#but also.... thank you to everyone that has been my cheerleader along the way! I am forever grateful 💛💛

[tiffanylamps]

@loisroo you just know it!!! I have the pom poms and everything 😂

NONE OF YOU ARE EXEMPT FROM THIS 🫵

[t-lostinworlds]

Competitively Stupid | Steve Harrington

》 PAIRING: steve harrington x female!reader

》 TROPE/GENRE: rivals-ish (since childhood) to lovers, some angst; fluff

》 SUMMARY: It was stupid, jumping off a cliff just to prove that you were better than Steve fucking Harrington. But you were competitive. You were not losing to him. But you know what was stupider? For it to take a near-death situation for you both to confess what you truly feel for each other.

》 WARNINGS: canon divergent (everyone is alive & well & happy thanks), pet names (sweetheart, baby), shitty parents (on both sides), competitiveness on all accounts, r is basically a counterpart of steve during high school (cheerleading captain, queen of hawkins high, swim team captain, etc.), peer pressure-ish, some stupid decisions & stupider actions, very irresponsible cliff jumping (which doesn't end well), drowning, CPR, injuries, an emotional moment™, love confessions, and a happy, sappy ending.

》 WORD COUNT: 5.3k+

A/N: hi! okay, well, it's been a while since i posted a steve fic so i'm kinda nervous ngl. also, not me making it a habit to include swimmer!steve in all my fics from here on out. this was meant to be short & sweet to dust off the cobwebs but lol. super random. i saw a video of someone cliff-jumping & boom, the idea was born. also, not me using the first aid training i learned in college.

📍 BLOG NAVIGATION ✩ STEVE H. MASTERLIST ✩ MAIN MASTERLIST ✩

⊱ ─────.⋅♚ *｡･ﾟ.★. *｡･ﾟ✫*.

This was stupid.

Absolutely idiotic.

You genuinely have no idea why you were even doing this in the first place.

"There's no way you can do it."

Right.

That's why.

The taunting voice of Steve fucking Harrington was the reason why you were standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at a thirty-foot drop into the dark ocean.

This was supposed to be a relaxing trip with your new found family.

"You know you don't have to listen to him, right?" Robin sighed, so completely over the fact that her two best friends who never got along no matter what she tried, somehow came to an agreement to not listen to her right now.

Not that you could blame her.

You and Steve had been rivals ever since you were kids.

It was what you had always known.

What with narcissistic parents who used their children as pawns to one up each other, you had been conditioned to see him as an enemy from the second you step foot into their home.

Your family was invited into the Harrington residence for dinner as a way of welcoming you to the neighborhood. You recently just moved in, so you didn't know anyone else yet. When you heard that the next-door neighbor had a son who was your age, you had been really excited to gain a new friend.

All that changed when your dad sat you down an hour before, prepping you about how the Harringtons were a respected family in the town, and that you needed to show them you weren't any less than them, if not show them you were better. He drilled it in your brain to be on your best behavior, to be the best and the perfect daughter.

It only got worse when you finally sat down at that dinner table.

The comparisons were endless.

"See, my daughter here is a wonderful gymnast, quite amazing for someone her age."

"How wonderful. Steven here has swimming lessons every weekend. His coach said he might end up in the Olympic team once he's of age."

"Splendid. How about his academics? I'm sure he can take inspiration from my daughter's exemplary grades."

"He's the top of his class. Maybe if they study together, your daughter would be able to catch up in time."

It was harsh, pitting two seven-year-olds against each other—impressionable kids who only wanted to make their mom and dad proud.

But neither your parents nor his truly gave a shit. All they cared about was becoming the best family in the street, if not the whole town.

The sad thing was, those dinners became a regular thing, held alternately between your house and his.

It always looked like a preparation for battle whenever your mom would pull out the finest china in her collection along with the cookbook she only ever used for special occasions.

It was in the guise of cordiality when it was, in fact, an excuse to show off, to make a competition out of everything, a moment to compare who did what best. Those dinners were like monthly scoreboards, tallying up the respective families' recent achievements—and that included yours and Steve's.

Nobody was surprised that the competitiveness stuck with you both.

And it only got worse during high school.

Whether that was something as mundane as winning the popularity contest when running different circles—even going as far as getting crowned the King and Queen of Hawkins High—down to academics and extracurriculars.

Captain of the basketball team. Captain of the cheerleading squad. Prom Queen. Prom King. MVP of the season. Brightest student of the year. Beer pong Queen. Kegstand King. Best summer camp counselor. Lifeguard of the month and it went on and on and on and on.

When he got co-captain for the men's swim team, you rubbed it in his face that you were the captain of the women's team. When you got second place at the science fair, he made sure to rub his first place medal right in your face. When you became president of the student council, you ordered him around to do extra work whenever the basketball team was required to help with community service.

It was a constant back and forth.

There was always a competition between you and Steve Harrington.

And sure, since you graduated, it became subdued. But it was still very much there. Vying on who was the coolest babysitter in your band of ragtags, even fighting to have the title of Robin Buckley's ultimate best friend.

This thing between you and Steve was deeply rooted. So there really wasn't much Robin could do apart from getting in between your frequent squabbles before you started actually killing each other.

In Robin's words, something drastic had to happen for you both to finally wake up and see that this rivalry between you both wasn't what it seemed to be on the surface.

You had no idea what she was even implying.

Now, on a little getaway on the nearest beach you could drive to, the competition started with a race on who could get there first. It wasn't even fair seeing that you weren't the one driving.

The group had split into two, some were in Eddie's van—along with everyone's belongings since he had ample space in the back—while the others were in Steve's Beemer. Since you and Steve couldn't be in the same room together without an argument ensuing, it was a unanimous decision to have you two separated. Nobody wanted to deal with that for hours on the road.

Not that you could blame them, either.

And sure, it was the kids who suggested the race, but with Steve's smug smirk and that arrogant wink he threw once you got into Eddie's passenger seat, you knew it was game on between you too.

Yet despite the metal head being a fast—albeit slightly reckless—driver, he somehow took his sweet goddamn time getting to your destination.

Only when your group arrived at the beach last, did he say something about Steve threatening him to be extra careful with driving because there's important cargo in his van—whatever the hell that meant.

You lost to Steve on that one, but you would argue it was rigged from the start.

The next was a supposed friendly bout on who could build the biggest sandcastle that didn't topple over after a few minutes.

It was boys versus girls with you and him being team leaders. The girls won, obviously and El never used her powers. It was fair and square since the other team mostly argued over everything they could think of and had no teamwork at all. You made sure to point that out to Steve as you watched their sandcastle crumble into ruins.

Another one was beach volleyball. Same leaders as before, but you get to pick the members of your teams this time. Steve made it his mission to pick the tallest of the bunch. Still, it wasn't the advantage he thought it was because it ended up being one point too close.

Your team would've won if Steve wasn't such a dramatic asshole.

It was truly an accident. When you spiked that ball, you were not aiming for his face. He simply thought it was a good idea to catch the ball with it. Besides, he was distracted, flirting with some random girl in a bikini who was passing by, right in the middle of the game.

How was it your fault that he wasn't paying attention?

He made sure to oversell his injury after that, curled up on the sand as the girl fussed over him. But you saw that smirk on his face. You would've hit him again—definitely not by accident this time—if you weren't busy arguing with Robin about the point deduction. She said it was only fair since you hit the ball when she hadn't blown her imaginary whistle yet.

You decided to let it go when Steve commented on you being a whiny sore loser.

Unfortunately, the competition was ending with who could make jumping off a cliff and into the ocean look the coolest—adults only, despite the groans of protest from the mischievous bunch.

Eddie offered to stay behind and watch the rascals. When teased, he simply said he didn't want to test Death today.

His comment didn't help your nerves.

Robin said she was only coming purely as a voice of reason. She'd been saying nonstop how it was a horribly stupid idea, that there really was no need to be doing this in the first place.

But Steve wasn't backing down, so you weren't going to either.

So once again, it was only you and him.

As it always had been.

He volunteered to go first, throwing in a comment about rushing back up the cliff's edge before you could take your turn because he wanted a front-row seat for when you'd chicken out.

It only made you want to do it more.

His dive was smooth, almost flawless, you admit. He even showed off with a little flip near the end. It didn't take long for him to swim back to the shore, either. His years of training as a swimmer were obviously paying off.

But you trained just as much if not more than he had.

The only difference was, adrenaline didn't fuel you as much as it did Steve. So instead of getting all powered up looking down at a cliff's edge like he was, you were terrified.

But who wouldn’t get scared looking down at harsh waves crashing against sharp and jagged rocks? There was no margin for error here because one wrong slip and you'd be dead.

Still, if Steve could do it, you could do it better.

You weren't about to lose to his stupid ass.

"I'm not listening to him," you argued back, taking in a shaky breath as you took a step.

"He's doing reverse psychology!" she squeaked. "So you doing it is still listening to him!"

"I'm fine, Robs, I can do it," you mumbled, a slight questioning lilt at the end of your sentence.

"Look, sweetheart, it's okay to admit defeat," Steve said, cocky voice with an even cockier smile as he crossed his toned arms against his bare chest. His hair was still damp, quick to climb back up so he could get his front-row seat as he promised.

But you weren't chickening out.

Never.

"I mean, it wouldn't be the first time you lost to me so, it shouldn't sting as much."

You ignored him.

Instead, you took another step, the tips of your toes now hanging over the edge.

You can do this. Wipe that smug smirk off his face. You got this.

"Listen, you don't have to do—"

"Shut it, Harrington," you growled.

With a deep breath, you closed your eyes, counting from three, two, one…

You jumped.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

This was stupid.

Absolutely idiotic.

He shouldn't have pressured you like that.

The jump wasn't deadly, per se, but it also wasn't exactly deemed the safest, especially if you weren't an expert in any sort of way.

And he didn't want to say it out loud because if he did, he knew it would only push you to do it more just to prove him wrong.

But Steve could see how scared you were.

He was already dropping the act, voice laced with concern as he started telling you that he wasn't worth all of this, that he was stupid and that you were always going to be better than him.

But, obviously, you didn't listen.

You simply jumped.

You and your stupidly competitive ass.

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, rushing to the edge of the cliff, tensely watching your falling figure disappear into the water with a splash.

"You two are complete idiots."

"Shut up," Steve gritted, never looking away from the water. Yet any annoyance was quickly overpowered by sheer worry as he scanned the deep blue for anything.

There was no sign of you.

"Like seriously! It's like I'm the only one with a brain cell here!"

"Come on, come on, come on," Steve mumbled, completely ignoring Robin when you still hadn't emerged to the surface. "Come on, Y/N, don't scare me like this."

