#security guard donna

[springfurcalico]

sooo haven't drawn or posted in a while, so uh here's RL Donna as a security guard in Fnaf and Bonnie.

Fnaf AU??

[whogirl42]

So I like... I really don't know how I feel about the whole bi-regeneration thing.

Something that sours it for me is like... I was so upset that we were only gonna get the 3 eps with 14 and Donna - ideally for me we would have had a whole season or even a half-season to do them justice. It made me sad that I'd have to say goodbye to them so soon. Tho I did take comfort in that there'd basically be an open invitation for Donna cameos in the future, in a similar way to the Kate Stewart and Unit ones.

HOWEVER. Now??? As much as I fucking adore Donna and David Tennant as the Doctor... I kinda never wanna see them on screen again??? Cause I feel like it sorta cheapens the concept of the 15th Doctor and all the other future adventures he'll have. It was one thing with Tentoo cause he was banished to another universe and was limited to a mortal's lifespan. But having two fully fledged Doctors??? Both with Tardises??? In the same universe???

It doesn't just cheapen the 15 Doctor and all future Doctors, imo it also cheapens David Tennant himself. Because there's a bittersweet beauty in letting go. In saying goodbye. Of accepting the next phase in life. The bi-regeneration doesn't do that. There's no closure. There's no faint loss accompanying the joyous rebirth. It's just.

It just feels very emotionally hollow.

[artists-ally]

what about Harvey when he’s jealous? His wife is attending an event at the firm with him, she’s wearing a nice dress and one of his rivals from another firm is oggling her and she dogdes his advances gracefully, but when they get home he’s bending her on the closest surface and chanting “mine” skxmcmdks

{Put it on Me} Reader x Harvey Specter

oh BOY have I been thinking about this tehe. Also, you are my soul source of Harvey inspiration pls pls pls keep the requests coming. I have such a hard time coming up with ideas on my on so getting to create something specific really helps. Enjoy loves!!! title from this song

