#cairo flats

[wesstars]

crush

cairo sweet x fem!reader (no pronouns used)

summary: when cairo goes home, what comes to mind are thoughts of you. wc: 2.3k tags: explicit, minors DNI!! all characters 18+. university au. masturbation, smoking, non-linear narrative. reader is cairo’s teaching assistant, reader described as masc presenting. a/n: let me know what y’all think :) for the vibes

masterlist

“Is Professor Miller not coming?” Winnie had just dropped into her unassigned assigned seat next to Cairo, two minutes before Greco-Roman Literary Theory started. The flipping of pages punctuated the chatter of other students waiting, a comfortable sound.

“He said he’d be gone today,” Cairo replied absently. “There’s a ‘guest lecturer,’ our teaching assistant.”

“Oh, right. Who’s that?”

Cairo shrugged. “Who knows.” 

As if on cue, the door swung open. Cairo didn’t even look up—Miller mentioned that he kept a handful of research assistants that would be there to help with the advanced reading. But honestly, Cairo wasn’t sure what they could tell her that she didn’t already know. A melodic hum fell through the air for just a moment, a chorus. 

“Good morning.” At your lilting voice, rough with the edge of 10am, Cairo started. She watched you set your messenger bag on the desk. Your white shirt pulled over your shoulders; there was a glint at your collar, a necklace peeking through. A thin watch adorned your wrist. Winnie, along with some of the class, echoed your greeting, and Cairo blinked.

Late spring afternoon draped across the furniture in Cairo’s room, the quickly waning light giving easy way to a blue hour. Dropping her bag at the door, she tore off her shirt and skirt with the confidence of one standing before a crowd. Running a hand up from her sternum to her neck, she stretched languidly, sinking down onto her bed. After so many uneventful days—when she applied to Yale, she didn’t think that there would be any uneventful days—she finally had a story to turn over in her mind. 

You. You were a mystery. Even as you had started the class with an introduction, telling Cairo you’d graduated from a middle-of-nowhere college in California and sought a writing career in Vermont before delving into research, she longed to lay out the details and pull them out from under the rug. Where did you learn to teach? Did you like to drive, or be driven? Mountains, or the sea? Where did you grow up? Was there coffee or tea in your cupboard? Cairo’s stomach burned to know. Her dark eyes burned the ceiling with smoke signals, searching for you even though you were god knows where in that seaside state.

Arching her back, Cairo let her hand travel down, palm flat against her stomach, to trace the seam of her upper thigh. As the class had progressed, your keenly observant nature did not elude Cairo. Maybe listening was something that your pedagogy instilled in you, but the way you held each student’s question in the cant of your head, an answer in your crinkling eyes, listening seemed to be in your nature. It was meticulous, the way you picked apart the class text, weaving in references and tying it all in. In that two hour lecture, Cairo learned that you watched the same way you listened. 

Balmy as it was, the humidity made her dark waves cling to her skin, and she shivered as she brushed them back, thinking of a different pair of slim hands. Your scrutiny of each student had an intention that she couldn’t quite place; a determination that thrilled her. Cairo imagined that you’d observe her the same way, that she would be the one you were most fond of. It was only natural that her own attention would draw yours onto her. Holding the weight of your envisioned gaze made Cairo’s core twist, a pleased little flush that she prayed you could see. Your affected impartiality didn’t bother Cairo—in fact, it pulled her into your shadow. In her bed, she rolled onto her stomach then her knees, shaking her hair out. 

Her hands were steady as she reached for her bedside table, thumb rolling on the wheel of her zippo as she held the cigarette to her lips. Cairo took a drag, blowing out neat smoke rings as she settled back on her heels. The skin of her own fingers was cool against her lips, and when she took the smoke away, she studied the pattern of her lipstick on the white paper as she had so many times before.

She’d watched, unabashedly and unafraid of being caught, as you drummed your fingers on the chalk tray. Would your fingertip be soft or work hardened if it pressed down her tongue? Would your skin carry the stain of her red lip as deeply, as obediently, as the malleable wrapping paper?

“Alright, class,” you cleared your throat, turning slowly around the room to make eye contact with each student. “As you know, Jonathan’s away on a conference today. I’ll start with a bit of roll, just so I can learn your names. Not many of you come to my office hours, I know.” You smiled easily. It was so guileless, Cairo mused, nearly childlike. You had the class go around the rooms with names and majors, a circuit that Cairo gave no attention to other than your lilting rhythm of hums, the tapping of your foot on the floor, the way you flicked the corner of the role sheet with your thumb. Your gaze was soon on hers, waiting expectantly. She looked right back with a blink.

“Cairo Sweet. English major.”

“Cairo.” Her name rolled off your innocent little grin, making her cock her head. “Wonderful.” Fascinating. Would you whisper midnight black desires in her ear, so deep and dark they might be murmured into the ink of your own empty room?

You continued, circling back to the front and easily transitioning to the lesson plan. You had an awfully effortless way of grasping the class’ attention, holding gently and never forcing. It wasn’t like Professor Miller, who always seemed to hasten through the lecture so he could return to his research. She could tell you liked the woods of the text, to fall down into the depths of each word, feeling its weight in you and letting it rock. Just like Cairo. 

She sighed into the warm air prickling up her skin, the curl of your voice around her name making her nipples harden in her bralette, even in retrospect. Exhaling around her cigarette, Cairo brought her hands up to palm her breasts, feeling the drag of her rubied nubs on her palms. Was it the high of the nicotine, the blur of smoke ridden air that made her float straight up into the lofty space you’d created in her mind? Though the feel of her own fingers scraping the lace against her skin was familiar, she found herself keen to think of your soft or callused hands. She was wet already, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten wet so fast.

The weight she imagined of your touch on her flushed skin was completely, deliciously foreign. Unbidden but intimately welcome, Cairo wished that your caress would find the map of her chest as familiar as a classic, something you had searched a million times over yet always managed to find something new. Shamelessly, Cairo trailed her fingers down her stomach, nails catching on every rib as she arched her back in the spilled moonlight. The mystery in the crossing of your long legs as you’d leaned back on the desk climbed up her belly, curling in the thump, thump, thump, of her heart. The uneven roll of your sleeves clung to the corners of her eyes, eidetic and oh, so, tempting. She had watched you so ardently—did you like to watch? Would you watch? 

The space between her thighs was achingly empty, craving the set of your narrow hips. She was comfortable there, and she remembered the taut stretch of wool as you dropped into your chair and set one ankle over your knee. There was something endearing about the way your trousers had pulled up to reveal slouchy black socks, and darker her mind went as the material pulling creases around your lap made her shudder and—she reached behind to pull one of her fluffy pillows under her, smoke billowing into the air. 

Cairo gave her hips an experimental roll, imagining it was the soft fabric of your slacks against her aching cunt, and grinned around her cigarette. Unlike the pillow, you would be ever so solid under her, grabbing for her thighs like a dog yearns to please. Were you more likely to bruise her skin, yanking her into you without care for blood—or would you guide her gently, make a home in her innocence and hold her more dearly than life ever could? Either way, your desire for Cairo would be so apparent that you couldn’t help yourself.

The dip of your tongue in her navel, the little smirk you’d undoubtedly wear as you went down further—would you go for her throbbing clit first, or would your lips press so warm—she didn’t know. She didn’t have to, content with all those different versions of you unfurling before her. In her bedroom, each time she moved her hips, it became easier to imagine you guiding her actions, the bump of your nose on her folds, damned if not addicting.

Cairo grinned as she fell onto her forearms, hips pushing into the soft pillow without abandon. The slide of her panties soaked with slick against her sensitive clit felt like the delicate press of your splayed hand on her desk as you’d passed, eyes occupied by the text you were holding. It had only been a split second, but it was enough for her to memorize every crease, every vein. Cairo let out a whine, a demanding little sound, as her movements grew erratic. Looking up into the heaven where you must be, she imagined that you’d murmur to her, “I’m here, I’m here, how could I be anywhere else but here?” as you traced the dip in her back. Her arousal took her down every sullied path she’d ever dreamed of, but her mind stuck on one gesture that made her mouth go dry. 

She remembered the way your shirt got just a bit untucked when you stretched during the class break. You’d instinctively tucked it back in, quick as you surveyed the class. Cairo thought that you’d dress yourself back up the same way after you bent her over the desk after class, pushing her skirt up and shoving your fingers into her, painting bruises onto her hip bones with how tight you held her.

The two of you would share a mutual understanding that she wanted this, wanted it bad enough for you to take it whenever you saw fit. Cairo decided that today, this time, you’d be as rough as you pleased, a cup of pens clattering to the ground as you pushed her down, forearm across her shoulder blades. Your necklace would be cold on her warm skin, would it be cold on her tongue? You’d put two, three fingers inside, humming in that absentminded way you did. She thought you’d nuzzle into her ear, all lips and sharp teeth, asking if she’d sprayed your favorite hair mist of hers because she hoped you’d notice—she did—and take her, break her, whatever you wanted. 

You’d send her plummeting down towards a deeper hell (or was it higher, up to your majestic heaven?), already knowing everything that her body needed. Cairo imagined herself coming so helplessly around the stretch of your fingers, so high strung from nights of trying to mimic the press of your touch on her clit, unable to reach the same heights you sent her to. As she held back tears, eyes on the ceiling in reverence, feeling herself drip to the floor, you’d sigh as your mind wandered to other things already, carelessly running a hand down her back. 

Cairo gasped, dropping her nearly finished cigarette in favor of gripping the bed sheets. The white fabric wrinkled around her fingers, reminiscent of your shirt creasing as you’d rolled your sleeves up. This was something new you could show her, just how fast she could come and just how wet it made her. It was a marvel, feeling the fabric cling to her cunt, almost as good as how you’d feel. Resting her forehead in the crook of her elbow, she murmured your name over and over again, a little susurrus of a litany, so similar to your preoccupied hum. Panting, Cairo giggled in her bliss, soft and bright as Californian oranges clinging to rich leaves. You were dark enough to be tucked into the wrinkles in the soft pillow, dark enough for Cairo to love, as a journal loves a secret.

Sated, Cairo grabbed her phone and typed your name in. The results spilled out, and she scrolled, looking for all of the details in the background of your social media posts, curiously drunk on the year’s gap in your CV. Cairo noticed the perfect little circle where the cigarette had burned when she dropped it, and she brushed away the remnants. The gesture smeared the ash on the sheets.

—

Walking into your office with barely a knock, Cairo took in the familiar room of an academic, but with your unfamiliar knick knacks around the place. A lighter, a leather wallet, glasses and wired headphones. You didn’t look surprised as you glanced up from your laptop. Instead, you smiled. 

“Cairo, isn’t it?” 

A flush of pleasure shot straight into her—you remembered. She nodded. Your shelves were covered in books and stacks of reviews, the morning’s leftover cup of coffee sitting on one of the ledges. Did you smoke before, or after your coffee? The terrible, terrible want to replace the taste of smoke on your tongue with the taste of her gave Cairo just the confidence she needed. 

“What can I do for you?”

Cairo leaned over your desk, watching the way your eyes dropped to her burgundy lipstick. “Would you be able to help me on the Aristophanes reading?” She pushed her copy of The Clouds towards you. “I can’t seem to grasp it.” Your eyes met hers. “Of course.”

--

a/n cont'd: can you read my mind, i’ve been watching you… there’s just something about you, baby… ♪ / hope you enjoyed @woewriting :)

please do not repost, reproduce, copy, translate, or take from my work in any way. thank you!

masterlist

[halfmoonaria]

ignorant

pairing: cairo sweet & reader

summary: you are the next victim for the evil of cairo sweet, but this time it’s not planned.

word count: 6k

author’s note: somebody asked for more cairo sweet and i’ll deliver

Cairo Sweet was toxic.

Everybody at school knew it, whispered it, even feared it. It wasn't because she'd ever laid a finger on anyone—Cairo didn't need to.

She had a way of ruining people without touching them, a kind of quiet, deliberate destruction that made her dangerous in ways no one wanted to test.

Her manipulation was an art form, her lies sharp enough to shred reputations into confetti. A few well-placed rumors, a convincing performance, and she could have someone blacklisted.

Jobs, scholarships, futures—they all crumbled under the weight of her fabrications. Being on Cairo's bad side was like being branded: the stain followed you wherever you went.

People had seen it happen before. Just last year, Mr. Miller had been the unfortunate target. A teacher with a spotless reputation, gone in an instant.

A single accusation from Cairo had shattered his career. The truth? It didn't matter. Cairo's version of the story had been louder, more convincing.

Even when whispers of her exaggerations began to circulate, it was too late for him. By then, she'd moved on, leaving destruction in her wake like it was nothing.

You'd heard it all, of course. Everyone had.

The looks she got in the halls said enough—half awe, half terror. But what you could never figure out, no matter how much you watched her, was whether she enjoyed it.

