#it must feel great to have completed this book even though it’s probably also a little sad

[orestesimp]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 13 | FINALE

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: The end is the beginning is the end. Or alternatively: You finally get to have Marc's beautiful face buried between your thighs.

Content: will cause unrealistic sex expectations.

Word count; 17k (guys I'm so sorry)

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS]

Your face, small and pinched and dirty, looks back at you from the tiny mirror in Steven’s loo. The unflattering fluorescent lights aren’t doing you any favours. Eyes wide and strung out. A burst bottom lip. You look dreadful. 

Your clothes are soggy and cold underneath Marc’s somewhat drier jacket, mucky with grime and mud (and god knows what else), clinging wetly to your skin. 

You look like something the cat dragged in. 

You shiver. The idiom feels a little too on the nose, considering you were dragged across East London’s dirty concrete not even an hour ago. Just… not by a cat.  You shiver again, harder this time, trying not to think about it.

A shower. Marc sent you in here to take a shower. “Go get clean,” he’d said, “Warm up.” 

Right now you feel like you’ll never be warm again.

Marc’s jacket comes off first, and you hang it carefully on a hook, running two fingers over the cuff. You stare at it for a moment, fighting the urge to clutch it to your chest and bury your face in it. On autopilot, you reach out to undo your wristwatch instead, fingers running over the bare skin for a moment, searching, before you stare down at your wrist in confusion. 

Right. Your watch is gone. 

Or… not gone. Probably still out there in the alleyway, lying face up, cracked glass and all, on the concrete in the rain… next to the carcass of some invisible monster.  You shake your head, pushing away the image. It’s as good as gone, then, isn’t it? You’re certainly not going back out to search for it at this point. You’re bloody well never going down that alleyway again if you can help it. Hell, even going outside ever again might be off the table.

Pulling the shower curtain aside, you start the shower and peel off your ruined clothing, letting everything plop in a solid, sodden mass on the corner of the bathroom floor.

The muscles in your arms and shoulders are stiffening up and threatening to cramp up as the last bit of adrenaline abandons your system, leaving bruises and all-encompassing exhaustion in its wake. Your knees throb with the leftover pain. The water stings your scraped shin when you step under the spray. 

At least it’s warm. 

The heat of the water feels like a balm on your aching limbs, and you close your eyes, tilting your head back under the spray, trying to let the comforting warmth relax you.  

In the darkness behind your eyelids, the shower sounds like rain. Your nakedness feels like vulnerability. Like maybe you never made it back. Maybe you’re still out there, in the narrowness of the alley, under threat from an otherworldly creature that you cannot see, let alone fight. 

Your chest squeezes painfully sharp, and your eyes fly open, half expecting to see the hazy moonlit sky overhead. But no, there’s nothing but the expanse of the blank white ceiling. 

You’re still here in Steven’s shower. Safe, or as safe as it gets right now.

Dropping your gaze, you watch the blood and muck sluice down your legs and onto the tiled floor in rusty red-tinted waves to pool on the tile floor. The dirty water leaves lines of fine grit behind as the rest is sucked down the drain. 

You feel strangely numb. Like some part of your brain (probably an amenable survival mechanism) is trying to block out what happened so you don’t go mad. But maybe it’s too late for that. After all, you were a hair's width away from meeting your maker tonight at the claws of an invisible blob monster. 

It’s impossible to not think about. An irritated half-healed scab itching to be scratched. You turn it over in your mind, trying to process the fact that the supernatural is real—or those creatures were, at any rate. And apparently Marc dons a mummy costume and goes out into the night to battle them like he’s magical girl Sailor Moon. 

God. All of this is right proper insane, isn’t it? You want to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness.

You almost died; your understanding of the world as you know it has fundamentally changed; yet none of it feels real. The world itself doesn’t feel real. 

The water by your feet is running clear now. The dirt and grime finally washed off, but the film of exhaustion still clings to your limbs. Turning off the tap, you step out, grabbing the towel Marc left for you in the corner by the door. Your eyes linger on the set of clean clothes waiting for you underneath, folded into a neat square. 

You can't reconcile the man who does this for you with the same man that pummelled a supernatural monster into a whimpering pulp without hesitation. Didn’t recognise the Marc you thought you knew in the man in the alleyway standing over the creature and curb-stomping it into the ground with cold and blank disdain in his eyes. Couldn’t see that man in the Marc who escorted you home and gently bullied you into the shower. 

Reaching for the clothes, you quickly dress and pull aside the accordion door only to find the very man you were thinking of right outside the door, arms crossed and back plastered to the closest wall as he stands guard.  

You barely cross the threshold before he's already pushing away from the wall and moving in to guide you gently but firmly towards the kitchen like a particularly insistent herding dog.

There’s a fairly extensive first aid kit laid out on the counter, well used by the look of it, and you try not to think too hard about why that might be. 

"Up," Marc commands, curt as ever, swatting a hand down on the surface of the countertop, and you feel like a lamb being rounded back into the pen. 

A ‘please’ wouldn’t have hurt him, but you let it go with just a glare as you shuffle over, too drained to put up a fight over something so small.  You lift your arms to brace against the countertop, getting ready to hop up, and flinch a little as your shoulders twinge and ache. 

Marc is in front of you in a heartbeat, watching you with worried eyes and a furrowed brow. His hands hover, like he wants to help but doesn't dare to touch, and any testiness in you fizzles out at the sight of him.

You give him a small nod, barely able to complete the motion before his hands come down on your waist, lifting you. Even though you’re expecting it, the loss of ground beneath your feet feels sudden, unbalancing you, and you gasp, hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself. 

Part of you expects him to drop you, but he doesn’t. Marc’s warm and solid under your palms, strong muscles bunching as he perches you on the counter. 

Blood rushes to your head with furious speed. It must be from the sudden change in altitude. That’s what you tell yourself no matter how doubtful that is considering the standard kitchen counter height is not even three feet above the floor. You're not exactly climbing the Himalayan mountains. But you don’t want to think of the more probable reasons right now. 

You're still reeling from lightheadedness when he lets you go in favour of busying himself with the large tin box on the counter, rifling through the arsenal of medical supplies, and sets down what he needs next to you. Then he's dragging a nearby chair to position himself in front of you. Sitting so close he's practically nestled between your legs. 

It does nothing to help with your newly discovered vertigo symptoms. 

"I’m going to check you over for injuries now,” he says perfunctory, pulling you from your thoughts, “Left leg.”  

You stretch out your leg into the air, glancing down at him, unsure of where to rest it. There’s no space on the tiny kitchen stool. Do you just… put it down in his lap? On his crotch?!?! Or–

Marc's hand wraps around your ankle, and his executive decision-making ends your flailing, as he gently guides your foot to rest against his thigh. Then his head ducks down, and he starts to inspect the patch of scraped skin on your knee, dabbing gently at the scattered dots of blood with a square of clean gauze.

With how tender and swollen everything feels, you expect it to hurt. That at the slightest pressure on your skin, it is bound to sting and snag and tear. But it doesn't. Marc is gentle, barely pressing down and showing such minute care as he tends to you that you barely feel the brush of the cloth at all.

It's such an impossible contrast. The tenderness of his touch as he fusses over you, placing a plaster on your knee, compared to the brutality you’ve now seen him capable of.

You still can't make sense of it. What happened, or what that invisible monster in the rain was. Why Marc was out there. Or what he meant by that being "what he does." 

"Marc," you start tentatively as you lean forward to get his attention, "What happened toni--"

“Wiggle your toes,” he interrupts. 

His odd demand cuts off your line of thought. “What?”

“Try to wiggle your toes for me”, he repeats, without looking up. “Want to make sure you didn’t get any nerve damage.”

You frown, you’re not blind to the fact that his request conveniently just cut you off from asking a question that undoubtedly Marc doesn’t want to answer. Still, you comply, angling your foot upwards and wiggle your toes for his inspection. 

Whether you passed his ad hoc medical examination, Marc’s expression isn’t giving you any clues. His face is as stoic as ever as he sets down your foot. He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over to your right side to draw your other foot into his lap. 

Marred with bruises, looking like something that got mangled in a bear trap. Your right foot does not make for a pretty sight. It’s swollen and bleeding sluggishly from long gashes where the blob monster’s claw-like grip must have broken through skin. 

It's a gruesome picture, but miraculously, the injury doesn’t seem to be too serious. It stings more than it actually hurts, and it’s not even bleeding much anymore. Not even worth a trip to A&E really, as you doubt it’s deep enough to need stitches. 

At least that’s the assessment based on your own limited medical knowledge. If you based the severity on Marc’s reaction, you’d think it needed amputation. 

The line of his shoulder is pulled taut and reminds you of a live wire. Mouth set in a grim tortured line. He has the expression of a doctor about to give the nearest kin some heartbreaking news as he’s staring down at your foot with haunted guilt in his eyes. 

"I'm all right. I’m sure it just looks a lot worse than it is," you tell him. 

He doesn't meet your eyes or reply for that matter. Instead, he begins to gently tend the wound. Mouth pressing down so tightly his lips go pale white from it. He dabs away the oozing blood, carefully applying antibiotic ointment to the worst of the broken skin, and covering them with large squares of gauze that he tapes in place. It’s all quite professional, really, the practised ease that only comes with repetition. 

You wonder how many times he has done this before. You wonder how much harder it must be for him to suture his own gashes and gaping wounds. Wonder how long he’s been doing this by himself, fighting these hellish creatures. These things that you still have no bloody fucking idea as to what they are. 

"Marc,” you start tentatively, “what was--" A ticklish sensation rushes through you. In panic, you think a centipede is crawling down the sole of your foot. You instinctively jerk your leg up and away, nearly kneeing Marc in the face before you realise what’s happened. 

Your eyes fly downwards to Marc who is entirely unfazed by the close call as you stare at him in shock. His index finger rests on the arch of your heel and you blink up at him in a dumb stupor, not believing your eyes.  

Did he just– did he just fucking tickle you?!

There’s no hint of wrongdoing in his expression. No grin, or crack in his stony facade. He is unflappable as always as he continues cleaning your wound with a straight face. 

"Needed to check if you still had sensation in that foot," he offers up as an explanation as if he thinks that tickling was a perfectly reasonable thing for him to do in the circumstances. 

You frown, biting down the tart comment bubbling in your throat. You want to call him out on it, that you know what he’s up to and he’s acting like a child. But you know that the moment you do, the conversation will derail into an argument and in the flare of your temper, you’ll lose track of your questions. You’re pretty sure Marc knows you well enough that that’s exactly what he is aiming for. 

Gathering a deep calming breath into your chest, you steady yourself before you take a second shot. 

"What was that thing in the rain?" you ask again. 

He acts like he doesn't hear you. "Roll your ankles side to side," he requests instead. 

Irritation prickles your face. This bastard is still trying to evade your questions. 

"Marc," you start again, "what was--"

"Press down your weight on my hand with your foot."

"Marc!" you bark. 

He finally drags his eyes upwards to meet yours without bothering to lift his chin, seemingly as detached and reposed as ever. But there's something else in there too. A tiny flicker as you hold his gaze, and he has to look away. 

He looks… scared. 

Scared of what you don't know. The man practically single-handedly beat three monsters straight out of a Lovecraftian horror story with his bare fists tonight. With strength like that, you don't think anything should ever be capable of scaring him. 

"Can we talk about what happened tonight?" you ask again, trying to keep your voice even. 

His head ducks back down again, and he busies himself by rechecking the bandaids on your injured ankle. 

“There's nothing to talk about,” he murmurs offhandedly, but his hands betray him. 

There's no mistaking it. Even though his shoulders are obscuring your line of sight, you don’t need to see it in order to feel how unsteady his hands are. How his fingers stutter against your skin as they trail over your ankle.

He’s not letting go, as if he’s afraid that if he wasn’t holding onto you, you’d get up and walk away.

Gazing down on him from your vantage point of the counter, Marc doesn’t look as imposing as when you were looking up at him from the rainy concrete in the alley. From up here, he looks small and scared even. 

Even though there is nothing in this flat that should intimidate him. No invisible monsters lurking in the dark shadows behind Steven’s piles and piles of books. The scariest thing in Steven’s flat is dust mites. 

No, the only thing Marc is scared of, you realise, is this conversation. 

That’s what Steven told you, wasn’t it? That 'there are things that Marc hasn't told you.' That 'once you know everything,’ Marc thinks ‘you'll walk away'. 

It’s the final puzzle piece, slotted into its rightful place, and you can finally see the picture that was blurred out before, crystallising in startling detail. 

This is it. This is the big secret. The thing that Marc hasn't told you. 

You get it now. Why he has avoided you all this time. Why he stayed away even after you told him you love him. 

Because how on earth would anyone even begin to explain what happened tonight to someone who wasn’t there? 

How could he possibly have explained any of this to you before now? How would he possibly convince you those things out there (whatever they are) were real without dragging you into danger, head first, to see it with your own eyes? 

Didn't you struggle with the very same thought when you’d first tried to tell Marc what you’d seen in the alley on your own before all hell broke loose? The fear that he wouldn't believe you. That he'd think you were insane. 

Even if he had managed to explain and get you to believe him– what then? 

You can understand it. Why he was convinced that you would leave not just him but Steven as well, causing further collateral damage, if he told you everything. You can see from where he was standing, why he’d worry. 

But this is where Marc is wrong. You still want this. Him. Them.

"What happened tonight, it doesn't change how I feel about you," you start, and his hand on your foot spasms, grip tightening. It’s how you know your guess was right on the button, so you press on. "What I told you on the phone, I still mean it. I–"  you hesitate on the word. 

The last thing you want is to spook him away again by repeating it. It might be too much too soon. Instead, you settle for second best. 

"I want you to come back. Steven and I both do."  

Marc lets go of your foot. You can see his hand shaking despite Marc’s attempt to make it stop. His fingers flex and curl in agitation until he gives up and reaches up to drag it through his matted curls in frustration. 

“You don’t want this,” he says quietly, and his face is still turned downwards, staring at the floor refusing to look up at you. 

Knowing Marc, you know that he could very well mean the situation or himself. After everything that’s happened tonight, the part that upsets you the most is that he still feels this way about himself. 

"I do," you counter, saying the words with the whole of your chest. “I. Want. You. I want all of this.”

In the face of your certainty, he flinches, face pinched as if telling him you want him is a physical slap that pains him. It takes him a second to recover, to shake his head in refusal as he stares down at the floor like it committed a great wrong against him. 

"You want a normal life. Steven can give you that if it’s just the two of you. I can't,” he tells you. His voice, low in that weary and tired tone you overheard in the bathroom. 

"I don't need you to give me a normal life. What does that even mean? ‘Normal,’” you say derisively. “I don't need or want normal if it means you're not there Marc. That's not the life I want.”

He's still not looking at you, biting the insides of his cheek, and you can almost see the walls closing in around him before your very eyes. 

"You said you wanted me safe”, you say, ducking your head to try to catch his gaze, and you manage to see his eyes peer up at you from his lashes, as you continue. “And happy. I'm telling you now, I'm not going to be happy if you're not here."

Marc’s eyes widen with alarm. “You were awake?”

"I–" you start, but he cuts you off before you finish. 

“You were pretending to be asleep?” 

"No, I thought I was dreaming, I–"

“What else did you hear,” he asks. There’s panic in his voice, and he’s already rising from his seat in preparation to flee the room. 

Fuck, how are you fucking this up this badly this fast? Seeing his distress almost makes you want to backtrack, to fold it up and call it a night, try again tomorrow maybe. Because you know in his mind Marc is already bolting for that door, ready to leg it and put as much distance as he can between you and him. 

But… your mind flashes to the weight of his gentle touch on your shoulder. To his fingers brushing away the hair on your forehead. To his quiet voice as he whispered, 'I love you too'. You know what you heard in the dark: a testament of Marc’s feelings for you, and it emboldens you. 

“Marc.” You lean forward, reaching out to take his hand in yours. He stiffens with a jolt as your fingertips brush up against his knuckles, and you can almost see the line of his shoulder vibrate. But he doesn't make any moves to pull away at your touch. 

“I want you. Do you want me?” you ask. 

He stills. Marc looks at you for a long unflinching moment. It’s the same conflicted set in his jaw when you were standing next to him in front of Gus’ tank. The same hesitation written over his face when you were watching him through the back window of the taxi as it pulled away from him in the night. That same pained look when your eyes met in your office before he fled from you. 

His mouth parts with hesitation, but then he bites down and grinds his jaw hard enough that you think you can hear his molars grate from where you sit. “What I want doesn’t matter,” he answers you stubbornly. 

It's enough to make you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him back and forth and scream into his face. 

“It does!” you say, almost half-shouting. “Of course it matters. You matter.”

"Don't. Don't do that.” Marc shakes his head, and he moves his free hand over yours, gently prying it off of him. “Save that for Steven. He deserves it. Deserves… you. I… I don't.” 

“And what about what I deserve,” you demand, fed up to the gills with his tendency for self-sacrifice, “What I want? Don’t I deserve to decide for myself?” 

That seems to catch him off guard. For once he doesn’t have a ready response, just glares at you, his jaw still set at that impossibly stubborn angle, but his eyes are full of so much pain that it hurts you to see it. You reach out again and cup his cheek.

"Remember that night Gus died? You came to me for help. You said I was the only one you could think of to ask, and it made me so happy that you did. I want you to ask me for things.”

There’s another moment of indecision in his eyes. The upper half of his body tilts in your direction, almost like he’s reaching for you, even if he won’t let his hands do so.

"I just want to be with you,” you continue, “I want to be your person. The person you come to when you need something. Can’t that be enough?"

His eyes are glued on you, mouth gaping open. For a moment you think you've succeeded, managed to stun him into silence and maybe even convinced him. 

It doesn’t last. 

He closes his parted mouth and clamps it shut until it’s compressed into a thin determined line. Then before you can react, he’s abruptly pulling away, turning with wordless efficiency, and walking away from you.  

"Marc?" you call after him, but his determined stride doesn’t even falter,  "Marc!"

Oh goddamnit! 

You hop off the counter, your sore ankle twinging when you land on it, but you ignore the dull ache as you run after him. 

“You don’t have to do this, Marc!" you shout. Slinging your arm out, you only just manage to catch him by the back of his shirt. Your fingers grip onto the fabric for dear life to stop him from getting further away, "You don’t have to do everything on your own. You don’t have to be alone. Steven and I are here. Stop running away from us! We want to support you. Please! You can lean on us.” 

He stops, turning about sharply, fire and brimstone in his eyes. The fuse of his already short temper burnt to a crisp. 

“You and Steven were never supposed to know about me or get caught up in any of this,” he snaps. “I’ve– My life is dangerous. It’s not safe.” 

“Yeah, I noticed the red flags already, you dunce. I still care about you regardless!”

“I don’t want you to care!” Marc roars, and it hits you with the force of a punch to the chest. 

You suck in a sharp pained breath, and he must see the hurt in your face because his eyes soften slightly, but his voice is no less emphatic, “You can’t go poking around in my life. Running out after me in the middle of the night. It's dangerous! You got hurt tonight. You could’ve been killed!"

