea over the years, growing from his appreciation of her skill and athletism. Considering how cold that guy is, it probably took him some time to realise, after his irritation at her romances (yeah hello she was dating people her age when Kevin was mooning for here as a pathetic teenage boy, bye bye Thea haters) with other teammates started having nothing to do with the fact it could result in the teams distraction during the game, bcs of their hormones and feelings, and turned to conscious jelousy. And here I have to applaud young Kevin because he did not even realise he was distracted from the game by being jealous. Knowing how oblivious Kevin can be about non exy issues, it likely took quite a while.
So what's next? The "getting together"? Kevin and Thea only started having a sort of physical relationship when Kevin and Riko were already freshmen for Edgar Allan, at 18/19.
Whoever wants to fight me on this being a toxic age gap, what exactly is your angle?
Anyway, Kevin was the one to initiate their relationship, after Riko was done with his distraction from the game and his focus on picking fights with Thea, and told him to sleep with her and get it out of his system. (And that's how i met your mother.) It wasn't much more than that for a long time, because having a relationship on a 12 hrs day/night full of training and uni and juggling two other teams on top of that as well as celebrity status literally sounds like the most insane schedule ever, so it's insane they even managed to talk privately at all.
Now, we circle back to the question, why Thea? Why not someone else? Well, first and fucking foremost, because Nora Sakavic said so. Second of all, because Jung and Freud weren't as stupid as imternet memes would have you believe. (Read their books, read all the books please, i can rec you like a 100 psychology texts, dont be shy)
To keep it short, we do base our attraction on the role models we have, one way or another. I saw enough of my friends pick partners that have the exact character quirks that make them just slightly like an after image of their guardians. Kevin doesn't really have a father model, but his mother? She's always going to be a huge part of his life, is it really so weird and dangerous, that he got infautated with a strong, driven, 4 years older woman, who's incredibly talented and just as determined as him? I don't think so. Is it unhealthy? Is it unsafe? As much as life is, I guess, no one is perfect, but I think he could've done much much worse for himself.
Why did Kevin decide to stay with Thea? I would find it pretty obvious, because she doesn't actually need him. She built herself, but she wants him. Even if she will never have the same fame and recognition in her career that he does. Being wanted this way must be really new for Kevin, who was always a trophy to show off because of his legacy, always a property. But Thea is not competing with him, she doesnt want to own him either. I believe his mother is as much of a role model to her, as to him. So, they have sex, when they want to, they talk - when they feel like it. They don't, well fucking fine, so they don't, they fall in love anyway. It's okay if exy comes first in the beginning, considering both spent a lot of time in cult mentality, I think neither is all that bothered as long as its not obsessive (we could discuss how reasonable it was of Kevin to ghost her for over a year and not tell her about how he broke his hand but thats a whole other essay).
What's really wild to me, is that I think the power imbalance in this relationship is the opposite of what many may think.
Kevin holds all the cards. Thea joined the Ravens as a 18 years old talented athlete, she was one of the only girls on the team, and the Nest was not a place to make friends, on top of that it was a mafia cult. She had everything to prove there, and no way of being prepared for all the grooming. On top of that, she knew nothing of the Moriyamas or even of what actually went down with the whole Perfect Court thing. Kevin knew everything, on top of that, up until he left, he had nothing to prove. He ghosted her, is it so hard to believe she accepted his cold shoulder in this dynamic, in which she obviously is not at the top of the foodchain? He kept secrets from her, is it really so hard to believe she was angry? I think neither of them was ready for neither what life at the nest was like, or for a relationship when it happened, but I also think they are incredibly lucky that they have eachother, their shared passion for exy, their daughter, their dog and friends from the dog park who can't talk about exy to save their lives.
I think Kevin was incredibly lucky for finding Thea, because maybe she did not know everything, maybe it wasn't easy for them, but they understood that Rikos death wasn't a one dimensional victory, that it was just as much of a tragedy for them, for Kevin. I'm happy with the canon and I wish more people appreciated this ship, as its very soothing.
As an ending fun fact, did you know I am the only person to make a playlist for Thea Muldani in all of spotify? Pretty insane if you ask me.
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