Did she like that people were scared of her? Did it give her some twisted sense of power? Or did she just not care? Maybe, in some corner of her mind, she felt guilty. But if she did, you'd never know it.

And yet, despite everything you knew—despite all the warnings, the stories, the very real possibility that she could ruin you too—you found yourself getting pulled in. If that's even what you'd call it.

It all started one afternoon after English class. You'd been shoving your notebook into your bag when Cairo appeared beside your desk, casual as if it wasn't the first time she'd ever spoken to you directly.

"Hey, you mind if I grab a picture of your notes? I missed a few things."

The request wasn't surprising—everyone in English class talked to each other, especially when it came to assignments or study guides.

You'd even exchanged a word or two with her before, though only ever about coursework. She wasn't unapproachable, not exactly. Just... untouchable. Like someone you didn't dare get too close to for fear of the inevitable fallout.

"Sure," you said, slipping the notebook out again and holding it toward her.

She gave you a brief, unreadable smile, one corner of her mouth tugging upward as she pulled out her phone and started snapping pictures.

"Thanks," she murmured, her tone flat but not unfriendly. She didn't walk away immediately, though. Instead, she lingered, flipping through the pages like she was checking for anything she might've missed.

"You always this neat?" she asked suddenly, her eyes flicking to you.

You blinked, caught off guard by what sounded almost like a compliment. "Uh, I guess."

"You should see mine," she said with a dry laugh, tucking her phone back into her pocket. "It's a miracle I can even read them."

You knew that wasn’t true.

It wasn't much, but it was the first real conversation you'd had with her that wasn't about group projects or exam prep.

Cairo had a way of making even the smallest interactions feel like something bigger, like a spark catching on dry leaves. It was enough to leave you wondering as you walked out of class that day why she'd bothered talking to you at all.

After that, it was little things. A nod of acknowledgment when you passed in the halls.

A quick "Hey" when she slid into the seat beside you before class started. And then, somehow, it became more. She'd catch you after school, asking about homework or offering a ride home if it was raining. You told yourself it was nothing—she was just being nice, or at least her version of it.

But the truth was, you couldn't help noticing the way her attention made you feel.

Like she saw something in you that no one else had. It wasn't long before those fleeting interactions turned into something else entirely: Cairo waiting for you after class with that same unreadable smirk, Cairo texting you late at night asking if you were up, Cairo pulling you into her orbit in a way that felt effortless.

You told yourself you should've known better. You'd heard all the stories, seen the aftermath of what she could do.

But every time you thought about walking away, you'd hear her voice in your head, low and teasing, or see the way she leaned a little closer than she needed to when she talked to you.

And then it went further.

It had started slowly. Cairo had begun finding reasons to linger after English class, asking about your interpretations of certain texts or how you'd structured your notes.

She hadn't needed the input—she was one of the best students in the subject, her essays always marked with the highest grades and her name consistently praised in class discussions.

At first, you had assumed it was just convenience; you were one of the only people who matched her level of effort. But the excuses had become more frequent, her attention more focused, until her presence became a constant thread in your life, woven in so seamlessly that you didn't even notice when it tightened.

The night she showed up at your door had felt inevitable, though you wouldn't have admitted it then.

Cairo had mentioned offhandedly how she preferred studying with someone else for perspective, and at the time, you'd barely registered it. But when she appeared, backpack slung over her shoulder, her expression calm and unbothered, it hadn't been a surprise.

There was no preamble, no hesitation. She had walked into your room with a confidence that felt natural, claiming space without even asking.

At first, it had been nothing out of the ordinary. Books and notes spread across your bed, Cairo sitting cross-legged across from you as the two of you discussed the upcoming exam.

Her questions were sharp, her observations even sharper. She had a way of speaking that made you feel like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear what you had to say anyway. You'd spent hours like that, trading ideas and bouncing thoughts back and forth, her handwriting neat and methodical as she jotted down lines in her notebook.

But at some point, the conversation had drifted. It wasn't abrupt, just a natural shift, like a tide rolling in without warning.

She'd asked about the books you read outside of class, about your favorite authors, your least favorite, and before you knew it, the two of you were sitting closer, your legs brushing as you talked. Her voice had softened, her gaze lingering on you with an intensity that made your heart race.

It had felt harmless at first. Cairo had always had a way of commanding attention, of drawing you in even when you knew better.

But when her hand brushed against yours, the air shifted. It was so subtle you almost convinced yourself it was accidental, but then her fingers lingered, trailing against your skin just enough to leave you breathless.

By the time she leaned in, it didn't feel sudden at all. Her lips had met yours with a deliberateness that left no room for hesitation, her hand sliding to the back of your neck as she deepened the kiss.

You'd known then that there was no going back, that this wasn't just another moment to file away under casual study sessions. Cairo had a way of making everything feel inevitable, like it was all a part of her plan from the beginning.

The hours after that had passed in a haze. The notes and textbooks had been forgotten, your conversations abandoned as Cairo pulled you closer, her body pressed against yours in a way that made you forget everything you'd ever heard about her.

She had been as deliberate as ever, her touch calculated but intoxicating, like she knew exactly how to make you fall apart and was savoring every second of it.

When it was over, the room had felt heavier, the silence punctuated only by the faint hum of your desk lamp. Cairo had stretched out beside you, her head resting on your pillow, her expression unreadable.

She hadn't said much, only reaching for her phone to check the time before pulling her shirt back on with the same calm, unbothered demeanor she always carried.

And just like that, she had left, her notebook tucked under her arm, her goodbye nothing more than a casual "See you tomorrow." As if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't just turned your entire world upside down and walked away without a second thought.

That was when it all started.

The whole rollercoaster.

One day, it was like you were the only person in her world—her texts coming in rapid bursts, her presence at your side like she couldn't bear to be away from you.

The next day, she'd barely say a word, her gaze sliding past you in the halls as if you were just another face in the crowd. Cairo had always been unpredictable, but now, it felt personal.

One moment, she'd pull you into a corner after class, her touch lingering on your wrist as she whispered something that made your chest tighten, and the next, she'd laugh with her friends right in front of you, not even sparing you a glance.

The day after you'd slept together, she had acted like it never happened. She'd sat next to you in English like always, her notebook open and her handwriting as neat as ever, answering the teacher's questions with her usual confidence.

But there had been no acknowledgment of the night before—no sly glance, no shared moment of understanding. Nothing.

You'd tried not to let it bother you. Cairo wasn't the type to wear her emotions on her sleeve, and maybe you'd expected too much.

But then, just when you thought you'd misread everything, she'd catch your eye in the hallway, her lips curling into a smirk that sent your thoughts spiraling. She'd brush against you in passing, her hand grazing your arm, leaving you wondering if it had been intentional or just a coincidence.

The cycle was maddening. Some days, she'd text you late at night, her messages full of inside jokes and clever observations that made you feel like you were the only person who truly understood her.

Other days, your phone would stay silent, and when you saw her at school, she'd talk to you like nothing had changed, her tone casual, her demeanor almost cold.

You'd tell yourself you wouldn't let it get to you, but it always did. Cairo had a way of pulling you in, her charm disarming even when you knew better.

She could make you feel special with a single glance, only to leave you questioning everything with her silence the next day. It was a push and pull, a constant tug-of-war that left you breathless and exhausted all at once.

There were moments when you thought she might care—when she'd show up at your door unannounced, her face softer than usual, asking if you wanted to go for a drive or watch something with her.

Those nights, she'd talk about things she rarely shared, her voice quiet as she told you about her childhood or the pressure she felt to always be in control. She'd lean her head on your shoulder, her fingers brushing against yours, and for a little while, it felt real. It felt like maybe she needed you as much as you needed her.

But then morning would come, and she'd slip back into the version of herself that kept everyone at arm's length. She'd thank you for letting her crash or for the coffee you'd made her, her tone light and detached, and by the time she walked out the door, it was like none of it had ever happened.

The inconsistency was suffocating, yet you couldn't bring yourself to let go. Every time she pulled away, you told yourself it was the last time, that you wouldn't let her back in. But then she'd flash you that crooked smile, or send you a text that made you laugh despite yourself, and all your resolve would crumble.

It wasn't just about the moments she was kind—it was the way she made you feel when she was. Like you were the exception, the one person who could get past the walls she'd built. It was intoxicating, even when it hurt, even when you knew you were only setting yourself up for disappointment.

Cairo never apologized, not really.

When she pulled you close again after days of silence, it wasn't with words but with gestures—a hand on your knee during class, a smirk as she slid into the seat beside you, a text at midnight that said nothing but still made you stay up just in case she sent another.

You told yourself you could handle it. That the highs were worth the lows, that maybe someday, she'd stop running, stop retreating into herself. But deep down, you knew the truth. Cairo was who she was—beautiful, magnetic, and devastatingly out of reach.

And yet, you stayed.

Some nights, the loneliness settled over you like a second skin, cold and suffocating. You'd sit with your phone in your hand, staring at the screen, waiting for her name to light up. It became a ritual—hoping, waiting, trying not to check the time too often because every glance at the clock only reminded you of how long it had been since you'd last heard from her.

It was always the same. Cairo's excuses blurred together over time, a monotonous loop that left you questioning why you still held on. They came hours later, always casual, laced with just enough indifference to remind you where you stood.

Sorry, I was showering.

That one had been her go-to more than once. You could still remember the times you waited, your phone always within reach, even when you shouldn't have been so eager.

Multiple times, you'd been in the shower yourself, the water cascading down your back as you heard the buzz of your phone over the noise. You'd reached out instinctively, nearly dropping it as you wiped your hand on a towel to see her message. The words stared back at you, plain and detached. You replied as always, that it was fine.

It wasn't. But what else was there to say?

Sorry, I had no battery on my phone.

That excuse always came with a hint of carelessness, as if she hadn't even noticed the hours you spent waiting for her reply.

You'd been sitting on the floor that time, your back against the bedframe, knees pulled to your chest. The outlet was too far from your bed, so you stayed there, tethered to the wall like some desperate, foolish thing.

The charger stretched just enough for your phone to stay on, its faint glow illuminating your face. Her message arrived eventually, and you'd stared at it for a long moment, the words twisting something inside you. Still, you'd typed your response. It's fine.

Sorry, I was out with Winnie.

She always mentioned Winnie like she were some unspoken priority, a reminder that you were never really part of her world.

That particular excuse had come while you were in the back seat of a car, squished between your friends as they shouted along to your favorite song.

Their joy felt distant, like a muffled sound through thick glass. You'd glanced at your phone, your heart sinking as you read her words. It didn't matter that you were surrounded by people who cared about you—it only mattered that Cairo didn't. Your reply had been quick, almost automatic. It's fine. But the lump in your throat told a different story.

Sorry, I had class.

That one had come during History once, during a class you'd only chosen because she was in it too. Your phone had vibrated on your desk, and you'd snatched it up quickly, your pulse quickening at the sight of her name.

But the message itself had been underwhelming, just another half-hearted apology. You'd barely had time to respond before the teacher's shadow loomed over you, her hand outstretched to confiscate your phone. You typed back the same words as always, It's fine, even as your cheeks burned with embarrassment. It wasn't fine. It never was.

Sorry, I fell asleep.

That one might have been the worst.

You'd waited three hours that night, staring at your phone until the screen dimmed and the battery warning flashed. It felt pathetic, even in the moment, but you couldn't stop yourself from hoping.

When her message finally came, you almost wished it hadn't. The words felt like a punch to the chest, so casual and uncaring, as if she hadn't realized how long you'd been waiting—or worse, as if she had and simply didn't care. Your response had been the same as always, but this time, your hands had trembled as you typed.

These weren't one-off moments. They were patterns—predictable, painful, and yet impossible to walk away from. Every excuse carried the same weight, a reminder that you were never her priority, never the one she truly cared about. But somehow, even after all of it, you stayed. You replied. You waited.

Because part of you couldn't help but hope that one day, she might mean it when she said she was sorry.

Your friends had tried to tell you before. So many times, actually. They had spoken to you in their patient, understanding tones at first, as if easing you into a truth you already knew but couldn't bring yourself to face.

Cairo isn't good for you. You deserve better. She doesn't care about you the way you care about her.

The words had echoed in your mind, even as you'd brushed them off. You'd nodded, said you'd think about it, maybe even pretended to agree.

But the truth was, their concern had always bounced off the walls you'd built around Cairo. It wasn't their business, you'd told yourself. They didn't see the side of her you did—the glimpses of vulnerability, the rare moments when she made you feel like you were the only one who mattered.

But those moments had grown fewer and farther between. Lately, they felt like distant memories, the kind you cling to out of desperation rather than hope.

You couldn't pinpoint exactly when it shifted. Maybe it was the hundredth time she'd left your messages unread, or the way she only texted back when it was convenient for her.