And that does it. The pain of his implied rejection, the scolding tone, the way it feels like he’s blaming you for getting yourself hurt. It all rubs you the wrong way. All of the patience you had in you up until now evaporates, replaced by a fiery heat burning up your chest until it comes to a boiling point.

“Me?” you bite back indignantly. “What about you? Running around in a bloody Halloween costume in the middle of the night. Fighting invisible monsters? What if you got hurt? What on earth were you doing out there?”

“This is exactly why you needed to stay away from me. You do not want or need my fucking mess, okay!?"  

“Yes, I bloody well do! I'll take your fucking mess, Marc—every speck of it—as long as I get to have you too.”

His gaze bores into yours, eyes dark like spilt ink and brimming with anger so stark it practically sparks. 

“You really want to know what I do? Why I was out there tonight?” he asks, voice quieter, but the anger is still there, simmering just below the surface waiting to erupt. 

The sudden change feels like a gauntlet being thrown down, challenging you to a metaphorical game of chicken, daring you to back away and run for the hills while you still can.

You stand your ground, heels digging into the floor as you nod, swallowing the anxiety you feel pressed up against your throat like an acidic heartburn.  

“I serve Khonshu. I’m his avatar,” he says matter-of-factly as if it’s the most sensible thing in the world. As if any of this is supposed to make sense to you. 

It doesn’t. It makes no fucking sense at all. 

Your mind scrambles to connect the dots. Khonshu? Avatar? What the hell is he on about? Avatar as in James Cameron’s Pocahontas in space? And Khonshu? What even… You can’t even begin to think of what that is supposed to mean. Don’t recognise it save for a passing familiarity that it’s a word that Steven has used when passionately serenading you with facts on Ancient Egypt. The connection between the two is lost to you. 

“What is… ‘Khonshu?'” you ask, and this time, you don’t have to drag the answer out of Marc. 

He answers you willingly and as plainly without varnish as before. “Khonshu’s the ancient Egyptian god of the moon. Years ago, I was stabbed and left for dead. He saved my life and in return, I work for him now.” 

There’s no hint of emotion as he says it. He’s not pleading for you to believe him despite how fantastical it sounds. Not trying to convince you of anything. Marc is leaving it to you whether or not you believe him, almost like he wishes you wouldn’t. Like this bizarre rambling will hopefully finally send you packing and out of his life. And that’s… how you know he’s not lying to you. 

“Work for him… how?” you ask. 

His eyes flick upwards, grinding his teeth as if he’s biting down on a curse, before his gaze settles back on you. 

“I swore to protect travellers of the night.”

And once again, that tells you absolutely nothing. What does that even mean, ‘Travellers of the night’? As in prostitutes?! 

Marc’s obfuscation and frankly dodgy-as-fuck explanations have your blood boiling. You’re almost positive he’s doing this on purpose to get you hacked off, and he’s succeeding. 

“Can you speak in plain English?”

“I take care of bad guys so they don’t harm good people. Protect civilians who can’t protect themselves.”

“So you’re… what? Like a supernatural police officer? A monster hunter? A guardian of the night?”

He grits his teeth. 

“Something like that.” The answer is dismissive, and so is his attitude. He folds his arms across his chest, trying to distance himself from you, casting a glance at the door. “Satisfied? We done here?”

“No! No, we’re not ‘done here.’ We are the furthest thing from done. I already told you, Marc. Nothing that’s happened tonight changes how I feel about you.”

He shakes his head, jaw set mulishly, before tearing his eyes away and turning towards the front door. 

And that just won’t do. If you let Marc walk out now, you know he’ll do everything in his power to avoid you for the rest of his life.

Moving quickly, you dart around Marc and slide between him and the door. In your single-minded hurriedness, you bump into the small table by the door, sending several things clattering over and probably adding yet another bruise to your already abused body, but you don’t care. You cannot let him leave. Plastering your back to the door, you stand tall and raise your chin, prepared to act as a physical barrier if you have to.

Marc’s eyes narrow into slits, a snarl of pure exasperation erupting from the back of his throat.  

“Move,” he orders, taking a step closer to you, but there is no real threat behind it. He doesn’t reach out to touch you; doesn’t grab you or shove you out of the way

He just looks at you like you are an actual obstacle he cannot surpass. But you know that he could move you by force if he wanted to. It’d be easy for him to force his way out of the flat with little effort. 

Between the two of you, physically he’s the stronger one. You’ve witnessed him take out supernatural monsters tonight. If he wanted to, he could shove his way straight through you. Carry you into another room and lock you in. Could easily snap every bone in your wrist in the blink of an eye.

But he won't. After all this time, if there is one thing you’ve learnt about Marc, it is that harm is only ever his last resort. 

The man is squirmish at the prospect of physically harming a goldfish. Would rather visit all the pet shops in all of London in the middle of the night to find a mythical one-finned fish to avoid that outcome. At the core of him, he wants to shield and protect, not break. 

And towards you? He would never use brute strength on you. Would never hurt you. Would give his very life to make sure you’re safe and unharmed. Happy.

In front of you, Marc takes another step forward, closing the distance. His commanding presence crowds you in against the doorframe until there’s barely any space between you anymore. 

Marc is angry. Jaw tense, shoulders tied up in a tangled knot, nose flaring like an angry bull emitting a bright and blaring warning signal for you to move. But you stay put because if he’s a bull, then that must make you a matador, practically waving a red cape at him to come charge you.

He’s staring down at you again. That look in his eyes, like he knows what is best for you. That same stern gaze when he swore you to secrecy, deciding what was best for Steven. The determination there that tells you that this is not up for discussion. 

It’s a recurring pattern with Marc. He decides what he thinks is best for everyone else, with no consideration of what the person in question actually wants. 

“Last chance,” he warns, through gritted teeth, “I won’t ask again.”

Marc probably thinks this is a threat. But it’s only because he can’t see himself, the pain-filled eyes that look back down at you. Nothing is menacing about it. 

“I’m not moving,” you tell him. 

It’s only a fraction of a second, but you catch his eyes flickering to your lips. A near-growling sound tears out of his throat, and then he’s moving forward further into your space.

What is he–?

His hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you to him, and then his lips are on yours. 

Oh.

Marc Spector is kissing you.

It’s hard and demanding, his lips crushed to yours, clearly driven by the frustration and anger that seems to vibrate just under his skin. But it doesn’t matter. You have dreamed of kissing this man for so long. Even with the harshness, you can’t help but respond to him, meeting the brutal press of his lips with your own more eager one. Mouth parting in invitation for him. 

Something shifts. 

All the fight goes out of him, leaking away like hot air out of a punctured balloon, whatever anger was there fizzles out of him, and you feel him melt against your lips. The kiss slips into something softer, sweeter. Something that steals every ounce of oxygen from your lungs. 

You don’t know how long it lasts, the only thing you know is that it doesn’t last long enough. If you could have the choice, you’d want it to last forever. 

It doesn’t of course. Marc retreats from you with an unsteady step. His eyes are etched with shock as you take him in, brows pinched and pupils wide, and you already want to kiss him again. 

The two of you have been here before. Staring at each other from so close a distance that your foreheads are inches from touching. Except this time it’s not in front of a fish tank with an imposter goldfish between you. A stray curl falls into his eyes and tickles your nose. It’s the hint of clean linen, the note of coffee you brew for him every night that he will unfailingly drink because you made it for him. It’s the smell you wake up to embedded in Steven’s sheets. 

You want this man, all of him, to be yours. 

Your face tilts up to him. So close, his lips ghost over yours.

“Marc,” you whisper, and his eyes flicker over your face. “Stop running.”

Part of you expects him to stop you again. That he will pull back, eyeing you like you’re something dangerous, the way he did that night in front of the fish tank. 

He doesn’t. 

You tip your face forward even further, your nose dragging along the bridge of his.

“I love you.” 

You can hear the sharp inhale just like last time you said it over the phone when you did not know if he was on the other end or not. When you didn't know if the sound was imaginary or real. Now you know. 

You couldn’t see his face then, but this time you get to. The pinched furrow between his brow, that look in his eyes that makes your heart seize in your chest. There’s no doubt about it now. 

"And you love me,” you say. 

His lips part, and you brace yourself for another protest or denial, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his head does the slightest tilt forward. A nod, you realise. 

“Yeah.” He whispers it so quietly you nearly miss it at first. 

You smile. Happiness surges through your insides, weaving through your ribs until you think that your chest might burst. 

Marc Spector loves you. 

You swallow in relief, smiling even as you feel a sting prickle the corner of your eyes. Then Marc leans down and closes that infinitesimal space between you, bringing down the final barrier of separation that he has maintained since you met him. 

It’s a soft press of his lips to yours. So soft, it’s scarcely there, but it feels perfect all the same, a fluttering warmth that you can feel down to the curl of your toes. 

It’s an admittance. An invitation. A sign of trust. 

Marc kisses you again and again with lingering kisses that he deepens with each gentle press of his mouth to yours. His hand moves to cup your face in his palm, cradling your cheek like you're the most precious thing he’s ever touched. 

You feel like you ought to be surprised by how gentle he is, but you’re not. Not at all, because of course he’s gentle.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? Marc’s hardness is all smoke and mirrors, hiding the vulnerable softness that lies under the hardened skin. Beneath it all, Marc is protective and caring, kind even. 

And now, you finally get to have him in all his confounding complexities. This stubborn, kind, impossible idiot, right here in your arms. 

You pull him closer, even as you keep kissing him, fingers twisting into the brushed cotton of his shirt, and he lets you. Head leaning down as he adjusts his angle so he can slant his mouth fully over yours. He’s pressed up against every single inch of you, from his knees to his chest, your lips fused and somehow it’s still not even close to enough for you. You tug his collar, encouraging him to come even closer and he does, obedient, in a way that you’ve never known him to be before. 

Stepping forward, he follows your lead, inching closer, until the solidness of his chest presses you flush to the door. His arm comes to brace the side of your head, hand cupping behind the back of your neck, and you realise only belatedly it’s the reason why your head isn’t colliding with the hard wood behind you. 

Not that it would matter if you did. You don’t even think you’d notice if your head went through the wall right now. Too focused on the softness of his lips. Too lost in the quiet, near-silent humming sound he makes as he kisses you that sets your nerves alight. 

God, he’s perfect. His closeness is heady. There’s a growing hunger in your stomach that makes your limbs shake and tremble. After all the time he's been away, hiding from you, you feel starved for this. For him. You want to bite his neck, lick along the protruding line of his collarbone and swallow every inch of him down to the marrow if he’d let you. 

For all the gentleness that Marc is showing you, you have no intention of returning the favour. Your teeth sink in, biting down on his bottom lip, and he lets out a quiet involuntary gasp into your mouth. Your veins burn at the sound. Fuck, you want him to make that noise again, that careless pitch of pleasure that sounds so unguarded coming from him. You want to bite and nibble and scratch and claw and have him make every noise known and unknown to mankind. 

You drag your teeth along the swell of his lip, and he shivers, eyes squeezed firmly shut like he’s teetering on the very edge of his self-control. Then you nip down again. 

His hips stutter forward involuntarily, and he curses, the sound breathless and raw, like you tore it out of him before he was prepared. It’s all you want. To hear that sound again and again and again. You want to hear his tiny moans in your ear, the involuntary muffled growl as he buries his face into your neck trying to keep quiet, hear him gasp ‘fuck’ in barely audible decibels. You want everything. 

Hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, you haul him closer as if he wasn’t already pressed alongside your body. Thighs nestled between yours, the coarseness of denim scraping against your bare legs. You can feel the hardening bulge trapped between you, and you want him to grind against you, to rut into you mindlessly until you can feel his cock twitch against the softness of your belly. 

But Marc isn’t showing any signs of obliging you in that department, and you’re not willing to stop kissing him in order to give him directions. Instead, you arch your back away from the wall, tilting your pelvis until you rub up against his crotch. He jolts hard at the contact, the line of his body wracked in shivers with a gorgeous groan that is cut off too soon. 

"Shit!”  

His hand leaves your neck. Then he’s pulling back and away from you in retreat. You immediately miss the warmth of his body, reaching up to try to chase after the loveliness of his lips, but he stops you. A gentle but firm hand comes down on your shoulder, pinning you against the wall. 

You stare up at him, and you’re not sure you’re breathing anymore at the sight of him. You should be used to how preposterously beautiful this man is by now. But you never are. Each time feels novel and so much worse–no, better than the last time. The collar of his shirt is stretched and askew. Curls a mess against his forehead. Lips, slick and kiss-swollen as his mouth hangs open, chest heaving as he pants. 

As stunningly pretty as Steven is when you’ve succeeded in making a mess out of him, to do it to Marc is something else entirely. This orderly, neat freak of a man who makes it his life mission to repress his emotions and jam them shut inside of himself with a tight lid. You did this. You’ve made a mess of him. It’s electric, your veins buzz with the thrill, and your brain is screaming for more. 

Your hand reaches up, fingers carding through his hair as you reel him in by the back of his neck. Your mouth finds his, kissing him hard before he has time to overthink it or, god forbid, change his mind and try to bolt again. His mouth parts, and you swallow the soft oomph of surprise that escapes his throat and lean in, licking desperately into his mouth. If this is all you get, you want to try to savour him. 

Marc doesn’t stop you this time. Instead, his hands settle on your waist, fingers digging into your hips as he’s pulling you closer. It has the whole of your back from the base of your spine to the tip of your nose tingling. 

This time he’s the one grinding into you, the hard outline of his cock pressed tight between you. Even through the thick layer of denim, you can feel how hard he is, and you shiver pleasantly.

You moan into the kiss, rising on your tiptoes to meet him. There’s not an inch of space between your bodies, and you swear you can feel his cock twitch against your hip. 

And fuck, fuck– that’s– 

You need to get him in bed now before you hitch your legs and clamber onto his thighs to climb him like the trunk of a tree. Why the fuck did the architect place the bedroom section at the opposite end of the flat.

Stepping one foot sideways, you tug at the neck of Marc’s shirt to steer him towards the bed. There’s no resistance. He shows you the same obedience as before, easily letting himself be pulled by you as you start walking blindly backwards, navigating the two of you through the junkyard of Steven’s mess. 

Any second now you’re expecting to trip over the damn ottoman, except this is Steven's flat, not yours. And this isn’t Steven; it’s Marc in your arms. Steady and composed in his every step, with none of the charming incoordination of Steven. No, Marc steers you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Arms bracketing your side to make sure your hips don’t bump into any hard-edged furniture, preemptively pushing back a teetering book from the shelf before it even has the time to leap off the ledge. 

Marc—beautiful, stubborn Marc, who is as immovable as a rock in his decisions—is letting you pull and tug him in whatever direction you’re choosing to go. Kissing you with each unbalanced step backwards, like you’re the only air he ever needs to breathe. 

There’s a flicker of light as you pass Gus’ tank, and it dims when you move past Steven’s desk and the telly. God. It’s a journey of fewer than 20 feet that should take you less than ten seconds and not the eternity that it seems to take. 

When you finally feel the fine, gritty sand beneath the sole of your foot, it feels like victory. The soft brush of the sheets pressing up against your calves is the rope of the finish line that you’d never imagined you’d reach. 

You want to memorialise this moment somehow. Etch it into your memory so you’ll never forget. Carve it into the wooden beam structures of this very flat so it’ll outlast you both. 

Marc’s hands on your hips guide you gently to a stop, and you realise with a rush of giddiness that you’ve finally reached your destination. You break the kiss long enough to sit down on the edge of the bed, and you don’t even need to tug at the corner of his sleeve for Marc to dutifully follow you down. He helps you lay back and leans in after you, the firm weight of his body settling over you, pressing you down into the mattress. 

The weight of Marc feels perfect, as his head tips down to your face, kissing over the curve of your jaw to your neck. He’s pressing open-mouthed kisses down the line of your throat and the swell of your chest. It’s tender. Reverent almost.

Marc is unbothered by the cotton layer of clothing that separates his mouth from your bare skin as he goes. His mouth grazes your knuckles, kissing the inside of your wrist. He’s soft yet insistent. Hungry but slow. God, he’s slow, infuriatingly so, to the point where you wonder if he’s taking the mick out of you. 

His lips trail a row of devoted kisses against the bare skin of your stomach where your shirt has ridden up, barely lifting the hem up and letting it ride up against your ribs as he puts his mouth there too. If it didn’t feel so good to have his mouth on you, you’d consider it torture with the pace that he’s going. You’re aching, everything inside is pulled so taught and tight you might burst out of your skin.

Those cotton soft curls tickle against your thighs on his way down, and you spread them for him in a not-so-subtle invitation. But Marc doesn’t pay you any mind, that earlier obedience that had endeared him to you is nowhere to be found now. He continues down, knees sinking into the sand lining the perimeter of the bed until he’s kneeling down in front of you on the bed. 

Then he stops. 

You hold your breath waiting for him to continue. But nothing happens, and your first instinct is that he’s changed his mind again. You’re almost lunging after him. Fully prepared to tackle him down with a wrestling move you’ve seen on the telly and pin him against the sand and wooden floor. 

But he’s not moving away from you. 

Opening your eyes to peek, you lift yourself on one arm, tilting down your head to find yourself staring back at those pitch-dark eyes. 

You’re not prepared for the sight of him. Of Marc on his knees, peering up at you through his lashes, like you’re a solemn prayer that he’s clinging onto by his fingertips. The vision of him flattens your lungs, taking any oxygen away with it. He’s looking at you like you’re something to be protected and cared for. As if you’re all he’s ever wanted and would never allow himself to have. 

Marc’s bending down again, lips brushing your skinned knee as his warm breath ghosts over the raw skin. He goes over every scrape and scratch with his mouth. It’s his way of atoning for ever letting you get hurt. 

And as good as that feels, as much as you never want him to stop. You need more. More than this torturous, drawn-out pace that he’s giving you, or you think you’ll tear your hair out by the roots and go mad with it. 

“Marc.” You’re trying to say it with urgency, maybe even hint at your annoyance, but it comes out as a high-pitched, delirious plea, “Marc please, I need–” 

He doesn’t answer you with any words. Instead, his hands come to the side of your hips, fingers slipping into your sleep shorts, hooking the hem of your knickers with them as he pulls them down. 

“Lift,” he commands, in the same brusque way he had before when ordering you to sit on the kitchen counter. But this time you’re only too eager to comply. 

You’re so excited you nearly deal a high kick to his face, miraculously missing him by only a couple of inches. 

From the corner of your eye, you swear you catch an amused half-smile quirking the corners of his lips. But before you can take a better look to confirm it, he ducks his head back down, even though you think you can see the line of his shoulders shake from what might very well be laughter. 

But your mind doesn't get to linger on it for long. His hand curls over your thigh, and he settles your leg on his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the inner side that his mouth can reach. Then he hooks your leg over his back, and sharp heat settles deep in your stomach.