"Uh, Steve?" Robin asked after a moment, carefully looking over the cliff before shooting him a worried glance. "You look anxious and you being anxious is making me nervous."

"She hasn't come up," he grumbled, glancing at his watch.

It was nearing a minute.

"Maybe you didn't see her?"

"I haven't taken my eyes off the water, Buckley," he gritted, too harsh and uncalled for since Robin didn't do anything wrong.

But he was panicking.

A minute and thirty seconds.

"Come on, sweetheart, you can do it. You're an amazing swimmer," he whispered encouragingly, hoping some sort of magic would let you hear him underwater all while saying it aloud for his own sanity.

Two minutes.

You could never hold your breath any longer than that.

Steve knew because he always won that competition.

And that was in a calm pool.

"Shit, shit, shit!" he cursed, gearing up to dive after you. "I don't think she's coming up!"

"Okay! Okay," Robin rushed, panicking. "Maybe she's already on the shore. We should go down now and see—"

Steve didn't listen.

He jumped right after you.

The biting cold was awakening.

Still, it was the absolute fear of losing you that was keeping him alert.

He ignored the sting of the salty ocean water in his eyes as he frantically searched for you, his heart beating hard and fast, struggling for oxygen all while fearing for your safety.

Steve didn't know which came first, relief or dread when finally found you, aimlessly floating and unconscious under the deep blue.

He swam to you as fast he could, securely hooking his arm under your shoulder and dragging you up to the surface.

Steve always knew that adrenaline can give you a random boost of strength when needed. He simply didn't expect that to be proven true when he was carrying your unresponsive body in his arms as he brought you to the shore.

He gently placed you on your back on the sand, cupping your face as he checked for any injuries.

You were so cold.

"Hey, hey, wake up," he begged, grabbing your shoulders to try and shake you awake.

Nothing.

"You didn't have to make the jump, you idiot. Why do you always want to prove me wrong," he scolded with no ounce of anger, only worry. He started tapping your cheek frantically. "Come on, wake up!"

Still no response.

"Dammit, Y/N, why'd you have to be so fucking stubborn," he scolded, his voice shaking in fear, his chest tightening as he pressed two fingers against your pulse point.

His own heart stopped when he couldn't feel yours.

And you weren't breathing.

Steve tried to keep himself calm. If he panicked now, he wouldn't be able to give you the aid that you direly need.

"Come on, Harrington. You know what to do. You trained for this," he mumbled to himself, getting into the proper position to give you CPR.

He gently cupped your forehead with his left hand, his other two fingers under your chin as he tilted your head up.

"You're going to be okay," he whispered, pinching your nose before slotting his lips against yours.

Breathing into your mouth, one, two, he watched your chest rise as it filled up with air, only for it to settle back down without coming back up again. He quickly kneeled straighter, locking his fingers together and placing the heel of his left hand in the middle of your chest, pushing down with enough pressure to try and get your heart to start again.

"One, two, three, four, come on, sweetheart, breathe for me," he mumbled, easily finding the right rhythm, his first aid training as a lifeguard coming back to him like it was second nature.

Still, he never wanted to use this skill in a real-life situation, much less use it on you.

It was the longest thirty counts in his life.

Check for a pulse. Check for breathing.

Still nothing.

"Goddammit, Y/N, come on!" he growled, blinking back the tears as he pressed his mouth against yours again.

Two rescue breaths.

Thirty chest compressions.

Steve repeated the cycle over and over. His eyes were stinging with unshed tears, his knees were burning as the rough sand dug deeper into his skin, and his arms were starting to get sore, tiredness slowly covering his aching muscles.

But he'd rather die first than give up on you now.

"Steve—"

"Call for help, Robin!" he ordered, not taking his eyes off you for even a second. When he didn't hear any movement, he yelled, "Don't just stand there! Go!"

He was going to apologize for being an asshole later. For now, he needed you to fucking breathe.

"Come on, come on, please," he begged, leaning back down to give you two more rescue breaths. "Breathe for me, baby, please."

Thirty chest compressions.

"Trying to prove me wrong when I've always been wrong, you idiot."

Five, six, seven—

"Sweetheart, come on," he choked back a sob. "Who's going to call me out when I'm being stupid, huh? You know Robin can't do it alone."

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen—

"And you're really going to leave me alone to watch our kids?"

Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two—

"Y/N, baby, please, I can't live without you," he whimpered.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thir—

Steve felt his breath leave his lungs when you finally gasped for air.

He quickly turned you to your side, rubbing your back as you choked out all the ocean water that got into your system.

"There you go, you're okay," he whispered, whether to reassure you or himself, he didn't even know anymore. All he was focused on was making sure you were going to be okay.

"S-Stevie?" you coughed out the nickname that was only ever used by you.

It was the equivalent to his nickname for you—sweetheart.

Names that started out to annoy each other but the more often it was used as time passed, it only managed to grow into an endearment that held something warm underneath it. You both were quick to realize that the nicknames you had for each other weren't out of spite anymore.

Neither of you simply addressed it.

"Steady, sweetheart, I'm right here," he reassured, hurriedly getting into your line of sight to stop you from trying to turn around to face him. He gently cupped your cheek, offering you a soft smile when your gaze found him. "I'm not going anywhere."

You nodded as best as you could, your eyes clinging onto his brown ones only for them to screw shut when a shiver ran through your whole body.

"C-Cold," you stammered.

"I know, I know, come here," he said softly, guiding you to sit up before quickly settling behind you. He gently pulled you closer between his legs, his chest pressed against your back as he blanketed his body over yours, rubbing your arms to keep you as warm as possible.

You turned to face him slightly, burying your face into his neck only for you to wince at the slight movement. He quickly tried to steady you again, checking over you twice to look for any visible injury. But he couldn't find any.

"Tell me what hurts," he asked, pressing his lips against your cold forehead as he fully wrapped his arms around you.

"A-Ankle," you whimpered in pain, your grip on his waist tightening and God he hated that sound so much.

You must've rolled it when you jumped, and having landed on it when you reached the water, it definitely made it worse.

"It's okay, you're okay," he murmured, littering kisses against the side of your head to try and keep your mind off it. "Robin already called for help, they should be on their way, alright?"

You gave him a small nod, inching even closer to him, seeking as much warmth from him as possible. Your cold breath was tickling his skin but he didn’t care. Hell, you could be breathing fucking ice and he still wouldn’t give a shit.

As long as you were breathing.

"I need you to stay awake for me, okay?"

"I-I'll try," you whispered.

"First to fall asleep is the biggest loser," he mumbled, squeezing you slightly when he felt your eyes flutter close. "And you wouldn't want me to win this, babe, because I'll be a little shit about it."

"Not f-fair," you choked out a laugh.

"It's plenty fair," Steve chuckled tearfully, ignoring the sudden wetness on his cheeks. He hugged you tighter instead. "So stay awake or you'll lose to me. Again."

"Right there! They're right over there!"

Steve had never been so grateful to hear Robin's voice.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

"So are you finally going to tell her?"

"Tell her what?" Steve questioned back, unable to take his eyes off of you, soundly sleeping in a hospital bed with your foot now wrapped in a cast.

The doctor had already checked everything and thankfully, there weren't any further injuries apart from your twisted ankle.

Now, all you needed was to rest and recover.

"That you've been in love with her this whole time."

Steve sighed, squeezing your hand before turning to look at his best friend.

"I'm not in love with her, Robs."

"Right," she scoffed, raising a knowing brow. "Because jumping off a cliff with zero hesitation so you could save her is totally normal behavior for someone you claim you hate."

"I never said I hated her," he argued, and it was true. He couldn't think of a single moment where he hated you.

"Yeah, well, you two definitely don't act like you like each other."

"Does she annoy and frustrate the shit out of me? Yes. But I never hated her," he admitted.

Steve didn't know what it was exactly, maybe it was his tiredness muddling his brain, maybe it was from everything that happened in the last couple of hours finally catching up to him, or maybe it was the overwhelming need to confess everything into the open before it was too late—and it almost had been. Either way, he found himself suddenly spewing out all the things that he always just kept to himself.

"She's also been the most constant person in my life, you know? Hell, we basically grew up together. I can't just not care about her," he continued, memories flooding his system before he could even stop it. "She's been so ingrained in my life, her and the cute dresses she wore at those stupid dinners our parents always dragged us to. Her and her stupid competitions whenever our babysitters would bring us to the park together. Her and that stupid dance she always did whenever she won at anything even if it was my expense—she always does this cute little wiggle whenever she won, and that never left her even as we got older," Steve chuckled at the thought.

"And fuck, don't even get me started with how similar our parents are. She's the only one who will always get me when it comes to that," he continued. "And yeah, we compete a lot, but there was no hatred between us. Maybe at the start but all that went away when we learned that whatever our parents were feeding us was bullshit—that they were bullshit.

"And fine, did I sometimes get so annoyed whenever she got a new boyfriend? Yeah. But only because she always had this bad habit of dating fucking assholes. I don't know where she got those dickheads from but every time I see a glimpse of her crying by her window at night I swear to fucking God I would've killed every single one of those assholes if she asked," he gritted, slumping down in his seat with a sigh.

"She deserves to be treated right, you know? She's already experiencing so much shit at home, she doesn't need any more of that anywhere else. Sure, she irritates me to no end but that doesn't mean she's not a sweet girl who always cried whenever some random pet commercial came on the TV during the holidays. Does her competitiveness drive me up the wall? Absolutely. But that doesn't mean I don't feel so fucking proud of her whenever she wins another medal or achieves another milestone. And yeah, I wonder about how she's doing, if she's taking care of herself, if she's getting enough sleep between her work and classes. But that's only because I worry, you know?

"And maybe I do think about her a lot but that doesn't mean I'm in love with…"

Steve blinked.

Well fuck.

"Wow," Robin marveled. "You're stupider than I thought."

"He hit his head as a kid, cut him some slack."

Steve paled at the sound of your voice, swiftly turning red at the thought that you probably heard all the things he said.

He turned to face you, groaning in annoyance when he saw the smug smile on your lips. "You've been awake this whole time?"

"I'll leave you two love birds alone," Robin sang, quickly slipping out of the hospital room and closing the door behind her.

"How much of that did you hear?" Steve asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Enough to say you're stupid," you hummed.

He rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat with crossed arms. "I'm not the one who jumped off the cliff and almost died just to prove a fucking point."

"Yeah, well, I guess we're both stupid then," you snorted.

He shrugged. "I guess we are."

"Jesus, you don't have to act so tense. I mean, you've already given me a mouth-to-mouth, we've practically made out already," you scoffed playfully. "I honestly thought I'd die first before swapping spit with you yet here we are."