Maybe it was the excuses that started to sound more like indifference than apologies. Or maybe it was the way you realized, slowly and painfully, that you couldn't remember the last time Cairo had truly asked about you—your day, your feelings, your life beyond what you could do for her.

And then there were your friends. They hadn't stopped trying, even when it became clear you weren't ready to listen.

Their voices grew sharper, less patient, but not unkind. You're breaking your own heart, they'd said once. She's not worth it. And for the first time, those words didn't feel like a slap; they felt like the truth.

It wasn't just the words, though. It was the way they looked at you—really looked at you.

Not with judgment, but with something softer, something sad. You'd seen it in their eyes when they caught you checking your phone, hoping for a reply that never came. You'd felt it in the way they lingered after conversations, hesitant to leave you alone with your thoughts.

And maybe that's what finally cracked the foundation you'd built for her—the realization that the people who truly cared about you were right there, offering you more love and patience than Cairo ever had.

You started to notice the things you'd ignored before: the weight in your chest when her name popped up on your screen, the exhaustion that came from trying to decipher her mixed signals, the way her words always seemed to twist just enough to make you feel like the unreasonable one.

It wasn't a sudden epiphany. It wasn't some grand, dramatic moment where you declared that enough was enough. It was quieter than that, slower. Like a tide receding, pulling back layer by layer, until you could finally see the damage left behind.

It happened one night when you were with your friends. They'd said something—maybe a joke, maybe just a passing comment about Cairo—and instead of defending her, you'd stayed silent. It wasn't because you were angry or hurt; it was because, for the first time, you couldn't find a reason to argue.

That silence was heavier than anything you'd ever felt. It wasn't the kind that begged to be filled with excuses or justifications. It was the kind that felt like acceptance.

And that's when you knew. You didn't need Cairo to apologize again, to make another excuse, to promise she'd do better and then fall back into the same patterns. You didn't need anything from her anymore.

For the first time, you realized the person you needed to save was yourself.

Which was why you decided to pull away.

It wasn't an easy decision. Cairo had a way of pulling you back in, of making it hard to let go of the idea of her, even when she'd done nothing to deserve your loyalty. But you'd had enough of being her secret. Enough of being good enough only when it suited her.

English with Mr. Solace was where it started.

Cairo slid into the chair beside you like it was hers by default, like she hadn't spent days treating you as if you barely existed. She gave you that soft smile, the one that always felt a little too rehearsed, before it shifted into something sharper—teasing, flirty. The smirk that had once made your heart race now only irritated you.

You kept your eyes on your notebook, pen moving in deliberate strokes. You weren't writing anything meaningful, but it didn't matter. The point was to ignore her, to refuse her the attention she always seemed to expect.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw her watching you. She didn't like being ignored. You could feel her presence, her attempts to draw you in, like a weight pressing down on your shoulders.

She leaned back in her chair, her bag sliding off her shoulder and onto the floor with a soft thud. Her arm brushed yours briefly as she adjusted herself, and you knew it wasn't accidental.

But you didn't move. You didn't flinch, didn't look, didn't react the way you might have just weeks ago.

Mr. Solace’s voice filled the room as he began his lecture, his words blending into a low hum in the background. You were just starting to think you'd get through the class without an incident when you felt it—her fingers brushing against your thigh.

It was subtle at first, just the barest hint of contact, like she was testing the waters. Then her touch grew bolder, her palm hovering before she let it settle lightly against your leg.

Your heart didn't race this time. Instead, it sank.

This was Cairo, wasn't it? Always acting like you belonged to her when no one was watching, when it was convenient. Always making sure her actions stayed hidden, as if she couldn't bear for anyone else to know what you meant to her—if you even meant anything at all.

For a moment, you froze. The old you would've let it slide, let her hand stay there, and hoped it meant something more than it ever did. But not this time.

This time, you pulled away.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you shifted back, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of Mr. Solace’s lecture. A few heads turned, but you didn't care.

You felt Cairo's hand drop away immediately, her fingers curling into her palm as if she'd been burned. For a moment, you didn't dare look at her. Your focus stayed locked on your notebook, your pen frozen mid-stroke as you tried to steady your breathing.

But the silence beside you was deafening.

Finally, you glanced sideways, just briefly, and what you saw caught you off guard. Cairo wasn't wearing her usual mask of indifference. Her brow was furrowed, her lips slightly parted like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

Her eyes darted toward you, then away, as if she was trying to figure out what had just happened. She looked confused, maybe even hurt—but there was something else too. Anger. That familiar glint of frustration she got whenever something didn't go her way.

You forced yourself to look away before she could meet your gaze fully.

The rest of the lesson dragged on, but the tension between you didn't fade. Cairo sat rigid in her seat, her hands resting stiffly on her desk. She didn't try to touch you again, but you could feel her presence, heavy and unrelenting, like she was willing you to look at her.

You didn't.

When the bell rang, you stood quickly, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder in one smooth motion. Cairo hesitated, her movements slower, almost hesitant, like she wasn't sure what to do next.

You didn't wait to find out. You walked out of the room without a backward glance, your heart pounding in your chest.

The hallway was a blur of noise and motion as you pushed your way through the crowd, your bag slung over one shoulder and your gaze fixed straight ahead.

You didn't want to linger. You didn't want to give her the chance to catch up, to say anything that might make you second-guess the boundaries you were finally starting to set.

You weaved around groups of students loitering by the lockers, dodging the occasional stray elbow or careless backpack.

The dull roar of conversations and laughter filled the air, but it all felt distant, muffled by the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Your locker wasn't far now—just a few feet away. If you could make it there, if you could grab your things and blend into the crowd again, you might be able to avoid her altogether.

But then you heard it.

"Y/N!"

Her voice cut through the chaos, not loud enough to draw attention from anyone else but clear enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You pretended not to hear. You kept walking, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag as if holding on to something solid could keep you from looking back.

The distance and the noise of the hallway worked in your favor for now, her voice fading slightly as another group of students spilled out of a nearby classroom, blocking her path.

For a moment, you thought you might actually make it.

But you should've known better. Cairo never let things go.

Her footsteps were quick and purposeful, cutting through the crowd with an ease that only someone like her could manage.

You felt the shift in the air before you even saw her—felt her presence, familiar and inescapable, closing in on you like a shadow.

"Y/N!" This time, her voice was closer, sharper, laced with an edge of frustration.

You didn't stop, didn't slow, even though the knot in your stomach tightened with every step. You could feel her catching up, her determination practically radiating off her like heat.

And then her hand was on your wrist.

The contact was sudden, firm, and you had no choice but to stop as she turned you around to face her.

Cairo stood there, her chest rising and falling slightly from the effort of chasing you down. Her hand stayed wrapped around your wrist, not tight enough to hurt but strong enough to keep you from pulling away.

Her expression was unreadable at first, a mix of emotions flickering across her face so quickly that you couldn't pin any of them down.

Her lips parted, like she was about to say something, but for a moment, she didn't. She just looked at you, her brows furrowed and her jaw tense, as if she were trying to piece together what had just happened.

The noise of the hallway felt like it faded away, the two of you caught in a strange, charged silence.

You pulled your wrist from her grasp, the movement sharp and deliberate, and took a small step back, putting space between you.

Cairo stayed where she was, rooted to the spot as if the act of you pulling away had left her momentarily stunned. Her hand fell to her side, and she tilted her head, her gaze fixed on your face, searching for something she couldn't seem to find.

Confusion flickered across her features, quickly giving way to something sharper—something almost hurt.

Her lips parted, but when she spoke, it wasn't vulnerability that came through. Instead, there was an edge, a hint of attitude in her voice that sharpened every syllable.

"What was that all about?" she asked, her accent thick, the natural rasp of her tone cutting through the air between you. Normally, it was the kind of thing you would've found endearing, even attractive. But not now. Not after everything.

You crossed your arms, schooling your features into indifference. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Cairo blinked, caught off guard for a split second before she let out a low, almost mocking laugh. She leaned slightly toward you, her cocky demeanor sliding effortlessly back into place.

"Oh, come on," she said, her voice low enough that only you could hear over the hum of the hallway. "I tried to touch you, and you freak out?" Her lips curled into a smirk, the kind she always used when she thought she had you right where she wanted you.

Her eyes narrowed, teasing, self-assured, as she added, "Am I that intimidating?"

She said it like it was a compliment, like it was supposed to make your heart skip a beat the way it always used to. It was a flirt, the kind of thing that once would've left you fumbling for words or glancing away to hide the flush on your cheeks.

But not now.

You didn't falter. You didn't give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you met her gaze with a calm, steady look that made her smirk falter, the corners of her mouth twitching downward as uncertainty crept into her expression.

"No," you said simply, your voice firm. "I just don't want to do this anymore."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

Cairo's brows knit together, her lips parting in surprise as she stared at you like you'd just spoken a foreign language. Then, her expression shifted—confusion morphing into something sharper, almost disgusted, as though she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.

"What?" she said, her voice laced with attitude, the word drawn out like she was challenging you to explain yourself. Her tone was a mix of disbelief and defiance, as if the very idea of you pulling away from her was both shocking and offensive.

You couldn't tell if she genuinely didn't understand or if she was playing dumb, but part of you suspected the latter. Maybe she hadn't considered this possibility—hadn't imagined a world where you would be the one to step back, to say no.

If she did understand, she was probably thinking about how this wasn't supposed to happen to her. People didn't end things with Cairo Sweet. She ended things with them.

But this wasn't even an ending, was it? It wasn't a breakup, because this wasn't a relationship. Not really.

Whatever it was, though, it was over. You weren't going to let her keep playing you like this.

The silence stretched between you, the tension palpable. Cairo's gaze darted over your face, searching for any hint of hesitation, but you didn't waver. For once, you were sure of yourself.

And it was clear, for the first time, that she didn't know what to do about it.

"Look, Cairo." Your voice came out steadier than you expected, even with the weight of what you were about to say pressing down on your chest. "I don't know what this is," you continued, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, "but I want it to be over."

Cairo's head jerked back like you'd slapped her, her brows knitting together in a sharp furrow as her lips parted slightly. For a moment, she just stared at you, blinking like she couldn't quite process the words you'd just said.

Her mouth twisted into something unreadable, almost like disgust, but you knew better. It wasn't disgust. It was shock. Maybe even hurt, though you weren't sure if it was for the right reasons.

"What?" she finally said, her voice low and almost breathless, like she'd forgotten how to breathe properly.

You could've stopped there. Maybe you should've. But there was too much left unsaid, too much that had been building up for far too long.

"I'm tired, Cairo," you said, the words simple but cutting.

Her expression shifted, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing her face before she quickly masked it with that familiar attitude, the one that had kept you hooked for far too long. But she didn't say anything, didn't interrupt, so you kept going.

"You treat me like I'm supposed to be grateful for the scraps you throw my way," you said, your voice low but firm, the words landing like a stone in the pit of your stomach. "But I'm done. I'm not waiting anymore."

Cairo's jaw tightened, her arms crossing over her chest defensively as she stared at you. There was no cocky smirk now, no teasing glint in her eye. For once, she didn't look like she had all the answers.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said finally, her tone sharp, almost dismissive, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. "Yeah, you do. You just don't like hearing it."

Her brows furrowed even deeper, her mouth opening like she was about to argue, but she hesitated, the words catching in her throat. For the first time, Cairo Sweet looked uncertain.

And it was oddly freeing, seeing her like that, knowing that for once, you weren't the one left doubting everything. You were done playing this game.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself as you looked at her one last time. She still hadn't said anything, her mouth slightly open as if the words were stuck somewhere between her throat and her pride. Her arms were still crossed, but you could see the cracks in her armor now—confusion, maybe even hurt, flickering across her face in ways she couldn't quite hide.

But it wasn't enough to stop you.

"Maybe you should find someone else to play with," you said evenly, your voice low but sharp enough to cut through the tension between you. You didn't say it with malice or anger, just a quiet, undeniable finality.

Her lips parted further, her eyes narrowing as if to mask the shock that was written all over her face. She didn't respond, and you didn't wait for her to.

Instead, you turned and walked away, your footsteps firm and deliberate, even as the noise of the crowded hallway swallowed the moment whole. You didn't look back, didn't let yourself wonder what her expression looked like now or if she was still standing there, watching you leave.

Because this time, you weren't leaving to get her attention.

[celestialsam]

Rustic Laundry Room - Multiuse

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

It's a Match! || poly!141 x Reader

[Chapter 22] || [Chapter 23]

Rating: E Pairing: Ghost x Price || Price x Reader || 141 x gn!Reader Words: 500~ cw: angst, selfish john price, thinking of someone else while fucking (mental cheating? idk) Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: this is angsty. this is NOT gonna please some of you. john is a selfish man.

Chapter 22.5: Cardiff, London, Cairo, Cabo, Tel Aviv.

John doesn’t know how it happened.