His warm breath fans against the bare skin raising goosebumps in its wake. He continues to lick  over the softness of your belly. Nipping at your hip and the insides of your legs, covering every inch of you he can reach with his mouth. Purposefully avoiding the slick ache between your legs where you need his mouth and tongue most. 

Fuck, you could kill him for that. 

“Marc.” His name is a whine between your lips. It sounds pathetic to your ears, but you don’t care. You’re not above begging. Not if there’s a chance it will get you more of this, of him. 

“Please, Marc, just– I need you to–” 

“Baby,” he murmurs, cutting off your pleas. It’s almost reproachful, but it doesn’t matter because that’s not what your mind is focused on. This is the first endearment Marc has ever used for you and it sounds so sweet on his lips. Makes you feel loved and cared for despite the admonishing tone. 

“Be patient,” he scolds, but there’s so much fondness in his voice for you, it makes you lightheaded. “I’m gonna take my time with you.” 

There’s only a brief second as you catch a peek of the pink tip of his tongue, glistening against his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he dips down. Heat crackles throughout your limbs, and your lungs pull tight in anticipation. The air around you thins, and for a moment as you try to desperately swallow down the air in your throat, the room seems to tilt. 

Then he gives you his mouth, and as cliche as it sounds, it’s heaven. A long, controlled press of his tongue through your wet and slick folds. Endorphins rush through you to the top of your head, and you can’t help how your body reacts, arching up against his mouth with a gasp that is punched out of your lungs. 

Then he does it again, and somehow, though you can’t even fathom how it’s not defying the laws of science and time as you know it, he goes even slower. The velvet softness of his tongue drags with an unhurried press across the seam of your pussy until he reaches the apex and licks with a silken glide on your wet clit. You nearly swallow your tongue to tamper the whine trapped in your throat. 

This is not the pace you were expecting. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on your part, but you thought he’d be impatient. Almost anticipated that his movements would be sparse and efficient like every other aspect of his life, pushing you to a high-speed climax like a carcrash.  

This is not that. This is Marc taking his own sweet time. His tongue is a slow decadent drag against your clit, and you feel his warm breath ghost over you, inhaling the scent of you as he takes you in. 

Sweet heady pleasure climbs up the back of your thighs, filling your stomach with it. It’s so much, you don’t know if you can fit it all within, all the emotions that are welling up in your chest to spill out of you. Your fingers grip his solid shoulders to anchor yourself. You roll your hips against his mouth in an attempt to urge him on, but he refuses to take the hint. His tongue makes a slow, thorough exploration, interrupted only by the open-mouthed kisses that he presses against your mound, your hip, your cunt. 

You can feel the tension in his shoulder under your thigh. Can hear it in the quick rasp of his breath, but still, his pace remains slow and measured. Steadily kindling the smouldering heat beneath your skin, lick by torturous lick. 

It’s perfect. Hot as sin and twice as glorious, but you could scream with how agonisingly glacial the build-up is. A strange, high-pitched sound escapes you. An unflattering blend between a moan and a sob. It sounds like you’re in pain when all you feel is pleasure, and then you hear Marc shushing you again. This time softer, comforting even. 

“It's alright. You're alright. You can take it for me,” he says into your skin, mouth pressed against your clit with a warm hum that rumbles through your flesh. Your veins drip with something sweet and honeyed at his tone. 

Marc is so exacting, not at all like Steven’s wild hunger. His tongue laves at you, warm and wet, with an unceasing gentle pressure, gliding over and around your clit. Decadently slow, but never stopping. The feeling is intense and unrelenting. Somehow dragging you closer and closer to the edge but never quite enough to push you over. 

Digging your heels into his back, you tilt your hips as far as the strain in your muscles will allow you to get closer. You rock yourself against his mouth, and Marc groans, a pleased, encouraging sound, even as his hands grip the flesh of your waist and hold you firm against the pillowy softness of the bed to make sure you don’t try to ride out your own pleasure against his face at a faster pace than he has set for you.  

You could scream with frustration. If the left hemisphere of your brain responsible for speech wasn’t so severely compromised by Marc, you would be screeching until your throat goes raw with it. Instead, you hiccup a broken sob, his name quiet and cracked on your lips. 

"That's right. You're alright," he soothes, as he presses his forehead against your stomach. If you didn’t know better, his voice almost sounds a bit shaky, slurring on the last word as he bends back down and puts his mouth back between your thighs, onto your sensitive flesh and gently sucks. 

Those unruly curls tickle against the soft skin. You only meant to brush his hair away, but as soon as your fingers curl into the soft heat of them, you can’t help but grip tighter at the silky touch. Carding your hand through the curly locks. 

You don’t mean to tug, but the careful drag of his teeth against your clit sends a sharp electric jolt up your spine, short-circuiting your lungs and sending you clawing at his curls for dear life. It should not feel this good, and yet you find yourself chasing the sensation, nearly buckling over, as your heel digs into the firm muscles of his back to anchor yourself. 

You can’t even look anymore. Why torture yourself with the sight of him buried between your legs. Cheeks dusted crimson, and those breathtakingly expressive eyes burning into yours as if he’s trying to memorise every minute detail of your expression. You can see his jaw working on your pussy. Can feel him as his tongue keeps sliding hot and insistent without reprieve against your overstimulated clit. 

It’s so much. Too much. All your senses feel overloaded. Your vision goes blurry. You’re not sure if it’s tears that are stinging behind your eyelids or if they cross at the back of your head as everything dims and darkens, like a fuse box blowing out. It’s all too much, and you’re being dragged under and drowning in the sensations. You need to pull up above the surface to breathe again or you’re sure you’re going to die. 

You grab at Marc’s hand like he’s your life preserver, and he weaves his fingers between yours. It’s surprisingly intimate, as he squeezes your hand back, pressing your intwined hands to your hip bone, reassuring you he’s right there and—fuck, it’s… It’s so much, too much. 

It’s chaos. A mayhem between your violently beating heart and burning lungs. You think there must be something wrong with you. Can’t possibly contain the pleasure that keeps pouring and pouring into you. For a fraction of a second, as your mind is torn apart by the sensations, and you are convinced that you must be having a heart attack. What other explanation could there possibly be?

“Ma–Marc, I–I’m– Fuck, oh god, oh fuck."

Marc eases back, “It’s okay.” He presses his mouth to your clit and kisses it, and the slick sound his mouth makes have you trembling and shaking so hard you’re convulsing against the sheets. “You’re okay,” he soothes. “Let go. I’ve got you. Come for me.”

Warmth floods your veins touching every part of your body, humming through every nerve and cell as your orgasm washes over you. It’s hard and unforgiving. Your body is trying to claim revenge on you for allowing it to take so long as it did. Everything else around you disappears, pulling you under with a vengeance that blots out your vision and all sounds with it. 

But it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters to you anymore is how everything in you tingles pleasantly. It lingers long after it’s over, and you can still feel it from the tip of your fingers to the curl of your toes as you come down on Marc’s tongue. 

His face is still buried between your thighs. His tongue curled against your entrance as he laps every drop of slick out of you. Drinking you down and swallowing every trace of your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for long moments until finally he’s satisfied and drags his head up your body. 

“Did so good,” he praises, voice raspy and raw as his tongue trails a long affectionate line down your femur. 

He presses his mouth to your knee with the same gentle care he did when he’d applied plasters. It’s intimate. Sweet. 

Part of you feels silly to feel this affected by such a simple affectionate gesture considering what preceded it, but your heartbeat flutters at the touch. 

It doesn’t matter that you’ve barely just come down from your orgasm or that you’re still throbbing and sensitive between your legs. Limbs so wrung out, they’re tingling and numb. You’re already craving the closeness of him all over again. 

“Marc,” you call out for him, arm outstretched in an invitation for him to join you on the bed. 

He doesn’t move, and it takes you a few moments, your mind fuzzy around the edges with the afterwaves of your orgasm to register that something's wrong. Everything is blurry and obscured by a warm haze, and you have to blink through the watery periphery of your vision before you can see him a bit more clearly. 

Still on his knees, Marc’s mouth parts slightly open, like he maybe wants to say something but he doesn’t know how. There’s hesitation there in the tenseness of his jaw as his eyes flick away from your gaze, as if there’s still some invisible barrier that he won’t let himself cross.  

It is a little bit ridiculous. After all, what barriers between you are there possibly left to cross? You and him nearly died together tonight. You love him, and he loves you too. Bloody hell, he’s just spent the better half of this night with his head buried between your thighs. There’s no stone left unturned.

But you know it’s not that simple. There’s a deeply embedded seed in Marc, buried under his skin and flesh and left to sprout for decades, long before you came along. Making him doubt himself and his place with you. It doesn’t matter how far you two come. He might always struggle with letting himself have what he wants guilt-free. Because he still doesn’t think he has a right to, that he doesn’t deserve it. 

You plant an elbow on the mattress to raise yourself. But your arms have turned into boneless gelatine, wobbling under your weight, and you nearly topple over. Marc moves so fast, you only register a blur of movement, before he’s by your side. Steadying you with his hands on your shoulders. 

“Easy. Lie back,” he says, eyes narrowed and worried, as he’s ushering you back down. The man’s got a protective streak a mile wide. 

“Marc, please—” you start, but you don’t have to finish. 

He breaks with your plea, and his knee dips into the bed, fully climbing in. His arms brace your sides as he lowers himself onto the bed. 

“What, baby? What do you need? Tell me.” He says it like you only have to speak the words, and then your every wish will be his command.  

There’s no fight left in his tone anymore. Voice gone soft. Any internal doubts have melted out of him. The look in his eyes as he gazes down on you tells you that Marc would give you anything you ask for. This man would insist on throwing himself under a double-decker bus if he thought it would make the ride a tiny bit smoother for you. 

And oh… You get it now. 

It’s taken you far too long, but you might have finally solved the puzzle that is Marc Spector. For all his aversion to let himself have even a morsel of happiness, there’s always been one overriding drive. There’s one thing that towers above the shame and guilt. One thing that’s more important to him than everything else. It’s in the way he’s always trying to meet the needs of those he cares for. Their happiness. Steven’s. Yours. 

All you need to do is ask for him. 

“You. I need you. Want you. Please.” 

You can see it in real time as it happens. How the last traces of hesitation in him crumble, replaced by a determination that carves into those rich brown eyes. He drops forward, then he's sealing his mouth over yours like he’s signing on the dotted line, giving himself over to you.  

It's everything.

Marc leans back again, fingers hooking into the hem of his t-shirt and dragging it off over his head in a single fluid motion. There’s no tangling of fabric, and it doesn’t get snagged as he tugs it over his head. There’s none of the clumsy adorableness of his alter. Marc undresses with practised ease like it was choreographed for the sole purpose of making your heart race faster. 

Good fucking grief, you might’ve already seen this man before you naked on more occasions than you can count. But as he towers above you, skin golden in the dim light, the sight of his bare chest feels novel in a way that has your heart dropping to your lungs that must be entirely medically unsafe. You can’t help but stare shamelessly. 

Chiselled and hard from the top of his head to his toes. You remember being surprised by how fit Steven was the first time, but somehow on Marc, it seems right. His physique reminds you of mythic Greek heroes memorialised in marble, and you're taken aback at how soft and warm he is under your hands. That he's human, made out of flesh and bone, and that he shivers as you drag your palms across the bare skin of his chest and stomach. 

The anticipation crackles in your thighs, burning with a searing intensity at the thought of undressing him, gingerly unwrap him like a decadent present. But you’re greedy and have none of Marc’s patience. You wrench at his belt with little to no finesse, reaching down and wedging your fingers along the hem of his jeans to shove them down forcefully against the generous curve of his ass. You tug hard enough that you hear Marc choke out a wheezed breath, but you’re not even paying it any attention. 

His hardened cock slaps against his stomach with a heavy thud and everything in you roars to attention at how thick and swollen he is for you. You feel heavy with need at the sight of it, and your brain is on autopilot, acting without conscious thought as you’re already reaching forward. Your knuckles skim down over his stomach before greedily wrapping your hand around his cock. 

A deep groan tears out of his chest, and his hand snaps up to grab your wrist, holding you still. He clamps his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, inhaling heavily through his nostrils, breathing in and out with great struggle.  

As much as you enjoy getting a rise out of him, you’re not trying to make things difficult for Marc on purpose. At least you don’t think you are. But you can’t look away from his cock. You can feel it straining and twitching in your hold, can see the trickle of glistening precome welling up from the flushed tip. 

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, practically salivating as your thumb gently drags over the slick wetness there. The touch has his hips bucking, stuttering into your hands with a sound that sounds suspiciously close to a whimper. Your cheeks burn and tingle, your whole body flashing hot. 

“Fuck,” he snarls and knocks your hand away, “You fucking ruin me, you know that?”

You want to retort that he’s the one to talk. Point out that he’s left you a dripping slick mess that’s soaked into the bedsheets and mattress and made them unsalvageable; that your thighs are an aching mess and you’re still swollen and sensitive from his mouth. But all vocabulary flies out of your head at the sight of him, as he replaces your hand with his own, wrapping one large hand around his cock.

Your heart stutters somewhere in your chest, and the breath in your lungs still with anticipation as he drops down to settle himself into place between your legs, knees nudging against your thighs to spread you wider for him as he notches the fat tip against your slick entrance. 

His eyes lock on yours, the tip of his nose brushing alongside yours. He leans down to kiss you again, mouth warm and slick. You can still taste yourself on him, tart and almost sweet. Then he pushes inside of you, and your mind goes numb.

The first slide of him inside you is perfect. A sweet filling stretch that threatens to blot out everything else into nothingness.

Even though it’s your first time with Marc, your body already knows him. Craves every inch of him, and he’s willing to give that to you now, inch by slow maddening inch as he eases inside. Large hands clutching your sides, as his hips press forward and he works himself inside you. His cock pushes deep until he’s buried  to the hilt. Then he stills, shuddering. 

“Shit—,” he groans, dipping his head to press his face into your shoulder. “You gotta be kidding me.” His voice sounds shaky and strained. You’re not entirely sure what he means or what he finds so implausible. If he can’t believe he’s finally inside you after all this time or how good it feels. You just know you can’t believe it either. 

It's flawed logic, but you’re not exactly coherent at this moment. Lungs squeezing tight in your diaphragm, you’re only capable of sobbing nonsensically at the consuming sensation of him filling you. Can barely focus on the warm tingle on your spine that settles over you. Your mind has been filled with cotton, soft and hazy as he’s completely sheathed inside, as deep as he can physically be.   

Marc holds there for a long moment, his breath hot on your skin where he pants against your collarbone. He doesn’t move. Hips pressed flush against yours, taking his time to let your body adjust to the girth of him. 

His mouth is on your bare skin, pressing kisses to your lips and then the apples of your cheek, before he drags himself downwards to mouth at the side of your neck, and under your jaw. Hands roaming along your ribs and hips like he cannot stop touching you. It’s devoted, loving even, the gentleness to his touch. It makes everything all the more overwhelming for you. He’s ruining you, with every caress on your flesh, and kiss to your skin, and he has barely even moved yet. 

And god, you need him to. 

"Marc."

He doesn't seem to hear you, mouth continuing to dot lazy kisses across your clavicle. 

"Please.” You arch your back towards him, but you don’t get very far with his weight flattening you down against the bed. 

“Marc, need you to move," you try again, voice high-pitched and needy, but you could be pleading to a stone wall for all the good it seems to do. His hips don't move from his position, immovable like a boulder. Instead, his palms fan out against your ribs, fingerprints permanently searing into your skin with the heat of his touch. 

You can’t take it anymore, everything inside you is screaming, bursting at the seams for more and you wrap your legs around his waist in an attempt to force him deeper. To move. 

Your heels dig into the rounded curve of his ass, and he jerks and gasps. You can feel his cock twitching inside you, as those stupendously gorgeous eyes flutter open. He’s looking at you again, stirred from the spell and the soft expression on his face hardens with determination. 

"Yeah, baby. I got you," he says, and he finally complies. His hand comes to rest on the small of your lower back, tilting you up to him as he moves again. The hard drag of his cock slides out of you until only the blunt tip rests inside, and then he thrusts back, unhurried and deliberate. 

Slow simmering pleasure bubbles up in your veins and you have to swallow it down with a hiccup of a sob. It's still the same ruthlessly slow and thorough pace. The one that tells you he won't be rushed, won't be hurried, even as he's giving you exactly what you asked him for. 

Stubborn. Unreasonable. Maddening. You won't survive him. 

The next thrust is demanding. It strikes heat along your spine and squeezes the air out of your lungs, until there's none of it left so you can fit more of him inside. A strange squeaky noise punches out of your throat, and in panic you clamber onto him.

He does it again. Hips dragging back as he pulls himself away, altering the angle of your hips with a small adjustment as he cants your hips upwards again. This time he lifts you further up than before and he pushes his way in with an almost testing stroke. His eyes narrow as he gazes down on you, brows furrowed in concentration and you realise what he’s doing. 

Marc is slow and exacting, studying your every reaction, learning the best way to intricately pull you apart. 

Staring up at him like this feels like you’re witnessing your own demise as it unfurls. Those unwavering eyes are focused on you, watching your every expression. He’s tilting the angle of his thrusts until he drives the pleasure deeper inside you with devastating precision until there is nothing left of you. Until tears are stinging in the corner of your eyes because you’re sure that you can’t fit more within you — the pleasure and him— and then he does somehow. 

He catches your leg, hitching them higher so that he can slide a few inches deeper. The angle shifts, striking against something raw and overwhelming. You think you go blind with it and you swear you see stars collapsing behind the darkness of your eyelids. 

"Yeah, there we go." His voice in your ear is calm, but he also sounds proud and pleased, and you're not sure if it's with himself or you. It’s all you can hear, and then he’s moving again.

A rich pleasure fills you at the slow glide of his cock dragging out of you, and then he pushes inside again, deep and determined, until his cock is kissing that deep perfect spot that robs you of your ability to breathe. 

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Can feel–” he groans, rolling his hips into yours, and it’s fucking devastating. 

Your mind goes blank. A clean slate with no thought left in you except how good it feels. All you can do is moan and whimper, hands clutching desperately to his shoulders. "Oh– Oh, god. Marc, I– oh!"

He groans, slanting his mouth over yours and swallows the words down, cradling your head with his fingers. Soft doting presses of his lips to yours. 

"Fuck, you feel so–" His sentence is cut off, and you never get to hear the rest of what he was going to say. 

His mouth is on yours again and it’s nothing like the starved and overwhelmingly eager kisses you’re used to from these lips when it’s Steven who’s kissing you. This is slow and measured. Patient and deliberate as he takes his time with you. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to tell you a secret. Like he’s entrusting you with something important, to protect and to keep for him. 

His finger rubs small circles under your ear, his hips slow and consuming as he fucks his cock into you. His arms never leave your side. Mouth never lifting from yours. His whole body pressed as deeply into you as he physically can. 

It feels like a confession. 

The ‘I love you’ that he can’t bring himself to say in front of you and can only admit to in the dead of night when he thought you were asleep. 