Word Count: 3,375

Warnings: jealousy, minor dom/sub concepts, unprotected sex, flirty banter, Harvey being a possessive mf.

~~~~~~~

As I stepped around the corner of the hallway, Harvey was leaning against the kitchen island, hands braced on the counter, gaze very much pinned on my silhouette.

“So, what do you think?” I asked, gesturing to the gown I had picked out over the weekend. “I thought the green would match well with yours.”

Harvey’s eyes melted over my frame, scanning every inch as he just stood. Watching. “You… Yn, you look breathtaking. What do you say we skip the firm announcement and just stay in?”

I laughed, the sound of my heels echoing off the walls. “As much as that sounds like a great idea, we can’t exactly snub off the announcement of a merger.”

“You just have to be the buzzkill don’t you?” Harvey smiled, planting his hands on my hips. “I should have you locked up for how good you look.”

“I don’t think you’d be able to convince a jury I’ve committed a crime, not if I bat my lashes and give them that flirty smile that sent you crawling to the floor.”

His eyes narrowed, backing me against the island in a firm spin. “Let’s not forget who can make those same lashes flutter shut, either.”

Bastard.

Harvey was dressed well– he always was. Terribly and insufferably great at finding the perfect suit. It was a three piece; the vest and jacket were black, but he wore this green tie that went with my dress. He said that since this would be the first event we attended together as a married couple, he wanted everyone to know.

Endearing, and mildly possessive.

I loved it when he was possessive.

“Okay, Maverick, let’s get to the flightdeck before we run out of fuel,” I patted his chest, grabbing my clutch and slipping in my earrings.

“Have I ever told you how much I love it when you make Top Gun references?”

“Almost as many times as you’ve told me how much you love when I’m on my knees,” I whispered in his ear before heading to the door.

Harvey landed a firm smack on my ass, sending laughter tumbling out of me before we kissed and headed down to the limo waiting for us.

I looked up and out of the window, taking in the views of the towering skyscrapers. The venu was gorgeous; all sleek marble and intricate architecture. Who knew such a place existed in New York.

When we arrived, Harvey stepped out first, taking my hand and guiding me out. I clutched his bicep as we ascended the stairs, greeting the security guard in front of the glass doors.

“Ahh, Mr. and Mrs. Specter,” the guard greeted. “Welcome. Ms. Pearson and Mr. Litt are waiting for you inside, as well as the other guests.”

Harvey gave me a nod, and I gave him one back. “Thank you, sir.”

He opened the door for us, and the inside was just as meticulously crafted as the outside. It was stunning, truly stunning. They don’t make buildings like this anymore, and that makes me a little sad.

“Yn!” Donna called out, several heads turning in our direction. “Oh my god you look amazing!”

“I couldn’t say anything less about you, Donna. You look so good, that royal blue makes your hair look so awesome,” I smiled pressing a kiss to her cheek. “And you too, Jessica. You look marvelous.”

“Thank you, Yn,” she smiled, accepting my hug. “Don’t you clean up nice, Harvey.”

He rolled his eyes, snagging a flute of champagne from a waiter on their way by. “I’ve been known to clean up every now and then.”

Conversation flowed easily between the small cluster I’ve been encompassed with. It is so nice to have such a tight knit group of people to not only call my friends, but my family. When Harvey first brought me around them, it had just been after a huge win against a firm enemy. Daniel Hardman, who I’ve come to know the full story about, had his ass handed to him. Afterwards, Harvey was far too proud to keep his mouth shut about us and insisted I needed to be a part of the celebration.

Donna was the first to meet me, and we shared one look and knew we were gonna be best friends. We made an incredible team. Especially when we teamed up against Harvey together.

Jessica was polite, but not nearly as friendly as Donna or Louis. Mike was nice, and so was Rachel, but they were too love struck, always off in their own little bubble.

Cuties.

Dinner was served just before eight and we dined, exchanging stories left and right. I got to hear about his days at the firm from their perspective, to which I get to tell them from mine. Wildly different, might I add.

The food was rich and decadent; a choice between a filet mignon or a salmon steak. I went with the filet mignon, it looked too good to pass up. Apparently everyone else agreed because our plates all looked identical when they came out.

More champagne and a belly full of great food later, Harvey and I found ourselves at the bar, ordering drinks for ourselves. Sure Harvey enjoyed the company of his co-workers, but even he needed a break from the people he saw every day. And so did I.

“If she comes back, order me an old fashioned for me my love?” Harvey said, kissing the back of my hand. “I just saw one of our investors walk in. I want to make sure he keeps investing.”

“I’ll make sure she puts in an extra cherry for you,” I winked, letting his lips fall onto mine.

“God I love you.”

With a lingering touch, he was off across the room, that classic Harvey Specter saunter to his gait. He looked so confident, so proud of all the work he had accomplished in his career. And he should be. Harvey has built an empire here in New York and has done more than earn his reputation.

It baffled me that underneath that ‘tough as nails’ attitude, was just someone who wanted to be loved and cherished as much as I had. I love Harvey, with every bit of my soul. He was so deserving of someone who truly loved him and not the amount of zeros in his bank account.

When we first met, I hadn’t known who he was, and he liked that very much. He told me he was a lawyer, a good one, but never specified which didn’t bother me really at all. It was complicated for a long while, but eventually I wore him down and he opened up. There weren’t any details of his life he didn’t share once that wall was broken down. When I met Donna for the first time, she thanked me for it. She said that I pulled that child-like behavior out of him and made him fall in love with being a lawyer all over again.

That made my heart swell with pride.

A gentle tap on my shoulder pulled me out of my memory of Harvey, and I met a pair of tempest blue eyes.

“Oh, hello,” I gave a polite smile, turning to face the man.

“Hello to you, too,” he smiled, eyes darting around my face. “I’m Travis.”

“Yn,” I said, taking his hand in mine.

“You know,” he rubbed his fingers over his chin, “Most people tend to just wear an outfit, but clearly you are going the extra mile by capturing everyone’s attention by simply sitting here.”

I hit my smile, “Well, that is kind of you to say.”

“And the earrings, they really bring the whole thing together. Did you do your hair yourself?”

“Yes,” I exclaimed, rather enthusiastically. “It looks a lot more complicated than it was. It genuinely only took me five or six minutes to do but it looks incredible, right?”

I swiveled in the bar stool, turning the back of my head to him. He blew out a low whistle and gave a light applause, “It looks amazing.”

“Are you here from the merger?” I asked, not recognizing this Tanner fellow.

“Oh, no I am merely here as a… a guest.” His eye had this glint to it when he took a sip of his clear drink. I could smell the vodka from here.

“Me too,” I said, turning my attention to the space around us. “Isn’t this place so cool? I love all the columns and pillars and- oh! Excuse me, can I get an old fashioned? With an extra cherry in it?”

“Of course,” the bartender nodded, walking away to start mixing the drink.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for whiskey kinda girl,” Travis said, resting his elbows on the counter beside me.

“Oh, I’m not it’s for-”

“Tanner.” Harvey’s voice slithered down my spine. He sounded so… so repulsed.

“Harvey,” Travis pushed to his full height. “Nice to see you here-”

“What are you doing here.” It wasn’t a question.

“Your name is Tanner?” I asked. Why would he lie to me?

“No, no my name is Travis. Tanner is my last name.”

“She doesn’t give a shit about what your last name is. Now get the hell out of here.”

“Woah, calm down Harvey. I’m just talking with this beautiful lady, no need to twist your panties. I was here first, you don’t get to swoop in here and steal my conversation,” Travis frowned, setting the glass down rather harshly on the counter.

“Hey Yn, isn’t that an 8 carat diamond?” Harvey stood directly behind me, sliding his fingers down my left arm, grabbing my wrist and facing it towards Travis.

“Uhh, yeah what’s going-”

“That's right, it is. Funny how I knew that, isn’t it Tanner? Well, that’s because I bought it for her. So how about you get the hell out of here and if I ever catch you trying to flirt with my wife again I will put you six feet in the fucking dirt, do you understand me?”

My eyes damn near fell out of my fucking skull. I knew Travis was being polite, or flirting I guess, but I wasn’t going to let anything come of it, of course.

Travis looked like he was going to be sick. He scurried off, metaphorical tail tucked between his legs.

Harvey dropped my hand and reached around me to grab his freshly crafted drink.

“Okay, hotshot, what was that all about?”

“Do you remember that shit-show of a case that we fought a few months ago, the one that got reopened after four years?” I nodded. “Yeah, that was him. And that's the asshole who tried to have me disbarred.”

Holy shit. “Oh, fuck Harvey. I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t,” he smiled faintly. “There’s no other reason he’s here tonight other than to piss me off.”

“Don’t let it get to you,” I said, standing up and taking his face in my hands. “Would you like to passionately make out in front of all these people just to make Travis Tanner mad?”

“Yes, yes I would like that very much,” Harvey grinned, linking his arm around my wait and pressing me close before sending a shiver down my spine with the force of his lips on mine.

“That guy is an asshole,” I said, needing a moment to catch my breath. Surely that did the trick, Travis was nowhere in sight. “You shouldn’t trust anyone with two first names, it’s weird.”

Harvey bellowed out a laugh, nodding his head over his shoulder. I could tell he wanted to leave, but I wouldn’t let him slink off without saying proper goodbyes to everyone that was worth an explanation as to where we fled to.

Donna didn’t need to see us leave, because I had a text on my phone with a bunch of eggplant and peace emoji’s with an accompanying message that said ‘GONNA BE SOME GOOD D TONIGHT GIRL’. She must’ve seen the whole interaction between Travis, Harvey and I.

All I sent back was a winky face.

By the time we got off the elevator, Harvey couldn’t keep his hands off of me. Not that I wanted him to, but we hadn’t even made it outside before his tongue was sweeping inside my mouth.

We pressed to the front door while jammed in the key, effortlessly unlocking it like he had done it a thousand times before. We crashed through, and Harvey wasted no time pinning me to the door.

“Mmm Harvey,” I whined into his mouth.

“Yes, pretty girl?” God damn did I love when he calls me that. “What do you need?”

“You, just you,” I looked at him through my lashes, watching that evil smirk wash over his features. Nothing could have stopped his hand clamping around my throat, pulling me off the door and into the kitchen. He hoisted me up onto the island and began to strip.

Harvey tossed his jacket onto the counter behind him, the tie was next. He made it painfully slow, doing nothing to hide his intentions of making it agonizing for me. I rolled my eyes, hands finding the buttons on his vest, flinging it over my shoulder.

“Needy,” he gripped my chin, crushing his mouth with mine. For a few minutes, or hours, we drank each other in. Restless hands and desperate pleas of need. Silk wrapped around my wrists, tight and commanding. I looked down and saw his tie around them, knotted in a figure eight and yanked until it burned.

“Harvey-”

“You’re mine. All. Mine. No one else has the right to do so much as think otherwise.” My core rippled with heat, eyes lulling shut at his words. “Aww, you like hearing that, don’t you? That I get to see you like this? All tied up? Such a pretty girl, Yn. I bet you’re such a mess for me already.”

He grabbed the fabric around my wrists and pulled me off the counter, flipping me over and forcing me to bend over. Harvey fisted up the hem of my skirt, quite literally tearing my thong off my hips.

I went to yell at him, but his finger dragged between my legs, and my spine shivered. “Fuck, Harvey…”

“You are a mess for me,” I could hear the possession in his voice. “Mmm, and you taste so sweet, Yn.”

I heard his fly unzip, the clang of his belt following after. My toes barely touched the ground as my forearms pressed against my ribs. I tried to scramble up a little so my hips fit with the edge of the counter, but Harvey just gripped the back of my hair and pulled me up.

He clicked his tongue, “Oh Yn, such a pretty thing you are. And I am going to have my way with you, and you’re gonna scream my name for the whole city to hear.”

I clenched my thighs together, pressing my forehead against the cool surface, though it quickly warmed with my breathing and panting. I felt the tip of his cock press against me, and his hips slowly met mine.

He pushed me further onto the counter, thankfully letting go of my hair before he pulled out.

Harvey’s hands on my hips were brutal; bruising my skin, commanding, feverish as they roamed my ass and thighs. Clawing marks.

“God Yn…” he sighed out, thrusting all the way back in, pulling my hips all the way flush with his. “Fuck you are so warm. So perfect for my cock.”

“Please,” I begged, wiggling my ass to entice him further.

“Please what, pretty girl? Come one, use your words.”

I shuddered around him, and he laughed at me. A cruel, wicked laugh as he stuffed himself further.

“Harder, I want- need it harder.”

“That’s my girl,” Harvey landed his palm on my ass, undoubtedly turning it bright red as he did it again. With one snap of his hips, and I knew I was gonna be ripped apart.

I didn’t know that much about Travis Tanner, but judging by the way this was going, Harvey really fucking hated the guy. If Harvey had any other enemies, maybe I should let them all flirt with me if it has the chance of turning into this.

My chest rammed across the counter, my thighs and pelvic bone rocking into the side of the island. It hurt, fuck did it hurt, but it made it so much better. Harvey’s brutal pace had him panting and groaning, cursing under his breath while he fisted his hand back in my hair.

I craned up, back aching with the force of his unyielding grip. It was hard to breathe, in the most soul fluttering way possible. It was such a euphoric feeling to be under his complete control.

“Yeah, you love this, don’t you? Being completely at my mercy? Submitting to my every decision?”

“Yes Harvey,” I whimpered. Full on whimpered. “Fuck-”

“Don’t be shy, pretty girl, let it all out for me to hear.”

He threw my head down, hair swinging around my shoulders and falling in my face. I let my head go limp, moans pouring out of my mouth. His hips slammed into mine, brutal and ruthless. Every inch of my body was on fire, veins pumping blood widely through my limbs, making them tingle. My toes curled, knees knocking into the wood paneling over and over and over.

I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t say anything, to get him to slow his pace. I writhed and cried out his name. I could hear it echo off the walls, and I knew our neighbors would be taping a complaint to our door by the morning.

“Fuck, baby, gonna cum,” he threw his head back, hips stuttering as he held on to my waist. “Fuck, Yn you are so fucking messy for me. Gonna fill you up.”

I squirmed when his finger brushed against my clit, chills spreading all down my arms and back. I felt tears prick my eyes. I hadn’t even realized how close I actually was to my release, and it slammed into me without any hint of a warning.

“Yeah, that's it, pretty girl. Cum on my cock,” Harvey’s voice was like a sin. Pure, raw, unfiltered sin.

His fingers circled and circled around, lighting my body and dragging out the waves of pleasure that rolled through me.

Harvey let out a string of curses, and his hips stilled. He grabbed my shoulder and pulled me down onto him, hips ramming in once-twice-three-four times before he stilled. He bent over me, heaving for a breath against the middle of my back.

I called his name several times, unable to keep still. My hands were going numb from the bindings, and my knees and hips ached.

With a big inhale, Harvey lifted off my body. His hands trailed all the way down my back to my exposed ass, pulling it apart. “Well, would you look at that. So messy, full of me…”

My pussy clenched around him, and I felt his release slide down the inside of my thigh. His finger dragged his back up and speared it into my skin.

“That’s right, pretty girl, you’re all mine, aren’t you? Say it.”

“I’m yours Harvey, all yours,” I plead, wallowing in the feeling of pure bliss. His hands were much more gentle this time around when he lowered me back to the ground.

That mouth of his most certainly wasn’t. Harvey forced his tongue in, practically shoving it down my throat. I choked, and he grinned like the devil.

“Yeah, that’s right, Yn. You’re all mine. All fucking mine.”

I stared up at him in a starry daze. My head was foggy, and my legs were weak. “God do I love it when you get like this.”

Harvey’s hand caressed my cheek, thumb sweeping under my eye to where I’m sure my makeup was smudged.

“And god do I love it when you let me worship you, fucking you exactly like you deserve to be. No one else could ever fuck you as good as I can. Right, pretty girl?”

I grinned, equally as devilish as him, “Right, Harvey.”