One moment he’s leaving, the next he’s on top of you on the bed.

You’re whining needily as he slowly rolls his hips against yours like it’s the first time.

You’re lying on your back, your legs are spread on either side of him, your ass propped up on his thighs as he kneels on the mattress.

“You’re so beautiful on your back like this, fuckin’ ‘ell…” John murmurs as he pulls you up to him, one hand snug around the small of your back, the other around your shoulders.

Your chest presses tight against him while your feet struggle to find a perch on the slippery edge of the mattress, your arms wrapped tight around his shoulder, hoping your weight doesn’t make him lose balance.

His lower arm rocks you back and forth on his cock, drawing more mewls of pleasure from your lips before he captures your mouth in his, your tongues blurring together.

For a moment he’s not in Hereford, in your flat.

For a moment, there’s a piercing poking his tongue, and another set of them rubbing against his lower belly, threatening to catch on his happy trail of hair.

For a moment he’s in Simon’s apartment in Cardiff.

For a moment he’s on a rainy rooftop in London, doing a stakeout on an armed militia leader.

For a moment he’s in Cairo, in a sandy warehouse, dead bodies around them, after stopping an arms deal.

For a moment he’s in Cabo, South Africa, sneaking back into a sex trafficking cell safehouse after it had been emptied, under the guise of ‘checking it over one last time’.

For a moment he’s in Tel Aviv, having prevented a missile launch that almost cost both their lives.

Cardiff, London, Cairo, Cabo, or Tel Aviv…

He’s always fucked Simon like this. His pants just barely undone, Simon perched up on his lap, rocking back and forth on his cock, his moans being quieted by a tongue down his throat.

The only difference is that they’re usually huddled together in a corner of a room, so that no one spots it…

And not in the middle of a bed, in a comfortable, cosy, homey flat, where the only thing keeping you from serving as a counterbalance and landing you both on the mattress again is John’s sheer strength.

Tossing you down onto the mattress again, he breaks the kiss and rubs his open mouth across your cheek, down your jawline, and onto your neck. “So good f’r me.” He whispers in your ear.

You’re not Simon…

But you definitely make Simon happy.

He saw it in his eyes.

You make Simon happy in a way John never quite could.

And he makes you happy too…

John knows he’s not exactly a selfless man. He’s quite selfish, in fact.

But you’ve just extended him an opportunity to join you in making Simon happy.

And he’s bloody taking it.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

taglist (CLOSED! not adding anyone else, sorry!):

@daisychainsinknots , @bunnysdaydreams , @iite-cool , @lahniu , @pagesfalling , @tapioca-milktea1978 , @live-love-be-unique , @thelaisydazy , @littleghosthunter , @bossva , @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago , @chamomiletealeaf , @ghosts-hoe , @kariiiel , @ltbarnes , @irregulardongyoung , @spacelia , @hayleybarnesx , @infpt-zylith , @xxshadowbabexx , @frescoisnotinthemilitary , @leeeenistop , @lucienbarkbark

@severenswife , @enarien, @agoodmoviekiss , @l0lziez , @whos-fran , @greatstormcat , @openup-yourmind , @neoarchipelago , @sodavrr , @cutiecusp , @lilliumrorum , @c-nstantine , @kneelforloki , @comeonatmebruh , @codsunshine , @waiting-so-long , @captainquake42 , @gazspookiebear , @mynameismisty , @reap3erslov3 , @reaper-chan666 , @poohkie90 , @kitwithnokat , @stick-the-dumbass , @mothsdrabbles , @justanerd1 , @thesinsoflust , @thriving-n-jiving , @blckbrrybasket

[willtheweaver]

‘Something’s not right’ writing prompts

•’Last time I checked, horses had flat teeth and only two eyes.’

• The hotel was only three stories tall. So why does the elevator go to the twentieth floor?

•The lights in your living room come on when you flick the switch. The only problem? The storm knocked down the power lines and the company said it would take a week to get the electricity back on.

• ‘These trees have eyes.’

‘They’re aspen. They only look like eyes. But they are just scars leftover from where there were branches.’

‘Then why did one just wink at me?’

•Character is in hiding. They have someone deliver supplies to their remote cabin every Monday. It’s Tuesday, and the delivery is 24 hours late.

•You just hooked a 12 ft. long shark. You also are fishing in an artificial lake, completely landlocked, and with no connection to the sea.

• “I heard you were having an open house today. May I come in?” Said the well mannered gentleman who did not cast a shadow.

•You run out to the fairy ring deep in the forest. When you get there, all you find is one very confused walrus.

•With its walls made of matte black stone, lack of windows, narrow hallways with body sized niches, and musty smell of decay, the building didn’t look like a hospital. It looked like a tomb.

•Closing time at the Cairo Museum. The security guard escorts the last few stragglers out. From one of the display cases comes a voice.

“Thank Amun-Ra for that. Those last few tourists were so annoying, trying to claim that my great temple was the work of extraterrestrials.”

•Character looks up at the sky. They see the words Are you sure you want to delete this file?

[anonymousewrites]

Burden of Truth

Father Figure! Marc Spector x Teen! Non-binary! Reader Father Figure! Steven Grant x Teen! Non-binary! Reader Mother Figure! Layla El-Faouly x Teen! Non-binary! Reader

Eventual! Father Figure! Jake Lockley x Teen! Non-binary! Reader

Book 1:

Follows the Events of Season One

Prologue: On the Precipice

Chapter One: In the Alps

Chapter Two: In the Flat

Chapter Three: To the Neighborhood

Chapter Four: In the Discussion

Chapter Five: Against the Jackal

Chapter Six: Across Cairo

Chapter Seven: Inside the Pyramid

Chapter Eight: To Mogart

Chapter Nine: In the Skies

Chapter Ten: Into the Tunnels

Chapter Eleven: At the Sarcophagus

Chapter Twelve: During the Ritual

Chapter Thirteen: Against Harrow and Ammit

Chapter Fourteen: After the Battle

Chapter Fifteen: In a New Chapter

Specials:

Pride Specials: 2024

Halloween Specials: 2024

Holiday Specials: 2024

Taglist:

@jaytheaceenby

@severussimp

@dmitrytherat

@slytherinroyalty16

@grippleback-galaxy

@alexpangender

@thewittyfanficreader

@aew-kun-age-regression

@oscarissac2099

@amberforest08

@kyalov

@yyourmotherr

@im-making-an-effort

@the-toskaverse

@wra-1-th

@noodleryworld

@snowy-violet

[egypt-museum]

Block Statue of Hotep

Middle Kingdom, 12th Dynasty, ca. 1991-1783 BC. From Saqqara necropolis. Now in the Egyptian Museum, Cairo JE 48858

In this example of a block statue made of granite, Hotep is wearing a smooth, flaring wig with a slight central parting that leaves his protruding ears exposed. In contrast with the modeling of the body the face, with its soft, delicate lines, is carefully finished. The eyes, with the typical eye-paint, are large, the nose is regularly shaped and the mouth small with full lips.

The chin is thrust slightly forwards and is adorned with a short beard striated with horizontal incised lines. The arms rest flat on the upper surface of the cube while the large legs with thick ankles and broad feet are well defined below.

Read more

[toracainz]

Tell Me Where to Put My Love pt5

You and Steven haven’t been together very long, but that won’t stop either of you from fighting tooth and nail for a chance at a future together.

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Part 4 -  Unavailability Is the Only Thing That Turns You On

Part 5 - At Last, When All of the World Is Asleep

Part 6

Warnings: Inaccurate depictions of DID (only knowledge from the show and some light research). Swearing. Established relationships. Married relationship. Use of term “priest” in a gender neutral sense. Discussion about cheating. Discussion about homewreckers. Canon typical violence in later chapters. Angst. Fluff.

Word Count: 3.1k

The sun had settled in the midday sky as Steven and Marc took turns pacing in the flat as they discussed what this whole lucid dream adventure would entail. They had been mostly quiet after you and Layla had left as they cleaned up after dinner. Neither of them was really sure what to say. After showering and getting a good night's rest, the two of them took the morning to contemplate the situation and now by lunch they were discussing the pros and cons.

“Listen, Steven, I’m not too sure this is a good idea. You know how often dreams can turn into nightmares? It’s one thing when you have to deal with it yourself but to have…people there to watch it all happen? Look I knew going into this that trying to make this work would be difficult to say the least, I knew that. Geez, it’s all just. It’s a lot.” Marc could feel his muscles tensing as he paced, fists clenching at his sides. “Obviously, I want you to be happy…obviously you want me to be happy…I just…I never expected…”

“Never expected what? That I would want to continue my relationship with them once we came back from Cairo?” Steven didn’t mean to have a slight sarcastic tone, it just sort of happened.

“No, of course that’s not it. Of course not. I just…I never expected things to pick back up so quickly. Steven…” Taking a deep breath, Marc stopped his pacing to face the mirror in the loo, his hands pressed together as if pleading. “, listen…buddy, you gotta understand. All this—this vulnerability thing? That’s not my schtick, alright? That’s always been you…”

Steven looked at Marc from where he appeared in the mirror, a soft expression on his face. “I know, Marc. I know and you are doing amazing. Really. You’re right, it’s not going to be easy. Not like anything in our life has been has it? No. But things are different now, yeah? Before we thought we were alone…having to deal with what life threw at us on our own. But…we’re not alone anymore, we have each other, we have people that care about us.”

Marc looked at Steven like he had before, brows lifted into a soft almost pitiful look. He wasn’t used to this, to having this kind of support. He was still skeptical of this dream business. “If things go to shit…”

“We can call it quits. That’s the end of that. Don’t have to go any further than we want to, yeah?” Steven was quick to reassure Marc. Unlike Marc, Steven was intrigued and a little eager to see what would happen, find out how it would feel. Marc nodded, a sign to Steven that he was coming around to the idea.

The rest of the afternoon the two of them talked about contingency plans if things didn’t go in a way they were comfortable with, ways to make sure things stayed reasonable. Steven of course had plenty of ideas, of course outright saying that they were done or didn’t want to continue was top of the list. Marc had a few of his own. Being able to make “escape” plans helped to further ease Marc’s nerves and anxieties. By the time the night had begun to fall they each felt more confident and ready to face this new experience. All that was left to do was…call you and Layla.

~*~*~*~

You had gotten the call while you were out getting dinner. Though with how small it was you weren’t sure it would count as dinner. Really what you wanted was a nice cup of tea…from Steven’s favorite tea shop…the same tea shop he miraculously walked into after being missing from your life. As luck would have it the same seat you had occupied that day was open now, so you decided to sit there again. With a deep breath you mentally recreated that day in your mind’s eye, the busyness that the day brought, the light that had been shining through the windows giving the whole place a more open feel…and him standing in line waiting to order.

You had no idea then how things would get to where they are now. The both of you learning that you’re both avatars to ancient Egyptian gods, you learning that Steven was part of a system, and that the other part of the system was still married��to the woman Steven kissed while he was away from you.

You played with the napkin in your hands to busy yourself, trying to push such thoughts away. The tea helped, its warmth helping to ease your body and calm your mind.

As you finished tidying up your space after finishing your little meal, you received the call. He called you. Steven did text occasionally, but he was “old fashioned” and liked to hear your voice, and you his. He told you that he and Marc were ready and willing for this “dream adventure” he called it. How very Steven. It’s that humor that made you fall in love, among other things. Feeling how such a short conversation dredged up just how much you cared for him made your heart ache. You wondered if Marc had already told Layla or if he would after you and Steven had gotten off the phone.

It doesn’t matter. You have a job to do tonight and need to focus…but it wouldn’t hurt to get Steven a tea before you left the shop.

~*~*~*~

Arriving at the flat, it was Marc that let you in. Once again the two of you were caught off guard by the other. Marc stepped aside, giving you room to enter. It was strange being in a familiar place with someone not so familiar to you.

“I…uh…I brought Steven a cup of tea from his favorite shop. I wasn’t sure what you liked otherwise I–”

“Not a big tea drinker. I’m more of a coffee guy, so…don’t worry about it.” Marc was silent for a moment trying his best to make conversation. “Thanks though…that’s uh, thoughtful of you. Um, why don’t you make yourself comfortable? Layla’s on her way…”

So he prefers coffee…how funny. You nodded, hanging up your coat before going to take a spot on the sofa. The TV was on but had been turned down to a low ambient volume. The show looked like some kind of sports news channel. You knew it must not have been Steven that selected the show as Steven was’t much of a sports guy except for the occasional cricket match.

Marc stands on the other side of the fish tank, seeming lost in thought, but really he was looking for a sign that Steven was near the front, maybe he could give Steven control and let the two of you chat…he didn’t feel like he was very good company, but he couldn’t be so lucky. Letting out a deep sigh he comes around and sits in the empty chair near the sofa. He was uncomfortable for sure, he didn’t know what to say or what he could say, but he knew he should say…something?