His kiss is a soft and devoted touch. A complete contrast to the rest of him, as he continues to thrust into you, fucking his cock deeper inside you and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up. 

It’s pleasure. It’s aggravation. It’s love and a defeat and a million other contradictory emotions between you and Marc that may never be resolved. 

And you’re not going to try to. You’re happy to take him as he is, cracks and all. You accept it, his lips pressed against yours. Accept his demanding rhythm as he drives himself into you deeper and deeper. Accept the insistent heat that curls at the base of your spine, until it is a searing and smouldering burn and sparks like ember, numbing your legs with it. It is threatening to consume your very being and burn you into ashes as it flares bright in your lungs and you can no longer breathe as the pleasure of it is ready to overspill, and—

“Baby, you close again?” 

And fuck, that’s—that’s— Your stomach tenses up again. The warmth spreads, twining and branches out along every single vein flooding it with blinding bliss until you’re dizzy with it. 

You’re trying to say yes, trying to nod, but your body isn’t responding to your will anymore. It has a mind of its own, and all it wants is to be closer to Marc, to grab onto him and never let go. Your limbs are wrapped all around him, legs locked around his waist, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders so hard you know you’re breaking skin. The only thing you’re still in control of is to helplessly squeeze down tight on his cock as it slides thick and heavy in you. 

“Oh fuck, that’s–” his voice sounds pitched and almost vulnerable, the arm curled around your leg, squeezing tighter. 

Pleasure builds in you like the tide, rising slow and steady but inexorable, filling you until there's no room for oxygen or thoughts or anything else except the consuming push of Marc’s cock inside of you. 

And then it breaks, ecstasy streaking out along your every nerve, overwhelming and inescapable, threatening to wash you away with it, except that you’re pinned, held safe by the grounding weight of Marc’s body and the reassuring press of his forehead against yours as you come on his cock.  

You open your eyes to find yourself staring up at him, still bleary-eyed and drunk on bliss. You can only make out the colour of his eyes, the dark ink of his hair. But blurry as he is, you’re intimately aware of how he can see all of you. The glazed look that you must be holding in your half-open eyes as wrought out with pleasure as you are. The hair plastered to your forehead. The absolute mess of a state he’s left you in, and how debauched you must look in front of him. Face to face, all of you bare and uncovered, there in its unembellished form for him to see. 

But that means you can see Marc too. As your vision clears, you can pick out every small detail of his expression. The subtle tic of the muscle in his jaw. The furrow in his brow. How his mouth is slack with pleasure. Those rich eyes of his are blown wide open until they’re left exposed. You can see it clearly now, how he’s clearly trying and struggling to hold back. The vulnerability that he’s been trying to hide from the world the entire time you’ve known him. 

Not for the first time, as he holds himself above you, you find yourself marvelling at how beautiful he is. Identical to Steven, yet worlds apart. 

Steven is hope and light and the curve of a gentle smile. Marc is sharp lines and dark shadows and heat behind his pained eyes. Jagged edges to Steven’s soft curves. Jaded cynicism to Steven's cheerful enthusiasm. Dark secrets and carefully hidden skeletons lurking in closets to Steven's forthright honesty.

And god help you, you love them both beyond measure.

The weight of his body is pressing down against you now. Every inch of the smooth golden skin pinned against yours, warm and flushed against your heated flesh. He grinds himself against you, needy, and desperate. There’s no longer any rhythm or logic to it. Just an instinctual primal need to get closer. You spread your legs as wide as you can to welcome him deeper, to take all of him as much as you can even as your thighs ache in protest from overexertion. 

His mouth moves against yours, stuttering and trembling, and it takes you far too long to register the words that are coming from him. 

“Fuck, baby, fuck I’m–” he chokes out brokenly against your lips, his hands on your hips holding on tighter. 

He stills, and you think maybe this is it, that he’s about to come. Anticipation rises in your chest, and you hold him tighter, body clenching down in preparation. 

But he doesn’t come. Just holds himself there, shuddering against you, his forehead against your chin, panting breaths, hot and humid, against the base of your neck. His cock is pulsing where it’s buried thickly inside you. Thighs quivering and barely able to keep them upright where they’re pressed between yours. You know that he wants to come. Needs to come. You just don’t understand why he’s refusing to give in. 

“It’s okay, Marc. You can let go. Come for me,” the words are a struggle to get out. Your voice hoarse and scraped raw in your throat. 

There’s a long moment of stillness, then he heaves a sigh so weary it makes your heart clench, as he starts shaking his head.

“No,” he grits out, voice low and determined as it so often is.  His head comes up, dark, fuck-drunk eyes meeting yours, jaw set at that stubborn angle you’ve come to know so well, and he says it again. 

“No. I– I’m not–“ He cuts off, shaking his head again. “Fuck, not yet,” he says. Then he rallies through, lifting his body away from yours and drives himself deep inside you with a shudder. “Not ready. Don’t want this to end.”

It sounds like a plea, and you’re not sure who he’s pleading with, you or himself, and there is a pang of pain in your chest for him. Because this idiot still doesn’t get it. 

It’s like he’s never known softness. Hardness forged from a lifetime of a man who’s always had to hold himself up without respite. There’s a loneliness in it, of being the one who always has to take care of everyone else with nowhere to put down his burdens. 

Fondness swells up in you and there is nowhere to direct it except for the object of your affection. You wrap your arms tighter around him, smoothing one palm over the sweat-slick, heaving muscles of his back, and whisper reassurances into the hair above his ear. 

“Marc,” you breathe out and at the sound of you calling his name, his eyes snap up to yours. “Nothing’s ending.” 

His arms buckle and he lets out a small choked sound that almost sounds like a whimper. He looks like he can barely hold himself up anymore.  

“You have me,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to his. You kiss the arch of his jaw and mouth at the column of his neck. “Have had me for a long time.” 

He tenses at your words, whole body trembling above you. But he still refuses to let go. 

How many times will you have to keep reaching out to this impossibly stubborn man before he starts believing that you mean it?

Your hands come to the sharp edge of his cheekbones, cradling this face that you have fallen in love with twice over. Not just because it is Steven’s face. Not just because he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. But because it’s Marc too. 

“I love you.” 

At your words, those determined eyes pitched with dark concentration blanks into a stupefied daze.  

His head tilts slightly, a movement so small it doesn’t register at first that he’s nodding. Then his face drops closer, pressing his lips to yours. The line of his shoulder softens under your locked arms, lowering himself down onto you. His hips sink into you, his cock dragging thickly inside you as deep as it goes. 

You watch in awe as his mouth falls open, eyes rolling back, and you can feel it as he comes inside you. Pulse after devastating pulse. 

And god, he’s so beautiful like this; unruly curls wild and ruined, cut cheeks a faint crimson, skin slick with glistening sweat in the dim light. So perfectly undone and at peace. The pulse of his cock inside you as he spills himself deep inside you is almost secondary.

You bask in it. The warmth of his arms caging you in, his forehead pressing down firm against yours. The feeling of him so deep inside you, you’ll happily drown in the feeling of this man after waiting for him so long. His body slumps, dropping his weight on yours, completely depleted. 

His cock is still hard, arms still trembling when Marc shifts on top of you, trying to raise himself on one elbow. It's too soon for him to move, you don't want him to move, want him to lie on top of you forever.

Logically, you know it’s out of consideration. He’s probably worried that he’s squishing you, but an irrational fear swoops low in your stomach at the idea that he’s going to leave again. Your fingers dig into his forearm, dragging him back towards you. 

He lands on top of you with a quiet and tired grunt in your ear, but there’s no other protest from him. Marc lets you, shifting ever so slightly to make sure that his elbow doesn’t jab into your ribs as he settles on top of you. Then he stays, and you get to listen to the slow steadying of his breath, as the erratic rise and fall of his chest ease into something more even. 

The two of you stay this way for a long time, staring up at each other, with half-lidded eyes worn from exhaustion without speaking, and you catalogue his face as it cycles through a series of micro-expression with each second that ticks by. 

If this was when you’d first known Marc, at first glance, each expression would have looked the same to you. But you know him well enough now that you can tell that the tiny pinch of his brow means something is troubling him. That the narrowing slant of his eyes means he can’t find the right words to express it. That him biting the inside of his cheeks means he’s hesitating on whether he would be offloading on you. Every detail says just as much as Steven’s openly variable animated expressions. 

His eyes blink in quick succession, and Marc takes a deep heaving breath as if bracing himself. Then he’s lifting himself up and away from you by his forearms, slipping out of you to a sharp pained hiss as you whine in response at how empty you feel at the loss. 

He rolls to the side of the bed next to you and settles there, and you feel a bit nervous about what’s going to happen next, because you don't know what is going to come.

“Is this still what you want?” Marc asks. 

He’s looking at you as he says it, but somehow you feel like he’s looking through you, eyes not quite meeting yours. His voice sounds impassive, and if you haven’t spent so much time with him by now, it could easily be mistaken for disinterest or even boredom, instead of the defence mechanism that you know it is. 

“Yes, of course, it is,” you say without hesitation.  

There’s no response from Marc, he’s lying so still next to you. So quiet you can’t even hear him breathing anymore. If it turned out that he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open you wouldn’t be surprised. 

You turn onto your side so that you can scoot even closer to him as you watch him. One sole stray curl is draped across his forehead, and it’s fallen into the line of his big gorgeous brown eyes. So ridiculously pretty, this one. 

Yeah. This is definitely what you want. Him.  Steven. Both. All of them. 

“You’re– okay with all this?” he asks hesitantly, and he looks genuinely puzzled as to why you would be. “With... what happened earlier too?” 

A breathless huff pushes its way up your chest. “I don’t know if ‘okay’ is the right word here, Marc. I’m not sure how to deal with the revelation that gods and monsters are real, and there’s a very high chance I’ll freak out about it tomorrow or next week. But…”

You press a kiss to the side of his cheek as you draw your eyes up and meet those rich expressive eyes of his. There’s no mistaking it, you feel it, in the same way that you do for Steven. Even if it’s different… there’s no doubt in you, haven’t been for a long time about this. 

“What I’m sure of is that I want to be with you. You and Steven. No matter what. I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said. I want to be your person as well as his. And– and I hope you can be mine.”  

Marc tentatively draws his hand towards you, fingertips searching across the length of your arm until he finds your fingers and weaves them with his. 

The palm of his hand is warm and sturdy, sending a pleasant buzzing sensation across the back of your neck. It’s your favourite thing in the world, whenever Steven does this, and you’re pretty sure it’s going to be your shared favourite when Marc does it too. 

“Yeah”, he finally says after a long moment, “I’d like that.” His voice is soft and quiet, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies swoops your stomach at his warm tone filled with affection.  

Tilting your head upwards, you close the distance between you, pressing your lips to his. It’s sweet and tender as his hand cups your cheeks protectively, like a promise that he’s not going to run anymore and it makes your toes curl into the sheet until you’re giddy.

You clutch at him, hands cupping the back of his neck and lace your fingers into those ridiculously soft curls of his. Marc shivers against you, and you smile like a loon as he ducks his head and buries his face into the crook of your neck contentedly, and exhale deeply. 

Who would have guessed that post-sex, the man would be the world's most grumpy cat turned soft and cuddly, asking to be petted. You comb through the matted locks and the blunt tip of his nose nuzzles into your damp skin. He makes a quiet, content little sound somewhere from the back of his throat like he doesn’t want you to stop and who are you to deny him? 

Your fingertips trail his scalp, from the nape of his neck to the crown of his head, when it occurs to you that you should probably be more careful with his head. 

He was flung several feet in the air and landed head-first into a concrete wall with a bone-cracking sound that still makes you sick to your stomach. You continue to card through his hair, mapping him out in search of any signs of injuries, but you can’t find any and your fingers still. 

It doesn’t make sense. You weren’t put through the ringer in any way near what Marc was tonight and you’ve still ended up with your fair share of scrapes and bruises. But there’s nothing on Marc. 

No swelling, no bumps. No wounds. 

On top of it all you’ve spent the better part of this evening, pulling and tearing at his hair. Your nails had been digging so deep into his shoulders you might as well have been excavating for gold and he hasn’t so much as hissed or flinched in pain even once. 

There’s a faint muffled sound of complaint from Marc as he lies on top of you. It’s so distorted that it takes you a few moments to appreciate that they’re words.

“What's wrong?” Marc asks. 

“You don’t have any injuries. You were hurt.” 

“I was wearing the suit,” he answers in his typical deadpan manner. No background information, no context, no painting out a scene for you. To Marc, the limited information he’s given you should make perfect sense to you. 

You grimace, and you’re just about to have a moan at him, when Marc seems to realise how confusing that explanation must be. He lifts his head from your neck as he continues. “Khonshu’s ceremonial armour. It protects me. Heals me when I need it.” 

An image of the swirl of bandages wrapping itself around Marc’s body to form an otherworldly magical suit plays out behind your mind, and you can’t resist teasing him. 

“So you transform like Sailor Moon and then fight evil at night?”

Marc lifts his eyebrow inquisitively, with a completely blank expression. “I don’t know what that is.” 

“Really? Sailor–” you sputter, shocked he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “Steven would know that reference.”

“Steven has too much free time,” he sighs, but the fondness hiding under his gruff tone is unmistakable. 

The playful jab at Steven brings a small smile to your face. The levity of it is a nice change of pace from the whirlwind of seismic events and paradigm shifts tonight, because there’s been a lot to take in. Much of which, you’re pretty sure you haven’t fully taken in… Don’t even know how to start to process it. 

Ancient Egyptian gods are real, and your boyfriend—(boyfriends? Just exactly how involved is Steven?)—is some kind of indentured fighter priest who battles invisible monsters—also real—for one of them. 

What is the correct reaction to a revelation like that? How does one even begin to mentally process that? 

“Any other questions? Now’s your chance,” Marc says. 

There is no hostility like before and this time you don’t have to drag it out of him with the persistence of a detective in an interrogation room interviewing a suspect as you ordinarily have to. 

You’re not entirely sure how you feel about that, except that you’re a little bit stunned and you realise that something has shifted between you and Marc. 

He’s… opening up to you. 

You look up at him, and he meets your eyes steadily. There are a million things you still want to ask: What’s the deal with his and Steven’s mum? What did he and Steven go through while they were away? How did he almost die, and how on bloody earth did he manage to just stumble upon an ancient Egyptian God to end up in his service?

Marc hasn’t moved from the spot as he observes you. Still seemingly expressionless, except… 

There’s a tension to the set of his shoulders, isn’t there? And he’s too still—even for Marc… It hits you all at once he’s holding his breath, the line of his lips set in a thin nerve-biting straight line.

He’s waiting for you.

Regardless of how hard Marc tries to hide it, trying to school his expressions, there’s only so much his body language can repress. The ring of his eyes is dilated and vulnerable. 

He’s nervous. 

Marc’s jaw tightens in anticipation and maybe something a little like fear, and it makes your chest ache with an overwhelming need to protect him. Those other questions can wait. You have all the time in the world together. Right now you want to make him feel as safe and cared for as you do. You want to make him smile. 

"So..." you begin, and you see him stiffen, watching as he braces himself like he’s expecting a blow. It’s how you know you’re making the right decision. "Do you actually like my coffee?"

His eyes widen and he sputters out "You– Your–" then barks out a laugh. 

Even in the dark, you can see it, a soft smile on his face that illuminates the darkness of the room with it. A gentle curve, as the dimple of his cheeks carve a deep dent into those hollowed cheeks, the soft crinkle of lines around his eyes. It’s like nothing you have ever seen before. It’s bright and uninhibited. An electrical socket has been plugged in and every nerve in you is flicked alight with excitement. 

It stuns you and takes your breath away, and for the longest moment, you forget about everything else. 

Because god, he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life. 

It takes you several seconds, maybe even a full minute to compose yourself enough to ask him again. 

"Well...?" you prompt, and you’re gifted with the pleasure of watching him try and fail to hide that perfect smile.

"It's… a little more complicated than that," he says, and you narrow your eyes at him, trying to look playfully peeved while tampering your own smile that’s twitching at your lips and failing.

"I like that you make it for me," he tries.

"That wasn't the question, though."

Marc shifts in the bed, scooting closer to you until he’s brushing up against your knees. That small but near-magical smile is still on his face. 

"Tell you what,” Marc murmurs, as he tightens his grip around you, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat-slicked curls tickling your nose. “Tomorrow, let's make it together." 

His voice is so assured, it feels like he’s promising you a certainty, and you trust him with every inch of you. 

A warmth spreads in your chest, and you can feel the dopey grin pulling at your lips until your cheeks almost hurt, but you can’t stop yourself and you don’t think you want to either. 

There is so much that is still unresolved, so many more things you need answers to, but it’s a good start and that’s good enough for tonight. After all, as Steven would tell you: you have all the time in the world.

“That sounds perfect,” you tell him. 

When you wake, the morning light is filtering in through the large windows. The sun is blinding and makes it difficult to see anything at all. 

Reaching out your hand, the spot next to you is cold and empty, any residual heat long gone from the sheets. You’re alone in bed again. 

Marc has really got to stop fucking doing that. 

“Marc?” you call out, but there’s no response. You hesitate for a second before adding, “Steven?”

“Here.”

Then you hear familiar noises coming from the kitchen, and the tension in your chest melts away at the sound of porcelain clinking together. There are no folded clothes by your side, but to your surprise, your watch sits on the nightstand, cracked face turned up, waiting for you. 

A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your stomach warms at the sight. Marc must have gone back to retrieve it while you were asleep. 

You sit up on the bed, bending over to grab a discarded shirt from the floor as well as your knickers from last night, and pull them on, smiling to yourself as you start to make your way across the flat to join him in the kitchen. 

The familiar sweet, bread-like smell wafts out to greet you, and you falter.

Pancakes? That isn’t right. Today’s not Sunday. 

In the bright morning sun, you see him standing, with his back turned against you over the kitchen stove. Wearing only his jeans, bare from the waist above, the carved muscles of his back flexing as he flips the frying pan with a dramatic flair. Even before he speaks, you already know what’s happened.  

“Morning, sweetheart,” he greets you. He's turning his head just enough to throw you a quick glance, and a one-sided crooked smile. 

You stop in your tracks. The cadence is alien, the smile off, but you recognize it immediately. 

Not Marc. Not Steven. But you have met this man before. 

That first night at Steven’s; the man you woke up to who looked at you like you were a stranger; the man who followed you to the lift to return your watch; the same man who towered over the invisible creature with nothing but cold contempt in his eyes as he snuffed out its time on earth with precision and brutality.

All this time, you thought that the first night you’d spent with Steven was also your first encounter with Marc. 

But Marc doesn’t call you sweetheart. Marc doesn’t flirt. Marc doesn’t smirk like he’s trying to imitate something he’s seen on the telly. 

This is detached and impersonal, like he’s not really smiling at all. When Marc smiles it’s snow thawing in the spring.

 It’s funny how you didn’t see it until now. Marc was never the wolf. 