It was your attempt at alleviating the tension, to throw in a funny quip. But with everything still so fresh in his mind, Steve simply couldn't take it well.

"Don't fucking joke about that will you?" he snapped, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face.

The silence that followed only made the tension worse.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

Steve immediately felt bad.

"No, no, no. You didn't do anything wrong, don't apologize," he sighed, meeting your eyes with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped. It's just—"

He stopped himself, chewing on his bottom as he looked everywhere but at you when he felt the tears well up again.

"Will you come here?"

Steve took a calming breath and did as you asked, moving his chair closer but didn't attempt anything else than that.

"Stevie," you called when he still wouldn't look at you.

Harshly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he lifted his head. You smiled at him sweetly, wiggling your fingers to get him to come even closer.

"You scared me back there," he croaked, taking your hand with a squeeze.

"I didn't mean to," you softly said, remorseful and apologetic even though you didn't have to be.

"I know," he murmured, pressing your warm palm against his cheek as he shot you a glare. "Just don't do that again."

"Promise," you giggled, stroking his cheek with your thumb.

Steve leaned closer into your touch. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks to you," you hummed, brows furrowing in thought. "When Marcus got that black eye, you said it was because he was playing dirty on one of your games." You tilted your head knowingly. "That wasn't true, wasn't it?"

Steve shrugged. "He hurt you."

"It was a small bruise on the arm, Steve," you reasoned.

"He shouldn't be giving you a fucking bruise in the first place," he growled, the memory bringing back the same anger he felt when he first saw that bruise. The soft tapping of your finger against his cheek calmed him down. "Sorry."

"Did you lose on purpose to get him expelled?"

"What? No!" he scoffed, offended, rolling his eyes when you giggled. "I tried so fucking hard to win that fight, you know, for you."

"You've always been protective of me," you hummed, taking his hand and interlacing your fingers together.

"Don't think I didn't know it was you who dyed that poor girl's hair green that one year in middle school summer camp," he retaliated.

It was a sharp and piercing scream that woke up the whole camp that morning. Everyone rushed out of bed to see what was going on only to find a girl who once was blonde was now sporting bright green hair in the middle of the crowd, crying her eyes out.

Steve would've thought it was only some silly prank if he didn't know who the girl was. But he did. Because the day before he tried to ask her to be his girlfriend, only for her to turn him down in the most embarrassing and humiliating way possible.

It wasn't difficult for him to find out who the culprit was since he immediately noticed how you kept hiding your hands in your pockets for the next few days after the incident.

The counselors quickly found out that the little menace—whoever she was—decided to use permanent dye on the poor girl's hair instead of something washable.

Your green palms colored you oh so guilty.

"She called you pathetic and gross in front of everyone!" you argued, pouting. "You looked like you were about to cry and I hated it."

Steve's heart warmed at that, a smile on his face despite rolling his eyes. "I wasn't about to cry."

"Yeah well," you shrugged, eyes trained on your intertwined fingers, your thumb playing with his. "I'm the only one who's supposed to be mean to you."

"Hmm," he agreed, bringing the back of your hand to his lips. "I guess we've always been there for each other, huh?"

"I guess so," you giggled, cupping his cheek and tugging him closer.

He stood up from his seat, following your lead until he was pressing his forehead against yours.

"Thank you for saving my life, Steve," you whispered, eyes turning glossy as so many emotions covered your irises, the weight of what almost happened catching up with you.

"You don't have to thank me for that," he said sincerely, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. "I'd do it over and over again in a heartbeat."

You nodded, sniffling, "Still, thank you."

Steve wasn't able to argue some more when you all but kissed him.

The first time Steve felt your mouth on his was a horrible experience considering he was trying to keep you alive.

Now, everything was the complete opposite.

A kiss that was careful but sweet, a hint of nervousness and excitement all the same, completely unhurried yet burning with passion as his lips molded against yours.

But still, it felt like that first gasp of air—a finally.

"I'm in love with you, too, by the way," you murmured as you pulled away, your warm breath tickling his lips.

"Thanks for clarifying," he chuckled, eyes laced with adoration, unable to stop his smile from growing wider, warmer. "I couldn't figure that out from the kiss."

"I mean, you are kinda stupid," you teased.

"We're on that same boat, sweetheart," he chuckled. "I'm sure Robin would remind us about that every single day now."

"Unfortunately," you groaned playfully. "God, she gets annoying when she's right."

"Tell me about it," he hummed, brushing his lips against yours, moving away when you chased it.

You whined.

Steve didn't hesitate to dive back in.

✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ♛ *.

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[marlenesluv]

heyy i was wondering if u could write a max, daniel, or carlos x super southern (like from the DEEP south/not texas) dallas cowboys cheerleader (kleine powell fc plz shes so gorg) smau and everyone is surprised that theyre together. or alternatively same premise but with an lsu tiger girl (fc darah haidet) and shes a lot younger. us southern girls get no rep lmao and ily

Unexpected. (DR)

hi! thank you sm for the request. i absolutely love this sm!! i went with daniel for this one, he’s too cute. i genuinely never see any southern girl stuff, so i hope you love this! and ily too!!also, y/n is a dcc, but she’s from louisiana. i never mention a state tho so you can imagine a diff one!!

pairing: daniel ricciardo x dcc!reader

fc: kleine powell

warnings: none!

note: i went ahead and made this not a soft launch (im limited with photos lol) also age gap is 8 yrs in this one!

masterlist here -> masterlist link

^ check my list for all posts! ^

liked by: y/n.user, pierregasly, and 1,872,055 others

tagged: y/n.user

danielricciardo: hiked a bit, and picked up this pretty lady along the way

view comments…

landonorris: you have a girlfriend? i never thought i’d see the day

|> danielricciardo: you’re talking??

y/n.fp: is that our girl?? our cowgirl is dating a man that makes cars go vroom!?!?

|> f1.fp: when worlds collide

y/n.user: wouldnt have wanted to hike those 12 miles with anyone else :)

|> danielricciardo: :)))

dcc.fans: does this mean daniel is gonna come to games?

charles_leclerc: is she converting you full cowboy?

|> y/n.user: of course i am🙃🤠

yourbsf: awwww, you guys are so cute. pls let me meet him

|> y/n.user: soon, honey🫣

_______________________________________________

liked by: danielricciardo, francisca.cgomes, and 862,274 others

tagged: danielricciardo

y/n.user: who’s going to tell him that these are not the dcc colors….💙🤍

view comments…

fanpage.dcc: UNEXPECTED RELATIONSHIP

|> y/n.fanpage: LOVE IT THO??

danielricciardo: sugar, it’s texas’ colors…..

|> y/n.user: i’m not from texas daniel, we’ve been over this😐

|> danielricciardo: let me grab my blue and white before the game

|> y/n.user: thank you, hun☺️

pierregasly: have fun with his annoying ass

|> danielricciardo: HEY. she loves my ass, thank you very much

|> y/n.user: 😇

formula1fp: this was not on my bingo card for this year. i’m not mad about it tho

_______________________________________________

twitter:

Formula 1 Wag News @formulaonewags • 2d

New Wag: Y/N Y/L/N has been posted by Daniel Ricciardo recently, saying that he “picked up this pretty lady” referring to Y/N. She is a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader, at 26 years old. They have yet to officially announce their relationship, but with both posting, daniel going to games, and not denying their friends, we have strong reasons to believe they are dating.

|

DCC Updates @dccupdates • 2d

We think thet have been seeing each other or talking for a while. Y/N has stayed away from guys at parties (via her friends posts) and Daniel has been posting a lot at home. Maybe this has been going on for a while?

_______________________________________________

liked by: y/n.user, carlossainz55, and 2,109,240 others

tagged: y/n.user

danielricciardo: first date, kinda nervous. do you guys think she likes me? 🙁

view comments…

y/n.user: i do i do i do🫠🫶

|> danielricciardo: i like you too🤭🫶

dallascc.updates: pls pls this is way too cute but i’m shook

|> f1updatepage: aren’t we all?

georgerussell63: theres no way you’re dating a dcc-

|> carmenmmundt: they’re so cute!!

|> georgerussell63: yeah, but how?

|> danielricciardo: im very charming

yourbsf: actually adorable asf. i’m soso glad you’re both so happy together :’)

|> y/n.user: thank you, babes🙁🫶

maxverstappen1: i hope you guys had a good date!

|> danielricciardo: we did ☺️

_______________________________________________

liked by: y/n.user, oscarpiastri, and 1,982,140 others

danielricciardo: another hike, another race sunday

view comments…

y/n.user: you’re gonna do so amazing ☺️

|> danielricciardo: wear my cowboy hat?

|> y/n.user: i’ll be there with the hat and boots on 🤠

|> danielricciardo: 😊

f1.wag: new y/n content? yes plsssss

carlossainz55: i’m still confused on how you got a girlfriend

|> maxverstappen1: we’re all confused

dcc.posts: our favorite hikers 🥾

y/nfanpage: i livveeee for them

_______________________________________________

liked by: landonorris, danielricciardo, and 1,027,174 others

tagged: danielricciardo, landonorris

y/n.user: p2 for daniel = proudest gf today. although i would be proud no matter what. thank you for being such a sweet, funny, supportive, and entertaining bf. i am not thanking you for bringing lando on the same plane, jk

view comments…

landonorris: those tension headache pills didn’t help?

|> y/n.user: nope

|> landonorris: oops 🫣

f1.updates: trio we needed

danielricciardo: my favorite cowgirl❤️

|> y/n.user: my favorite cowboy❤️

|> wagsof.f1: i’m actually so lonely i’m sobbing

formula1.page: you😭 guys😭 are😭 adorable😭

lilymhe: cutestttt

|> y/n.user: you’re too sweet💓

|> lilymhe: 💓💓

y/n.fp: i am never getting over this relationship. f1!driver and southern cheerleader? k. my life is complete

yourbsf: MY PARENTS

|> danielricciardo: oh dearie

|> y/n.user: 😳

_______________________________________________

(reposts, comments, and likes are appreciated!^-^)

[doodle-pops]

Lords of Gondolin | With A Deaf Tone Reader

Request: Hi Mina! Not sure if this has been done yet but can I request a gondolin elves x reader set of headcanons where the reader loves to sing but is absolutely tone deaf? Thank you!

A/N: I did my best to add some humour in there so it wasn't all sentimental. Hope you don't mind.

⭑⚝ Galdor

Galdor is very patient with you as someone who suffers from tone deafness. It’s not a condition found among elves, nor ever heard of, so it was shocking for him to become aware of your inability to follow the pitch of melodies.

Whether you can’t sing or replicate instrumental notes, it would not bother Galdor at all. He’s also aware that you probably know about how elves find the voices and singing abilities of their partner an attractive feature and wonders if you think the opposite of yourself.