“So…how long you say you been working for Tutu?” Being an avatar was really one of the only things the two of you had in common so he figured that was the best place to start.

“Oh um, a while. I mean, he came to me when I was younger…so it’s been a good while. But I wouldn’t say I work for him…more like I work with him.”

“That so? Can’t really imagine a god not bossing someone around and giving orders…must be nice.” Marc scoffed lightly. The idea that Tutu wasn’t treating you like some glorified puppet was a tough idea to wrap his head around. “Taweret doesn’t seem the type either.”

“It is nice. Tutu’s been really chill about when and where he calls on me. I know you didn’t really have that with Khonshu…” Now it’s your turn to wrap your head around how Khonshu could use and manipulate Marc like he had. Steven had explained a good bit of how Khonshu was, how he had manipulated Marc into being his avatar.

“You mentioned he tricked you into being his avatar…doesn’t seem very nice.” Marc had visibly relaxed by now. He had to admit you did have a calming presence, though a part of him wondered if that was some kind of passive ability from Tutu. Maybe having a calming aura helped with the work he had you doing.

“Yeah, well, when you’re dreaming and some fanciful figure asks you to be his hands, to help sooth the minds of dreamers, and help those plagued by nightmares…you don’t really think much of it. I said yes, thinking it was just another vivid dream where I was playing a hero or something to fight monsters…turns out I was partly right. But I had no clue until a few days later that the figure from my dream was not just a dream. I thought I was seeing things, that maybe my mind was having trouble differentiating between reality and dreams when I saw Tutu just out and about.” Looking back it’s almost laughable, how silly it all seemed. But in the moment, you really did think maybe you were going crazy or something. Tutu had alot of explaing to do.

“Hmm…seems to be a trend with the gods. Tricking people to serve them. Fucking glad the bird’s gone. Feel like I can breathe again.” 

(Don’t think I could have ever done it without Steven.)

A soft smile tugged at the corners of Marc’s mouth thinking about how Steven stood up to Khonshu, using his words against him. Steven had strengths in areas Marc didn’t, and vice versa. The two of them complimented each other…and Marc was so thankful to have Steven especially now that they could share their lives with each other.

“I can imagine. Or, well I mean I can sympathize.” You nodded, smiling softly.

The both of you fell into a somewhat comfortable silence as the conversation began to lull. Marc felt antsy, he wasn’t sure how much longer Layla would be, but it was mostly the nerves for this “thing” you were all about to do. Taking in a deep inhale through his nose he sits up a little straighter, hands rubbing and grabbing at the arms of the chair.

“Listen, I uh…I’m sorry about…outing you to Steven. That you were hiding something. He’s…important to me…and I care about him, so I just wanted to make sure…” Marc paused, he seemed like the very act of apologizing made him uncomfortable, made his skin crawl. It wasn’t because he didn’t feel sorry, in fact that was exactly why. He felt guilty for judging you, someone he’d watched from the sidelines all this time, someone that made Steven happy, someone so genuinely kind that it just felt wrong to have put you in that situation. With the tables turned, he would have been furious if someone had forced his hand to come clean about something so personal…it had happened before and he could have rung Harrow’s neck for bringing up Layla’s dad on top of everything else.

“No, it’s alright. I’m not upset or angry. I needed to tell him, I just wasn’t sure how to tell a walking egyptology encycolpedia that Egyptian gods were real and I served one. So, thank you. For giving me that push. It helped that Steven told me about Khonshu and the suit.”

Marc glanced at you, he knew exactly what you meant. Steven didn’t take it well when he told him the truth that day in the storage locker. Steven barely thought Marc was real, how was he to believe gods and avatars were real. So if someone Steven trusted so deeply had told him the same things…Marc wasn’t sure how Steven would take it, but he can’t imagine he would have taken it well.

There was a knock – Layla. Marc hopped up, rather quickly, to go and let her in. When he opened the door she flashed a courteous smile, but it became more tender when she recognized it was Marc that had answered. You stood as the two made their way into the flat.

“Alright, we’re all here. Suppose it’s time to get started then?” Laya looked from you to Marc, the both of you nodding in agreement.

Marc’s attention drifted to the mirror hanging by the front door, Steven was coming forward. Everyone really was here. “Listen, I um…I’m gonna let Steven kinda…take the driver seat on this weird ride, alright? Just until…” Marc’s heart was beginning to pound, his thoughts beginning to race. The whole dream world thing was scary enough when he and Steven were discussing it alone, he hated that the two of you might see him on the verge of a panic attack. Layla, recognizing how Marc’s body stiffened and tensed like a bow being drawn ready to be released, turned to face him a little more, her hand reaching out and brushing her knuckles against his.

“Hey…” her voice was soft, nearly a whisper, trying to draw his attention to her rather than what was about to happen. “Marc, hey. It’s okay. I’m not overly thrilled about this either, but well be doing this together, yeah?” Marc’s hand shaikly nudged against hers, his fingers slightly intertwining with hers as he nods, taking one deep breath after another.

“Yeah…yeah, I know, but…I’d still rather Steven be…I mean he’d rather be out here for this. He’s been excited about this.” He chuckles breathily, thinking about how Steven had kept them up going on and on about what he thought it might be like after they had gone to bed the night before. Layla nodded, she knew it would be better not to argue, to let Marc do what he felt comfortable doing. Marc’s posture began to shift, he turned his head ever so slightly as if he was about to try and crack his neck, when his head turned back the eyes that looked back at Layla were different. Steven’s hand was still where Marc had left it, intertwined with Layla’s as he stood there a moment getting his bearings. Clearing his throat he pulled his hand away, giving her a sheepish smile before looking to you, with a very different more adoring smile.

“Hello, love. Sorry I wasn’t here sooner. Are we ready to start the party?” Steven could barely contain how giddy he was. He hadn’t felt this excited, and scared, since he and Layla had entered Ammit’s tomb and saw the sphynx statues.

“Ready if you three are. Um, you can either sit on the couch or even lay on the bed, which ever would be more comfortable.” You gestured to either of the options, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the way Steven lingered with Layla when he came to the front and hoping they would choose the couch. What was he thinking of, seeing her there, feeling her hand on his?

As Layla and Steven settled on the couch a familiar presence joined the room, causing the both of them to jump slightly at his sudden appearance. Tutu. You pulled the chair Marc had been sitting in in front of the couch and close enough that your knees could touch Steven and Layla’s.

“Now then…” Tutu’s deep, calming voice floated through the air as the light’s in the flat began to dim. The room began to feel comforting, like a warm blanket on a chilly winter day. As the lights dimmed, it was as if the glow was gathering around you, your clothes being exchanged for what looked like a modernized egyptian priest regalia. It wasn’t often your “suit” was used in the waking world, perhaps Tutu was feeling theatrical. “Children…relax and let your minds wander.”

“Close your eyes, steady your breathing, just like you would when laying down for bed.”

Steven and Layla followed the instructions, shifting a little on the couch to get more comfortable. You reach out and gently take Layla’s hand in one while the other rests over her wrist. At the feel of your touch she opened her eyes, wary of what you were doing.

“This is just a token, to serve as a connection to me and Tutu. A conduit of sorts. It will help to strengthen your own lucidity while in the dream.” When you finished explaining, Layla was left with an Egyptian style, cuff bracelet covered in hieroglyphs and symbols associated with Tutu that were similar to the ones you wore, though hers had a number of scarab motifs as well. Satiated, Layla closes her eyes and begins to relax again.

Steven had glanced over, sensing the tension when you began to explain yourself. He watched as your hands moved to him to do the same. Your fingers softly dragging across his calloused hand. While the bracelet took shape, you couldn’t help but caress his hand with your thumb. It was as if just being in contact with him made you feel at ease and content. Steven felt the same. The way your hands felt against his was so different to how Layla’s felt when he had come to the front. He wished he could tell you that, but he knew it wasn’t the right time. Once his cuff bracelet was complete, covered in hieroglyphs but a distinct triple crescent symbol in the center, your hands lingered with his for a moment before the rumble of Tutu clearing his throat snapped out of your trance.

“Now then, children. Close your eyes, relax your bodies, and clear your minds.” Tutu, very much unlike Khonshu, never sounded demanding. Even when giving instructions it felt more like a request.

Steven and Layla abided and settled in. You take a deep breath as your eyes begin to glow. Tutu waves his hand over you all, and unseen by Steven and Layla, your hand copies Tutu’s as a blanket of sand drifts in the air, dissipating before it touches the ground. You feel your own body beginning to relax, the glow of your eyes becoming obscured as your eyes close.

And just like that, you, Steven, Marc, and Layla drift off to sleep, just like you would settling in to bed after a long day.

Tutu observes the three bodies before him. The flat is quiet save for the occasional soft snore coming from Steven. Then there is the sound of a few objects on a nearby shelf beginning to rattle as the lights flicker slightly.

“If this displeases you, perhaps you should have said something sooner, instead of hiding…old friend.”

Don't forget to reblog and/or comment! I love to hear from you all!!

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[flamingkorybante]

I pray to the broad flat thigh of the earth under my cheek to the paint spatter of vomit across the sidewalk, the intermingling of home and not-home, the gray-haired couple waltzing in the Christopher street subway station, the semaphore of smiles in basement bar, the far-off glimmer of bonfire through branches and fog and unfolding night. One breath for each and each in one breath, home and not-home, as if the earth holding my six-times-great-grandmother’s bones were different from the earth holding my alive toes simply by reason of being distant. Where is there a sidewalk not painted with vomit? Where is there no waltz? Let the earth remember me when I have forgotten. Let me ride the subway in Berlin. In Tokyo. In Cairo. Let me lay my cheek against the street in Vilna where my great grandmothers are buried and against the street in Brooklyn where they are not and let me remember.

vilna

[lesuccube]

➚ 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 : ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇɴ ɢʀᴀɴᴛ — ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴜɴꜱʜɪɴᴇ

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — how's life like with the sweetest british man ever ?

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 — fluff infection , mild smut virus

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 — not beta'd , constructive criticism is welcomed . reblogs and comments are appreciated .

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 1.6k

you and steven have been together for a good half a year and i picture steven as a more needy kind of boyfriend. the man lacked so much attention and affection before and now that he has you in his life, he never wants that to stop. he tries hard not to be needy or clingy but he can't help it.

he just wants you to look at him, love him and spend your time with him and only him. sometimes it's overwhelming but you always make sure to tell steven when it starts to get too much but those are extremely rare. you're always happy to indulge the man with some well deserved love and affection!

he's brought up the idea of you moving in with him when you hit the fifth month of being together actually.

you always end up staying over at his place whenever you two hang out (because he literally won't let you go home sometimes under the guise that it's too late for you to go back and he doesn't want anything to happen to you). i mean, he's already given you the spare copy of his keys with a matching koala keychain attached to the keyring.

you tell him that you'll consider it, not saying yes but not really saying no. he's hopeful though, would keep asking you about it after every week as both an inside joke and a serious offer.

after the whole ammit stuff that went down in cairo, steven actually reapplied at the museum! he managed to get word that donna was fired and someone else has replaced her spot . you convinced him to go back and do what he loves, reassuring steven that he'll do great.

it took a few days of convincing but in the end he did listen to you and applied for the tour guide position and he got the role with flying colors! the museum was thoroughly impressed by his knowledge of ancient egypt and gave him the job on the spot and he would be starting as a guide the following week.

you treated steven with home cooked vegetarian meals and wine that night and proceeded to end the night tangled between the sheets.

you definitely cook in the relationship. steven got a taste of you cooking stir fry once and he's begged you to keep cooking for him ever since.

he had shyly asked you to pack him lunch when he was about to start at his new role as a tour guide and you happily obliged! you make him cute vegetarian bentos daily and leave a small sticky note on his lunch box filled with words of encouragement.

you don't know this but he actually kept every single one of them in a tiny box and hid it within his shelves.

you own a car which makes steven your permanent designated passenger princess!

you think it's adorable the way he blushes profusely when you open the door for him and whines that he should be the one doing that for you, only for you to shush him and tell him that you enjoy doing it for him.

you 100% hold hands a lot especially during longer drives or if he's feeling cheeky, he'd sneak a hand on your thigh that would begin to travel higher and higher.

on those days you'd have to find a place to park and fast to sneak a quickie, edging poor steven until he's all whiny and submissive, begging for his release. but you do remind him he was being bad by distracting you while driving. he'd have to wait until later that day to be able to cum.

at times like that he's glad he wears loose and baggy clothings because it would have been embarrassing to walk around with a raging hard on outlining his jeans even though it's his fault in the first place that he has to deal with his boner while on a date with you.

you tried to build furniture together once. it was just a shelf actually, so that the book piled on the floor of his flat would have a better home. but you found out you both sucked at it, there were screws missing and the manual confused the hell out of you two even though the instructions were really easy and simple to follow.

you both gave up mid-work and the poor shelf ended up as a half finished product tucked away at one corner of his flat collecting dust.

i'm a firm believer that steven is a romanticist. he's pretty old-fashioned about it too.

he writes you handwritten letters every month celebrating the day you had agreed to be his girlfriend. if his shift at the museum ends earlier than your work, he'd pick you up at the lounge area of your work building with a fresh bouquet in hand. he plans your dates together!

he'd always make sure to ask you your free days and tries to align his own schedule with yours so you can go on a date next weekend for a trip at the farmer's market and then have some breakfast at a quaint café a little ways from the city. he's a romantic sap and you wouldn't have him any other way.

you buy gus the second new decorations in his aquarium. you never saw the original gus, all that you knew was that the first one really only had one fin.

when you asked about how the original gus was replaced he was hesitant at first, thinking you might be weirded out by his condition but marc was the one who dared him to try and tell you. so he let you know bits and pieces about his did, introduced you to marc after many heavy debates with his reflection (when you weren't around).

in conclusion, the chicagoan liked you for steven which in turn meant that he did too but that's a story for another time.

steven is a sub and you can't change my mind. bratty but a sub nonetheless. he likes that you take control and he's more than happy to give it to you with very little resistance. a little spanking sets him straight if he doesn't behave.

i also headcanon him being into bondage. he likes it when you tie him up, colorful ropes knotted and binding him in place, the anticipation of waiting for you to touch him turns him on even more.

he prefers things like silk ribbons rather than handcuffs and yes, you've definitely gagged him before when he starts to get too loud after receiving a complaint from your downstairs neighbor about your activities.

you once made an offhand comment about steven looking extremely peggable, it left him a blushy stuttering mess. but one day when you come home from work, steven is sitting on his bed looking nervous and squirmy, a big paper bag next to him.