~~~~~

Reader's dress

Harvey's suit

[mizgnomer]

Behind the Scenes of The Star Beast - Part One

Excerpt from Benjamin Cook's Star Beast Set Visit in DWM 597:

There’s a buzz in the air in Camden Town tonight as the market vendors shut up shop. Businessmen wait on the bridge by the lock. Students rush from the Starbucks, buskers busk. Tourists jostle for a selfie spot, next to the bronze statue of Amy. At the northernmost point of Camden High Street, a man with a mohawk folds away his cardboard placard (‘HELP A PUNK TO GET DRUNK’) and heads across the road to buy a Red Bull from the 24/7. Three men in North Face jackets, one on a stepladder, yank a tarpaulin sheet off a police box. Security guards change shifts. On Gin Alley, people are still queuing for meat and noodles. A woman in a Kermit tee leaves Oddballs carrying a unicycle. Rose Noble buys a bagful of eyes. Outside Cyberdog, two silver robots, three times the height of the average human, stand vigil. A different crowd is gathered here too, dripping in scarves, bowties, and pinstripes. A dog barks. A neon sign flickers. David Tennant arrives. Some people cheer. Others clap. A boy in a beanie hat drops his falafel. An ambulance siren wails in the distance. Two-hundred phones are held aloft. “What a rock star,” says Doctor Who’s executive producer, Phil Collinson. “I still can’t quite believe David is back on the Doctor Who set.” Neither can he. “It’s mental,” says David, grinning. “We’ve got three more months of this.” It’s mid-May 2022, and he’s donned the vintage Converse once more to play the Doctor, alongside Catherine Tate as Donna Noble, in three hour-long 60th Anniversary Specials. They began filming in Cardiff last week. A few days ago, he recorded his half of the regeneration from Jodie Whittaker’s Thirteenth Doctor.

I’ll post additional parts in the coming months with the  #whoBtsBeast tag. The full episode list is [ here ]

[polakina]

his undoing

pairing: steven grant x reader

rating: explicit

outline: you found Steven adorable and attractive, he found you assertive and attractive. The two of you were an unlikely pair about to intertwine.

warnings: dom/sub tones, sub steven (yay), masturbation, edgeplay, flirting, teasing, unprotected sex, fingering, mirror sex, hand jobs

requests are open! hope you enjoy, petals <3

masterlist

II

Dusty antiques and floor cleaner perforated your nose as you unlocked the door to step into the museum. Being the first person through the door really made you appreciate the quiet, the complete silence that greeted you as you walked along the tile floor, shoes clacking against the cold, hard surface. It was calming, being alone inside the content confinement of history. There really was no place you’d rather be than here.

Setting up for the day and making sure to do a sweep of the building before opening it to the general public, all you had to do now was wait for your staff to arrive. Donna got on your nerves a lot more than you wanted to admit, her patronising attitude and cruel demeanour wormed its way under your skin like a scarab beetle digging beneath soil. But you had to remain professional for the sake of keeping your title as ‘the boss’.

JB was quite possibly the worst security guard you’d ever hired, but you couldn’t let him go, not when there wasn’t anyone else to take the position if you did. So he stayed, and he watched videos on his phone while absentmindedly ignoring the passing public entering the museum. The place had never been robbed, and no one had ever tried to steal anything. But perhaps that was what JJ needed to finally realise that he needed to take his job seriously. A little fake robbery to boost his security skills.

You’d thought about it half-jokingly, convincing a friend to act sketchy inside the museum and see if JB would notice and escort them out. But you realised that your friend would probably “rob” the whole museum before he even noticed that anything was missing. So it was most likely a better idea to put a pin in that idea. For now.

But then there was Steven. Sweet, quite, adorable Steven. He kept to himself mostly, but he was a major history nerd and the kindest person you’d ever met. Even though he only worked in the gift shop, you’d caught him multiple times with the kids that had come on field trips and wandered off to the gift shops to look at the stuffed toys and pretty pictures. He told them fun facts and gave weirdly adorable descriptions of how people were killed in Ancient Egypt, often using his hands to demonstrate. It amused you, but also warmed your heart to see his interactions, and just witness how lovely he was with everyone, and how genuine. All he wanted to do was talk about the artefacts, all day every day if he could. If there was a position you could give him where he could do that, you would. But there weren’t any open positions as of yet, which you had to sadly remind him of every time he got the courage to inquire to it with you.

But there was something else about him that you liked. You couldn’t quite place your finger on it, but it was there. Of course, you tried not to think too hard on it. Any sort of workplace involvements were strictly prohibited. Besides, you were his boss, you were everybody’s boss. It would be…so inappropriate. Right? Yes. So it was wise to just not think on it at all, pushing it to the very back of your mind.

Eventually all of your staff came in and went about their respectable jobs, Donna of course, micromanaging everyone else when she thought you weren’t there. You’d have to do something about that eventually, but right now you had a giant stack of papers the size of the sarcophaguses in your museum that were waiting for you to flick through and sign. So you made your way over to your office on the first floor to do just that, purposefully walking through the gift shop to get there even though it took you out of your way a little. You ignored the way your heart dropped a little to see Steven nowhere to be seen, but you could hear him shuffling around in the storage room behind the desk. There wasn’t any reason for you to actually seek him out, so you pushed on, forcing yourself to walk to your office.

-

You felt as though the stack of papers grew with every sheet you cast aside. Were they multiplying? They had to be. There was no way you still had this many to read. You needed a distraction, or some sort of way to procrastinate for a few minutes. Anything.

It was a blessing to you when your office door was knocked on. Four little knocks rumbling through the wooden door. Only one person you knew knocked like that. Quiet and quick, they were. As though the person who knocked almost didn’t want to be called in.

“Come in,” you said, loud enough to be heard through the door. Quiet whispers and feet shuffles were your only response until the door knob twisted, a little rusty at first. You reminded yourself that you needed to oil that door knob before you were trapped inside the office from a faulty door.

Just as you had guessed, Steven popped his head around like a little meerkat sticking its head out of a burrow. “Hello!” He greeted in his consistently sweet voice, accompanied by that adorable smile.

“Steven, hi,” you smiled back, pushing your chair back to stand up. “Everything okay?” You leaned forward as Steven walked over to your desk, halting just on the other side of it with a few files in his hands. He seemed…nervous? It wasn’t often that he wasn’t nervous around you, in all honesty.

“Yes, oh yes, everything is fine,” Steven was quick with his words, with the way he spoke. Everything always felt sort of rushed, as though the words were coming out faster than his brain could register them. It was a little chaotic, but it was Steven’s way and had been since he started years ago. “I just brought up those files you asked me to get from archives. I know you said you wanted them before I left yesterday, but I completely forgot. Sorry about that. I thought I might have been able to catch you earlier this morning, but it’s been a bit hectic with the different school trips and stuff.” Even you sometimes had a hard time keeping up with him, but you always managed to push through it.

“Steven, it’s fine, don’t worry. I forgot too, it’s okay. But you came at the right time, I finally have space on my desk for more files,” you gestured to the little square space of wood that you could see of your once empty desk. It was cute to see Steven’s eyes widen as he finally saw the sheer amount of paper already on your desk.

“Oh, shoot, I didn’t realise you- that you already had work here. I can bring it back later if you want? Or…never, since I really don’t think you want any more work right now. Sorry. I probably should have remembered that you have these papers to sign. I can just-”

You were already laughing before he’d finished his sentence. Not at him, no never at him. Just at how flustered he got, how worried of the size of piles of worksheets and letters and documents filling your office. If you’d organise and collated everything a little neater, you probably wouldn’t have as much to do as you’d think. “Steven, it’s fine, it’s my job to work the documents. Just as it’s your job to be sweet with our customers and be the bright smile they see as they come into the shop. Mine’s just a little more boring. Here, I’ll take the files, they look a little heavy.” You held out your arms for the documents and Steven blinked a few times and it took him a few moments to move towards you and hand you the files.