He’s there to cheer you up with reassurance that whether or not you can carry a proper pitch, he still loves you nonetheless. (He’d love you even if you were a worm; he’s got a garden for you to live in lol).

There is a degree of protectiveness when it comes to others being aware of your condition and deciding to mock you. Preferably other elves who were jealous of you being with Galdor.

He takes his job seriously when it comes to defending your condition and makes it clear that it’s no joking matter. Speaking about jokes, depending on your sensitivity to your condition, sometimes you might joke about your singing skills while Galdor would have trouble in knowing whether to laugh or not.

You may have to inform him that it’s alright to laugh along once you’re the one making the joke.

⭑⚝ Ecthelion

Since we all know Ecthelion is all fair and beautiful, it would be no joke that he would be stunned at your condition. Having not heard about it before, it’s shocking to know that it’s possible to have difficulty matching the pitches of a melody.

Perhaps as you’re with Ecthelion, you might ask if he would be willing to help you tune to the right pitch when singing. He would be honoured to provide assistance in any way possible.

You two would start with learning to read music sheets while he plays each note through his flute or voice and trains you to hear the differences in each pitch as best as he could.

It’s a challenging start since everything sounds the same to you, but he’s ever so patient and kind, even if in the end you’re unsuccessful at correctly recognising the differences in pitches.

Your condition doesn’t worry him at all since he can sing and that’s where the true essence of his love lies when he composes his words. Despite your inability to hear the notes properly, you can still hear the romantic words he sings, and they make your heart melt.

There are times, he’ll ask you to sing along with him which leaves you bewildered because, “Thel, you know I can’t sing like you, much less carry a decent tune. I’d crack the glass.” To which he would politely reply with a, “I know, but join me.”

⭑⚝ Egalmoth

He doesn’t tolerate others learning about your condition, it is something kept private. Only he gets to listen to your off-tune melody. Yes, you heard me right. Egalmoth will still ask you to sing as best as you can and will enjoy your song.

He knows it’s coming from your heart, so it’s full of love and meaning, and your off-tune melody doesn’t bother him. The most he will do for your comfort would have your singing moments conducted behind closed doors.

At the same time, he’s empathetic towards your concerns with your inability to match the correct pitches and sing in tune. Like everyone else, you can count on Egalmoth to be your cheerleader.

He brushes your insecurities aside when you bring up the connection between elves singing and attractiveness. He makes it clear that it was not the reason he loved you and even though singing is troublesome, he still loves you.

With him, there shall be no insecurities when it comes to your condition. End of complaints because he’s going to join in on your singing to purposefully have an excuse to annoy people with his.

He doesn’t care whether he’s on key or off, he wants to show you that there’s fun once you embrace it and ignore the idiot haters. You two will have a concert!

⭑⚝ Glorfindel

Never one for being as vocal as his dear friend, but can be often seen humming a merry tune, Glorfindel’s sunshine never turns gray upon learning your tone deafness. If anything, he reassures you that it’s alright.

Like most of the others, Glorfindel will shield you from any negativity that other elves (if any became aware) will throw at you to bring shame for not being attractive by their standards.

In comes your saviour to swoop in and remove all the bad aura the other haters bring out of jealousy. Glorfindel is quick to shut down any naysayers and praise how much he loves you and finds everything about you attractive.

It depends on whether or not you’re interested in coordinating with the right pitch to replicate because whatever your decision is, he is supportive nonetheless.

If you are, Glorfindel will be supportive and guide you to idea his good friend Ecthelion or Princess Idril for assistance. He will be there with you every step of the way and motivating you even if you don’t always get the notes right every time.

Would make jokes about you still singing better than some of the other Lords, and encourage you to never stop singing. He doesn't want to stop your melodies since he understands the joy they bring.

⭑⚝ Rog

With him being a focused blacksmith, the musical aspect of the nature of elves had never struck him on his head until you showed up. Rog knows how to carry a tune or two, there would be songs required to sing while crafting to aid with creation.

He would be concerned if your tone deafness was life-threatening, and breathe a sigh of relief when learning that it wasn’t.

Of course, Rog is patient and observant to know that you’re self-conscious when it comes to your musical abilities, be it singing or playing instruments. There is clarity between you two that your inability does not worry him or change his perspective of you.

Rog would not shy away from listening to you hum an off-key melody while he slave away. There’s a small smile on his face when you go even further off-key or your voice cracks; it’s sentimental to him.

What’s reassuring to him is that your condition doesn’t take away hearing, so you can listen to songs he dedicates to you based on his undying love and passion. There are moments when you will be blessed to hear him utter a song or two with the sweetest words that represent his love.

⭑⚝ Maeglin

Would be stunned to learn that you couldn’t sing on key with the songs being performed and would politely question you out of curiosity. He means no harm or embarrassment, it is simply that he had never come across a person like this before.

Maeglin may be a bit more clueless and assume that with basic singing lessons, you might be able to catch a tune since it was how he learnt, not fully understanding at first, that it was something different from a person who couldn’t sing.

He’s gentle and curious at the same time, asking tomes of questions about how it came about and if there’s a way to make improvements. His inquiry might be a bit silly since you could have gotten it sorted out if there was a fixture, but he also considered that you might not have been around or knew people who could assist.

Maeglin is all on your side and not in a rush to make changes since this was your choice and he respected your decision. If you want to work on identifying the correct pitches, he’ll direct you to the right musicians. If not, he’s happy to do the singing for you.

Since he understands indifference better than anyone else and how fitting in with the crowd can be challenging, he’s always up to make you feel welcome and perfectly fine. Gonna get praises here and there as he listens to you sing to yourself with a big smile.

Masterlist

Taglist: @ranhanabi777 @lilmelily @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @mcwentfandomtraveling @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster @hermaeuswhora

If you would like to be tagged, click the taglist link to join.

[lucigoo]

It Was Never What It Seemed

My latest Bagginshield fic is now up.

This has een almost a years work of sweat and tears and I have @sunnyrosewritesstuff to thank for being the best cheerleader I could ever ask for.

This fic can get a bit heavy, so please do mind the tags, but this has come from deep within e ad I hope you all enjoy it.

A03 link here

Summary: It has been 8 years since Bilbo has lest stepped foot in Erebor. He needs to talk to his husband, especially as he is now about to marry another. Another who is not Bilbo.

Bilbo left and when he did he left Thorin broken hearted. Now he is to marry a Blakcklock Princess, consequences be damned.

Follow along with our favourite dwarf and hobbit as they find their way back to one another, No matter how painful the journey is.

And as always a snippet:

Bilbo waited until Anette (the same worker he had hired all those years ago to man his stall when someone who could recognise him came by and who still worked with him) came back from where she had been trying to get a closer look. They were chatting away when Bilbo asked who the new dwarves were. “Oh, their Blacklock dwarves. From the Orocarni mountains,” she eagerly answered him. Bilbo scrunched up his nose. “But those mountains are so far away from here, that’s a long way to trade,” he thought out loud. Annette laughed at Bilbo’s obliviousness. He was usually much more up to date with his gossip than this, wielding it like a weapon when he was in the market with the other traders. “Well, they aren’t here to trade,” she said with a smile. At Bilbo’s questioning noise, she continued. “Rumour has it they are here for a wedding.” Bilbo’s head spun. “Who’s wedding?” He wouldn’t believe that Thorin would make a political alliance with their boys, but that was the only reason for such a large delegation to come. A royal wedding. Bilbo closed his eyes and hoped Fili or Kili weren’t being married off. After all, surely their mother, the Princess Dis, wouldn’t allow that to happen. Annette laughed at him again. “Silly dwarf, how are you so far behind? The rumours about the King’s wedding are all everyone has been talking about for months,” she said with a smile. Bilbo felt his whole body freeze. The King’s wedding. The King couldn’t have a wedding. Thorin couldn’t marry a strange dwarf. Thorin WOULDN’T marry a strange dwarf, right? Annette looked at him, shocked at his obvious reaction. Bilbo’s face was screwed up in confusion, and if she didn’t know better, Annette would have thought in pain.  “Aren’t you pleased your King has found a worthy spouse?” She asked. “Especially after all thought him craft wed for so long.” Bilbo had to snort at that. Thorin wasn’t craft wed, he was as far from craft wed as a dwarf could get. He just hadn’t met his One until he walked through a bright green door in The Shire. Those kisses, touches, looks, caresses, and more were not those of a dwarf playing around or just having a quick fumble. They were of a dwarf, madly in love after so many years of believing he would be alone until he returned to the stone. Bilbo felt his tears trickle down his cheeks as he turned away from his friend, unable to continue the conversation and not caring how rude it may look. He somehow composed himself enough to see out the last hour or so before explaining that he felt unwell and had to return home. After packing up early, he made his way home with all haste. He needed to return to Frodo and speak to him. They had things to do.

Also just because I think it is brilliant, until today and posting the completed fic, the title was "You're Still Married, Stupid Dwarf," and that baout sums Thorin up, lol.

I hope you enjoy <3

[breathlessmorro]

Okay I am loving your takes so much while I am not a huge fan of Misako and Wu what you said made me think about a few things I'm still not a fan of them buuuut I don't think I dislike Misako as much and I also agreed with your take with the whole Nya Cole Jay thing anyways that's besides the point!!! How would Wu and the rest of the family Garmadon Misako & Lloyd react to Morro liking Kai?

Thank you for saying that, I greatly appreciate it! I get that Wusako isn't everyone's cup of tea, so no worries fam! I haven't been able to really explain my "takes" on a lot of the canon ships before, so it's nice to know my thoughts are being well received lol

NOW AS FOR THE DESTINYSHIPPING MOTHERFUCKERS -

Okay if you're a regular on my blog you probably know I have a million different ways that Destiny can become canon. Beyond that, there's a mullion different ways Morro actually joins the team in the first place. Morro takes Wu's hand. Morro comes back on the day of the Departed. Morro never actually leaves Wu's monastery (but we're ignoring that one for the sake of Destiny)

It's no secret that Kai probably hates Morro the most. He was the most relentless when it came to fighting him, trying to get Lloyd back, et cetera. Even during the Day of the Departed, he's the only one other than Lloyd who actually addresses him, ready to fight. So naturally, when setting up Destiny as a couple, you need to get over that barrier.

Morro joining the team under any circumstances is weird. One, he and Lloyd obviously aren't going to get along. Two, he might not even want to be a ninja. Three, he may not even fit into the group at all. Because of the way the characters are written, I think that if Wu gave Morro the chance of redemption, and Morro actually took it, the team would accept it and him. They stood down when Wu told them to, so it's not unrealistic that they'd trust him - after some protesting - that Morro wouldn't hurt them.