"steven baby, what's wrong?" you ask as you set your bag on the floor next to him before kneeling in front of him, taking his hands in your own. "i um... do you remember love when you— you said i was... peggable?" he says the last word in a tiny whisper, a blush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears and down his neck. he lets go of your hand to give you the bag with shaky nervousness, looking away as you peer at the contents inside: a strap on and a big bottle of lube.

"d-do you think we could uh— would you like to try it love? i-i'm fine with it if you are." let's just say you and steven had a very fun time experimenting into his new kink.

i feel like sweet steven would propose to you after a year and a half into the relationship?

yes he knows he's moving too fast but to him, you're everything. you're it. (let's say marc and layla divorced after cairo okay? okay.) plus marc liked you too. he liked you a good amount (he loves you but marc's stubborn and insists he only likes you a healthy amount) he would front and spend some time with you too. to steven that's like the best thing he could ask for.

"we don't have to marry right away, love. we're busy with work with you getting ready for your promotion and i'm getting more and more tours and it's been hectic enough for us as it is but one day yeah? one day i would love to see you walk down the aisle where we'd both say our vows and by the end of it, i get to finally call you my wife." he rambles as he kneels in front of your crying figure, ring in hand.

i know we all think he'd be a blubbering mess when proposing but i personally don't see him doing that.

if that man proposes, it's because he's set his mind into it after thorough deliberation. if he proposes, it's with confidence and purpose.

he doesn't prepare a speech, just relays what his heart tells him and it's telling him that his love for you was more than life itself and that he wants nothing more than for you to give him the absolute honor of having him as your husband. you had to kiss him to shut up so you can finally tell him...

"it's a yes steven, it will always be a yes for me. i love you more with each day i get to be with you, and to spend the rest of my waking days with your last name as my own? if this was a dream steven grant, never wake me up because i would love to be your wife. i'm yours and only yours if you'll have me."

[worldserasingandcreatinginmymind]

Bloody Beetle | Part Four

Summary: life in the desert with Harrow and his creepy cult

Pairing: another one that’s mostly Arthur Harrow x Reader

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: that naughty boy Harrow is lying and manipulating people again, tut tut...

A/N: look at me posting two days in a row, who am I? For the purposes of this story, let’s just pretend Harrow has the ability to give people strength or make them need to sleep… as always spelling and grammar are not my strongest skills so please be kind :)

Part Three | Series Masterlist

- - - - -

Egypt is hot. Way too hot. There’s not a single inch of your body that isn’t dripping with sweat as you follow Harrow and his disciples through the Egyptian desert. Arthur keeps you near him at all times, and you watch as the scarab that is floating above his hand directs him through the sands and suddenly points down. 

“We found Ammit. She’s here.” He says quietly before turning to face everyone and shouting in a language you don't recognise. The disciples erupt into cheers and laughs of joy. You just stand and watch them all. You don't understand how anyone could be happy about this. But then Harrow hasn’t managed to brainwash you like he has the rest of these people. 

As they celebrate Harrow is approached by Bobbi, the lady you recognise as the police officer who took you from Steven’s flat. She’s on the phone when he notices her. 

“Marc Spector is in Cairo. He’s tracking us.” She says just loud enough for you to hear, glancing over at you as she talks.

“I know.” Harrow replies quietly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “She’s here.” 

Some of the disciples get to work on unloading the trucks and setting up huge tents while others begin digging to find the tomb. Wanting no part in any of this you take yourself a good distance away from everyone, finding a rock to sit on. Arthur sees you and comes over, sitting next to you. 

“You look displeased.” He says. 

“Well you're one step closer to freeing the crocodile lady that tried to kill me and wants to kill a whole lot of other people so, yeah, you could say I’m displeased.”

“I wish you saw things the way I do.”

“And I wish you didn’t.” You shoot back and he smirks, but not in a malicious way. He is genuinely amused by you. You look back out at his followers all working like slaves under his command. It baffles you how happy they are to be working so hard in this heat, excited at the prospect of freeing Ammit. “How did you do it?”

“How did I do what?” He responds.

“How did you convince all these people to follow you?”

“They follow Ammit, not me.” 

“But they follow Ammit because of you, right? You told them about her.”

“I guess.” he says, noncommittal, wanting you to keep talking. 

“I presumed it was just that they were lucky enough to be judged as good by her, and that’s what made them follow her. But then I realised that even if she had judged me as good instead of condemning me, I still wouldn’t believe the same thing that she does. I still wouldn’t be okay with killing people just because they might do something bad. And I just don't see how this many people can believe that that is right.”

“Everyone has their own reasons to believe what they believe.” 

“Yeah, but when those beliefs result in murder-”

“Y/N…” Harrow sighs.

“I mean what about kids? What would happen if you tested the scales, or whatever you call it, on a kid. And it turned out that they might do something that Ammit classes as evil in the future. What would happen then?” You ask, but he stays silent. “Arthur?” 

“Don't ask questions that you won’t like the answer to.” 

“You’re even worse than I thought.” You get up and start to walk away. 

“Don't go far. It’s almost time for your daily healing.” He calls after you, but you just keep walking. You need to get away from this man. 

— — — — 

About an hour has passed since your revealing talk with Harrow and the dig is still in full force. You’ve made yourself as comfortable as is possible when in the middle of a scorching hot desert surrounded by unhinged cult members. You find a small mound of sand just large enough for you to lean against and you sit on the floor. Your face up towards the bright sky, eyes closed as you try to take yourself somewhere else in your mind. 

Suddenly you hear a man cry out “Help!” And open your eyes to see the sky turn a dark shade of orange. You sit up right and search the crowd for Harrow. He may be deranged, but for some reason you feel safe when your eyes land on him. He stops digging and looks up at the sky. He doesn’t look worried all. In fact, he looks irritated. 

“Keep digging! No matter what happens, keep digging! Do not stop. I am about to be called upon.” He looks over and gestures for you to come to him. You obey, getting up and running across the sand to where he stands waiting with his cane. As soon as you reach him he lifts the hand that is holding the cane up to the side of your arm, the wooden cane pressing into your bicep slightly. “It’s time.” 

He places his other hand on your head, closing his eyes. Out the corner of your eye you notice the cane glow for a moment and then its over. He removes the hand on your head, using it to call over one of his female disciples. “Y/N is going to need to sleep now. Take her to the tent, stay there with her until I return.” 

“Praise Ammit.” She responds with a nod before taking gentle hold of you and leading you to the tent. She unzips the door for you and before you enter you turn back to look at Arthur, but he is already gone. 

Harrow was right. Once you got inside the tent you suddenly realised how much you wanted to sleep. As the woman charged with staying with you sat on a stool by the entrance, you settled down on one of the two camp beds that are set up in the room and fell almost instantly asleep. You have no idea how long you were asleep for but when you wake, Harrow has taken the place of the woman and is now sat watching you. 

“You’re back.” You say as you sit up in bed. 

“I am.” he replies simply as he stands and moves over to one of the tables in the room.

“Where did you go?” 

“I had to talk with the Ennead council but it’s sorted now. Nothing to worry about.” A small smile appears on his face. “How are you feeling?” 

“Fine.”

“Good, good. I’m glad. The healing can make you feel tired for a while after so it’s important to rest.” He hands you a cup of water and sits next to you. He takes a sip from his own cup before talking again. “I saw Marc Spector tonight.” 

“Oh.” you say, trying to sound disinterested and ignore how your heart just skipped a beat at the mention of his name.

“He wanted the Ennead to put me on trial, but they saw through his lies and let me go. When I last saw him, he and Layla El-Faouly were meeting with a black market dealer-”

“Why are you telling me this?” You snap, standing up from the bed and stepping away from him.

“I thought you’d want to know.” It feels like he’s trying to wind you up, make you jealous that Marc is out there somewhere with Layla. 

“Well I don’t, okay? I do not care about Marc Spector.” You say firmly. A half truth. You don't know Marc Spector enough to care about him, but you do care for Steven and a small part of you still believes in him. 

Harrow stares at you for a moment before nodding. “Okay.” he says quietly before getting up and walking past you, stopping when he reaches the door. “Dinner is being served now. Once you’ve calmed down you may join us.”

He leaves and part of you wants to throw the cup of water in your hand at the door, but you don’t. Another part of you wants to just stay in this tent for the rest of the evening, but the grumbling of your stomach tells you that’s not a good idea. So you take a few breaths, finish the drink and head outside. 

— — — — 

As soon as you got outside with everyone, you wished you’d stayed in the tent. Something about the way the disciples watch you sends shivers up your spine. You get the feeling they don’t like having you around. Hushed conversations suddenly stop as you walk by. You keep catching glimpses of dirty looks and disproving stares being sent your way. If looks could kill, not even Harrow could keep you alive.

Harrow had been deep in conversation with a group of disciples so you walked straight to the food serving table and grabbed a bowl. You thanked the server who splashed a ladle of some sort of soup into your bowl and handed you a bread roll before you headed towards the table with the least amount of people sat at it. As soon as you sat down, the few people that were there got up and left, leaving you completely alone. Which you didn’t mind. At least you could eat your soup without judgement. 

Maybe its just because you haven't eaten a full meal in days, but the soup was actually delicious. You have no idea how they managed to make something so tasty with such few resources, but your empty stomach really appreciates it. A few moments later you notice the shadow of someone stood next to you. 

“May I sit?” Harrow asks, looking down at you with a sympathetic smile.

“Go ahead.” You say as you dip some bread in your soup and he sits next to you. “This is really good.” You say as you take a bite of the now soup soaked bread.

“Yes, Victor’s lentil soup. A favourite of mine.” He waves over to Victor who smiles at Harrow, but then he looks at you and his face drops.

“I don't think these people like me very much.” You try to laugh it off, but your insecurity sneaks through. 

“There are some doubts about you, I admit. Those who believe I’m wrong for sparing you after your scales judgement. But they’ll come around, once they get to know you.”

“They want me dead.” You say, a hint of sadness in your voice as you absentmindedly stir your spoon around your soup. 

“Y/N look at me.” He says and you look up, slightly startled by how close he now is. “No harm will come to you while you’re under my protection. You have my word.”

You just nod at him and he smiles, relaxing into his seat. You finish the rest of your meal in comfortable silence before Harrow offers to walk you back to the tent. 

“We’re going into the tomb tomorrow morning, as soon as the sun rises.” He says suddenly, and you don't really know how to respond. You want to try to convince him not to go, not to release Ammit. But you know there’s no point so you just say “okay” and continue walking. 

“I don't know how long I’ll be down there so I’ll need to do your healing before I go-”

“Wait, you're not taking me with you?” You ask.

“No, you must stay in the tent. I don't know what challenges I will face in there, it’s likely to be dangerous. I need to be able to focus and not be worrying about you.” 

“Why would you worry about me?” You laugh and he stops walking, turning to face you completely. 

“Because I care about you, Y/N.”

“Oh” you're surprised at his confession “Uh, I don't really know what to say to that.” 

“Then say nothing.” He says, reaching his hand out to pull back the entrance to the tent. “It’s time to sleep now. Tomorrow is a big day.” 