Your eyes focused on the yellow filed papers, but his focused on you. Your fingertips brushed his as you took the documents from his hands, and you could almost feel the way he recoiled from your touch. You tried not to think about it too much. But he did. His ears went a little red and his lips turned up into the tiniest smile. God, he was acting like a school boy. Even on the way to work, he played the words like a mantra in his head. She’s your boss. She’s your boss. She’s your boss. But it still couldn’t stop him from thinking. Thinking never did any harm, did it?

“Was there anything else? Or is that it?” You asked, eyes looking over his face and taking note of his red-tipped ears, his puppy dog eyes that often captivated you whenever you spoke to him. They were like a trap. A trap that he didn’t realise he was setting, but somehow you were always caught in it.

“No, no that was everything, I-I think,” he rushed out with a quick grin. Steven held his breath as you set the documents down and leaned over the desk once again, placing your hands flat on the surface to hold yourself up.

“Everything alright? You seem a little..flushed.”

Steven just shook his head, a little unconvincingly if you said so yourself. But you didn’t press into it. “I’m all good. Pretty swell, actually. I’ll-um, I’ll leave you to it then, get back to the shop so I don’t miss anyone.” With a final smile he was gone, the last you saw of him being the back of his messy curled hair disappearing behind the door and closing it swiftly behind him.

It was cute, the way his ears and cheekbones flared red whenever he was around you. Whether it was because he was nervous or...something else, you couldn’t tell just yet. But there was something on your mind, you could feel it. Maybe you’d figure it out by the end of the day.

-

She’s your boss. She’s your boss. She’s your boss. She’s your fucking boss-WHY WASN’T IT STICKING?! Steven repeated his mantra over and over again with each step down the staircase leading back to the gift shop. He couldn’t think about you, not like that. He had though. In the past. He’d thought about you often. Too often. It was the reason his ears went red when he saw you, but he prayed you never noticed that. It would definitely embarrass him if you did.

He found you…assertive. Sure, you were the his boss. But he’d had bosses in the past, and none of them were quite like you. You had a way of commanding and calming an entire room by just walking in, your voice had such an authoritative tone to it, he never wanted you to stop talking. It wasn’t an occasional thing, but there were times when you snapped. There were times when your superiors had called to discuss what had gone wrong, or what you had to do to improve the workplace. Or when your plans to expand the range of antiquities had been rejected because the artefacts were to be sent of for auction somewhere in the middle of Italy. You hadn’t been in a good mood for the entire week, and it had caused you to snap at everyone, including Steven.

But what was strange was that…he didn’t hate it. That was the weirdest part. It should have offended him, or made him angry that you would act so pissed off like that. But it didn’t. It made him feel something, alright, just not what he expected it to. The way it made him feel small, made him feel insignificant in a way that made him feel a little fuzzy on the inside. It was a new feeling for him. Well, not entirely new, he’d felt it for a few months around you. But the snap and the angry gravelly tone in your throat when you told him to “get the fuck out of my office, Steven. I’m not in the mood for you right now.” He left that office with a racing heart and an aching he couldn’t quite alleviate. Not in work anyway.

It was so unprofessional. He couldn’t have these ideas and thoughts running around in his head. He couldn’t be thinking of you being so…assertive with him, and him liking it. could he? It felt wrong. But then again, it felt so right. You had come to him later that day, less full of anger and more full of guilt than anything else.

“I need to apologise for how I spoke to you earlier. It wasn’t right, I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you,” you had said. But all that raced through his mind in response was no, please. Take your anger out on me. I liked it. He physically had to shake the thoughts away.

“It’s alright. You were stressed and I came to you with more problems at the wrong time,” Steven explained, shrugging it off with his ever present sweet smile. I liked it I liked it I liked it I liked it. It played in his mind repeatedly. He tried so hard to ignore it. But it played like a broken record. Over and over again. Reminding him of how much he liked being ordered around by you.

You hadn’t been that unhappy since that day. Steven couldn’t deny that it made him a little sad. Hearing your voice bellow, the way you intimidated people a little when your voice was raised. It was a tad threatening at times, but he loved it. He often wondered what you were like outside of work. Were you just as assertive there, as commanding as you were within these walls? What he wouldn’t give for just a taste of that in the right situation. Perhaps other men, other women, had experienced your kind of authoritative tone in closed quarters, followed your orders with complete submission. He was jealous of them, to say the least.

Fuck, he shouldn’t have thought about you while at work. Not as in depth as this. It was shaping up to be a little bit of a problem for him in certain places. And there was no way in hell that he was going to make it home without taking care of his little…problem. Perhaps he could sneak into the toilets before he left for the day.

-

It was a miracle you hadn’t gotten any papercuts from all the papers you’d been sifting through together. You were ninety percent sure that your arse had created a perfect indentation into the velvet seat you’d been stuck in all fucking day. Standing up, you stretched your legs and stretched your arms over your head with a soft groan as bones popped in your shoulders.

Your jacket had been discarded hours ago, the summer heat in London particularly unbearable this year, contrary to practically every year before. So it left you in just your simple white shirt, the top couple of buttons popped open to let the air flow and cool you down. Glancing at the clock above your office door, you noticed that it was around the time where staff would be leaving. Perhaps you would be able to catch Steven before he left to go home. So you made your way down to the main viewing area of which was now almost empty. Donna was packing up her bag and JB was nowhere to be found, as per usual. But neither was Steven, to your surprise. Surely he hadn’t left yet, he was always the last one here besides you, taking his time to walk around the museum, observing the artefacts like it was his first time in the museum.

“Hi, Donna,” you smiled politely as she turned towards you with her constantly present neutral expression. Was she always this gloomy? Jesus, you should probably talk to her about that.

“Hey,” she responded, her voice dreary and clearly bored.

“Leaving?” You asked, and she nodded in response. “Has Steven gone home, or is he still around? I didn’t see him on the way down.” Donna pointed to the staff room towards the back of the building.

“He’s been in there a while, I think. Not sure why, but I’m certainly not waiting around for him,” she gestured, tossing her bag over her shoulder. You nodded, waving a goodbye as she made her way towards the exit.

“Alright, no worries, see you Monday, Donna,” you rolled your eyes as she tossed a half-assed wave behind her. Now it was just the two of you, no one else was left in the building. You made your way to the staff room to see if you could find Steven and see whether he was leaving yet.

“Steven?” You called out. No response. Where the hell was he? Not in the staff room, and you couldn’t hear any movement or noise in the staff toilets. You pondered to yourself, wondering if he’d left without anyone seeing, but that thought shot down when you noticed his bag hanging on one of the hooks attached to the walls.

So you set out to find him. He wasn’t in the shop or its storage room behind the desk, he wasn’t wandering the museum and its artefacts. That only left downstairs; the archives or customers bathrooms. Making your way down the marble steps, you were grateful to see the lights on downstairs. He was here. Somewhere. So you called out his name again, and was pleasantly surprised when you heard…something in response. It wasn’t a word per se. More like a noise. But it was him, you knew it was. The noise came from the men’s bathroom, and you felt very weird about going in there, but you were more curious as to find out why he was down here in the first place.

As you neared the door that was left slightly ajar, the noises became clearer and turned into words. “Fuck fuck fuck,” was all you could make out. Was something wrong? Your hand reached for the handle to push the door open further, but it was as though some invisible barrier stopped you, halting your hand on the handle, frozen to it.

Your name. You heard your name. Not in a way where you thought it could have been intentional. No, it reached your ears as a sort of whimper. He whimpered your name. You really didn’t know how to react, but you had to control yourself for the present moment, ignoring how it made you felt. You were now even more curious, so pushing through your little frozen moment you pressed against the door and it swung open quietly.

You’d never seen a prettier sight. Truly, you hadn’t. If it was in a different location, perhaps you’d have preferred it more, but right now you didn’t care. Steven, pants unbuckled and unzipped, hunched over the sink with his hand fisting his hardened cock, was quite possibly the last thing you’d expected. His face was flushed, ears still that deep maroon red, pupils blown out as his mouth fell slightly agape, your name the only thing on his tongue.

He was gripping the sink so hard that his knuckles were the same colour as the white marble counter, as though he was hanging on for dear life. You bit your lip at the sight, leaning against the doorframe with your arms folded across your chest. You shouldn’t be watching this, it wasn’t right. But who better to find him than the name of the person he was calling out to as he got himself off. You tried so hard to ignore the dull panging sensation between your legs as you took a deep inhale.