Except for Kai. Kai didn't trust Garmadon in season one, and that was Lloyd's father. Why would he ever trust Morro? Eventually everyone moves past not trusting Morro, if only because they're so annoyed by him and Kai fighting all the time. Even Lloyd I think would want Kai to give Morro a chance. It wouldn't be until either they're united against a common enemy, or until they're forced to see each other beyond their surface level traits, that they'd even be friends. However, I think that the second both Kai and Morro get past their animosity, they're bound to get together. Completely inseparable.

As for the reactions? WELL BABY LET ME TELL YOU -

Wu: He's extremely grateful that they've stopped fighting. Wu will never stop seeing Morro as a son either, so he's happy that he's giving himself the chance to be truly happy with someone. Of course, he gives Kai the stereotypical threat of "you hurt my son I hurt your face" but he's very supportive

Garmadon: Depending on which Garmadon we're talking about here. Evil Garmadon couldn't care less, he's not involved with their teenage shenanigans. Good Garmadon, however, would be concerned. I think he'd want to treat with Morro with respect, given that he's Wu's adopted child, but Morro still hurt his baby. He's always going to be biased against him. Not that Kai is Garmadon's favorite or anything, but he's still a little protective. Regardless, he doesn't voice his concerns to either of them, instead showing support, even if he's skeptical of their pairing.

Misako: I feel like she'd be in the same boat as Wu - relieved that they're not fighting, and that they're both happy. Misako isn't super close with either boy, so she's not as protective, but they're both part of her family, and she's always glad to see people overcoming their differences.

Lloyd: Now Lloyd is the trickiest, because he can either be their biggest cheerleader, or their biggest opposer. It depends on whether or not Lloyd's actually forgiven Morro, how he'll react. If he has, then sure enough he was right with Wu, trying to encourage Kai to stop picking fights, and was glad to find out they actually care about each other. If he hasn't forgiven Morro, however, then it's gonna be all too easy for him to get reasonably upset. Kai is supposed to be his brother - to protect him, and he goes and starts kissing the ghost that forced him to fight his friends??? Lloyd would get bitter fast in that case, and though he'd try to keep his feelings out of the fight, he'd slip up occasionally, and until he resolved things with both Kai and Morro, it would cost the team a lot. Lloyd's understanding and kindness is underestimated a lot; he tries to see the best in even the worst of people, and if you make an effort to do the right thing, he'll notice it. That being said, this is still the same kid who opened three serpentine tombs because he couldn't have some candy. Lloyd's ability to hold a grudge is strong, even turning him against his father at one point, but in the end he always comes around when he realizes the cost of his anger and acting on it isn't worth the consequences

[ofduskanddreams]

CH 30: As It Was Foreseen

If you've been following the fic, I think you can correctly infer the chapter summary for yourselves given the title. It is NSFW.

Read the last chapter of What Lies Inside on AO3.

[Instead of an excerpt, y'all get a little author's note]

This is the first long fic which has held my attention long enough for me to complete it. I'm very proud of myself and I'm extremely grateful to all of you who followed along for this journey. You lovely readers are the support that saw us through to the end.

The response to this fic has been overwhelming in the best way possible. Everyone go thank @damedechance for being my #1 enabler & cheerleader back in September when I said "I think I want to try writing Azris." I had no expectations going into this fic but thanks to you we are doing the good work of advancing the Azris agenda. Your comments made me smile and cackle evilly at my keyboard, you encouraged me to keep going even when you didn't know I needed it.

Your kudos???* You guys, the other day I learned that What Lies Inside broke the top 50 most-kudoed fics in the fandom—like wtf but okay cool. There are two Azris fics up there now, and several others nearby <3 This really is the little rarepair ship that said "wanna bet? hold my beer" (or should I say whiskey.) Go team Azris 🎉

I'm sad that this fic is wrapping up, I will miss them in this one :') On the other hand, I'm also super excited for my upcoming Azris projects. The first chapter of Nebulas and Night Sky, Frosted Blades and Flame is already available for you viewing pleasure.

tagging:

@iftheshoef1tz @headcanonheadcase @octobers-veryown @krem-does-stuff @lady-riel @melonsfantasyworld @legionsofthehungry @wellwhatisnttaken @foundress0fnothing @mali22 @blurredlamplight @rigelus @yourethehero @cataclysmica [now you can binge it all at once @the-lonelybarricade @houseofhurricane]

*Obviously statistics don't matter, at the end of the day it's about our love for the characters not some numbers. But to those who give us the side-eye and still incorrectly call Azris a crackship I give you the data with a side of the sjm classic: a vulgar gesture ✌🏻

[louandhazaf]

ANNUAL WRITING SELF EVALUATION 2023

List of works published this year:

Wanted: Dog Walker // Louis needs a dog walker. / Harry answers the ad. A Social Construct // Five times Harry and Louis try to lose their virginity and one time they finally do.

Tongue Tied // Louis’ new bestie placed a hand on his shoulder; he turned with a sway and looked into his blue eyes. ”What do you wish?” / The world spun for a moment, and Louis shrugged. It was easy. The only thing he wanted. “I wish that I could tell Harry that I love him, instead of getting all tongue tied and chickening out.” / The Irishman winked. “You never know, your wish may just come true.” / “From your lips to God’s ears, mate.” He gave the man a hug. “I gotta go before my Uber leaves me.” / He stumbled to the door, and that was the last thing he remembered from the night. ‘tis the damn season // Harry returns to her small hometown over the holiday season and starts to think about the road not taken.

Work you are most proud of (and why): ‘tis the damn season because I have always said that there was absolutely no way I could write an advent fic day by day. And yet, when Nov 30th came around and I only had two chapters, my fomo won over my fear of failure and I thought I’d give it a try, because the worst that would happen is that I wouldn’t finish it, which would’ve been fine! But then with the help of everyone who read along, I actually did it! 

A favorite excerpt of your writing: unlike most years, when I quickly scrolled through my works, nothing specific jumped out, so I’ll just say that I really liked how ch 6 rolled into ch 7 in ‘tis the damn season! 

Share or describe a favorite review you received: literally every single one.

A time when writing was really, really hard: oh boy. Okay. so if you go back and read my 2022 recap, and 2021, you’ll see that writing has consistently been hard for me for a few years. So, this year I told myself not to worry about it, that I could not write a single thing and not feel bad about it. I didn’t do a ton of writing this year, but having the internal pressure off sure helped. Even though I really miss the way it used to be. 

A scene or character you wrote that surprised you: I’ll say Zayn in ‘tis the damn season, because I didn’t have a role for her when I started, and I really liked her as minor threat slash Louis’ bff and sometimes hookup. I want someone to write a story in her pov. lmaoooo How did you grow as a writer this year: I really tried to get rid of my perfectionist tendencies and tried to write without putting pressure on myself. 

How do you hope to grow next year: i dont even know, tbh. I’ll be very happy if I match my 2023 fic count. 

Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc): I adore everything that @disgruntledkittenface put out this year. The way she keeps pushing herself is really inspiring.

Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year: ummm, I guess the ‘moving back home thing’... idk. Nothing i wrote this year hit particularly close to home. 

Any new wisdom you can share with other writers: i love you. please keep going!

Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year: what I would give to be able to write the next installment of Swallow My Words. Thank you so much to @kingsofeverything @allwaswell16 @lululawrence and @haztobegood for tagging me! @phdmama want to join in the fun? @disgruntledkittenface did i miss yours? anyone else??? (also, here’re my responses from 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022)

[tracingpatternswrites]

The Patchwork of Us | Chapter 10

(I'm just copy/pasting my A/N notes into this post)

My darlings! I'm feeling quite emotional now that I'm about to post the final chapter of this story.

I cannot tell you all how incredibly blown away and happy I am over the reception of this fic. It started as a silly idea and having so many people reading along and commenting has really made this into such a special journey.

In this country, we celebrate Christmas on the 24th so I'm back in my childhood home tonight, and I'm sitting on the sofa in the living room writing/editing/posting Wolfstar fanfic while my family watches telly around me and it's like I'm 16 years old again (and not like it was 16 years since I used to do this, hush).

Anyway, I just want to say a massive thank you to everyone who has joined me on this journey and everyone who has read and kudoed and commented so far. Without you, this wouldn't be as fun. I'm so humbled and grateful that you have fallen in love with these idiots (and Teddy) the same as I have. Thank you!

Also a special thank you to @heartofspells and @squintclover for being so encouraging, for betaing, for bouncing ideas and for always, always, always being my biggest cheerleaders when I have a new bizarre AU idea. I love you both!

I will post the actual full post for this fic tomorrow, but you can read it from the beginning here.

Snippet below the cut.

“Why can’t I come?” Teddy asked, his bottom lip pushed out in a pout as he kicked his legs against the side of the tub.

He was perched on the edge of it, watching as Sirius was getting himself ready. Sirius had pulled his hair up into a ponytail, studying his face in the mirror. He was pondering whether or not he should add some eyeliner or if that would be too much. He would have to leave in a few minutes if he didn’t want to be late. His heart was fluttering happily in his chest as he thought about the evening. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a date, and he felt quite out of practice. He used to be pretty good at them, but as with everything it seemed to become more and more daunting the longer he put it off. The last one he’d been to had been well before Teddy had come into his life.

He’d hooked up with some guys since then, of course. It had usually happened when his friends (with James at the forefront, cheered on by Dora) had dragged him to a club. It had never turned into anything more than a casual hook-up though, and Sirius knew that was mostly his own fault. He hadn’t felt ready for a relationship, everything with Dora and Teddy had just felt too complicated.

This was different though. Remus was different, and Sirius felt comfortable admitting that to himself now. Remus was already a part of his life, of Teddy’s life. He was someone who was already there and would be there, regardless of what Sirius thought about it. That was a thought that both thrilled and terrified him.

It was a gamble, of course, because so much was at stake, but it still felt like it made sense. Asking Remus out had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, he was floating high in post-orgasm, but the light in the other man’s eyes had told him immediately that it had been the right thing to do.

For a while he had thought that the fight between Remus and James would get in the way, but as Sirius had learnt a long time ago it was impossible to stay angry with James Potter for more than five minutes. Remus had tried his best, Sirius had to admit that much, but in the end nothing ever stood in the way once James Potter had set his mind on something. For the past week he had put every little bit of energy into making Remus forgive him, and by the way he had turned up to celebrate a couple of nights ago he had finally succeeded.

Remus had admitted as much, too. He had said he’d forgiven James for not telling him straight away, and that they’d had a good conversation about it. Remus hadn’t told him any details though, and neither had James, clearly set on keeping his promise to Remus not to spill any more of his secrets. It was okay, Sirius thought, because he figured Remus needed someone in his life that he could trust. Someone aside from Sirius, that was, because he had promised himself that he would be one of the people that Remus could depend on from now on. 