You enter the tent and head to the bed you’d slept in earlier. You're surprised that Harrow follows you in, placing his cane next to the other bed in the tent. 

“You're sleeping in here too?” You ask.

“Is that alright? I assure you, you are perfectly safe with me. But if you're uncomfortable I can swap with Bobbi. I’m sure she won’t mind-”

“No, no its okay. I don't mind.” You don't fully trust that Bobbi, or any of the other disciples, wouldn’t just murder you while you slept.

“Very well.” He says, climbing into bed. “Good night Y/N.” 

“Good night Arthur.”

— — — — 

The next morning you when you wake you can hear the sound of voices outside your tent. You look over and realise Harrow’s bed is empty. You get out of bed and creep closer to the tent door, listening to the conversation on the other side. 

“But sir, please, I want to help you!” The voice pleads. 

“You want to help me? This is how you help.” Harrow replies, calm but firm. “She can’t come with us, someone has to stay with her. I’m trusting you with to keep her safe.” He pauses. “Ammit has found you to be worthy enough for this important task. Don’t let her down.”

There’s sigh before the first voice simply says “Praise Ammit.”

You hear movement and quickly retreat back away from the door. A moment later Harrow and one of his disciples, a young lady, enters. 

“Y/N, this is Maya. She’s going to keep you company while I’m away.”

“Nice to meet you.” You give her a small smile, and she tries to smile back but you can tell she’s irritated. You turn your attention to Harrow. “You know I really don't need a babysitter. I’ll be fine in here on my own.” 

“I know. But just in case something were to happen, Maya will be here for you.” He moves closer to you. “Are you ready?” He asks, placing a hand on your shoulder and you nod. He places his other hand on your head, his cane glows and even though you’ve just woken from a full night sleep you instantly feel tired. He guides you back into bed, helping you settle in. “Sleep now. When I return, we change the world.” He says softly with a smile as you drift back into your dreams. 

— — — — 

The first thing you notice when you wake up is how quiet it is in the empty camp. It’s eery, kind of haunting. For the first time you actually almost miss Harrow and you're actually relieved he didn’t leave you completely alone. You sit up and look over to see Maya sat on the stool at the entrance, slumped against the side of the tent. She’s asleep. Not wanting to disturb her, you make your way over towards her as quietly as possible and sneak past her to the outside. 

Being alone outside sends a shiver up your spine. The camp looked abandoned, but you don't feel like you're alone. You get the same feeling you did at dinner last night, as if everyones eyes are on you. You head over to the food table and are thankful to find there’s still some porridge left over from breakfast in the serving pot. You grab yourself a bowl full and sit at one of the tables. You only get a few mouthfuls before you hear Maya shouting for you. She comes running outside, a look of panic on her face. A gun in her hand, which she lowers once she realises you're fine. She heads over to join you. 

“Why do you have gun?!” You ask in horror. 

“Harrow left it with me, so I can defend myself if I need to.” 

“Defend yourself against who?” You pause, surely not… “Against me?”

“No not you.” She tucks the gun away in her belt. “He just said if anyone shows up and tries to follow him or take you then I have to use it.”

“Who would want to take me…” you don't even finish your sentence as it sinks in. He must be talking about Marc. But if what he said before was true, then Marc wanted nothing to do with you. Maybe he knows something you don't and there are more dangerous people after you. But what would they even want with you? None of this makes sense, but it’s making you anxious. You decide to change the subject. “So, how long have you been with Harrow and everyone?” 

“Not long, only a few months now I think.”

“How did you get involved in all this?” 

“I made friends with some bad people when I was in college. Eventually they got me selling drugs and when my parents found out they kicked me out. I was living on the streets, meeting dangerous people. That’s when I met Arthur. He found me in an alley one night, tested my scales and took me in. He saved me.”

“Wow…” you don't know what to say. Looking at her, she can’t be older than 17. But already she’s been through so much. “I’m sorry you went through that.”

“It’s okay. I’m in a much better place now.” She smiles, this time it’s real. “And once we release Ammit, I’ll be able to bring justice to the people that hurt me.” There’s a few moments of quiet before Maya speaks again. “Please don't tell Harrow that I was asleep.”

“I won’t. But why does it matter?”

“I was supposed to be watching you. If he knew that I’d fallen asleep, and that you were out here alone… he’s be so angry with me.”

“But why?”

Before she can answer you hear the sound of something being knocked over in one of the other tents, startling both of you. For a second she looks panicked while she tries to work out what to do next. 

“Back to the tent. Go!” She whispers as she gets up and ushers you to move with her. She escorts you back with one hand on your back, the other hovering over her gun which is tucked into her belt. Once inside she tells you to sit back on the bed, which you do. You both stay silent as you listen out for any more movement. “I’m going to have a look around. Stay here.” She says and you agree before she disappears back out the door. 

A few more minutes pass by and you see the shadow of someone creeping around the edge of your tent. The shadow of someone too big to be Maya. You get on the floor and shuffle under your camp bed just as someone enters. You clasp your hands over your mouth as you listen to heavy footsteps move around your tent, rifling through items and baskets of papers that Harrow left on the table. Something falls to the floor and drifts down to land in front of you, some paper covered in sort of ancient text. Your heart feels like its about to pound right out of your chest as the intruder moves closer. As they crouch down to pick it up you finally get a glimpse of who it is. He looks at you like he’s just seen a ghost.

“Y/N?” the British voice you didn’t realise you’d missed so much. “Y/N! Oh thank God you’re alive!” 

Part Five

Taglist :  @sleepylunarwolf / @ahookedheroespureheart / @sleepyamaya / @spicydonut25 / @kult6 / @uncle-eggy / @malaanii/ @toracainz / @pinkiestwinkie / @galacticstxrdust / @mateihavenoidea / @xmariakx / @oscarissac2099 / @whycantwebefriendz / @parkeepingparker

(If you want to be added/removed on the tag list please let me know, but note that I can’t reply to comments from this blog)

[ilostmydiary]

Miller's Girl Review

It's a Tumblr movie. I'm really not even joking when I say, it's like the writer scrolled through TC Tumblr, compiled all the aesthetic pictures and flipped through a thesaurus. Actually, even that feels a bit Tumblr-y. That's not to say it was distinctly bad. It was very pretty to look at, and the music was fun. Very atmospheric and tense up until the halfway point. There's a buildup and very fast crash "back to reality" after the climax (pun intended) of the film. I'm going to give my analysis of the two main problems of the film, and how to enjoy it regardless.

Problems:

The movie kept forgetting it was set in a high school, so should have just been a college movie. I understand that it's more illicit and taboo if it's a high school senior and a professor, but they go out of their way to remind you she's an adult and put her in classrooms that look oddly college-like (like a small liberal arts college). I could very easily imagine this being a small seminar class for dedicated literature students. This would be a more competitive group, and would make sense for her to have read all the course material before the class starts ( don't remember even our best students doing that for high school and I was in a very competitive academic programme). And this would make more sense for Cairo's whole, '"I live alone in my big ancestral mansion, where my parents are never around," and "I've seen my prof in non-academic settings." It's a bit less common, but students and teachers have been known to run into each other in smaller college towns, I've known profs who openly meet students outside of the classroom, in tangentially academic settings.

Cairo's whole scorned lover routine doesn't make any sense. But it's clearly the part of the film the writer feels most strongly about. It's supposed to be an "oh shit" moment. But falls flat really quickly because it demands you to believe the character that had been fairly nice and level-headed for most of the story turns on a head at a moment's notice. She turns against her friend, against the person she has a crush on, and becomes very cold and distant. Cairo begins the story, eager to please, and led by her friend Winnie. She adores her professor, obviosuly. But then bizarrely hands in erotic fanfiction about her and her teacher. She says "You erase the lines then get shocked when I cross one without knowing." But Cairo... you're still a student, regardless of what relationship you think you both have, on what planet would handing in erotica be appropriate at the high school level. So either you have to believe she was blind to the consequences of her piece, or she knew all along and wanted a way to test and punish her teacher. Either she's distinctly naive and in love and then distinctly and suddenly conniving and purposeful, or she's been planning his downfall from the beginning. Neither of these are satisfying or realistic character arcs. Especially for a high school senior. The author doesn't seem to have compassion for Cairo as a naive subject, a young adult overcome in a taboo situation. So it feels as though she's supposed to be a villain, not merely naive.

Maybe the last point could have been fixed if it was only implied that she was purposefully vindictive if the first half of the movie was from her perspective and the second half was from Mr. Miller's where we only get his belief in her cruelty, rather than the truth of it. I think that may have fixed the movie. But it would take away the "he's a coward and he needs to be punished for being mediocre" evil villain speech.

How to enjoy:

Just pretend Cairo is a university/ College student. It just makes more sense for the plot, there are only a few moments that even feel very "high school" and only because of the background. Even Winnie working in a restaurant feels very college-y. It just makes more sense in that setting.

Embrace the TC Tublr-ness of it all. I keep saying in all my reviews that it feels like something I would have written at 16. I have such a hard time believing the writer of the movie came up with the idea for it anywhere after high school. It's like she had a really cool idea and then just held on to it for years. So just go back into that headspace, and enjoy the cringe of it.

[try-again-bissh]

I really wish I was one of those ppl who write super long beautiful detailed ass essays on here, cause I wanna SCREAM about how fucking good Gameboys2 is !

I got tickets to see the online stream of the movie when it came out and it was fucking amazing I stayed up so late to watch it.

The second season has been impossible to find online but it's on fucking Tubi for some reason (shout fucking out to Tubi). I watched it all in one sitting Screamed, Cried and then played the whole fucking thing back again.

I LOVED the movie and somehow the second season still gave me so much more. All the little in between moments that I didn't know I missed but still hit me so fucking hard. There were some lines that fucking ripped me to shreds that I still hear ringing in my ears ( for example when Gav says "am I wrong to choose you?" the fucking noise that came outta me had only been heard by woodland animals nearing death)

A fucking masterpiece in acting as always from these two, I cannot talk about it enough I love this series so much and will always love it. By the end of the second season I was laying flat on my back with tears streaming down my face, I just love them all so much.

The first was really Elijah's show, acting his fucking ass off and killing it and we honestly all fell in love with Gav as Cairo did, watching him grow and open up was beautiful and I watched it during lockdown so it hit even harder. It gave me so much hope and peace Now season 2?! Kokoy De Santos the man you fucking are ! Give him the Oscar!!!!!!!

I was swimming in an ocean of pain and tears I need more ppl to watch this fucking series ASAP

[allwaswell16]

A fic rec of One Direction fics that feature soldiers and/or war as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics, please leave kudos and comments for the writers! You can find my other fic recs here. Happy reading!

—Louis/Harry—

💥 As We Were, As We Are by @jaerie *

(E, 51k, Dunkirk) Alex is a British soldier who has been injured in battle, Louis is a RAF pilot with amnesia. Somehow they put each other back together even if they get separated along the way.

💥 We're What's Right In This World by BriaMaria / @briannamarguerite

(E, 48k, soldier Harry) Or the World War II AU where Harry goes off to fight and all Louis wants to do is be the boy who brings him home.

💥 fondre ton absence by @scrunchyharry

(T, 41k, amnesia au) Determined to find Louis, Harry did everything he could in his quest to be reunited with him, except prepare for the state Louis might be in.

💥 another hazy may by deLILAh

(M, 41k, soldier Harry) louis is a terrible poet and harry lives in the now and they have six weeks to fall in love but, really, it only takes six seconds. bookshop meets military meets summer romance au ft. marlboros, the backstreet boys, and underrated literary devices.

💥 Letters to June by Larry_you_know / @larryyouknow

(M, 41k, a/b/o) It's 1915, Europe is in the middle of the Great War. Omega Louis decides to join the Letter Home Project to become someone’s penfriend.

💥 All That You Are by asphodelknox / @iamasphodelknox *

(M, 40k, Dunkirk) Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson meet on a civilian boat, taking them home after their rescue from Dunkirk. 

💥 You and Me by delsicle / @eeveedel

(E, 36k, Dunkirk) Alex goes to war. He comes back and everything is the same -- his hometown, his flat, the boy with the bad heart he left behind. Everything is same. Except for him.

💥 the dead things we carry by MediaWhore / @mediawhorefics *

(M, 25k, WWII soldiers) There are some things people never fully come home from. Until, one day, if they’re lucky, home comes to them.

💥 Trouvaille by delsicle / @eeveedel

(E, 18k, Dunkirk) The last thing Alex expects to find in an abandoned neighborhood in Dunkirk, France is something he actually wants to remember.

💥 High Heels, Red Dress by @jaerie *

(E, 15k, WWII) Hiding his queer identity isn't so hard until he attracts the attention of a particular soldier. It's all lies and secrets until the war is finally over. 