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty you looked like this?” At the immediate sound of your voice, all of Steven’s ministrations stopped, even his breathing, you thought. He didn’t look at you, not wanting to believe that you’d walked down here to find him masturbating with your name falling from his tongue. “Because if not, then they need to get their eyes checked.” You pushed yourself off the doorframe and took a couple of steps in Steven’s direction.

“I didn’t realise you’d-wasn’t expecting you-shit.” It was sweet, the way he tripped over his words, the blush from his ears reaching his cheeks. You just smiled, making your way over to him slowly, as though he was a timid animal and you were doing your best as not to spook him.

“You weren’t expecting me to…what? Walk in here and find you jacking off to the thought of me?” you suppressed another smirk as Steven’s eyes widened and he turned away from you even more. “Oh don’t be all shy now,” you leaned in to whisper your next words directly into his reddened ears. “I happened to like it, Steven. The way you sounded, your little whimpers and moans. All for me, were they? Getting off to the thought of me a regular thing for you?” Steven just nodded, not trusting himself to speak as your lips brushed his ear. “I thought as much. If I’d have found out sooner, perhaps I would have been able to do something about it earlier.”

Then you heard it fall from his lips. The one word that would give both of you what you wanted. Please. Please, please, please. It was whiny, desperate, needy. Perfectly explaining how Steven was feeling in that very moment. “Oh, honey,” you mused, leaning against the counter and cupping his jaw to make him face you. “You want me to do something about it?” All Steven could do was nod, his puppy dog eyes searing into your soul. “Use your words, baby.”

“Please, touch me,” Steven practically begged in a small voice, leaning into your touch. You just smiled and leaned in, pressing your lips to his softly. He kissed you back with more force, more desperation. But this wasn’t up to him. Sure, this was for him. But that didn’t mean he was in control here. You just had to remind him of that.

He whined as your lips left his, his mouth chasing yours but to no avail because you’d already pulled away. “Easy, baby. You’ll get what you want. But only when I see fit, okay?” You expected to see disappointment in his eyes, but you were surprised when they lit up with what looked like excitement. “So you’re going to be good for me?”

“Yes, I swear. I’ll be good for you,” Steven promised, his knuckles on the verge of breaking with the force he gripped the edge of the sink. So you smiled sweetly, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his lips before releasing his jaw from your grip.

“Good boy,” you whispered, noting the way he quietly whimpered at the praise. You moved to stand behind him, your hands coming up to hold his waist, causing him to inhale sharply at the contact. One of your hands moved further around to his stomach and slid down past his slightly creased white shirt. “You want me to touch you here?” Your fingertips ghosted over the base of his cock, noting how it twitched at your slightest touch. He was sensitive, needing from not cumming yet. You’d interrupted him before he could finish, and now you were going to use that to your advantage. “Aw sweetheart, already so needy for me? I’ll make you feel good, don’t worry baby.”

The second your hand wrapped around his cock, the sweetest moan fell from Steven’s lips and his head hung between his shoulders. It sent a shiver through your spine and wormed its way down between your legs. You planned on pulling more of those pretty noises from him before this was over. Moving your hand up and down his cock at a slow pace, you felt his hips jut forward to meet your speed. But you knew he needed more. Faster, or harder, or something. But this wasn’t something you wanted to rush.

“Baby boy, if you want to cum you’re going to have to do something for me,” your words stayed vague, but engaging enough to catch his attention. He looked up and met your eye through the mirror. “I want you to look at yourself through the mirror. If you look away, I’ll stop,” you asked, but there was no room for negotiation, and Steven knew that. So he obliged, his eyes flicking between you and himself in the mirror, trying his hardest not to look down at the way your hand worked around his dick.

“That’s it baby, you look so good like this,” you whispered into Steven’s ear reaching up to press soft kisses along the side of his neck, all the way up to the sweet spot behind his ear, feeling how he shuddered under your touch. “Want you to see yourself when you cum, see how pretty you are.” Steven was still hunched over as he looked into the mirror, his body pressing against yours as his hands fought to hold him up.

Your touch made him weak. It made his head fuzzy with only thoughts of you. Just you. Your voice sent all his blood rushing to his dick, your words making pleads and begs want to roll off his tongue until his words were reduced to whimpers just for you. Just for you to hear and act on.

Nights he’d spent with his own hand fisting his cock, images of you running through his mind as they brought him closer to the pleasure you made him feel by just occupying his every waking thought. The way you carried yourself around the museum, your presence as you stepped into a room, the way your voice travelled along the winding marble clad halls. Whenever you called out his name for help, it made him feel needed, wanted, willing to be there for your every beck and call. All he wanted to do was please you, at the time, only professionally. But after a while it turned into something more. After a while, when your voice called out, mad or in need of assistance, he wanted you to call out his name like that for different reasons. To order him around, give him instructions. Tell him what to do, tell him what you wanted to do. To do to him.

But now it wasn’t his hand around his cock. It was yours. Your delicate fingers deftly stroking and squeezing his cock in all the right places to make him squirm and come undone from your touch. It was your voice right in his ear, speaking praises that made him weak at the knees. You’re doing so good for me. My good boy. You want to cum?

He almost couldn’t believe it to be true. And the fact that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you? it made it all the more better. It was bubbling in his veins, the pleasure on the verge of flowing through his body, clouding his mind with absolute heaven.

“Baby, you want to cum? Want to let go? Hmm? Tell me,” you pulled his words from him. He nodded, making eye contact with you briefly before remembering the rules and looking back at himself.

“Yes, yes please. Let me cum, I’ve been so good,” Steven begged, his words choking on the last syllables as your thumb ran over his reddened tip to draw a bigger reaction from him. His hips ground more into your hand, needing more friction. Just a little to push him over the edge. Your smirk told a different story though.

“Oh so needy to cum, aren’t we, baby boy?” You teased, revelling in his gaspy moan as you tugged a little harder, feeling him grow closer with each passing second. But your hand slowed, slowed enough to pause his impending sense of bliss. You heard a broken please and it sent the feeling straight to your pussy. You held him there, the sense of pleasure almost unbearable and unreachable at the same time. It was almost as though you were testing how long he could hold on for, how long he could refrain from coming undone until it was painful.

“No, please don’t stop,” Steven whimpered, looking at you once more, his eyes pleading and desperate, irises resembling melting chocolate as he molded against you, his limbs almost giving up on him. “Please, please don’t stop now. Let me cum, I’ll do anything.” His moans and begs like music to your ears as he tried to convince you to let him cum. God, you wanted to. But it was so much more rewarding to see him work for it.

Steven couldn’t deny that this had been one of his several fantasies for a while now. Your entire control over him, over his undoing. Only your words and your actions could determine when and if he was even allowed to cum. He loved it, your command, your voice filling his ears and seeping into his brain.

His eyes were pricking with tears by the time you felt it was an appropriate time to let him undo beneath your hands. He was such a beautiful sight, the top two buttons of his shirt undone to expose his neck and the top of his chest, his eyes already looked fucked out and you were nowhere near close to being finished with him. “You’ve been so good for me, Steven baby. So just for that, I’m going to let you cum,” you could hear his sigh of relief as he felt your hand move faster, the other hand reaching to cup his balls. It was all over for him then. “And after that, sweetheart, I’m going to let you fuck me. You want that?” You peppered kisses along the side of his neck and down his shoulder as his breathing started to turn to breathy gasps for air.

He came hard, all that pent up tension finally able to be released, his body relaxing, elated as he finally fell apart in front of you. In front of himself. You were glad you made him look at himself in the mirror, because it made it so much hotter to see him cum like his. You could see all of him, his face flushed, his chest heaving, his arms flexed. “There you go, pretty boy. You did so good for me. Such a good boy.” Your hands moved to his waist, spinning him slowly to face you. He looked at you, eyes blown wide with the wave of ecstasy washing over him. You smiled as you grasped his chin gently between your fingers, pulling him down for a kiss. Your lips melted together, Steven groaned as you pulled his bottom lip between your teeth, taking control of the kiss to which he immediately obliged.

Steven turned the two of you so that your back was against the counter next to one of the sinks. You pressed against the counter, Steven pressing against you so you were trapped between the two. Steven’s hands roamed across your body, hesitant at first in case you stopped him. But when you didn’t do anything to halt his wandering palms, he touched you wherever he could before you decided that he wasn’t to let himself roam freely.

His palms trailed up your hips to grip your waist, his fingerprints burning into your skin as they wandered higher and higher. You cupped the sides of his neck, trying to stay composed as his fingers ghosted over your breasts, moving to the buttons on your shirt. “Please, can I…” He didn’t even finish the sentence before you were nodding, pulling him down for another kiss.