You cross your arms against your chest, planting your feet firmly on the floor, standing up straight and tall as you confront the man before you. 

“You’re not Marc, and you’re not Steven,” you say and you shift on your legs, puffing out your chest in a display of put-on courage. “Don’t you think it's time you introduced yourself, seeing that you’re in my boyfriends’ flat?” 

The man huffs out a laugh, and his accent is different when he speaks again. A New York accent, you think, but almost cartoonishly so, like he’s watched one too many Martin Scorcese movies. It’s oozing out of every word as he speaks with a slow and nasal hum. 

“Nothing gets past you, does it, sweetheart?” 

He sets down the frying pan on the stove, turning it off before he wipes off his hand on a flower-patterned tea towel and extends it towards you, a polite invitation to shake. 

“Name’s Jake Lockley.”

You take a step towards him, and maybe you should be nervous—afraid of this stranger wearing your boyfriends’ face—but the panic and fear from that first night you met him is absent. That painful pounding in your chest is no longer there. 

You accept his hand, looking up into this man’s familiar eyes that are staring down at you in an entirely unfamiliar way. Not Steven’s wide and adoring gaze. Not Marc’s protective and gentle attention. No love resides in those eyes for you at this moment, just curiosity. 

But you’re not scared this time. 

Because come what may, you already know the most important part. Whatever happens next, whoever this Jake turns out to be, it’s not going to change your mind about Steven or Marc.

You’ll take them as they are. Red flags and all.

THE END.

Author's notes

This is the end. I wish I was more coherent to write a meaningful and heartwarming message about what this story has meant to me. How grateful I am to everyone reading it, but I do not think I have any words that can do it justice.

The only thing I can say is thank you. Thank you for reading this, whether you've read this from the first chapter, or whether you only read the first chapter or you've only read bits and pieces. Whether you've commented or liked or reblogged or simply just lurked-read, from the bottom of my heart thank you for giving this story your time, I'm really grateful to you all.

A big thank you to my friends who have listened to me whine and bitch and moan and generally emotionally terrorised them with this story, and especially thank you to my cowriter: thirstworldproblemss who has been put through the ringer with this story and suffered alongside with me. I love you the moooooooooooooooooooosetest

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

[anilovie]

i feel like ani would give great back rubs :) do you have any thoughts on this topic??

Yes yes yes I do!!

CW: just fluff

WC: 500

I feel like his hand automatically goes to the nape of your neck if you're ever just chilling together. Like if you're watching something, or working on something, or even just laying in bed ready for sleep, his arm would go around you and find the back of your neck and just squeeze all gentle, over n over n over, slow and rhythmic. It's a bit of a possessive touch, but also relaxing cause he likes how your shoulders droop a little and you shiver if he scratches the base of your skull.

One day your neck just hurts extra bad for some reason, must have slept on it wrong or tweaked it somehow. So when he starts rubbing your neck that night, you turn to him and so seriously, say, "That feels really good, Anakin."

He's a bit taken aback because 1) you looked right in his eyes when you said it, 2) you used his full name, and 3) you're usually not so bold telling him how you feel.

It makes him laugh, all soft and breathy, and respond, "Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Think I pulled a muscle or something, feels better when you do that though."

His brows furrow. "How'd you do that?"

"Dunno," your cheek is squished against his thigh, book propped up on his knee. You flip the page. "Probably slept on it weird or something."

"You do move around a lot. Swear you're trying to run away sometimes."

You turn and bite his leg through his pants.

"Violent," he murmurs, completely unbothered as his hand drifts to your shoulders. "Does it hurt right here?"

"Mhm. Everywhere," you breathe sleepily.

He answers with a hum and stows his datapad on the bedside table, grabbing his glove and buckling it over his arm so he can return both hands to your shoulders. You wince a little as he works out the knots, cheeks going a little hot at the slow, tender way he's touching you. It's strangely intimate, and you try not to move as he digs his thumbs into a particularly senstive spot.

"Relax. You're so tense," he tells you.

You decide to close your book and turn so that you're more draped over his lap, giving his hands more access to your back. He takes the invitation, rubbing circles down your spine, which oddly tickles.

"I said relax," he chastises as you squirm and giggle.

"Can't help it! Stop tickling me," your voice is muffled by the material of pants.

Rather than responding, he doubles his efforts working up and down your back, and once you're lulled into pliancy, he returns to your shoulders and neck.

You swear he's got magic hands. Every inch of your skin is covered in goosebumps, waves of pleasure making you shiver every time he squeezes and rubs your muscles just right. Somehow, he's doing a good job of keeping the pressure equal on both sides, despite one hand being flesh and the other metal. And he works the tensity out of your muscles like it's his personal mission, squeezing and rubbing and kneading with loving tenderness.

"Feel good, baby?" he murmurs after a while, and you can only manage a low noise.

"Yeah... feels a lot better, Ani. Gonna make me fall asleep."

You can picture him smiling down at you, gentling his touch as he returns to thumb at your nape, scratching your scalp in just the right way that makes you tremble with pleasure.

"Shoot," you nearly moan. "G'night."

You did warn him, but he's still surprised when your whole body goes limp a moment later, dead weight on his lap as you breathe deep and even.

Anyways, I also think he does just rub your back up and down a lot, like if you're stressed or ill or just not feeling well in any way. Or if he’s stressed, he finds the rhythmic motion and feeling the curve of your back soothing under his palm.

He's the type to lead you around crowded places with a hand to the small of your back, and rest his hand between your shoulder blades to announce his presence when coming up behind you, and throw his arm over your shoulders to drag you into his chest all man-handley and possessive.

It's an innocent enough touch to grant in public, so yes. He loves to rub your back and he does it so good.

thanks for the message ava!! 💖

[guardian5tiger3]

Waddup B) . Another general reading

Pick an album ! -

1 2

3 4

1. Ice cube group

In da house!! Haha I feel like y'all in da energy of being bout yo money. Or the color green is significant. Shoot y'all might be about the green rn if u kno . This doesn't have to be a super conscious thing a lot of you either way though are in the energy of richness like that so you gonna be attracting money or it's because you're destined to be prosperous at this time or in the near future like that. For some of you it's because you're supposed to use that to help get rid of some form of negativity in the past some how. Others of you should consider getting a new pet if that will make your heart happy you know or confirmation if that's what u been thinking bout. Spirit wants you to make sure you're open to receiving at this time and in the future though cause some of you have an imbalance were you're a bit too humble maybe struggling with your own worth and self perception and this is making me feel sad so I'm really sorry and you guys need to maybe use your logic to conclude it's only the truth that you're a human with a good heart that deserves good things and anyone who ever told you other wise..... Is tripping like they're wrong and delusional and probably a hurt person anyway. If your childhood was bad you're manifesting a lot to replace stuff from all that time and make up for it and stuff and you all are just heavily in a deep great energy I can see y'all auras are mostly either green , blue and a very few of you purple. One specific person has some red. Make sure you stay in touch with your feelings though as I can see how the world might be making you a bit numb or you feel like a bit depressed actually when it comes to the fact that things constantly happen like , in the past I've been depressed and contemplated like how could it be that I have to drink water then go to the bathroom over and over again and it would wear me down thinking about it. It's good to practice having control over your own mental and perspectives ok. Just hella green and gold so wealth wealth money $$ . One love

2. Group KORN !!

You guys are winners in my book . I don't even know why I felt I had to say that . If you actually listen to Korn, while either way you got to listen to their first two albums you know... After that they were cloned for sure just saying . Ok anyway ...

You might catch something right in time whatever that might mean. This could be anything it depends on the individual, someone saying something, something falling almost, idk.if that does happen it must also be a confirmation of something. So I'm seeing a complete ending and then a revival. This group is somehow dealing with the general concept of time ... I'm seeing for some of you this is all past energy some of you right now some of you the future this could even be like way in the future ok. So it just depends . Someone most likely am adult male is speaking well on you and possibly other people you care about or can be related to yourself. This is looking good for your reputation and it might even be saving your reputation. U know what for a few of you this could be someone that's catching something right on time that's what that is for you . Something about something working and smoothly at that, or a job or you working with someone . This could be someone you know from work. Looks like they love you like they have love for you and a lot of other people , this is someone with a good heart even if you can't tell by their personality . Something's " falling apart " I heard and someone's getting away smoothly from anything affecting them . There's an energy of some type of trick being played or more so just an attempt at that. Maybe some type of verbal communicative manipulation. Maybe trying to convince someone to do something they shouldn't like join a group, sign a contract, say something wrong or that can be taken out of context so be careful but I see it being a separate energy that just has no place anywhere and is kind of awkward lol. I got 3 7's . Be careful of deceit at this time and moving forward. Especially regarding people's words and your own. People might be analyzing you or someone else or a situation . I'm getting almost like an investigation for some of you maybe a real investigation . Like the feds even. Especially if by the time you're reading this this as an older post. Holy f*********** I picked up another deck started shuffling and a card that says I investigation popped right out and a little magnifying glass I drew it's also an orange card like I d***n near wanna take a picture and show you guys. Strangely the other card I got is cult

So this is super deep in some way some form of group of people, big or small, serious or silly, depends on who is reading, has attempted to silence someone. I'm guessing a great majority of you it's you that was or is trying to be silenced. I'm getting the metaphor... If you can call it that this isn't even a metaphor I just don't even know I'm kind of appalled cause what I'm getting is that like if you like just decided ok this one needs to go to another life not stay on earth you know so they took something away and try to deprive them of something so either that happens or so that they do not have the energy , capacity, capability of being able to speak the truth but guess what that's the desert card and after that I have the wave card so not just here's a glass of water let's throw you in the ocean and let a wave roll over you ... Metaphorically for whatever you were being deprived of...... And also a card that says break through which also has rain in it :) . So this is gonna hit really fast cause of course that's the universes will. It's kind of like actually a miracle type of energy im even getting the word biblical and also maybe the story of the guy who parted the red sea or together is significantly sorry I should remember his name I read the bible 300 times as a kid haha. But, you guys this is really good the final two cards are the ace of sword , y'all know that's the truth, and four of pentacles so I feel in my heart chakra specifically a sense of calm and that everything is gonna be set right and you'll be feeling good and a there's a good amount about stability. Maybe church is significant to someone. Or a house of worship I don't know. Or a house in general too for some of you. Or a bulldozer ..? Also substantial evidence for a very few of you .

3. No Doubt !!!!

You guys might be family oriented, live with your family, I can pick up on some people's energy of a kind of busy household maybe the sound of pets nails on a hard floor (cute I miss that with having dogs )

Do not drink any open drinks at this time whoever I'm talking to you wouldn't expect this either you trust someone who would do something or you wouldn't expect it of the brand...or something I don't know I don't want to make anyone paranoid just keep your drink on you in your sight or drink unopened ones you know . I can also sense baked chicken I think or grilled you know when it's not fried or anything though ?? You think someone is loyal to you also if you have a dog this is significant. Im getting calm energy somewhat I think spirits around you are in that and trying to stay around you and have that energy around you :) honestly someone around you might be dangerous this isn't a matter of you getting paranoid this would , if it is true for you, be a matter of you coming to terms with something you've probably had hints about for a prolonged period. Maybe since you were young or it's multiple people even for someone else that this also resonates for. Y'all feel really cool like you investigate things kind of like a mystery vibe it's dope . Rainy days and cabins maybe you can dig that or that's what you give other people if they can read energy well. The things you might be into or interested in in the past too might be significant and spirit considered it to have been or be technically research y'all are really smart don't let anyone block you or stop you from anything ? . For real. Yep y'all are super cool and a smaller group y'all might have anxiety or any big or small issue you should practice breathing exercises. You know I make tea and breath in the air when it's hot it also helps asthma or I placebo that for myself but either way it's nice haha. I'm feeling like my brains working faster you guys are really sharp you might also like caffeine lol me too. You guys are so dope you're like putting together a puzzle or intuitively trying to figure something out and you will this is kind of a destiny situation like I can feel in my heart you guys are just the dopest but seriously w really intelligent pile I feel that something is time restricted , destiny, everything youre supposed to get to and have happen and do and it feels super fast paced and so do you , even if u don't notice cause youre used to it. You also feel like you avoid really negative things as easily as a ghost can avoid a human. Better days a head too even. Your bed is significant somehow . One thing I'll note is you may have to, and if so should sooner than later deal with any negative ideas ever put in your mind about yourself make sure you heal your heart and mind . You're moving so damn fast . Your soul has a PLAN . Like, a mission dudes. It'll all make sense in the end I suppose. Keep going 💯💯💯

4 . The Maiden !!!!!

I feel like you guys have some good philosophy or mentalities in life like you know how to and when to go with the flow. Like picture floating down a river and it's to chill out then you're like alright now I gotta get up and out cause there's a rock that will hit me in three feet. Your intuition might make stuff easier . Sometimes your intuition might surprise you or it would if you pay attention you know. You may get a bit frustrated because you don't get to straight up know the future lol I can relate. To. That.

The movie ice age might have something to do with something or if you remember watching it at any point maybe the memory is significant??,

Or someone you remember watching it with for someone. The universe wants to give you what you want and need but you already seem like a generally content soul just with like yourself existing I noticed from the start this is a super chill group . You guys definitely see danger before it comes. Breathing exercises to the point of deep relaxation might be helpful. You're just not supposed to consciously know the future though I'm not sure why but I guess it would technically like by law mess it up possibly . Remember to be calm , at peace when doing any form of work but also remember work is play deep down just like deep down we're still the kids we once were when we were young , which is a good way to realize every person is not so different and I was going to say also that you should maybe focus somewhat on your relations with other people and your social interactions. Just to sharpen your social skills I guess. There looks like there's chaos around you but I don't see it touching you so you're good . Mellow vibes just enjoy the moment and work on patience and stuff maybe. Working would be beneficial you might get joy out of that even if it's building something or it could even be playing in the woods, going to the store, but I am also getting to go play outside and they want me to say like play like you could go pick up a stick and start digging in the dirt hell kinda sounds like fun . Peace and rock on .

[lucky-draws]

(transcript + some notes/explanation under the cut:)

i feel like the context of this is maybe only apparent in my own head LOL so basically ive kind of imagined an au where, based on the rebirth ending, james has succeeded in bringing mary back to life, but also maria, and also james gets killed in the process. so it's basically just maria and mary alone in the townTM trying to figure each other out. and this is a letter maria sends mary at some point basically. transcript in case the font is annoying to read:

Mary, You’ll have to forgive me if any of this sounds a little weird. I haven’t written anybody a letter in years, and I’m not sure if I have much of a way with words. Though I’ve been spending a lot of time in Ernest’s library lately, so hopefully some of his great literature has rubbed off on me. Somehow, I had this idea that I never liked reading much - that it wasn’t really my style - but I ended up getting kind of hooked. His dusty old books sure aren’t the worst company in this town, at any rate. I wonder what we really are, you and I. I used to think of us as two music box dolls: dancing side by side, spinning in perfect unison to somebody else’s tune. Like a pair of clocks keeping the same time. Two parallel lines, and an impossibility for us to ever intersect, to face each other head-on without some kind of disaster.

We’re not completely identical, though. If you looked closely at me - if you could bear to do that - you’d see all my imperfections. I lack your fine details. The paint on my lips is messier, my joins are showing, and there are bits of sprew left between my fingers. Pick me up, and you’ll feel how much lighter I am - I’m missing a lot of internal parts, you see. I’m a knock-off - we were cast from different molds. You were born of nature, while I was born from your very own killer. But I suppose I don’t need to tell you that. Do you hate me? I understand if you do. Or maybe I’m not so important - maybe you can only think of him. Or perhaps you’re trying not to think of anything at all when you sit by that lake for hours on end. I don’t know how you can stand it - going to the lake every day. It's so quiet. No ducks, not even a single bird. I’d go crazy, I think. That’s why I like to stay at the bar: there’s no one here either, of course, but it feels easier to imagine there might be. To pretend that we’ve only just closed, that those drinks on the table belonged to the last customers, and not to me. I’ve been so restless lately, sitting in the bar all night. I wonder if - no, I guess I’m hoping that - something’s going to give, soon. I think I’m losing the beat  - I’m spinning slower than you are. I think it’s because I keep getting distracted, always thinking of you. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s simply because you’re the only thing in this dreadful town that’s not a monster. But I think you must be as lonely as I am. Much more so, probably. And I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if you’d only reach through the mirror and touch me. I’m full of missing pieces, I know - but I have this notion that between us, we might just be able to come together into something like a real person. You know, some days I feel I hardly know who I am; but other times I feel so sure that I’m beginning to dance to my own beat. It’s no fun dancing alone, though. Well, I guess you know where to find me. I’ll be waiting at the bar tonight. I always am. I’ve waited there every night - for something, someone, anything, anyone - for what feels like forever. But these days, I’m just waiting for you. See you around, Maria

[multifunctionalnitroglycerin]

The Locked Tomb Series- Alecto Theory

Brace yourselves this is 3000 words of me connecting dots that aren't even there.

First things first, this post is an amalgam of various brilliant theories I have seen posted on Tumblr, so if anything feels familiar, that will be the main reason. I am just going to present my own take on this, and hopefully add something new to what we already have.

                The subjects of today’s conspiracy theory are Alecto and Anastasia -and Cassiopeia in part, the vow to Anastasia’s bloodline and what could very possible be, Dios Apate MAJOR.

                So let’s start with what we have from the books, and feel free to correct me or add sth I might have forgotten.

                Anastasia and Samael are the only ones of the original Lyctor batch, that didn’t complete the Lyctorhood process, thanks to - in no small part – John, and/or possibly Alecto. (“I am sorry about Samael”). Which could mean that Alecto was somehow involved in the whole process going wrong, and thus she feels responsible for Samael’s death, or that she was close enough with Anastasia and Samael, that she herself felt Samael’s loss, or she felt for Anastasia’s grief. (I like to believe that they did have a tentative friendship even before the vow thing happened.)

                Anastasia is also the only one of the Lyctors we know, so far, to have had children. Which is an important bit on its own, (Can full Lyctors, have children? If so, are they different from other children, necromantic or not? Is there a reason that in spite of biological capability- if it exists-the other Lyctors have chosen not to have children? Even with Augustine’s and Mercymorn’s plan we see that in the end Gideon is conceived with Wake’s material – John is a whole different story as far as Lyctorhood goes so he doesn’t count.)

Back to our discussion though, Anastasia’s bloodline was so important to the Ninth House that it has been preserved for 10.000 years. We do not really get a clear picture on whether the Reverend Family knows why the continuation of the bloodline is important, Harrow certainly doesn’t, but it was so deeply ingrained to them that Anastasia’s bloodline must remain intact, that they effectively committed genocide, dooming the House’s future, in order to produce one more direct descendant of the Saint that wasn’t.

We do get a hint, a rather big one, on why the preservation of Anastasia’s blood is so important, in Nona’s Epilogue. Alecto states that Harrow is “the blood of the tombkeeper” after kissing her and drawing blood. What did she taste on Harrow’s blood I wonder? And how did she recognize the taste, as the taste of Anastasia’s line? Did the vow she initially made to Anastasia herself involve them drawing blood? Did it bind them to one another, so deeply that they ingrained themselves into each other on a molecular level?