Sirius had asked Harry to come over and watch Teddy while he was gone, and that had seemed like a winning concept up until just now, when Teddy had suddenly changed his mind. Once he had clocked that Sirius was going to meet up with Remus, he had been nagging Sirius’ ear off about being allowed to tag along. Sirius loved Teddy, and he was happy that the boy clearly wanted to spend time with him and Remus both, but had really been looking forward to having some alone time with Remus.

“Padfoot!” Teddy’s impatient voice yanked Sirius out of his thoughts. “Why can’t I come?”

“Not this time,” said Sirius before deciding he might just as well go all in, and he carefully applied the eyeliner before smoothing it out with a finger. “You can see Remus tomorrow.”

“But I wanna see him now ,” Teddy pouted, and Sirius smiled a little as he turned around to look at the boy.

“I know, but me and Remus are going to have dinner alone tonight.”

“But why ?” Teddy demanded with a frown.

“Because,” Sirius replied, and this time he grinned as Teddy gave an unimpressed huff.

“That’s not a reason,” Teddy complained. “You always tell me that’s not a reason.”

Sirius laughed, “Well, this time me and Remus want to have some time alone, we have…adult things we need to do.”

It was the truth, Sirius thought, because he had a feeling he’d spend most of the evening picturing how Remus would look bent over various surfaces.

“What adult things?” Teddy demanded, but Sirius was saved by the knock on the door.

“That’s Harry,” Sirius said. “Go let him in, I’ll be down in a bit.”

Sirius chuckled to himself as Teddy stomped down the stairs, and when he heard the front door being yanked open he went into his bedroom to check himself in the mirror. He smoothed his shirt out, half-turning to check his arse in his jeans. He looked pretty good; he knew that he cleaned up well but it was nice to see that he hadn’t lost it even if he was out of practice.

He slipped his silver rings onto his fingers before throwing one last look at himself and then venturing downstairs. He found Harry and Teddy in the living room, and he had a horrible feeling that he blushed faintly as Harry let out a wolf whistle at the sight of him.

“You clean up good, Padfoot. Hoping to score?” he smirked, and he looked so much like James just then that Sirius very nearly flipped him off before he remembered that it was, in fact, not James but his seventeen-year-old godson and he was sitting next to an eight-year-old.

Continue on AO3.

[jerzwriter]

For the 'OC ask meme! 😊

🔵🟣 and ⚽️

Hey there! Thank you for the asks! I think I'll answer for my two T/C's - Tobias & Casey (OH) and Trystan & Carolina (COP). :)

From this list.

🔵 Blue- How would your OC spend a single day of interrupted peace? Where would they go, or who would they be with?

Tobias & Casey - they'd totally spend the day together - no questions asked. They're very fond of spa days, so they may head off to that together. However, they're even more fond of... uhm, each other 😏. So there is a very good chance they won't ever leave the four walls of their bedroom, except to pick up the takeout they order in for sustenance... and they'd be quite happy. lol

Trystan & Carolina - As detectives with a penchant for attracting danger, downtime is greatly appreciated, and the more "down," the better. So they'd be staying in, wearing their most comfy sweats, with a long list of movies they've been meaning to watch, their favorite snacks, lots of making out, and napping. They'll fall asleep happy! 😊

🟣 Purple- What is something that your OC could not live without? What keeps them grounded in the worst of times?

Tobias & Casey - Each other. Period. Later, their three daughters. As long as they have that, they'll be fine. During the worst times, they rely on each other and those closest to them. Most are surprised to know that Tobias also has a very strong faith. It doesn't fit his character, esp. pre-Casey, but that makes people unique - they're never exactly what we expect. Casey doesn't have as much faith in a greater power, at least not at first, but she has incredible faith in the human spirit, which helps her through.

Trystan & Carolina - For Carolina, it's Trystan and her family. For Trystan, it's Caronlina and Marguerite. Could they survive without them? Yes, they are very strong. They could survive, but live would be a strong word. Before Trystan, Carolina's desire to live up to what her father believed she could be was a significant motivating factor. For Trystan, proving that he was not what his family thought him to be provided the same motivation.

⚽️ Soccer Ball- Who is someone that your OC believes in and roots for? Are they private about their admiration, or do they make it well known?

Casey - It may sound trite, but Casey roots for everyone. She's not one to get jealous of others' success; she wants everyone to succeed and doesn't feel another's good fortune diminishes hers (or anyone else's) in any way. I have added @mydemonsdrivealimo's MC, Jensen Valentine, into my Tobias/Casey world. He and his partner, Bryce, are two of her closest friends. She roots for both of them, but she especially roots for Jensen. She knows he got a lot of bad breaks in life, and she wants him to have all things good. She doesn't keep it a secret but isn't extremely obvious about it either because she knows that would make him uncomfortable.

Tobias - Casey. He's her biggest cheerleader. He was pivotal in getting her back to being herself after the chemical attack (at that point, they were just friends), and he continues to be her biggest supporter for life. He is not even A LITTLE BIT private about it. The man cannot hide how he feels about her and her abilities. When she gets a win, even if she proves him wrong, he loves it (and he's usually pretty turned on, lol).

Carolina - Trystan, although that's not instantaneous. At first, she thought he was a spoiled pain in the ass. But the more she comes to know him and sees what he's about, the more she believes in him and wants to see him thrive. While she's generally not overly effusive, she is not quiet about it either.

Trystan - Carolina. From day 1. Period. As soon as he realized she wasn't in his apartment to kill him, the Carolina Rose Appreciation Society was formed. He had never met anyone quite like her and was in awe. The man tagged along like a puppy because, sure, he was smitten, but he was also in awe. He wanted to be as cool as she was when he grew up. He couldn't keep it quiet if he tried. 😊

Thanks so much for asking!

[diorgirl444]

Hi there, Flo! It is Sarah here again! But this time, can I have a Gilmore Girls ship please?

Physical Appearance: I have long brown hair with blonde highlights, ocean blue eyes with bluish-purple glasses, I have a curvy but lean body with strong calves thanks to the years of dancing (cheerleading and ballet), horse-riding, running and jumping, I am 5'1 feet tall, I have pale-tan skin with freckles on my face and also I got random moles and freckles on my arms and legs as well and people say I got a smile that can brighten up any room.

Personality: I am an open-minded, kind-hearted, optimistic and friendly girl with a love of learning things like zodiac signs, MBTI types, crystals and Disney etc. I can be very impatient, stubborn, naive and I am also in the spectrum so I can be blunt and quirky only because I see the world in a different way from other people but I see the good in people no matter what and I am loyal and dependable to my friends and family and when someone hurts my friends and my family I can be fiercely protective all over them.

My type for a perfect person: I just want to be my best friend and partner in crime, I want a gentleman or gentlelady who will be proudly hold my hand and being glad that I am their girlfriend, I want someone to bring me flowers and compliments everyday and being the mother/father of my future kids someday and treat me like a queen all the time.

Sexuality and Pronouns: Bisexual (Both male and female preference) and She/Her

MBTI Type: INFJ-T

Big Three: Sagittarius sun, Cancer moon and Aquarius rising

Moral Alignment: Lawful Good

Enneagram Type: Type 2 (The Helper)

Temperament Personality Type: Sanguine-Choleric (The Influencer)

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

Likes: Singing, dancing, acting, writing, reading books, typing, watching Disney movies, Zodiac signs, MBTI types and crystals.

Dislikes: Mean people, vegetables, yelling, someone who hurts the ones I love the most and bullies.

Random Facts: I've been in the school musical productions for 5 years and my childhood nickname was Sarah-Bear.

your perfect matchup is 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 💌

��� 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 <𝟑

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐢 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝟐 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 <𝟑

before we get too far i want to clarify that i mean season 1 dean. 

any other season he is an awful person but in season 1 he’s perfect <3

so i think you two would probably meet at miss patty’s after rory sent dean to talk to miss patty in order to find a job. 

and when there he sees your practicing your dance and his eyes just sort of widen.

sure earlier that day he was interested rory but the minute he sees you all images of her leave his head. 

all of sudden you’re all he can think about.

dean isn’t shy so he immediately goes up to you asking who you are, flirting a little bit and just generally making his intentions clear. 

lucky for him you’re just as interested as he is.

he ends up leaving miss patty’s with both a job and a date <3

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 <𝟑

i see you two as sort of the dream couple, like the kind that you see on the street and you sort of go “she’s so pretty and omg he’s so cute too” 

like you two are always walking around stars hollow holding hands not realising that everyone is so jealous of you two. 

i feel like the pair of you are always going out on long drives together and you’re both like singing along to the songs that are playing.

i also feel like dean adores all the outfits you wear for all your hobbies, he just thinks you look absolutely stunning.

and he’s always giving you his jackets he just loves how they look on you.

dean’s love language is definitely gift-giving like he’s always getting you new items.

plus your mbti types are like perfect together!!!

he has a bit of a white knight syndrome like he’ll always get into fights for you but that’s ok because he knows you’d do the same for him.

he said i love you first and he cried when he said it <3 he was so pleased to know that you felt the same.

dean is such a traditionalist when it comes to dating. he’s like a cute old man!!! like he’ll always open the door for you, bring you flowers and ask before kissing you. in fact i bet you had initiate the first kiss because he was too nervous!!!

essentially you and dean are stars hollow’s cutest couple and i’m very jealous <333

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 <𝟑

hugs and kisses, flo <333

[emmythespacecowgirl]

Hi, it's me again! Can I just say thank you!!? It was really sweet and made my day :) I was also wondering if I could request a pacific ship too? Thanks and have a good day <3

hey there!! thanks for stopping by again! i'd be more than happy to ship you with someone from The Pacific :)

I ship you with:

Ack Ack Haldane from The Pacific!

ship theme song: Time After Time - Cyndi Lauper

ugh this sweet sweeeet guy <3

depend on Ack Ack to want to tell everyone on Earth how amazingly talented you are!

he's so kind to everyone, even if they're sort of doing a slack job

but then you came along and he was like "oh thank GOD!!someone who has their shit together!!"

you're a natural at pretty much anything you set your mind to

and that just makes him fall in love with you even more

sooo i guess that means Andy has a competence kink??

idk if that's a thing

but ig it is now :)

Andy wishes he were better at learning languages

but he loves when you seamlessly shift from English to Ukrainian

or English to German

i wouldn't expect him to ask you to dirty talk him in German/Ukrainian

that's more of a Snafu/Runner thing

but he will ask you to say sweepingly romantic sayings

if Andy's had a particularly gnarly day at work

your cello playing is a salve to his fried nerves

if/when you decide to get your PhD, be prepared for Andy to support you every step of the way

he'll pack you lunches

he's a natural cheerleader

so anytime you need some reassurance or a pep talk

he knows exactly what to say

"You're going to be the most compassionate and competent doctor <3"

Andy's also a pretty athletic guy

so I'd wager that he's been skiing at least once in his life

he would love for you to teach him more about the sport

pretty sure that Ack Ack is an ENFJ?