“Of course, baby,” you replied, moving your hands from his neck to the counter behind you, using your strength to push you up onto the flat marble surface. It was amusing to see how quickly Steven situated himself between your spread thighs, settling snugly with your legs framing his hips.

You pressed your lips against his once again and Steven began undoing the buttons of your shirt until they had all been popped open. He pushed the shirt off your body and took in the sight of you, his eyes lighting up like a kid in a candy store. “Can I touch you? Please, I want to make you feel good.” His voice was so pleading, so small, you couldn’t help but flutter a little at how much he wanted you when it was so evident in his voice.

Your ankles hooked around his lower back, pulling him flush against your body as you linked your arms around his neck. “You want to make me feel good? Want to be good for me while you fuck me?” Steven’s knees went weak at the words. He wanted nothing more than that. Nothing. And neither did you. “Well, come on Steven,” you guided his hands down your body. “You can’t fuck me while I still have pants on, can you?” You leaned back on your hands and watched Steven work, watched his hands make quick haste of the buttons and zipper of your pants, quickly pulling them down your legs and tossing them onto the counter behind him.

His mumbles against your neck vibrated up the column of your throat, mumbles of how pretty you were, how much he wanted you, how pleading he was to touch you, to fuck you. It turned you on just to know how much he wanted you, wanted this. One of his hands roamed up your thigh, gripping your hip and pulling you flush against his body. Steven was already ready to fuck you, his cock practically throbbing with want. His unoccupied hand drifted to the apex of your thighs, feeling how wet you were through your panties. It made him hard to know that he made you feel like that.

“Let me touch you,” Steven pleaded, raking his finger lightly across your damp panties. “Please, I’ll be so good. I want to touch you so badly.” It was ungodly what this begging was doing to you. It sent flutters down your spine, through your entire body, eventually all settling in your pussy. As soon as he saw your nod of permission, Steven wasted no time, not even taking the time to pull your underwear off. Instead he just pulled them aside, glancing down at your glistening folds, a guttural noise erupting from his throat at the sight of you. Steven knew better than to tease, so he got right to the point. Your head fell back as the pressure of his fingers dragged from your hole to your clit, collecting your juices on his fingers. Using your own wetness, he coated his fingers and pushed one into your dripping hole. You gasped at the feeling of how thick just one of his fingers were. Already you felt the sense of euphoria filling your mind like a hazy fog. Too soon. It was too soon. You had to keep your control somehow.

“There you go, baby boy. Doing so-aah-so good for me,” you bit your lip to suppress a moan, holding out to hide how good he was making you feel. All Steven wanted to do was make you feel good, he felt as though it was his purpose. And fuck, was he doing that job justice. Your toes were practically curling as a second finger slipped into your core, his digits working harmoniously, brushing deep strokes in a curled motion to find a spot to make your eyes roll into the back of your head. He wanted to please you. He wanted to make you see heaven. He eventually found it. His cock was once again rock hard at the gasping moan that escaped past your lips as his fingers angled into a part of you that set something alight within your core. “Fuck, fuck…right there, Steven.” One of your hands held up your weight as it rested flat against the marble surface behind you, while the other gripped his shoulder, holding him close.

Steven used this closeness to litter your neck with kisses, his lips dragging along your skin, teeth lightly grazing the column of your throat. You felt his teeth gently nip at your sensitive skin, so you felt it appropriate to remind him of the situation. Your hand which once gripped his shoulder found its way into his dark curly locks, tightening your hold on his hair to which earned you a quiet whimper as you pulled his head back away from your neck. You made sure to remember that. “Careful, pretty boy. You mark my neck and I’ll mark your entire body so that every time you look in the mirror or see yourself naked, you’ll be reminded of me and what I did to make you feel good.” Your voice was dangerously low, teasing him, daring him. He couldn’t deny that it turned him on incredibly quickly. Embarrassingly quickly, actually.

It tempted him, but you both knew that if that were to happen, it wouldn’t happen in a museum bathroom. You’d want him in a more private space, where you could take your time with him, take meticulous care in learning every inch of his body. Much to his delight, you kept a firm hold of his hair, gripping it tightly as you pulled him into a kiss. His fingers worked faster inside you, repeatedly hitting that one spot that had your vision blurring and your legs shaking. He was good at what he did. It got you wondering how much experience he actually had here, or if he was just going purely of feel and observation.

He kept note of every noise, every moan and every change in your expression as his fingers stayed buried deep in your sopping hole. Your control and his obedience made both of you hornier than either of you cared to admit. It was clear that this was not the only time that you would be in this position. It was just the beginning.

As his fingers brushed perfectly against that deep pleasure filled part of you, you felt your muscles tightening, a rush of ecstasy trailing up your body at a hasted pace. You were on the brink of pure bliss, the tingling of electricity shooting through your nerves just aching to make you feel all that pleasure. And Steven was pushing you over the edge. It shot through your body like a bullet. Your muscles clenching and contracting around his fingers, your back curving into a slight arch as your grip on his hair became a steel fist, unmoving and unbreakable. You let out a moan directly into Steven’s ear, and if he was not already trying to cum on the spot, he was certainly trying harder now. He felt your juices around his fingers, your body pulsating with delectation.

For a second only your breaths could be heard in the room, but your praises for him soon followed. He could only revel in them, the words, the pet names, all reducing him to putty in your hands to play with and move as you solely desired. Your lips almost let a quiet gasp slip through as his fingers retracted from inside you, the empty feeling soon making you crave him once again, a little too quickly. His face was buried in your neck after you released his hair, kissing along the skin gently before mumbling something you couldn’t quite hear.

You didn’t need to grip his hair again to make him look at you. Your voice would be enough to get his attention. “Steven, if you want to say something, you have to look at me, sweetheart,” you pried, smirking when he lifted his head to meet your eye. “Come on, baby. Use your words, or you won’t get what you want.”

That certainly convinced him to tell it to your face. “I need you. Please. Need…more.” Steven was hesitant to say it, his ears tinting pink at the tips. It sent electricity through your veins, hearing his yearning tone adjuring for you.

“Oh, you want more? So desperate aren’t you? Desperate to fuck me, baby? You want that? Come on, say it. I know you can, sweetheart.” Your words were his drug. He was already addicted. Nodding, he admitted his wanting thoughts, “yes, want to fuck you so bad. I want to make you feel good. Please, let me do that.” He was yearning for you. Eager to please. Eager to earn your praises.

So you pulled him close, close enough so he felt your breath on his cheek. “Now that you’ve felt what it’s like for me to cum on your fingers, how about I cum on your cock next? And if you’re good and do as you’re told, I might even let you cum inside me.” The whimper that exuded from the man between your legs stirred something inside you. something akin to primal.

His second whimper only became vocal when you trailed your hand down between both your bodies and wrapping it around his wanting cock, twitching in your fingers at your touch that was not yet just a distant memory. “I will, I’ll do as I’m told. I’ll be good. Just please…” It was getting harder and harder to deny him, to hold off until you’d seen he’d had enough. Therefore, you had to give him what he wanted because it was what you wanted too, you wanted it desperately, you just had the willpower to hide that. Nodding, you watched his eyes widen with anticipation as you guided him closer to your still sensitive pussy. He wanted nothing more than to be inside you right now, his face truly said it all.

The second he felt his dick push inside your wet walls, the man practically crumbled before you. His mind went numb and all he could process was how good you felt around him, how perfect and fuzzy it made him feel as he buried himself deep inside your pussy. Nothing made him feel this good, and you had barely started yet. He wasn’t even fully inside you, not yet pushed to the hilt and his whimpers and moans were already filling the room.

You were feeling all kinds of things in this moment. Pulling him closer, it made him immerse himself completely inside your velvety walls and Steven released a guttural groan that seeped into your ear and melted like honey. Wrapping your legs around his waist, caging him in, you pulled your bodies flush together. Your pebbled nipples brushed coarsely against the sleek fabric of Steven’s crinkled shirt and it sent shivers through your spine.

Buried at the hilt, Steven was already on the brink of releasing deep inside of you, and he hadn’t even moved yet. The poor man wasn’t going to last long, but there was no way he was cumming without your permission. The punishment perhaps wouldn’t be as pleasant. “Can I move?” you heard him whisper against your neck, his arm wrapping around your waist to hold you against him, the other gripping the edge of the white countertop.

You nodded, biting back a gasp as his cock shifted inside you, dragging out slowly until only the tip stayed engulfed in your warm before he pushed back in. Quicker. Harder. His thrusts were desperate and wanting, every ridge and vein of his dick scraping across your walls and sending shockwaves through your core until your every thought only consisted of him. Just him.