To add to this, young Harrow, young desolate Harrow, who had had enough with her life and was prepared to die, young Harrow who opened the Tomb for that express purpose, loves Alecto from sight. And decides to keep living for her. And there is something exceedingly weird to just how much Harrow loves Alecto. Alecto is probably the most attractive person Harow lay her eyes upon to that day, true, but this instant infatuation, and its persistence throughout the years has something more to it, don’t you think? As Gideon points out, both to herself and to Ianthe, Harrow’s heart belongs to the dead cold body in the Tomb. And said cold dead body in the Tomb, recognizes Harrow from sight when she wakes “Alecto recalled her, for it was a face once dreamed in Alecto’s dream.”

And this line begs the question. Could Alecto dream, in the tomb? If so, how? And what did she dream of? Did she dream of Harrow? Why did she dream of Harrow if that is the case? Or did she dream of Anastasia, and the resemblance is that great? On the other hand, if this refers to Harrow first opening the Tomb, and looking at Alecto, does that mean that she was in some form conscious throughout that stasis? Does this mean that she could have heard and felt Anastasia while they were both locked in the Tomb, for however long the other woman lived?

(The scene where Nona describes the feeling of Anastasia's hands in the water and feeling safe. I am going to cry.)

I do have an interesting theory about Alecto’s “dreams” but we’ll get there in a bit.

Something else that is fishy, is that the Ninth, is the House of the Sewn Tongue. It sounds a bit like too much flesh magic for a bone magic house to specialize in, right? The cure to the Sewn Tongue on the other hand? Removing the mandible and all that? That sounds like a Bone Magic solution to a flesh magic problem. And I wonder if the fact that the Ninth House’s emblem is the Jawless skull, insinuates that the Ninth is not so much a house where many secrets are kept – though this is undoubtedly true, as the Ninth is known as the House of secrets by the other houses – as much that in the Ninth, all secrets are revealed. Where the sewn tongue is healed, and the truth comes to light. And I’d like to point out that it sounds a bit like foreshadowing, and a promise. Anastasia has been betrayed by John and sworn to secrecy, and then locked in the Tomb to die and take his secrets with her. I feel like the jawless skull acts as a constant reminder, that even with the sewn tongue, all curses can be broken, and all secrets will eventually come to light. And it feels like a promise to John, that her House, the house of secrets and unspoken truths, will be the one to rid of the sewn tongue and bring the truth he so fears forward. And this aligns a tad too well with the Sixth’s mantra, Six for the truth, over solace in lies.

And you know what else fits here, in this concordance of the Sixth and Ninth Houses? Cassiopeia and Anastasia’s friendship. Their alliance if you will. We know they both worked closely together trying to figure out the perfect Lyctorhood process, and it is possible that Anastasia made her attempt a bit before Cassiopeia. The exact same attempt, that performed in perfect conditions ended in failure, with John ultimately killing Samael.

 We also know that Cassiopeia left contingency plans in place, should the emperor become a hindrance to the empire. And from what we have seen of Cassiopeia in the books, it is safe to assume that she is driven, determined, exceedingly intelligent, perceptive, logical, and excellent at planning. She is also the one to point out John’s less than favorable qualities pre-Resurrection such as his interest in taking vengeance on those that wronged him being bigger in his interest to save lives.

So, we have, Cassiopeia and her logic driven, truth seeking brilliance, and Anastasia, the thorough, overly methodical researcher. We have them both working on perfect Lyctorhood, and we have them both, in one way or another, being betrayed by John. Chances are, that they were the first post Resurrection to notice John’s flaws, the first to concoct a plan against him. But contrary to Cytherea, Mercy and Augustine, they are more subtle than those cannonball attempts. No, I believe they planned. And they planned long term, and together. Cassiopeia left her House a note, left them instructions, she was preparing them for when John would become a liability. And then an aforementioned amount of time later, Anastasia is asked to design the tomb.

We do not really know anything about Alecto’s relationships with the other lyctors apart from the fact that most found her revolting, a “monster” in Mercy’s words. So here is a thought, perhaps Anastasia, the one of the original Eight to never ascend, perhaps the one whose failure Alecto was involved in – “I am sorry about Samael” – finds kinship in John’s unnerving pet, his undead “cavalier”, the one he betrayed first, the soul of earth. Perhaps they even became friends. Perhaps she and Cassiopeia realize the extend of what John has done and realize that Alecto is the key to undoing it. When John refuses to kill Alecto to appease the others, the plan fully forms.

So, they construct the tomb. And Cassiopeia is well-known for building mechanisms within houses, so maybe her and Anastasia create secret passages, and mechanisms with extra access to the tomb that would be independent of John sneaking in, or whatever he planned to do with that blood-ward.  And hear me out, we know that Cassiopeia stayed 7 minutes in the river before being torn apart by the resurrection beast – at Mercymorn’s account at least, not sure how reliable of a narrator she is. But what happened during those seven minutes? Paul says he thinks he knows how to get to the Locked Tomb via the River. So, the river and the Tomb are connected. What did Cassiopeia do, I wonder? (Here I’d like to say that my other theory is that she did eventually die, or rather was consumed by Varun the eater, much like Judith Deuteros was. The RB burned through her in what, a couple months? How long would a Lyctor last? Perhaps that was the reason that Varun didn’t resurface until 100 years after Cassiopeia’s presumed death. She could have been alive and slowly wasting away, while still making failsafe within failsafe until she lost her sense of self and eventually wasted away)

To recap until now, the first part of my theory is that Anastasia and Cassiopeia dissatisfied with the world John had made and the truth he had served them, probably worked together to find the truth. And they worked together from the shadows, to create a plan, a long-term plan, with which they could bring John down if the need ever arose, and undo what he had done. And Anastasia’s bloodline and their secrets are really bloody important to that plan. (Also, some nice symbolism about the Ninth being about secrets revealed, rather than secrets kept, and that functioning as a bit of foreshadowing.)

Now into the second part of my theory. Anastasia’s bloodline is so important because she has bound her bloodline to Alecto. And I think this happened in the premise of the Vow Alecto has made to her, or they have made to each other. This might be part of the initial vow, of which we know nothing about, apart from the fact that Alecto pledged herself to Anastasia, and that it is important enough that she pledges herself to Harrow, or a failsafe within it. A failsafe to ensure that should Alecto wake after Anastasia has passed, she will not be fooled by any imposters, or anything else John might have planned. Or perhaps, a failsafe to ensure that even if John changes his mind and finds a way to rid of the body within the tomb, to “kill” Alecto, she will not be completely gone, she will keep existing within Anastasia’s line, thus ensuring that the plan for John’s demise can still be enacted and that the soul of the earth will not be dead.

That plays really hard in the Alecto is within Harrow from the beginning theory. And I will explain. I believe I saw something that looked like this in Twitter by lesbian_mothman, but I do not really remember so I apologize if all this has been said before.

In all the dream chapters with John, we relive memories from just before and after the resurrection, and John talks to Harrow as if she is Alecto “You always say that Harrowhark” as a response to “I still love you.” Or when Varun recognizes the Earth’s soul “green thing” within Nona in the car chase scene, or when Judith regaining consciousness asks “Harrowhark?” and Nona replies, “No, and I never was.” So that begs the question of how much of Harrow is Harrow, how much is Alecto and how much are the 200 souls within her? (And there was a crowd of dead children there. They were striving loudly against living children on the far-off shore of the tomb. CHILLS)

In Nona we learn that Palamedes and Camila on the one hand and Pyrrha on the other have two different theories about who Nona is. The Sixth believe that she is an amalgam of Gideon and Harrow, and Pyrrha believes she is Alecto, golden eyes and all. And I am more inclined to believe that it is indeed Alecto, or at least a part of her, that resides within Harrow, and took the wheel when both Harrow and Gideon were gone. Think abt it. Gideon is back in her body, and we have no idea what the hell happened to Harrow, only that she doesn’t have the wheel, and Nona acts nothing like Harrow or Gideon did. It’s like she is learning how to be human for the first time. She learns how to love and be loved for the first time. So with no soul to govern the body, the part of Alecto within Harrow takes the wheel.  

And then there is the candle metaphor in NtN. Alecto’s soul is the candle passed from one necromantic heir of the Ninth to the other.

So long story short, part of the vow, if not all of it, is that part of Alecto will always live within Anastasia’s descendants, so long as they are necromancers. And here comes the part of Alecto’s dreams. Because if indeed she lives within the souls of Anastasia’s necromantic descendants, does she see through their eyes? Does she feel through their hearts? Does she dream of their lives, while locked in the Tomb, while a part of her lives in them? Is she conscious within them? Or does the whole thing act like a cavalier- lyctor sort of connection, where she cannot take the wheel unless the other soul in the body Is gone?

 Part of her soul is bound to Anastasia’s line, and they are bound to her, and over the course of 10.000 years do they spill over? Alecto to Anastasia’s descendants and they to Alecto.  Was this part of the plan to have a failsafe within Anastasia’s line in case something happened to the body in the Tomb? Was it a promise Anastasia made to Alecto, to give her a chance to live, to be human, through the lives of her own descendants?

All in all, I guess I could some it up in a few concise points.

Cassiopeia and Anastasia worked closely together, they were friends and allies and saw in John, the unfulfilled promises he made, and all the faults he tried to cover with rewriting his own version of history.

They decide to make a plan, a long term one, a detailed one, for when John is more a liability than it is worth. And thus, Cassiopeia creates the mechanisms in the Sixth and leaves the protocols for the rest to find. Truth over solace in lies.

Meanwhile Anastasia attempts to ascend, and John kills Samael. Alecto might be consciously or unconsciously involved and harbors guilt over Samael’s death.

Anastasia probably befriends Alecto or finds kinship with this strange being that is the soul of a planet that no longer is.

The planning continues and John after being asked to kill Alecto decides to lock her in the Tomb instead and has Anastasia design it. He later asks her to stay in the tomb and guard Alecto. (Antigone style)

Anastasia designs the tomb, probably with Cassiopeia’s help, probably with a few hidden mechanisms of its own and or a secret pathway through the river, an extra way out.

At some point, Anastasia sires a line, and she makes her vow with Alecto.

The vow probably is in regards of bounding Alecto to Anastasia’s line so long as there are necromantic heirs. A part of Alecto is constantly alive within each descendant of Anastasia’s.

It might work a bit like the lyctoral process, because Alecto only takes the wheel when there is no Harrow and no Gideon in Nona’s body, aka when there doesn’t seem to be another soul guiding it.

Alecto dreams. Whether she dreams of herself within the tomb and that’s how she recognizes Harrow on sight – from the memory of Harrow first unlocking the Tomb – or her dreams are glimpses of the lives Anastasia’s descendants lead I don’t know.

Alecto is thus bound to Anastasia’s line by blood. She recognizes Harrow by her blood, tasting either Anastasia, or the part of herself residing within it, when she kisses her. It also ensures that the line is intact the vow is intact and it’s not a pretender trying to fool her.

Anastasia and Cassiopeia planned to bring John down by opening the tomb when the time was right and leaving her to Alecto’s (and the RB’S???) mercy. There is still a lot left to be explored.

The tomb is to remain closed until the time has come God has to die. We can all see how that can be misinterpreted to > if the tomb opens God will die. And instead of a promise to be fulfilled it becomes a terrible terrible thing, that will spell everyone’s doom.

The freaking skull of the ninth is a threat, a foreshadow and a promise. The Ninth was a house that should have died with Anastasia in the tomb. But it didn’t. It continued existing its bloodline unbroken for 10.000 years. Nine for the tomb and all that was lost. The Ninth is predominantly I feel a house of mourning – the whole nuns, all black, and skull makeup thing. But it is also a house of secrets. It is a house represented by the cure to even the tightest secret held. So the Ninth, the house that should never have been the house that should have died with its secrets in the tomb of its inception, is the one that will break the sewn tongue, and reveal all the secrets, bringing the truth to light.

[bitchy-craft]

How Your Summer Will Go | Pick A Pile

Hello and welcome to this Pick A Pile! In here you'll find out how your summer will go. I hope you guys enjoy and find this useful. Do make sure to leave comments down below on your experience! I do want to remind you all that this is a General Pick A Pile which means this is for a lot of people; therefore keep what resonates and leave what doesn't.

Masterlist > Questions

Pick A Pile!

Pile 1:

This pile represents a summer with warmth and joy. You'll likely spend a lot of time outdoors, soaking up the sun and enjoying the beautiful weather. This will be a great time for you to connect with friends and family, and to try new things that you've always wanted to do. You'll also meet many new people, or see many people that will give you a new sense of awareness and creativity.

Something your summer will also be filled with is relaxation and fun. You'll likely spend a lot of time at the beach, enjoying the sand and surf, or simply rest and read a book. This is a great time for you to unwind and let go of any stress that you may have been carrying, and a great time to destress it is. So take all those emotions that just never seem to leave, and slowly let them go as you enjoy your summer.

Pile 2:

Your summer will be filled with adventure and exploration. You'll probably spend a lot of time in nature, hiking and exploring the mountains. This is a great time to challenge yourself and push your limits, doing things you've never done before, or have been scared to try out.

But you'll also be faces with challenges and obstacles. You may encounter unexpected setbacks and difficulties that test your resilience and determination. You may find yourself feeling more resilient and adaptable than usual.

But even though setbacks will happen, and scary things must be done, your summer is still completely filled with excitement and surprise, don't forget that. You'll find yourself to experience unexpected opportunities and adventures that fill you with awe and wonder. Things that will give you much experience and knowledge, things that will come to use as you continue with life, so don't forget to enjoy the things you push your limits with.

Pile 3:

This pile represents a summer filled with learning and growth. You may spend a lot of time reading and studying, exploring new ideas and expanding your knowledge, or doing things other people really want to do with you. But this is a great time to invest in yourself and your future, so don't forget to do things that are good for you, that are fun to you. The summer must be about you and your enjoyment. So try not to think about work, about school, or anything else you feel like you need to focus on, but do things you want to do, and you like to do.

When you begin to do this you'll also notice that you'll discover many things about yourself, others, nature, and all the things around you. You may embark on a journey of self-discovery, visiting new places and meeting new people.

Like I stated before, in your summer you will most likely spend a lot of time with family and friends, enjoying good food and good company. Which is of course fun, but remember to also do the things you want to do. And if others don't want to join? Just do it on your own, you can be your own company.

[velvet4510]

I just want to point something out.

There’s a big reason why we should be pretty darn grateful for Gollum, and it’s not the obvious one.

Because think of what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been there at the Cracks of Doom when the Ring finally overpowered Frodo. If Frodo or Sam had killed him, or if he’d somehow been mentally capable of heeding Frodo’s warning and just getting out of there.

Some who mention this cut straight to “Sauron would’ve won.” Which is an easy assumption. The Nazgul could’ve gotten there, killed Sam, and taken the Ring back to Sauron. But what would’ve happened to Frodo?

I think it’s more likely that instead of quickly killing Frodo right then and there alongside Sam, Sauron would’ve ordered the Nazgul to bring Frodo to him. Someone as malicious as the Dark Lord would probably want to inflict harrowing punishment on the person who endangered his Ring.

And you know what? I think Sam knew this might happen. Sam is not dumb or half-witted in the slightest. This hobbit is clever, smart, downright brilliant. During their trek through Mordor, between having experienced the Ring’s power himself while carrying it and watching it weaken Frodo more and more (especially hearing Frodo directly say “I am almost in its power, I could not give it up”), it must have occurred to Sam that the Ring was going to win Frodo’s internal battle.

Sam had already planned so many strategies throughout the quest. Ensuring they had enough to eat and drink, figuring out how to beat Shelob and break into the dark tower… Sam is a great strategist. As any good gardener must be. It’s in his nature. So I feel like he must’ve figured out ahead of time what was likely to happen, and thought about a possible Plan B to complete the Quest.

And I also feel like his consideration of a Plan B would be less about saving Middle-earth itself and more about saving Frodo. Our dear Sam Gamgee would naturally try to think of every possible option that would prevent Sauron from trapping his beloved Frodo in his torture chambers for years and years.

So, when you put it all together, if Gollum hadn’t been there to take back the Ring, Sam would’ve had no other choice but to throw Frodo and himself into the Fire after Frodo put on the Ring. This would’ve destroyed the Ring, saved Frodo from it, and enabled them to die together like they expected (and, I dare say, wanted). I’m certain this was Sam’s plan. Now, would he actually have been able to do so? That’s debatable. Because it would’ve been an act of will with the intent of destroying the Ring, which is quite impossible to act on in the Cracks of Doom. But if Sam had just concentrated on Frodo and not thought about the Ring at all, considered it an act for Frodo and not for the Ring, perhaps he could’ve done it. Feel free to argue either way.

The likelihood of this plan of Sam’s is why I don’t like how in the movie, Sam is yelling at Frodo “Destroy it! Just let it go! Throw it in the Fire! What are you waiting for?” Essentially echoing the audience’s thoughts, of course … but would Tolkien’s Sam actually say this? No. From everything he witnessed, Tolkien’s Sam knew that Frodo wouldn’t be able to let it go and prepared himself to make the ultimate sacrifice to complete the Quest. This is a nuance that the screenwriters clearly didn’t pick up on, or just ignored in favor of making Sam a voice for the audience. But doesn’t it make more sense for Sam to say nothing in that scene, as he does in the book, because he already knew what would happen?

This is why I’m thankful to Gollum. If he hadn’t been there, there’s a chance that Sauron still would’ve lost, but there’s also a guarantee that Frodo and Sam would’ve died in the worst possible way … if not at Sauron’s hands, then Sam would’ve had to kill himself and the great love of his life.

Thank you, Gollum, for ensuring this didn’t happen and saving our favorite hobbits. Even though saving them was no part of your intentions.

[bayofwolves]

Rereading The Evertree

We've come to the end. I'm finally at the last book of the first arc! Hopefully I can stop explaining what these posts are now, but one more time for anyone unaware: These posts are a compilation of notes taken from my rereads of the Spirit Animals books. They include interesting details, stuff I missed and how I plan to change certain things in my retelling of the series, A Revised History of Erdas. Shall we begin?

"I know you were supposed to be your village's Rain Dancer and all, but can you lighten up on all the dancing?" I know Rain Dancers have to engage in rituals and meditate extensively before they can produce rain, but Abeke influencing the weather with her emotions is a fun idea. Imagine the ceaseless rain is brought down by her pain and sorrow over Shane, Meilin, Tarik and her family.

It definitely feels to me like Tarik was one of the Greencloak leaders, alongside Lenori and underneath Olvan. His role in training the Four Heroes themselves, him having a seat at the table with the other leaders and a place at their important meetings, et cetera... it all seems like his rank was higher than he let on in-text. (Also, my two cents: I would nominate Finn to take his place as the third Greencloak leader.)