Abigail and John Adams were at INTJ + ENFJ couple

so another smart af couple!!

oooooof the love letters y'all write each other during the war

:')

Ack Ack knows how to get you out of your head and focused on the present

whether it's through cuddling or challenging you to a game of catch in the backyard

Andy is very respectful of you

he thinks it's so cool that you've decided to convert to Judaism!

he has a ton of questions about the whole process

besides your natural competence, your clothing style really stood out to Andy

he loves it :)

he gives you so many of his old uniforms to wear

you can count on Andy to make the first introductions :)

he's such a gentleman

he can be a bit square and squeaky clean at first

so it takes him some time to learn when you're being sarcastic and when you're being serious

but he learns to love your funky sense of humor

he learns what makes you tick

because he ultimately just wants to make you happy :)

he'll notice how accident-prone you are

and immediately starts accident-proofing the house

bc nobody that Andy loves is going to get injured on his watch!

[thirstworldproblemss]

It's Up!!

(Cut for author's note, thank yous, and generally unhinged rambling)

End Notes: This story have been a labor of love, heavy emphasis on labor, but equally so on the love.

I never thought I would be involved in writing something so long, drawn out, or time consuming! I don't have the willpower, follow-though, or—let's face it—even just the free time to create something like this on my own, but working with 'boots made it possible. She and I put in long, long (really freakin' long!) hours on this, talking over plot points and Marc's dick ad infinitum, obsessing over word choice and dialog and how to keep things both interesting and in character.

We worked hard, and I'm damn proud of what we created! And I'm prouder still of Cici.

She was the instigator of the original "oneshot," the one who did the bulk of the first draft writing, and the driving force that kept us moving forward when I would have stalled out alone. Cici is the reason that this story exists, and I owe her more thanks than words can convey (but you know me, I gotta try anyway).

@astroboots: Thank you, my love, for inviting me to write this with you, and always making space for me to contribute, even when it meant things stretched on longer than you might like. Thank you for taking my continual monkeywrenches in stride, and for telling me when they got to be too much. Thank you for letting me come on this journey with you (yes, even the parts where you had to drag me along, kicking and screaming part of the way XD). Even when we were down in the nitty gritty of it, arguing plot points and characterization, when we were staying up all night trying frantically to meet our own deadlines, or when we were discouraged because certain things seemed impossible to resolve, I was always glad to be doing it because I got to do it with you. I love you to the ends of the universe and back again.

Some other acknowledgements:

Thank you to @guruan who created several gorgeous pieces of art for this series: The First date, The Fish, The phone call (spoilers for ch 10), Ten extra minutes (🔞spoilerish for ch 11)

Thank you to all our beta readers and cheerleaders: @frannyzooey @the-ginger-hedge-witch @jazzelsaur @radiowallet @songsformonkeys and (please excuse my swiss cheese brain because I'm sure I'm forgetting several someones here) everyone else who looked over part or all of this story and offered enthusiastic encouragement and/or gentle correction. Red Flags would not be as good as it is without your eagle-eyed assistance!

A particular thanks to our long-suffering husbands who both read all 100+k words of this monster—some bits multiple times—with only minimal complaining.

And finally... Thank you also to everyone who has read, liked and commented and reblogged! There has been so much love and support for this story—more than we could every have dreamed of when we were starting out! After every chapter, I am humbled and amazed by the reader response. (Thank goodness 'boots is willing to host and handle replies because real life is riding me hard enough that I am barely squeaking into fandom spaces long enough to queue up Mando Monday stuff atm, but I promise that I do read each and every comment, reply, and tag, and I love and appreciate you all more than you know.) Thank you for going on this adventure with us, and for loving these characters as much as we do. &lt;3

And don't worry, the story doesn't end here! You should expect to see more oneshots and other bits and pieces set in this universe in the future.

RED FLAGS ║ PART 13 FINAL

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] - [NEXT]

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 dragging 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’re 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 tongue grazes your knuckles, kissing the insides of your wrists. 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. Agonisingly 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 onto your swollen 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 oversensitive 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. You’re gonna make me– 

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, baby,” 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 what’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. There’s no stone left unturned. 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. 

But you know it’s not that simple. There’s a deeply embedded seed in Marc, buried and left to sprout for decades, long before you came along, that will always make 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 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, sealing his mouth over yours like he’s signing on the dotted line, giving himself over to you.  

Then he 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 is 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’re wrenching 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 pull 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 gently 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. 

You know 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 only 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 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. 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 hardening 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 thick 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 maddening slow 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. 

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. 

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. 

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 endearingly pleased with himself. 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, baby, that’s it. 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, as an insistent heat 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—

“Shit, 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 shoulder 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 drags thickly inside 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 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, bleary-eyed and drunk on bliss. YOu can onyl 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 make 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 to welcome him deeper, to take all of him as much as you can. 

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, and he looks like he can barely hold himself up anymore.  

“You have me,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to his, kissing the arch of his jaw, mouthing 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.” 

Those determined eyes pitched with dark concentration blanks into a stupefied daze at your words.  

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 inside you 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, trying to raise himself on one elbow. 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 appeared 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. 

“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 make out that they’re words.

“Why’d you stop?” 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 creeping into his 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. 

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.

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.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

[skyfall8600]

hi!! i’m absolutely in love with your writing! i was looking through your prompt list and was wondering if you could do 13 and/or 19? 💗💗

Hi! So sorry for the delay, things have been kinda hectic with Uni but I hope you like this! Also, thank you so much for being the first person ever to actually request something from the prompt list.

Main Masterlist

Eddie Munson Masterlist <3

Forever Isn't Long Enough

Warnings: fluff, unrequited love, friends to lovers romance, swearing

Pair: Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

[ 1.5k words]

Prompts:

19. “It’s not like I never tried to tell you”

13. “I would have waited forever.”

Unrequited love was total bullshit and you knew it. It was a way for the universe to play the ultimate joke on you; forcing you to be in a one-sided best-friends-to-lovers fairytale nightmare. You blamed yourself really; thinking of Eddie’s flirtatious and kind nature as anything more than just how he interacted with everyone. 

It killed you inside the first time you saw him treat others with the affectionate body language, or using the cute nicknames you thought you were so special for being referred to by him. But, he used them on every other girl or cute person he talked to. And fuck did it hurt. 

You tried to ignore it, knowing that your feelings were silly and not returned. You wanted to settle for just being his friend, you really tried. You thought that perhaps, if you expressed how you felt subtly around him, then you would be able to gage if he did see you differently to anyone else. 

You tested out the waters with very small acts of physical affection. Hugging him differently to how you used to, sitting closer to him at lunch so that your thighs were practically on top of each other. You graced your hand along his tattooed arm, linger a finger to trace them. 

All to which had no effect on him. 

You slumped your shoulders down, unable to participate in the game since your D&D character died the week before. So you sat there, watching everyone else. You didn’t try to hide the sadness in your face; knowing that the excuse of being dead was a good enough cover up for the true reason why you felt this way. 

But Eddie noticed. He always noticed when you were sad; so he made a mental note to check up on you after the game ended and once everyone else went home. He promised to give you a ride back home tonight, since your car was currently in the shop. 

“You ready to go Sweets?” He asked you with a smile, hoping that the term of endearment would cheer you up. He hated seeing you look so sad. 

You rolled your eyes, “Yeah sure, let’s go.” 

You were blunt, which wounded him. “You okay princess? Not used to you being so…” he trailed off, afraid that using the wrong could make things worse, “...gloomy.” 

You snorted, still keeping your eyes away from his. You didn’t bother answering, instead following him to the van in silence. 

The silent treatment was not what he was expecting tonight. He planned everything out in his head; finally trying to act on his emotions and tell you how he felt. It ate him up inside, noticing how much closer you seemed to get with him, and he adored every second of it. But he was beyond terrified that he read the signals wrong, that you were just returning his level of physical contact. 

“Come on, seriously love. You can tell me if there’s something wrong, has the cheerleaders been making fun of you again? Cause I can cut them off from my supplies for a few weeks to make them suffer–”

“Just leave it, Eddie.” You practically spat out. 

You never spoke to him like that before. It made him hesitate turning on the engine to the van, instead shifting so he faced you in the passenger seat. 

He saw that you were fighting back tears, and it finally made him crack. “Tell me what’s wrong, now.” 

His voice was stern, it made a shiver run down your spine. “I’ll get over it, please just drop it.” 

“No, if its bothering you this badly, I want to know. Come on, Angel–”

“Stop with the goddamn nicknames already!” You interrupted him, “Angel, love, princess, sweets, sweetheart– I’m fucking sick of it!” 

His eyes widened, pain fueling him like an imaginary dagger had just been plunged into his heart. 

“But– but I’ve always called you those.” He said, his voice breaking slightly. 

“Yeah, and along with half the female population….. Just please drive me home Eddie.” The tears were no longer containing in your eyes, finally springing free. 

Your words lingered in his mind. “You– I call other people that? Really?” 

He didn’t know how he failed to realise that his little names for you had been repeated to others. Before he met you, he never referred to anyone as anything other than their names. But you… you made him feel beyond happy and he couldn’t imagine calling you by the same thing as everyone else did, he loved your name but those nicknames for you were purely his to say. He got so used to saying them to you, that they seemed to roll of his tongue whenever he spoke to anyone now. 

“God that makes it worse than you didn’t even notice.” You cried, wiping away at your wet cheeks. “Start the fucking car Eddie.” 

“No.”

“Eddie–”

“No, listen to me.” He said, moving so that he held your shoulders in his hands. “I never meant to call anyone else that, they were only meant for you… I’m beyond mortified, please–”

“Like it matters. You’re always like this with others, I was stupid to think it meant anything or that you felt the same way.” The words slipped out, and you didn’t care. You didn’t care if it ruined things between the two of you, or if it meant you’d have to live the rest of your life with the rejection that was about to come. 

He studied your face, “Meant anything? Sweetheart, you mean everything to me.” 

You shook your head, trying to remove yourself from his grasp but he only changed his position so he was instead cupping your face. 

“Look at me, please honey.” He tried to guide your eyes to meet his big brown ones, “This is not how I planned to confess this…. Fuck I– wait… did you ask if I felt the same?” 