“Doing so good, Steven. So good for me,” you praised, feeling him clutch your body a little tighter. “But come on, pretty baby. I know you can do better than that.” You trailed your lips up his neck, pressing soft kisses in your wake until you reached his jaw. It was at that point that you felt him move harder within you, a powerful pace that could very well break the marble counter you were sat atop. “That’s it, baby, just like that.” And he didn’t stop, eager as ever to please you, to make you feel the most pleasure in those very moments. His pace stayed the same, unrelenting and unchangeable. Already so desperate for release, Steven was entirely drunk of the feel of your pussy clenching a vice around his cock.

He hit something devastating inside you, and it made you grip him tighter, a shocked gasp slipping past your lips as he rammed the same spot repeatedly with perfect aim. Steven’s fingertips held you so tightly you were certain that bruises were going to be tattooed into your skin, but you didn’t care. Not when his cock felt so good, when his whimpers melted into your body and flowed through it like a lifeline current.

“Want to cum,” Steven managed to breathe out between each drag of his cock, his hand on your waist trailing down to your ass and pulling you further into him to meet his thrusts, “please”. He was free roaming along your body with his hands, letting them wander. The desperation in his touch, the grasp his hand had on you. Your arms were slinked around his shoulders, one hand carding through the hair at the base of his neck and gripping the locks that collected there. But once you felt his touch roaming along you, and his begs in your ear, you shifted the hand on the nape of his neck.

Instead to moved it around his neck to wrap around his throat, your fingers pressing gently against his pulse point until you felt the throbbing beneath your fingertips. “You want to cum, huh?” Your voice was low and deep and it had a gravelly undertone. It certainly caught Steven’s attention. There was nothing in his eye or expression that indicated that your hand was not welcome where you had placed it. In fact, there seemed to be a sort of excited twinkle in his chocolate irises. “You don’t get to cum until I say so, okay? You make me feel good, and if I feel you’ve done that well enough, then perhaps I’ll reward you.” There was no space for him to retaliate, or for him to beg to get his way. If he tried, there was a chance Steven wouldn’t get what he so desperately desired.

So instead he nodded, his lips parting as you gripped his throat a little tighter. Not tight enough to cut off his airway, just to make the blood rush to his head and make his eyes roll to the back of his head in bliss. “So are you going to behave?” you whispered, breath hitting his face as he looked back at you once again.

“Yes,” he breathed out. You smirked, moving to loosen your hold on his neck, “good boy”. Surprisingly, he caught your wrist in his hand before you could fully let go. Shaking his head, he asked you to not move it, “please…keep it there?”

Your eyebrow cocked, not expecting such a reaction. But you did. You held his neck, gripping it firmly as he fucked you, his cock moving in and out of you, scraping against your walls and hitting your sweet spot. Your other hand gripped his shoulder, nails digging into the tough bone of his shoulder. With your nose nudging against his cheek, it gave you all the access you wanted to whisper your filthiness directly into his ear.

You could feel it. The stirring in your core, the build up about to explode. It was in the way your legs closed tighter around his waist, the way your walls gripped him and how your breathing became uneven and ragged. Steven could feel it too. So he held you more securely, unyielding and persistent to make you see stars. The tip of his cock itched that spot inside you that you were unable to reach yourself, and it was continually and consistently brushed against hard. Until your eyes saw black spots in your vision and you cried out in pleasure, the first time you’d let anything particularly vocal slip from you. It was all Steven needed to hear to push harder and faster, never letting up until you were cumming on his cock.

He felt your juices flood him, drowning his cock in your pleasure, in your bliss. Eyes flitting down between your bodies, Steven watched as your wetness seeped out of you. Nothing could have turned him on more than that sight. It fuelled his everlasting need for you.

“So good, Steven,” you breathed, letting your head fall against his shoulder, panting heavily as your muscles slowly began to relax around him. “You did so good for me, baby.” You kept your legs wrapped around his waist, ankles interlocked to cage him in. “Now, do you want to cum too?” He was already nodding before you’d even finished your sentence. “Yes, yes please, let me cum. I need it so badly. I’ve been good for you. Please, I need it. Need you.” Need you. Heaven to your ears. So you obliged. Letting him take what he so craved as his reward.

His thrusts were just as powerful now, but slowed to a snail’s pace. It didn’t take much stimulation of your sopping core for him to release inside you, spilling himself along your walls and painting your insides white. Still buried to the hilt, he stayed exactly where he was, not moving an inch as he regained breath into his lungs. Steven’s hold on you loosened on you slightly, but his touch never left you. No words were exchanged, the room only being filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing. You’d both gotten what you’d wanted, what you’d craved for so long, and more. But somehow you still felt as though there was more between you. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. You’d only just started this, and there were no plans to end it so hastily.

“Feel okay?” you asked Steven, removing your hand from his throat and tilting his head up with one finger under his jaw to make him look at you. He breathed a quiet yes, leaning into your touch as you cupped his cheek with the same hand. “More than okay,” he responded with a small smile. “And you?”

You just smirked brushing your thumb against his flushed cheek. “Good. I feel good. Come on, we should get out of here, sweetheart. Go somewhere else, yeah?” His eyes lit at the prospect of leaving here with you. So he nodded, groaning as he pulled himself out of you and watched his release drip out of you. Cleaning up and redressing, you both revelled in the shared comfortable silence, pressing chaste, soft kisses to one another’s lips as you got ready to leave.

“We can’t let people know about this, ever. You know that, right?” You had to make it known that this sort of…complicated situation you shared could be detrimental to you both. “We have to act normally inside these walls. As though we’re just colleagues. I’m still your boss, and you’re still my employee.”

“I understand,” Steven said, nodding as he grabbed his bag and as you buttoned the last few buttons on your short. “But outside of work…?” His tone was hopeful, and it made your insides flutter at his optimistic voice.

You smiled, turning to look at him with an upturned pull at your eyebrow. “Outside of work, we can explore more of this,” you mused as you trailed a finger down his chest. “But you do acknowledge, I’m still in charge. Or do you need a little reminder?” Your eyes never left his, a little daring twinkle in your eye.

“I-I’ll remember. I promise. I’ll always obey you,” he swore, gazing at you with his pretty puppy dog eyes. You smiled, satisfied. “Good boy,” you praised, taking his hand and leading him upstairs, “now let’s go. There’s still a lot that we need to learn about one another. And the night’s not over yet, baby”.

The two of you walked out of the museum without leaving a trace of anything that had happened. Heading out into the dead of night, you were right about one thing. The night certainly wasn’t over yet, you had only just begun.

[therapycat21]

ARN One shot- Superbowl

Description: Y/n and Travis attend the Superbowl.

ARN Series Masterlist Regular Masterlist

An exaggerated huff leaves me as I throw my phone down to the couch's cushion, gaining the attention of Travis who sits next to me sifting through a bunch of channels on the TV. He looks at me with a smile “What’s wrong mama?” he places his arm around me and gently pulls me to him, minding the giant baby inside me still. I look at him with a sad face “I want her out! She’s is making me so out of breath and making my feet so swollen!” I exasperate earning a laugh from him. I gently slap him on the shoulder “It’s not funny, she needs to be out already” I tell him. 

Trav shakes his head before sighing “Oh baby, you know it doesn’t matter when we want her out? She comes whenever she chooses to come. And right now she is very comfortable in Mommy” He says making me feel somewhat better. I nod before melting into his embrace “Yeah you’re right, I just wanna meet her so bad” he nods while kissing my forehead “I know, me too but let’s just make sure she stays nice and comfy until she decides to come” he tells me as we turn to the movie on the TV.

Travis and I are both wearing black and red as we walk through the hallway that has some reporters and some fans so Travis can go to the locker room to get ready for the game and me to take the elevator up to the family suite. Travis keeps a protected arm around my waist as he guides us through the hallway. I try to greet everyone we pass as we walk. As we go I see a younger woman trying to get our attention, I nudge Travis to get his attention towards the girl. Travis nods and smiles at the woman as we pass “Travis are you ready for the biggest game tonight?” she asks earning a laugh from him, He nods “Oh absolutely, Chiefs kingdom baby!” everyone around chuckles. “It’s nice to meet you!” I tell her as we finally hit the main doors.

Travis walks us to the side and places one hand on my face bringing my forehead to his and the other on my belly taking a deep breath “It’s gonna be okay, y'all got this in the bag.” I reassure him and kiss him softly, he nods and takes one more deep breath before guiding me to the group of security guards to safely escort me to the suite. I start to walk with guards to the elevators and I look back waving to him and blowing him a kiss and mouthing “You got this!”