"The image of Gerathon's smiling jaws and slithering body disappeared, replaced instead with Rollan's lopsided grin and Conor's encouraging voice, Abeke's clear laugh." I am crying.

The typos in this one are funny. Kalani's dolphin, Katoa, is referred to as female even though he was introduced as male in Against the Tide. And Devin is mistakenly called Devon.

I don't like how Kalani and Rollan made up by completely forsaking the cultural beliefs of Kalani's people. If Hundred Islanders believe something is tapu and want nothing to do with it, they shouldn't be forced to go against that. They already introduced the concept of a ceremony to rid someone or something or tapu (noa), so they could have simply had Kalani perform this for Rollan. I've been saying this, but I'll say it again.

Finn should have been the leader of the Greencloak expedition from the beginning. He already has experience with these kids, and placing him back in a position of authority would be much less likely to spark resentment than a completely new person like Dorian would. Narratively, I do think it was necessary to see more of how Tarik's death affected the Four. But logically...

The Conquerors are monitoring their own people for signs of disloyalty. Interesting.

It seems some records of Stetriolan wildlife survived after all -- Finn knows that the animal who stole their provisions is a dingo. Since it was established earlier that the Greencloaks know next to nothing about Stetriol, I would have liked it better if Abeke was one of their only sources of information. She could use whatever she learned about the continent from Shane and the Conquerors to help guide them in their quest. And she identified a dingo in Against the Tide, so she could have done the same here instead of Finn.

Strange how the party just left the dead horse behind and continued on, instead of using it for meat. Between the meat from the horse and the water bulbs Abeke found, they would have been set to last for even longer.

Abeke swinging up onto her horse's back reminds me of that scene in Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers where Legolas does that crazy mounting technique. I'm willing to bet that was done on purpose; both characters are great archers, after all.

Shane's intense reaction to Gerathon entering his mind must mean that this is the first time she has controlled him. It makes sense, given that she probably wanted to make him feel like he was the one in charge. Oh, what I would give to get inside Shane's head during this battle.

Gerathon forcing Shane to aim for Abeke specifically was definitely intentional. Her method of reading people and then turning them against the ones they love the most is the highest form of torture.

I know I've mentioned that Sundown in Rise and Fall may be my favourite chapter in all of Spirit Animals, but Duel is a strong contender, too. The contrast between the raw pain and rage of Duel and the peacefulness, the gentleness, the emotional vulnerability of Sundown is incredible. It makes sense why both are so close to my heart; they go together, hand in hand. You can't have one without the other.

Everything I read about the Four Heroes' travels is telling me that Erdas is a remarkably small planet.

Conor is sorely mistaken about the crater around the Evertree being caused by an ancient volcano. Additionally, when Abeke later sees a vision in the sky of how the world came to be, including the birth of the Evertree and the Great Beasts, there is not even a hint about the Wyrm. It makes me wonder if the authors had conceived of the Wyrm's landing at this point (or if they were purposefully covering up this plot point to surprise the readers).

Only the Great Beasts know the location of the Evertree. I wonder how it has remained hidden to the rest of the creatures on Erdas. Surely there are tribes living in southern Nilo, yes? It would be cool if the Great Beasts were able to conceal it with their combined magic, making the crater and everything inside it invisible to the human eye.

The Evertree bears fruit! Its description of "pure white" and, well, the fact that it comes from the Evertree itself makes me imagine it has magical properties of some kind. What could this fruit bestow upon you if you were to eat it? Good health? Eternal life? If humans knew how to find the Evertree, I'm sure wars would have been waged over this very question. (It could have made for an interesting storyline if Shane had managed to steal one of the fruits before he fled. Perhaps he would eat it, perhaps sell it, perhaps keep it to look at. I imagine it would stay fresh even after being plucked and never spoil.)

In ARHoE, Arax appears at the Evertree with a broken horn from when Barlow threw him off the cliff. Just a cool detail I thought to mention.

Tellun sacrificing himself is supposed to be seen as a noble act, but at a closer look it actually works against our protagonists. Kovo has made his intent to rule the whole world quite clear. While the Great Beasts dying might sadden him, it won't stop him. By taking themselves out of the battle, Tellun and the first few are leaving it all up to a bunch of kids (warriors, yes, but still kids) to bring down this age-old, godlike gorilla, instead of using their combined might to stop him and save the world they swore to protect. If Tellun had learned something from the last Great War and decided to fight this time, aided our heroes in driving Kovo into the Evertree and died in the process, it would have been so much better! On the flip side, though, it could be read as a testament to how selfish the Great Beasts actually are -- how they are shown time and time again to care more about themselves and their talismans than upholding their oath.

I would have preferred it if the brief moment when the Four Fallen appear as Great Beasts once more happened at the Evertree and not Muttering Rock. Like, if being in the presence of the tree that created them temporarily restored them to their old forms. Great Beast-sized Briggan, Uraza, Jhi and Essix fighting Kovo, Gerathon and Halawir with the rest of their brethren, a more hopeful and heartbreaking rendition of their last battle all those years ago, would have been amazing.

Something about Shane presumably fleeing further into Nilo, home of the friend he betrayed, and perhaps wandering there a while in the wake of his defeat... and many months later, Abeke restoring her bond with Uraza in Stetriol, home of the friend she forgave. Everything is connected.

Wow. This was a powerful finale -- high stakes, epic final battle, emotional climax, descriptions I could see in my mind's eye. There were quite a few things I didn't like about this one, though. Outside of what I've already mentioned: The ending should have been heartwarming, and for the most part it was, but Abeke reconciling with her abusive family soured it for me. I wish the Four had reconvened with Finn, Maya, Kalani and the rest of their party at some point, instead of them vanishing in the middle of a battle and never being heard from again. And once again, I protest the exclusion of Irtike! Aside from all that, though, The Evertree was a great read and a solid conclusion to arc one of Spirit Animals. There are a lot of loose ends to be tied, but for now, the war is over, and our protagonists can finally breathe.

It's been a good run. I plan to take a short break here, but I'm excited to turn the page and begin a new arc soon!

This is part of an ongoing series.

Wild Born | Hunted | Blood Ties | Fire and Ice | Against the Tide | Rise and Fall | The Evertree

Immortal Guardians | Broken Ground | The Return | The Burning Tide

Heart of the Land | The Wildcat's Claw | Stormspeaker | The Dragon's Eye

Tales of the Great Beasts | The Book of Shane | Tales of the Fallen Beasts

[jimmycarterghostland]

(This is going to be kind of a long post about Worm. BTW, I'm currently on the Scarab arc)

I'm reading Scarab 25.1 of Worm right now.

I only read a couple of words of it, though. I had to make this post, because I need to say it boggles my mind when someone says they read Worm in a matter of weeks. I saw a Reddit comment from a guy(I'm assuming they were a guy) who said they read Worm in two weeks. I started this read in either May or June. So either 4 or 5 months ago, and I'm still reading. This web serial is MASSIVE.

When I first started the read, I would read three chapters per day. But these chapters are so long now, I only read one of them per day. And I can't even imagine reading Worm in two weeks. I would quickly get tired of reading that many words. This thing is over one million and a half words long.

Some background: I discovered Worm years ago, back when I was googling the longest story, or probably when I was searching up a one million word-long story. I can't remember which of those things led me to Worm.

Ultimately, I ended up discovering this story. I spoiled a lot of it for myself. I also used to read it out of chronological order. I would read random scenes and stuff. My attempts to read the entire story in order failed. Until I started this current read months ago. I don't mention all of that in my occasional posts about Worm, and I spoiled a bunch more of it for myself during this read. So, I'm actually aware of a lot that's going to happen in this story later on. Reading Worm completely unaware of what was going to happen in it must have been crazy for people who read it live.

I like how Wildbow has a bunch of loyal readers who comment on every chapter. I pray my own web serial gets loyal fans like those. Technically, I'm a silent reader with Worm. I don't leave comments on WordPress, but I do discuss Worm on Tumblr, and I've been reading every chapter. It's funny, because as a writer, I hate having silent readers. Positive comments on a story are encouraging, gives me the push I need to keep writing it.

Anyway, I love Worm. It's so good. There are definitely some grammar errors and some instances of clunky writing, but this story is still a lot better than many traditionally published novels. I won't name any names, but there's this one traditionally published novel that I've been reading every day, and it's absolute trash. I actually dread reading it. But I hate having a book and leaving it unfinished, so I'm forcing myself to read that one. It sucks so bad. The difference in quality between this book and Worm is astounding. Seriously. It makes me appreciate Worm a lot more. I never dread having to read a chapter of Worm.

The characters in Worm are complex and have their own unique personalities and speech patterns. Wildbow is a master of writing multiple points of view, and a master of writing distinct characters. Characters in Worm have unique dialogue. I remember reading a certain chapter and just knew it was Skidmark speaking, because he is vulgar and doesn't feel shame when he curses or says something inappropriate.

In Hookwolf's interlude, his personality pops off the page. His racism shows in his thoughts. He refers to Shatterbird as a racial slur in his inner monologue. A non-racist character would have used the proper term for Shatterbird's ethnicity in their inner monologue. But Hookwolf is a racist. He thinks like one, and Wildbow shows that well. Wildbow knows how to give each of his narrators a distinct character voice. Or if not each of them, enough of them. Many authors are bad at writing multiple POV fiction. Wildbow isn't one of them. And since I prefer multiple POV literature over single POV, I'm glad that Worm is a good example of what good multiple POV literature looks like.

Worm has some great subtlety too. A lot of things aren't overexplained. As in, Wildbow doesn't unnecessarily beat the reader over the head with certain stuff. Like, when Leviathan was moving slower, implying he was weaker than he was when the battle against him first started. Wildbow could have written "Leviathan was moving slower because he was weaker." Wildbow didn't do that, though. The fact Leviathan was moving slower told enough.

Another instance of Wildbow being great with subtlety was Charlotte's interlude. She is distrustful of men because of what happened to her at the mall, but Wildbow doesn't constantly refer back to that incident. There's no overexplaining. The reader can already guess that Charlotte is distrustful of men because of that mall incident. If Worm was written by a bad writer, they would have kept explaining how the mall accident was what made Charlotte scared of men. Wildbow does a great job of "show, don't tell".

I no longer think Worm will be traditionally published. I wish it would be, but at some point I realized it would be very hard for Worm to be traditionally published. I think it's fine the way it is. Having Worm in a web serial format is good enough.

I love Worm, and I am glad it exists.

[chromateclipse]

Okay, so you like Velvet and Veneer? Well, if you get the chance, I want you to speak! TELL ME EVERYTHING!! I want you to give me headcannons please, as many as you can think of :)

pls and thx!!

AHHH! OK so I've never done anything like this but I put as many as I could think of. If I come up with anything else, I'll edit this and add it (or just make a new post) 

(lots of words ahead 💀)

General headcanons :

- They one hundred percent had the Barbie mugshot but with Velvet's deadly stare instead

- and Veneer made sure he looked good; they are taking a picture after all

- I think Velvet might be a little taller than Veneer but they're both taller than average

- never leaves the house without heels or platforms or both

- Veneer has must-be-wearing-a-crop-top syndrome. Can't be cured 😔 

- I'm sorry but they totally sang Circus by Britney Spears. That song is so V&V coded and has female and male vocals too 😩

- The sass is too hard to contain for this duo. Once a sly thought appears in their mind, they have to voice it (but I'm not complaining. They're iconic) 

- Veneer can be a little blunt or rude sometimes. I know ppl like to imagine him as just the caring and silly sibling but he did everything Velvet did. He just had morals that started to kick in once the threat of being a killer was thrown at him. 

(I mean did you see him nearly just toss Floyd down the toilet 💀)

- of course, I still think he is silly and kind and chooses to do so for a fair portion of the time but he's no stranger to being ignorant to most of his wrongdoings as well

- and I think they both have some trauma from practically killing Floyd. GET THEM THERAPYYY

- I think Velvet would like decorating and making things ✨Aesthetic✨

- like a little journal that she'd write her feelings in and then fill with beautiful stickers and photos (totally not a burn book....) 

- I think Poppy would love love looove to see Velvet's journal filled with beautiful stationary. She'd probably get her into scrapbooking and they'd make the cutest little displays or books just brimming with photos, cutouts, diagrams, and more. 

-Poppy and Viva can be a little overwhelming for Velvet at first but they'd totally become great gal pals and just chat all day. 

- and at first, Bergen features might be a little....alarming to Velvet but she'd learn to love Bridget just like Poppy does

-also both are invited to the broppy wedding... 👀

- she also of course become friends with the BroZone brothers but I get more into that below ⬇️

"Story" headcanons :

- So for Velvet, I think in the movie she was so blinded by her need for fame and luxury that she didn't notice how her family (Veneer) helped her and stuck around through all the things she said and did. This would separate her from being just a complete villain because I do believe that she can reform herself into something better

- In Jail, I think Velvet would really hate it and everyone around her. She probably wouldn't want to talk to Veneer at all at first but being alone might give her time to reflect on herself

- over a little time, I think she'd realize how Veneer was always there for her and understood her ways. She'd definitely come back around and they'd be back to being as close as they were before, maybe even more

-It would take some time for both Velvet and Veneer to adjust. 

- Veneer would dislike jail very much. He's so used to his life of luxury that I'm sure he'd be surprised by how little you get behind bars

- and with Velvet wanting to be alone, he would probably feel more alone than ever

- but he knows he did the right thing and even though prison sucks, he'd get through it

- Veneer would probably try to make friends with some of the people there but it is prison soo.... I'm not sure how well that would go. 

- if anyone came to visit him, he'd be so happy cuz jail is sooo boring and he'd finally get to yap away to somebody who knows him.

- you just know they'd be styling that prison jumpsuit the best the can

- can you sneak heels into jail??

- Velvet and Veneer are kinda "eye candy" for the criminals in jail and they might get targeted by those who are jealous or looking for a fight

-Velvet's not the only one with an attitude problem, Veneer can very well relay a comment or two that can easily get them into some trouble. He'll have to work on that along with his sister, learn how to correctly treat the people around them

 - After they become besties again, they'd have each other's backs like never before. I think Velvet really really does care about Veneer and if anything ever happened to him, she'd be devastated. This time, she'd really like to treat him how he deserves and nurture that sibling bond. 

- and you know once anyone throws hands with one sibling, the other comes swinging

- 💥KNOCKOUT💥

- not the best thing to do if you want to get out of jail fast but hey, nobody messes with twins and gets away with it

- Due to other more serious situations being forgiven in the past, I think Velvet & Veneer wouldn't be in prison for too long. I can easily see BroZone forgiving them and offering to help the twins with whatever they'd need

- Veneer would definitely become great friends with Floyd and even Bruce. After all, he knows what it's like to be sensitive and a heartthrob 😌

- and I can see Velvet relating to Branch and J. D. She's probably a control freak (or was) and always wants everything to be perfect, just like John Dory. That's something they'd both have to work on. And I think Velvet and Branch can relate to one another's sassy sarcastic comments and occasional snide remarks. 

- I can also see them joining Clay's sad book club. I need to see a scene of Veneer just balling his eyes out after finishing a book while all the others just pat him on the back 😆

- @horrorartist23 did a couple of drawings of Velvet & Veneer(or maybe just Ven idk) working at Bruce's Beachside Bar and I LOVE THAT IDEA SO MUCH.

- ESPECIALLY since Bruce said his family was a total Veneer household. I think it would be so cute for not only his kids getting the chance to meet Vel&Ven but also for Vel&Ven to get a little bit of real work experience.

- it would be so good for them to work at a place like that to learn about themselves and a work environment.

- plus the whole island is gorgeous and pretty luxury, which would fit into they're ideal environment. AND everything is Rageon sized so they don't have to worry about being too big!!

- They'd literally be working hard and making it look easy 💀

- I think it's perfect and I love it

-after jail and therapy, I think Velvet would really love the life she has. She'd of course still make mistakes sometimes and her sass will never leave. That's just who she is and none of us would want to change that . But she'd have a way healthier mind and so would the people around her. 

- I think both of them might want to actually learn how to sing and dance like real performers 

- Velvet hates making mistakes or not being perfect at a skill immediately. I know how that is and it's really difficult to get past but with more encouragement from Veneer and even the Brozone brothers, she'd become the star she always knew she was. 

- And Veneer would take initiative for himself and practice performing like a real idol. I feel Veneer would also struggle with wanting perfection immediately but I think he'd really fall in love with dancing and this would help him keep up the determination. And he'd be really good at it too after some practice

- Knowing how good they can be if they put in the work would be a huge motivator too. Cuz they only stole Floyd's talent, not his voice. And because of this Velvet knows that she sounds good when she's at her peak in skill. They know that they can be amazing, they just have to work for it this time 

-Trying to become famous again for the right things would definitely be hard. They're reputation is awful

- BUT, I think Mount Rageous would give them a chance to prove themselves. Considering how all Rageons are obsessed with media, fame, and celebrities, I think they couldn't resist the bait of former popstars Velvet & Veneer coming back to the stage, this time with their own talent that they've truly worked hard to perfect. 

- And they'd deserve it for how much work they put into reforming their lives. 

- Plus, nobody can take away their love for the stage and performing. They're too iconic to forget 💅

- and you know I'd be keepin' my eye out for that V&V/BroZone collab 🌟

- First live performance with BroZone, Velvet and Veneer are getting their Perfect Family Harmony. And you can bet it will be the most amazing thing to ever grace the planet

- I'd die 💀

That's all that I can think of right now 🤔 I hope you enjoyed reading my thoughts on these two. I really really love them and getting to write this down was really fun. If you have any ideas you'd like to expand upon or thoughts you'd like to share, let me knooww! And of course, Thank you sweetgirl15161819 for sending this ask!! 💖 💖

[fitpacs]

Sorry in advance if I ramble on for too long,

I think that if the server allowed for more chill game play it could have held on a bit longer. I know I'm a bit of an outsider because I got into qsmp much later, but having the players just hang out together on the server is much more entertaining to me than lore heavy streams.

I must say that Fit's lore streams feel different to me, because he created and merged his own story with the server, but ultimately it was his story to tell.

I think the server wanted to do too many big things in a short amount of time, which made people frustrated and exhausted. I also think that there might have been too many cooks in the kitchen, without a proper headchef. No proper guide or story book.

Personally, even though I absolutely love the little eggs running around causing mayhem and emotional damage, having them actually hatch into "dragons" could have solved many issues regarding their time management. Once they hatched, they could have just popped up whenever they wanted, instead of needing to be online every time a parent was on the server.

It would also have cut back on trying to make up lore for the eggs.

Long story short, having the players just hang out on the island and make up stories for themselves if they wanted to, build beautiful things, share each other's culture and holidays and if it had cut back a lot on lore it would probably have made qsmp last longer.