His head was floating like he was on cloud nine, he had been so worked up that the little confession you made seemed to pass right through his head. 

You whined, embarrassed. “Eddie just forget it and drive me home.” 

“Sweetheart, are you saying that you like me? As in like like me?” He couldn’t believe it was all playing out this way. 

“It’s not like I never tried to tell you.” You said, your voice barely higher than a soft whisper. “I tried telling you, showing you…. But you still treated me like everyone else, I get it, Eddie, that’s just how you are and I shouldn’t have assumed it meant anything.” 

He laughed and your heart shattered into a million pieces. You just confessed you liked him; didn’t even get the chance to admit that you were actually madly in love with him, and he fucking laughed right in your face. 

You forcibly removed yourself from his hold, trying to get out the van as quick as possible. 

His mind caught up with his nervous laughter, “Wait shit– no hold on!” 

You slammed the door shut, willing to walk all the way home in the total darkness of night. 

“I laughed because I’m in love with you and THIS is not how I planned to tell you!” He screamed, scrambling to his feet to run after you. You stopped dead in your tracks. 

“You what?” 

“I planned on telling you next week… made a reservation and everything.” He said breathlessly, “You mean everything to me, and I think I’ve loved you ever since we really became friends, and I started to get so nervous when you got physically closer to me… it was like my entire brain just short-circuited— fuck it took all the strength I had to not kiss you in front of everyone, because you deserve better than that.” 

“You love me?” You asked, your voice shaky. 

He nodded, “I’m so sorry for making you feel like you were just like everyone else to me, I’m more sorry that it took me so long to get the nerve to actually tell you.” 

“You love me…” You sounded like a broken record, frozen in a state of shock. 

His smile returned to his face as he continued to nod his head, placing you back into his arms. “I love you, I am so madly in love with you….” 

You finally cracked a smile in disbelief, “I love you too, god… I was so scared you didn’t feel the same.” 

He shook his head placing a gentle kiss on the top of your head, “I’ve loved you for so fucking long I can’t imagine life without you, but I didn’t know if you felt the same… I just knew I would have waited forever for you.” 

The tears that escaped your eyes held a different meaning to the ones before. You looked up at him, matched with an equal amount of fear, relief and love in his eyes. 

He swiped his thumbs over your cheeks, constantly repeating the words you were so desperate for him to say to you. 

You seized the opportunity to jump up, connecting your lips with his. Not caring about how salty your tears tasted on your lips, you melted into his embrace. You finally felt as ease when he returned the kiss with gentle slow movements. 

It felt like home.

_____________________________________________________________

Eddie Munson Taglist:

@fentyreligion @littlelunarfox @coconutchumby @eempxth @superflannel @fluffycookies22 @yearwalker96 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @grungegrrrl @m1rkw00dpr1ncess @dixontardis @buckyslwts @bratckerman @dani-d0rk @musicmoviestv @tomshelbystits @reddisteddie @ungracefularchimedes @santaatemypuppy @cherryrevenger @chipster-21

[nora-xox]

Hello :) i've see that you are curently asking for headcanon and i was looking for someone who write for tr sooooo can i ask a headcanon with mikey (the normal Mikey), chifuyu, ran, hanma and wakaza with a chearleader s/o, i have ask this before but i want you're wrtiting in this ^^ so the s/o dance and sing like a girl kpop idol you know ? ^^ with her group of chearleader ? I'm sorry if it's don't make sense :'€

Ahhh I've seen this promt before I love it! Also it makes sense don't worry!

I will try my best! Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy!

I will do Ran and Wakasa in a part 2 i may even add Rin too.

(Been a while since i wrote something so... Fluffy lol)

Proof read ~ No

Mikey

· So first off Mikey loves watching you weather it's practice or a actual show.

· He drags Draken to where you and the group would be practicing just so he can watch.

· If you go to a different school then him and that's where practice is. He will still come and watch ( it's not like he has any reservation about breaking into a different school as we've seen lol)

· Mikey brags about you to the captains all the time. (Poor Draken being dragged along and then still has to listen to his bragging lmao)

· He tries to make it to all your shows if he doesn't have Toman business to handle.

· If Mikey does miss a performance he will whine and pout untill you do his own personal show of the performance he missed.

· He keeps you out of Toman business so no personal fighting cheerleader but he still sees you as that even if you aren't there in person.

· Your teammates have learned that him showing up is going to be a common occurrence and they don't mind much.

· He will bring you snacks or drinks to give you durning your breaks so you and him can share and it's like a mini date.

· Draken has to drag Mikey away when the breaks over because Mikey will try to pull the 5 more minutes and if Draken isn't there then it's a whole ordeal but Mikey will give in after you promise to go get snacks with him after.

· Now he does keep you out of Toman but he has brought you to a meeting here and there because he wanted more time with you. And to show off how badass he is.

· The other members have asked how and why Mikey which got them glares and you got dragged away.

· Emma has gone with Mikey to some shows and knows you well she loves to see Mikey so happy about someone elses passion.

Chifuyu

(I couldn't find any gifs for him 😭)

· Chifuyu precious gets so flustered when you show him the outfits for the next show or performance. But he loves that he gets to see them.

· Chifuyu doesn't come to watch your practices often but he will pick you up once you're finished. He always gives you a ride home.

· Practice takes a lot of your time but he loves that you have something you're passionate about. So the time he takes you home he enjoys every minute of it.

· Chifuyu will listen to every bit of your day. From the drama between your teammates to how hard the new dance move you learned that day was.

· HE WILL NOT MISS A SINGLE SHOW. This boy will be there no matter what. Toman has a fight well damn better hurry up and finish this he has places to be.

· The other members can tell when you've got a show because Chifuyuu will be in a hurry to get whatever is stopping him from being there out of his damn way.

· The Toman founders have showed up to your show after a fight just to see what all of Chifuyuu fus was about.

· He will bring flowers and or something but honestly you're just glad he made it there.

· If you asked him to help you practice even if he was tired he would with out question but he did warn you he has two left feet when it comes to dancing.

· Your teammates love when he shows up he has won over your teacher and if he shows up earlier then the end of practice you best believe your practice had turned into your friends poking and teasing you about how lucky you are to have him

· No one bats an eye at him being back stage right after the end of the show. Everyone will help him find you if he had yet to.

Hanma

· This man oooo he wants you to give him private shows of whatever you learn (take that how you will)

· Loves seeing you in your costumes. Makes jokes about how they should be for his eyes only (well half jokes)

· Boy will watch you any chance he gets. He pisses Kisaki off because he will ditch him to go see you practice if it's been a while.

· Got a show coming up but he wants to spend time with you. Welp guess your dates have turned into you practicing (at home) and him sitting and watching.

· You are his personal cheerleader. If he's got a fight you are there cheering this sadist on while he crushes his enemies. He has no concern about your safety because he is confident that no one will get past him or be dumb enough to risk going after you and failing.

· After a fight he will tease that you didn't cheer loud enough and that he knows you can be louder then that. But then he'll pull you in to a kiss and call it his reward for winning from his favorite cheerleader.

· Hanma will make it to your shows. He isn't gonna miss what you've put so much effort into if he can help it.

· Your teammates find him intimidating and wonder how you are with him. They cower when he shows up backstage after a performance and you have to take him somewhere else. Hanma finds that amusing.

· Hanma has had Kisaki come with him to your shows.

[thiswholewideworld]

ok just posting some random things about the concert last night

- I was on Ray’s side so I saw him come out first and I literally screamed. so sorry to everyone around me

- Gerard in the cheerleading outfit!! they really seemed so happy and comfortable in it just jumping and twirling around, it definitely felt more like personal expression than a performative gesture

- towards the end of the show G said “the only thing I’m sad about is that I probably won’t be able to wear this again” to which everyone awwed, but like. no. you are WELCOME to wear it again my best friend

- also loved everyone else wearing Mikey shirts since he lives in nashville!! side note: Frank’s cardigan…….

- I was worried they wouldn’t play our lady of sorrows since they played it at the last two shows and it’s one of my all time favs but THEY DID I’m actually so happy

- during give ‘em hell kid right before “you’re beautiful” G pointed at us and was like “no YOU are. it’s YOU” <3

- they were all just so smiley! like smiling at each other and at the crowd and I know everyone’s been saying that they’re just so happy to be back but like- it was just awesome to see

- I loved Mikey’s posing like you go king!! lol

- boy division, sorrows, give em hell, and HOUSE OF WOLVES back to back HOW did any of us survive

- Gerard has officially proclaimed im not okay the “greatest summer jam” so everyone else can go home now sorry

- hearing “trust me” live… my life is actually over now thanks

- being able to see Mr Ray Toro working his magic up close was life changing. I’ve never seen anyone look as happy as him playing guitar

- sadly Frank shelved the moaning during DESTROYA probably since Mikey’s fam was there but boy G sure didn’t !

- also I wasn’t super close since I got into the pit late but it was enough that I could fully see all of their faces. the thought that any of them could have seen my face is kinda messing me up ngl

- there was never a moment where I was like “oh fuck they’re looking at me” except for one time when Gerard stared in my direction for a long time and it was… very intense. I was recording at that moment (you can’t see their face very well) but I was like- do I have the flash on or something is that why he’s staring this way?? you can see me nervously turning the camera to check in the video lol

- Ray’s vocals during na na na are literally everything to me <3

- being at the first show that they played the finished version of the world is ugly is something that is actually soooo special to me

- also this is the best day ever- bullets songs just hit different man idk what to tell you

- I’ll be honest I don’t listen to wttbp a lot just because it’s such a thing, but hearing it in person surrounded by everyone singing along is just so epic. it could never be overhyped

- mama with G in the dress is obviously incredible and I’ve seen a ton of videos of them during the “should’ve raised a baby girl” part but I remember looking at Ray right before that part as well and he just looked so happy and excited knowing how loud everyone was about to sing along. they all did really. they absolutely know how much that part means to their fans

- when the intro to sleep was playing Ray smiled and raised up his wine glass lmaooo

- love that they played Helena early so they didn’t forget this time lol

- GERARD SINGING THE CIRCUS SONG WHEN THEY CAME BACK ONSTAGE FOR THE ENCORE. bestie are you calling US clowns?? ok

- Gerard’s little ramble before kids of yesterday, saying he recognized people’s faces… <3

- Ray’s solo during kids was gorgeous to behold- perfect way to end

- I’d only ever been in the pit at two other concerts and this one was by far the least crazy crowd. even though everyone was obviously excited and super energetic everyone was very respectful and considerate (also the band and crew were great with safety and giving everyone water)

Anyways this was the best night of my life and though I hope to see them again, if I don’t I’ll still be happy to have been here