💥 To Honor by Awriterwrites / @a-writerwrites

(E, 14k, Scotland) Commander Styles leads his men to victory, but at what cost?

💥 Baby Honey by delsicle / @eeveedel

(E, 14k, Dunkirk) When the next great war strikes, all alphas have to ship out. Alex leaves a little more behind than some of the others.

💥 Worth the Wait by Rearviewdreamer / @all-these-larrythings *

(M, 10k, WWII) WW2 soldiers get cut off for their group in a storm. They hole up in an abandoned bar and get to know each other and slowly fall for each other. 

💥 You Smiled by @taggiecb

(G, 9k, Canada) Harry prepares himself and his guards for their prisoners of war, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the most beautiful man he has ever seen- who is now his prisoner.

💥 To Love Without Reason by @mugglemirror

(E, 8k, post WWII) “Come on in, soldier,” Louis pats Harry’s chest and walks away, leaving Harry to follow behind.

💥 beat the darkness by @turnyourankle

(T, 7k, WWI) Harry is a volunteer nurse stationed in Cairo; Louis is one of the patients in his ward.

💥 The Letters by thecheshirepussycat / @the-cheshire-pussy-cat

(NR, 5k, Dunkirk) Correspondence between Louis Tomlinson, a writer from London who is writing about the children sent to the country to escape war, and his lover Harry Styles, an officer in the British Military stationed somewhere in France.

💥 ring around the moon by unwept / @peachade *

(T, 5k, historical au) 5 slices where they seek shelter in each other.

—Rare Pairs—

💥 History in the Making by areyoutherelarry

(E, 45k, Zayn/Liam) Liam, a soldier, and Zayn, an art therapist, meet at an art fair and immediately are attracted to each other, but Zayn has a kid and a dead fiancée and Liam has a career to think about.

💥 Write me not by sweet_mysterie

(G, 23k, Niall/Harry) Niall has never had anything he’s thought was worth fighting for and Harry just wants to fight for his own cause.

[tiptapricot]

MK ship dynamic hcs continued with marcjake!

They start out with a lot of animosity when meeting. Marc has a lot of trepidation and deep seated fears and judgements about there being parts he didn’t know about, about not being as “in control” as he thought he was, and Jake has his own frustrations about how things in the past have been handled, and the things him and Marc disagree on when it comes to their shared wellbeing. The overlap of those feelings causes a lot of friction, and a lot more arguments during the immediate time post Jake reveal

They’re two guys used to bottling up their emotions, to focusing on an end goal and not including themself in the forefront of that, and that means communication is a bitch

Steven tries his best to get in the middle of them, but there’s still several months of headaches, and days full of shouting in their head, and people not being around when they need to be. It’s tough

Jake is the one that ends up breaking the tension. Him and Marc are butting heads again, over something small that’s grown into something larger, and Jake snaps at him. “You’re not fucking alone in this, Spector.”

Marc quiets for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you aren’t the only one that’s gone through this shit. I was there too. I pulled our ass out of that house, I pulled our ass out of the military when you were running straight into fire, and I pulled our ass out of Cairo. It’s not just you. It never has been. So I get it, yeah? It can really suck, to have to keep going, to have to cover yourself up, to keep track of everything, but you get over it and get in line. I’ve had to.”

It’s not really the way he meant to say it, but once it’s out there’s no going back. Marc slips away, leaving a ruffling of anger and something heavy right beneath their sternum, and Jake throws his hands up and gets back to whatever they were doing

It’s over the next week that the interaction really settles in

It changes something for Marc, in how he sees Jake. He can’t unhear what was said, can’t shake the tactile push of Jake’s words. It was so fucking familiar, the feelings in them, and he—Dammit

Steven talked once, about recognition of the self through the other, but this… Marc doesn’t want this. This isn’t what it’s supposed to be like

It’s hard not to notice, afterwards, the way Jake doesn’t snap at him for why he’s doing something, but what he’s doing as a result (like he knows, like he’s been through this himself)

It’s hard not to notice the way his presence is always felt with a heaviness in their hands and around their shoulders, an ache in the joints, making everything feel more worn

It’s hard not to notice that when he’s mad he hasn’t been listened to, mad that he’s been alone, that he knows why it happened

It’s a terrible thing, for Marc to realize how alike they are

It makes it hard to hold onto his anger. Instead of an obstacle, and enemy, a Someone to shove away so the world can be simpler, Jake becomes a synchronized step, old footprints Marc knows the rhythm to

He’s pissed about it anyway, though

Jake doesn’t comment, when Marc stops pushing back and trying to draw answers out of him, and just hovers. Just watches

Jake’s in the flat one night after being out serving Khonshu, sitting in their kitchen with his gloved knuckles pressed into a small bowl of ice, when Marc settles forward. Their neck tingles and the world blurs a bit, and Jake hisses when Marc helps register more of the pain

“Can you go?” Jake asks through gritted teeth.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Why are you still wearing gloves?”

“Ice burn isn’t great, Spector.” And cold, bloody, wetness is one of the last things Jake wants to subject his fingers to

There’s something like a sigh and then the world thins as Marc pushes through him, shouldering Jake to the side. He lets him, too tired to push back

Marc stares for a moment after the switch, and then peels off the gloves, wincing at the tug on their badly split knuckles. “Clean first,” he mutters. “Then ice.”

He takes them to the bathroom and rinses their hands, working gentler than he usually does. Maybe because he thinks Jake will snip at him if he’s too rough, or maybe just because he’s always been better at being careful with others than himself

Marc does the alcohol rub too, the little strips of gauze, the band aids. Then he swipes a dishcloth from the kitchen and a bag of peas from the freezer, and settles on the couch, coolness seeping over their fingertips

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Together they stare up at the ceiling, a bitter acceptance settling deep and hesitant somewhere in the quiet

They don’t end up talking much more, after that. Not in full Words and Voice conversations, at least

When they do it’s usually from the fallout of something building, from the difficulty of Working through feelings, or knowing How to

They continue to get frustrated, continue to miss the mark on assumptions and bottle things up.

Marc fronts for most of a mission for Khonshu once, when they’ve been dosed with some toxin that throws their brain out of wack, and Jake simmers angrily for a week before Marc realizes it was his recklessness got Jake pissed

In turn, Marc constantly gets annoyed at Jake’s clothes being left around the flat or his shoes tracking dirt in the door, and it bursts into a rather long trail of back and forth notes in their phone about how to share their space and what their cleanliness boundaries are

Keeping up Work and Home and Hobbies and Moon Knight is a lot. Jake is busy, Marc is busy, Steven is busy, and collectively they are tired, so clear talking doesn’t happen all the time. But…

There’s another aspect to what settles that’s… different

Sometimes the lack of Words isn’t the silent treatment, or a volcano building pressure. Sometimes it’s just… that they don’t need to

Jake gets when Marc is tense and snappy the morning after a nightmare. Marc knows what it’s like to crash after a bad mission and to wake up with their body sore and hardly wanting to move. They both know what it’s like to stare at the numbers on their phone and wish it felt good to call them

They get each other, as much as Marc may loathe to admit it at first. They both understand what it’s like to lose themselves in protecting others, to squirrel feelings away where they won’t hurt, to hide. It’s something different than they can get with other people or with Steven. Not better, just different

They both try to say the quiet part through actions, to Show whatever kind of appreciation has grown instead of Admitting it. They do little things, passively, with the other in mind. Just because they know better, of course, or because it makes their life easier. It doesn’t mean much in the big scheme, really

Jake begins casually checking that Marc eats a varied diet, that he’s getting himself good food and not sacrificing flavor for efficiency (or allowing Steven to snack without getting any actual meals in). That shifts into getting him to get fancy takeout now and then (whether by Jake ordering it himself or by Marc finding a menu and a number left on the counter), to allow Marc little pleasures that are his and to find enjoyment without being afraid

Marc does his own little upkeep. When he’s annoyed at clothes being left around, he folds them, and at some point it becomes a relaxing routine instead of a pointed move. He sets Jake’s shoes by the door, and puts the coffee pot on when he feels the slow, slushy shift of him coming towards front after a night of something tiring. Marc gets the car washed, and dusts the vents, and swaps out the air freshener when it goes stale, and buys new pocket tissues.

They never discuss it beyond passing comments (“Is this the right place?” “Best on the South Side.” or “You wrinkled my tie, Marc.”). Discussing it would be too far. Discussing it would be something different.

In times they meet in headspace, when Jake emerges from his locked up corners of the inner world, they mostly do things in parallel play

Jake fiddles with the old cab he has in there, the one that always needs some kind of repairs, and Marc will sit quietly and pretend he’s not flipping through old NASA magazines they still have memorized from childhood

Jake strikes up a conversation about that once. (“You still into space?” “You still into driving?” Jake laughs loud and Marc cracks a grin. He’s tugged forward to a Mars exhibit at Steven’s old work a few days later)

The arguments that pop up get shorter. The miscommunication gets a bit better. The flames lull to embers, and it takes both of them time to admit that means there’s warmth there now

Wasn’t it meant to be rotten work? All of this. Especially to the other, especially if it was them.

Because it isn’t

Marc thinks it’s nice to make jokes in Spanish again, and to have rock and jazz and Latin pop stuck in his head on bus rides

Jake can admit that seeing Marc smile gives him way more of a kick than getting him to swear, and that having someone there to keep him company on late nights is better than a lonely parking lot

None of that means the bite goes away, that the struggle to fit edge to edge ever smooths, but at the same time…

At the same time there are distant hands to care for bruised knuckles, and a leather anchor to cling to during flashbacks, and someone else to say “I know right?” when memories resurface that make the floor shake.

There’s a camaraderie there, in their mutual weariness, in their shared fear of failing to protect the people they love, and their history of fighting and surviving

And sure, they both get that after a point, but… well shit, it wasn’t meant to feel like this

Marc isn’t meant to find himself fiddling with Jake’s gloves, only to lean down and rest his cheek on the leather. Jake isn’t meant to smile a bit wider and feel a warm heat in his throat when Marc’s close to front. They aren’t meant to have silent, parallel activity turn into hips side by side as one of them tells a story, and then into hands brushing together, and into the muted touch of holding.

But fuck if it isn’t nice, if it doesn’t feel good, and safe, and sweet

Neither of them know how to say it. They pinch and gripe and snap, but Love is not a word they know how to say. It’s so sappy

Not that they need to. Not that they’ve ever really had to Say the things that matter. It comes through anyway

There are weary cuddles, looks that pass meaning easily because they’ve seen the same one on their own face in the mirror, reassurances, strong hands and safe corners of headspace when the world outside is too loud

Marc leaves unfinished tic tac toe boards and messages in morse code in Jake’s jacket pockets. Jake gets him an in-box Blast Off from eBay for Chanukah one year. They make a Google doc to argue over sports

One afternoon, Marc’s helping get food ready for Shabbat (at Steven’s insistence for them to actually rest and focus for a weekend) when he’s hit with a thick wave of dissociation. Nothing happens for a bit. No thoughts, just the untethered movement of a chest and eyes staring down, and then the hand reaches up, and the hand presses against lips. A little flash of red and green and deep brown bloom behind Marc’s eyes, and when his hand settles down again, brushed with a kiss of wetness, he huffs slightly, smiling

Jake keeps Marc floating. He tugs him up by his collar and says You aren’t allowed to drown, it will get better. You do not get to give up.

Marc gives Jake a place to stand. He straightens his hat and looks him dead in the eyes and knows him for it. You don’t get to disappear. You don’t get to be overshadowed by this weight.

And within all of it there is something gentle, something that stems from having been through the same type of wars, and being a safe understanding place for the other to retreat to

They’re dual hands holding the same mug of sweet coffee. The “Got onions. Check freezer for ice cream.” in their notes and the “Jake, did you tape the game?” sticky noted onto the front door. They’re warm kisses pressed against temples and curls and facial hair waiting to be shaved (Not a chance, Spector, let me have this one). They are a pause, and rolled up sleeves, and thumbs rubbing absentmindedly on the chafed impression of watch bands and glovelines

(JakeSteven)

[egypt-museum]

Girdle of Princess Sithathor

Middle Kingdom, 12th Dynasty, ca. 1897-1878 BC. Tomb of Princess Sathathor, Funerary complex of Senusret III, Dahshur. Excavation by Jacques de Morgan, 1894 Now in the Egyptian Museum, Cairo. JE 30858

The girdle of the Princess Sithathor is made of eight gold, half-open cowry shells. The ones at each end have flat reverses, and were joined by means of grooves to serve as a clasp, fastening the girdle when they slid one into the other.

The shells are separated from each other by rhomboidal polychrome beads of carnelian, feldspar, and lapis lazuli. Gold cowry shells were imitations of the real cowry shells that had been used in belts, bracelets, anklets, and necklaces since the pre-dynastic period. People thought that cowry shells possessed powerful magical properties and increase female fertility.

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