🐝 Anon ❤️

do not apologise, my sweet bee anon!

i completely agree with you when you say the server wanted to do too many things in a short amount of time. we never really got the chance to appreciate any of the events (the ones that were only for a day, such as festa junina etc) because the higher ups were already pushing the next upcoming event onto us - and i completely agree that it would have frustrated and exhausted people!

if i remember correctly, even before everything went to shit, multiple ccs that hadn’t logged on for a while felt almost afraid to because there was so much lore going on with the more active players and it kind of turned them off of wanting to join more often, which is the complete opposite of what the server set out to do. the idea was to join multiple languages and cultures altogether in one space, and in the timeframe of a few months it ended up only being the same select group of creators who logged on daily or every other day who had intertwining lore (with a few notable exceptions).

i firmly believe the eggs were originally introduced to fix that issue, and to give the less active creators more of a reason to log on, but when the egg lore started developing, that idea was kind of dampened greatly.

and none of this is the fault of the admins, obviously! some of them by their own admission had great fun with their egg lore, but we of course all know the darker side where due to the lore of other creators/the server’s lore with the federation, they were pushed if not forced to adopt multiple personas by the higher ups - which obviously would take a toll on anyone, and weren’t allowed breaks or time away, which we all know is fucked up and is a prime example of how the hunger for lore ended up being a huge detriment

i think we’re all in agreement that one of the biggest mistakes was whoever was in charge, and the fact it wasn’t someone that had the best interests of the server, audience, and staff at heart - this is also on q’s own admission.

for me personally, the format of the shelter smp (made by former staff from our server) is a really good balance of lore and chill gameplay - any of the members can join at any time and not feel like they’re behind at all - the fact that the server is also made by staff of the server proves more of that point as that’s obviously how they wanted to run our server, if they were allowed freedom over their (multiple) characters

and it’s not even as if the ccs didn’t have chemistry so wouldn’t be able to play without lore - this was proven in the occasional chill non-lore days, as well as the times we got other games with them such as the among us lobby that time and the fact they still continue to play games together! i just wonder if the ccs were, to an extent, told something by the higher ups also - obviously something much nicer than whatever the admins were told!

the eggs, as much as i adore them, did end up being as much of a detriment to the server as much as a blessing. because of how frequently the eggs logged on (again, due to the pressure from the higher ups) the audience and the ccs alike of course got accustomed very quickly to each egg admin’s style of acting and writing on the signs - and the server got so dependent on the eggs it was at the cost of the admins’ free time in that they didn’t have any.

i’m always in two minds as to if the server would’ve lasted longer if there was less dependency on lore - because would the exposing of the higher ups have happened as soon as it did if the admins weren’t so overworked? i honestly don’t know, my mind flip-flops on it.

sorry for rambling back at you, my sweet, i just miss our server more than anything :(

[justmeinabigolworld]

You wanna know why I love middle grade books so much compared to YA?

One, they feel much more optimistic than YA, and more likely to try new, off-the-wall things

And two…

They don’t have all that gratuitous romance. Like, I already don’t read a huge chunk of YA books because they’re pure romance, and even in the books that aren’t explicitly about romance, there’s romance. Just when you think you’re safe, it pops up.

Oh, look! A fantasy book with a creative setting and a female protagonist! I’m gonna read it! Okay…good so far…wait, there’s this guy…oh, I don’t like where this is going…aaaaaaand they kissed. And the guy tends to be awful, too. Really mean to the protagonist, but she loves him anyway, because…she has to. It’s YA. I mean, sometimes the guy is fine, but sometimes he’s a piece of shit.

It’s like there’s some kind of law stating that all YA with a female protagonist must give her a love interest, complete with an angsty romance subplot, no matter what the story is about or how much (or little) it fits with the actual plot.

And you know what? I’m seeing more books that give the heroine a female love interest, which is great, even though that means the book has to be marketed as a “queer book” (so as not to upset the homophobes who would otherwise pick up the book or whatever). Still, a love interest is a love interest, and even though I enjoy seeing more queer representation these days, what I’d enjoy even more is a YA section that’s not dominated by romance.

Come on, people. We teens aren’t that horny. Not every book needs romance. Like, with how prevalent love interests are in teen fiction, why are you guys surprised that teens feel bad for having never kissed anyone? Hell, I’ve never kissed anyone, and I’m 19 at the time of writing this. Do I feel like a loser? Yes. Is it because of teen media? Yes…and it’s also due to seeing my classmates in relationships and feeling bad in comparison, but shush.

Also, this is gonna sound weird coming from a girl, but I’d like to read more YA with male protagonists. Everything seems to be about girls these days, and it’s good to have female protagonists, but let’s not leave guys out. As a plus, they have less of a chance of having a love interest. Hooray.

Seriously, though, not every girl constantly thinks about romance, and not every girl wants to read about it. Okay?

Hell, who am I even talking to? It’s not like the publishers are gonna listen to me.

But, uh, yeah. Read middle grade, it’s awesome. I’ve got some recommendations if you’d like.

I’ll probably make a post that’s just a list of good middle grade books and series, but here are a few:

The Thickety by J.A. White: really good dark fantasy, stuff that would even disturb adults, great worldbuilding and characters, and yes, there’s a love interest, but there isn’t much of a romance element. Feels really unique.

How to Train Your Dragon by Cressida Cowell: yes, it was a series before it was a movie, and yes, the books are better. Very different from the movies, but that’s not a bad thing. The series gets darker as it moves along and Hiccup grows up, and things the characters took for granted are looked at with a more critical eye. Really interesting.

My Life With the Liars by Caela Carter: a book about a girl who grew up in a cult. Every time I read it, it gets more disturbing because I realize things that a younger me didn’t. Still, the book is more about Zylynn’s trauma and how she begins to heal and reach out, even as her worldview crumbles.

The Secret Series by Pseudonymous Bosch: witty, charming, and secret! Apparently, some people find the author’s frequent asides and footnotes to be annoying, but I love them. The sequel trilogy isn’t nearly as good, though.

Okay, that’s it for now. I hope at least some of you can understand my frustration, and I hope you’ll check out these books!

[lemonhemlock]

More on Otto as a tries but fails girl!dad and the non verbal communication with the greens. Just how he shows care for his daughter, even though he dooms her. He loves her, wants what's best for her, the family the realm but in doing so he has essentially signed off her execution.

When he tells her to once again visit the king and reprimands her for her self harm he holds her hands

One could argue that this is simply a manipulation tactic and while i don't completely disagree I have other evidence I'd like to present.

Look at how they're holding each other like this is a final goodbye. Neither knows when they'll see each other again. I know he (rightfully) warns her about Rhaenyra he cradles her face. Like it's something precious 🥺 (it is)

Who is this look of devastion for? The imaginary audience? He was not only fired but ripped away from his only daughter. Realizing the mess he's put her in. How she is now truly alone.

We know Criston was her sworn sword and one of the few people she trusted. It makes sense he stand behind her. He's got her back, but look Ottos there too.

In this episode when she was worried about her brother she looked at dad for reassurance and he provided it. Knowing just how concerned she must have been.

Whether or not he's being a manipulative bastard when he does this stuff before he steers her in his own direction, using this to keep her tethered to him, it's quite clear that he understands how important these moments are for his daughter. Can you genuinely look me in the eye and say that Tywin would do this with Cersei? Hold her like she's the most precious thing in the world to him? Nope he'd just command her to do stuff and as her father it is seen as his right to do so.

This family is so dysfunctional. You can love your child and wants what's best for them from the bottom of your heart, with all that you have but still mess up. In the modern day he'd probably be pushing her to a stable career like doctor or lawyer or whatever because he wants her future to be secure without realizing that it's not necessarily what she wants and being blind to how truly miserable she feels.

Sidenote: Wasn't Helaena his favorite grandchild, someone who was not a boy thus a potential heir? Otto is a girl! grandpa too. (If I'm not mistaken 😂)

When it comes to the girl! dad wars he wins because he taught his daughter accountability and how to not get screwed over in a bad trade deal, like idk give someone what is rightfully yours in exchange for being a consort to a king wiyh questionable lineage (Sorry couldn't help but shade the Viserys and Daemon)

OTTO DRIVES ME INSANE HE IS SUCH A DAD BUT HE IS SUCH A MAN TOO!!!!! WHY ARE FATHERS OF DAUGHTERS ALLOWED TO BE MEN???????

HE IS A GIRL GRANDPA TOO OH MY STARS 😭 They should show him with Jaehaera next, so he could add girl-great-grandpa to the allegations 😭

I also wish they had scenes together with Gwayne! In the books Alicent has multiple unnamed brothers, but Gwayne would have been enough, like can you IMAGINE the dynamics with him thrown into the mix??? Him with his DAD and his SISTER and his SISTER'S BOYFRIEND Ser Criston???? He got so shafted like he is the only person in this effed up family not to have a psychosexual obsession with Alicent?? Unfair!

I imagine they wanted to highlight Alicent's isolation as a source of her growing paranoia, but could you imagine??? Her having at least one more person is her small circle?? Standing up to their dad for her??? Holding her hand through her pregnancies??? Throwing shade at Rhaenyra together?? Bonding with Ser Criston over how much they want to commit regicide??

I'm not sure he stayed in King's Landing for all this period, but he could have at least visited once in a while? What we know is that he is named second-in-command of the Gold Cloaks at the start of the way. ALSO OTTO INTERACTING WITH A MALE RELATIVE OF HIS OWN GET THAT IS NOT A COMPLETE FUCK-UP??

[no-passaran]

Hi! Don't feel obligated to answer, but I've been learning catalan & I'd love to read some novels originally written in catalan, but i'm having a bit of a hard time finding ones that aren't 'classics'. Any recs? (I usually like literary stuff, like, authors irritatingly showing their skill, i eat that shit up, but anything contemporary or psychological or fantasy or anything will absolutely do :,) )

Oop sorry, I hadn't seen the message until now.

You won't have difficulty about this because Catalan literature is very lively and there's lots of great books coming out very often. Catalan literature has been praised around the world for having such vitality and quality, considering that it's a relatively small language community.

Personally the first recommendation that came to mind is Manuel de Pedrolo but idk if you're considering that a classic? He's relatively recent but many 20th century authors have become classics. His Mecanoscrit del segon origen is definitely considered a classic even though it's only from 1974, but I don't think the other ones are usually. Anyway, I really like his sci-fi short stories book Trajecte final, and my dad has spent years obsessed with his theatre play Homes i no. Talking about theatre scrips, I have a really soft spot for La cançó de les balances by Josep Maria Carandell ❤️.

I'm not usually one to read many short stories books but I also recommend Albert Sánchez Piñol's Homenatge als caiguts (stories of about 2 pages long and usually funny, very entertaining to read).

For a completely different vibe of short stories, I also thought El Cafè de la Granota by Jesús Moncada was excellent, the characterization and events feel like hearing your grandparents telling stories of when they were young. I still haven't read his most famous novel Camí de sirga though, honestly I don't know what I'm waiting for lol.

Canto jo i la muntanya balla by Irene Solà has also been very popular in the past few years and she definitely shows off her literary prose. I found it very lovely and I recommend it for when you want something more experimental. It's a book where each chapter is narrated by someone or something different (a shepherd, the rain, a witch who was killed centuries ago, a deer, a dog...) and it's very well written, it has also won some international awards.

And listen for some reason I still haven't read them myself (I plan to change that soon) but the best contemporary author is probably Jaume Cabré. I've only heard the highest praise for his Les veus del Pamano, and other of his books like Jo confesso. I'm planning to finally read Les veus del Pamano this summer and I'm very excited for it.

Another one I've heard lots of praise for and which I'm excited to read (hopefully soon) is Les històries naturals by Joan Perucho. I wasn't going to include books I haven't read besides Cabré (because, let's face it, with a question like this one must include Jaume Cabré) but since you asked for literary fantasy I think you might like it. It's about a knight/botanist who looks for one of Jaume I's knights who is a vampire.

Others that I've had recommended but haven't had time to read yet: Junil a la terra dels bàrbars by Joan Lluís-Lluís, Nicolau by Antoni Veciana, Guilleries by Ferran Garcia, and lots of people have loved Eva Baltasar's Permagel, Boulder and Mamut though it doesn't seem like my style they seem interesting.

I don't know if any of my followers wants to share some more in the comments/reblogs, but I'd be interested to hear them too 👀

[atlantis-just-drowned]

Cove Holden x Neurodivergent MC headcanons

I said I'd do this kind of post days ago, and finally, here it is!

First of all, a little reminder that "neurodivergent" is an umbrella term to talk about a large variety of "disorders", of divergencies. It doesn't stop to autism or adhd.

• If the MC have been early diagnosed, they will 100% spot Cove's autism, but will probably keep their suspicions for themselves because naaaah, it can't be that, maybe neurotypicals' brains are just not as weird as you though they were. But once Cove starts his researches on neurodivergency and autism, and talks to you about the possibility of him being autistic, it just... Make sense to you. You can't imagine him being anything else than a fellow neurodivergent. It was just obvious the whole time. And during the official diagnosis journey, your moms will definitely help by explaining to Cove how to contact a good professional, who he needs to be searching for, what are the papers he'll need to pass the test, etc... And will also comfort and reassure Clifford while he does his best to accept and understand his son's autism, and how he's not a bad father for not noticing the signs before.

• But if instead, the MC is late diagnosed, they will either understand they are neurodivergent while doing researches to understand Cove, or Cove will understand he's autistic while doing researches right after your diagnosis. There's no other scenarios, you two just want to understand each others so bad, when really you aren't that different. But once both of you are aware of your neurodivergency, it just makes sense that you've always understood each others so well and ended up together.

• Both of you forget stuffs constantly. Either it is dates, anniversaries, chores, or just objects everywhere in the house. The worst is when Cove looses his glasses. The two of you can spend hours circling around the house, looking everywhere and anywhere, even in the weirdest places of the house (like the fridge that you'll probably open quite a few times during the treasure hunt), before you look at Cove long enough to realize that his glasses are, in fact, on his head.

• You also have a big board in the house to prevent you both from forgetting important meetings, outputs or medical appointments. It works, but only half of the time.

• Both of you do chores whenever they remember to do them. You aren't asking to the other to do it and don't care much about who did the most chores in the day/week, since you both know that if you're waiting for the other to do it, there's great chances that you'll both forget it right away and it'll never be done.

• After spending so much time with one another, you took the habit to include the other in your stimming. Echolalia of course, but also especially hand stimming. It can be clapping each other's hand, tangling and untangling your fingers, or playing with them... The thing is, it now looks like you are both unable to function without each other. And of course it isn't really true, but you must admit that whenever you're apart from your partner, you feel a pinch in the heart when you start stimming and you have to do it all alone without someone's hand to play with.

• Over the years you ended up being able to follow each other's train of thoughts while you both zone out during a conversation, which makes it incredibly weird to others when you just stay silent for a moment, and then suddenly start to talk about a completely different and unrelated topic, as if it was the most natural sequel to the precedent conversation.

• You also ended up understanding each others whenever you say stuffs such as "where's the thing?", as if it was the clearest precision in the universe.

• You have a neurodivergent-friendly receipt book at home, with your favorite foods/textures highlighted, so you're always sure to not trigger negatively each other's texture sensitivity/sensory issues.

• If you have special interests and/or hyperfixations, you can be 100% sure that Cove will happily listen to your infodumps and will learn about your interests as much as he can. It even happens that he end up being dragged in it with you.

• He doesn't really say it, but he go feral internally when you try to lean and get involved in his own special interests. That's one of the most intimate and romantic things you could do, to his personal opinion.

• Both of you know the other's triggers and difficulties, and you look out for one another whenever you feel that a certain place, smell or situation may be uncomfortable to the other.

• You're also able to recognize pretty easily when the other go mute, and need silent time or to be left alone. One good point is that staying completely silent with one another doesn't cause any problem.

• If you ever consider having/adopting a child, one of the main point against this project would be that you're both scared to basically forget your child or to be unable to meet its physical/emotional needs correctly, because of your neurodivergencies.

[cat-dragoness]

Reading Castle in the Air out loud to my housemates (pt. 1/?):

(I was going to do one of these for Howl's Moving Castle but forgot and now I can't remember all of my thoughts. Oh well. The main thing I do remember is: If you're thinking of reading HMC out loud, do it.)

My housemates haven't read this book before. I have. This will be entertaining :)

Me: "Just to warn you, this story will start with a completely different cast than HMC had." The housemates: "But what happened to Howl?" Me: "… You'll find out." The housemates: *assorted noises of disappointment*

The flowery, "insults thinly veiled as compliments" manner of talking in that book is so much fun to read aloud. I'm probably making everyone sound more sarcastic than they're actually supposed to sound. But that's fine, because it's fun!

There is an assortment of sighing and groaning over Flower-in-the-Night. To be fair, I forgot how cheesy they kind of are.

I mean, they meet and immediately are in love. Or at least Abdullah is. It might take Flower-in-the-Night until the second night to fall in love (being slightly hung up on her uncertainty that Abdullah is a man at all). I'm not actually going to take issue with this, because I don't want to take issue with it, but it literally takes them twenty-four hours to decide to get married, only a couple of which they even spend together.

On that note though, the housemates found the whole "Flower-in-the-Night doesn't think Abdullah is a man" thing hilarious, which means I found it hilarious.

"But where's Howl?"

Aaaaand everything goes wrong and the housemates are loving it.

(This is about the point when Housemate #3 (who has been less involved in the reading shenanigans) walked in with zero context for any of what was going on, and started looking very concerned.)

Housemates are solidly convinced that Howl is the Ochinstan prince to whom Flower-in-the-Night is betrothed (because of the mention of "the princes of Ochinstan are very hard to pin down"), and I am dying. I'm also refusing to tell them anything about how correct they are (or aren't).

The housemates: "But wait, Howl's married already. [This was the only thing I did tell them, back when we started the book.] He must be lying; he doesn't actually want to marry Flower-in-the-Night." I am still dying.

Also we got to the part where Abdullah is challenging the Sultan to just kill him now (knowing that he won't), and that's where Housemate #2 (who has been a fan of HMC, both movie and book, for some years and is the more vocal about Howl's current absence) declared that she loves this book. I feel accomplished.

That is a great part of the book, though, which I had kind of forgotten about. Abdullah's not challenging Fate (yet), but he is setting the tone for that to come up later.

Abdullah: *realizes the carpet responds well to compliments*. Housemate #2: "He's talking to it like it's Calcifer!" Me: *hurriedly keeps reading before I can start snickering*

The genie: "[The soldier] appeals to me. He shines with dishonesty." The housemates: *gasp* "It's Howl!"

Some time later, while the genie is whining over something: "Maybe the genie is Howl?"

Honestly, they are extremely eager for someone to turn out to be Howl, and it's hilarious.

It's also even more funny for me, because there are so many hints about who everyone is, but also there's like five million side comments that just make you think of Howl. I haven't read this book in long enough that I forgot just how many there are.

Housemate #1: "Wait, the soldier doesn't have a name?"

Which is true, and I technically remembered that, and I want to come up with reasons why that could have tipped the reader off to the soldier being more than he seems, but it's not quite coming together right now.

Current running theory is that Midnight is actually Flower-in-the-Night, since Midnight is obviously more sentient than an average cat. I am refusing to confirm or deny anything.