The elevator doors slide open to the entrance of the suite and I’m greeted by the familiar faces of the Kelce family and my mom. My mom and Donna stand gossiping near the windows and drinking. Kylie is the first to notice me, she speed walks over before engulfing me in a loving hug, well as best as she can considering the giant baby bump in the way.

“How are you? How are you feeling?” she asks guiding me to one of the seats by the giant window that shows the field. I huff as I plop down into one of the chairs “I’m okay, I’m more annoyed and just want her out” I laugh, Kylie laughs “Oh yeah I know that feeling, and god I don’t miss it” We talk a bit more and the rest of the Kelce family comes over with the conclusion of my mom and we all greet each other before the game officially starts. We all stand and watch as the Chiefs run out of the tunnel gaining a roar from the home crowd. I clap and whoop loudly, everyone settles down as the game starts.

We all sit on edge as we wait for Mahomes to throw the ball, I hold my breath as Pat throws the ball to Travis, Travis jumps in the air catching the ball, everyone in the suite is standing and cheering loudly, going crazy “RUN! RUN!!” Travis misses almost the three tackles before he throws his body to the endzone gaining the Chiefs a winning Superbowl touchdown. I jump up and down with tears on my face and hugging Kylie. 

I look on the jumbo to see Travis screaming in happiness and the rest of the team running on the field in joy and jumping on each other. We all are ushered down to the field by security. As we make it onto the field Travis runs up to his mom and hugs her tightly “Mama! Ugh I love you”.

I have to walk slower just to be safe with all the happy people, my security staff makes a path for me.

I see Trav standing and looking around for what I think is me. I walk up behind him and gently touch his shoulder, he swings around and a giant smile covers his face “Baby! We did it! Haha!, ooh come her mama” I laugh in joy as he plants a sloppy loving kiss on my mouth and holds me in a tight hug. Travis turns his mouth to my ear “Thank you for loving me and supporting me through absolutely everything, I couldn't have done this without you and her, I love you with everything baby!” he tells me making me tear up, I pull back and hold his head in my head while nodding my head “you never have to doubt my love and support for you, I got you till the end baby”. 

Travis slides his hand down to my waist onto the baby bump before getting called by Pat. I let go and rubbed his shoulders before nudging him to go up and grab his hat and trophy and talk to the reporters. “Go! I’m gonna go stand with your family and wait for you! Go enjoy this!” I tell him with tears still brimming in my eyes. He nods before placing a kiss on my forehead and bending down to place a kiss on the bump. He looks over at Jason and nods towards me, looking for Jason to help me walk over to the rest of the family safely.

We all stand to the side and watch as the team is raving in happiness. Travis walks up gets a hat placed on his head and handed the trophy to talk “All I’m gonna say is, I love my family, I love my wife and the support they all have given me” he pauses before smiling huge “oh and YOU GOTTA FIGHT FOR YOUR RIGHT, TO PARTY!!!!” He yells into the mic earning a laugh from all of us.

I stand arm in arm with Jason and Kylie before grimacing, Kylie and Jason look down at me in concern “What’s wrong?” Kylie asks discreetly, Jason turns to face me more and sees me trying to hide the pain. I shake my head before sighing “oh nothing, I think I’m starting to go into labor”. Jason and Kylie look at me shocked “what the hell you mean you’re in labor?” Jason says. “Did your water break?” Kylie asks, I nod my head “Yeah I started leaking a little fluid earlier when I went to the bathroom, you know the movies lied, it’s not always a gush of fluid” I say trying to make light. Jason shakes his head before laughing “Only you could try and joke about being in labor at the Super Bowl.”

“You’re in labor!?” I hear Travis say behind me, I sigh before turning around as gently as I can giving him a teasing smile. 

“Yeah, we’re gonna have a baby today” I smiled big at his stunned face.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

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[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ steven, unbeknownst to him, meets the love of his life at one of its lowest points. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader word count ☾ 15.7k a/n ☽ [gif credit] ⤏ aka my personal love letter to one steven grant (and myself, because I want to be loved like I love just once).⤏ i am going to be completely honest on this one, guys: this is a borderline self-insert fic that is 100% self-indulgent on my part bc i have felt like shit the last two months and want to treat myself. ⤏ i kept it as a reader-insert because a) some people (including myself) enjoy experiencing different ‘pov’s of reader-inserts, per se; b) it’s easier to be kinder to and romanticize myself when it’s ‘not me’; and c) i feel that it’s still vague/inclusive enough to be counted as a general reader-insert versus labeling it strictly as a self-insert/original character. i really only describe personality traits and the reader being petite, really (bc nothing comforts my 5’0” ass more than knowing i would actually be able to kiss the boys without craning my neck all the way back tbh). i use a few southern colloquialisms, too, just fyi. :) ⤏ typical moon knight fanfic disclaimer: I don’t claim to know very much about did beyond what I’ve gleaned from both the show, the various meta posts I’ve read on tumblr, and from other fanfics themselves, so please forgive and correct me on any glaring discrepancies/issues I may have presented here (or link me any posts that discuss more accurate representations of did, perhaps—that’d be greatly appreciated). some of the terminology/technicalities escape me. I tried my best to get their voices and characterizations just right, and I sincerely hope I succeeded bc they’re very special to me. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER ☽

The first time Steven met you, it was strictly by happenstance.

He had always considered himself a man with many friends. Although his routine was relatively simple compared to other Londoners who thrived in social settings and spent all of their free time anywhere but home to mingle and chase tail, he had familiar faces he saw frequently. He committed their names to memory when they’d give them off-handedly, he made a point to speak to them in passing even if he or they were otherwise occupied, and he kept a mental list composed of all the details he was able to glean strictly from observation when they didn’t readily volunteer the information.

Perhaps it was a little silly. All lot of them had trouble remembering him, sure, but he couldn’t hold it against them—tons of people had trouble keeping track of faces and people. Sure, JB never quite got his name right even after Steven had worked at the museum for a couple of months by now, but he was a busy man monitoring the security cameras all day long and stayed distracted (with his infatuation with otters, no less—as endearing of a trait as any for someone with a secret soft side). Donna stayed in a tizzy, always worked up over something beyond her control (Steven couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be dealing with the higher-ups trying to meet goals and attempting to exceed them). He didn’t really dislike them for it, even if it had grown rather grating as of late. (Even if it would only take them both a moment to look at his conveniently given and placed nametag.)

Crowley didn’t talk much, all part of the gig, so Steven didn’t hold their one-sided conversations against him, either. The gentleman with the broom cart (whose name Steven never had managed to catch, as gruff as he was) seemed only to ever respond with grunts. The security guards, the tour guides, the usual suspects on the morning and night bus rides…Steven interacted with them all, and they had enough good graces to acknowledge it most of the time.

Over time, however, as his dreams (or perhaps more aptly named nightmares) grew more vivid and more bizarre, as he seemed to lose track of time more and more (how exactly does one manage to miss an entire weekend when one isn’t a blackout drunk?), and as Steven’s anxiety led him into taking more and more precautions to make sure his self-diagnosed sleepwalking disorder didn’t strand him on the other side of London (again), it became more readily apparent that those people with whom he took such care to converse did not seem particularly inclined to return the favor. Sure, he’d accidentally nodded off a few times leaning on the other passengers in the morning bus, ran a little late at times getting to the museum (much to Donna’s ever-increasing ire), and maybe got a little carried away with his nattering when he got invested in something he was excited to share information about, but…would it really kill someone just to respond long enough to reassure him that he wasn’t virtually invisible?

It was one such morning after he overslept, convinced he was late, and worked himself into a right and proper state trying to get to the museum on time that he realized that it was, in fact, Sunday, not Saturday. Much to his bewilderment but proven by his phone, the museum stood barren and closed, doors locked and lights off. He stood at the entrance staring at his dumbfounded expression in the glass for a good five minutes, thoughts racing as he tried to recall anything about the previous day. There was no way he slept an entire day, right? He hadn’t been staying up too late trying to manage his disorder, even if he had been running a little tired lately.

His distress was punctuated by a fat, chilly droplet landing right on his nose. The early spring weather was unseasonably cold this year, leading to an abnormally wet season (as if rain could ever be abnormal in London, but the meteorologists remained convinced), and within seconds of Steven turning and trotting down the steps the skies parted and released their torrential downpour as if just to spite him specifically. Everyone else in the immediate vicinity, if they weren’t holed up in their cars or the myriad establishments bordering the museum district, already had their umbrellas up to shield themselves from the frigid onslaught, ambling along and circumnavigating the puddles lingering from the storm the night before..

Steven shrank into his coat, tugging the collar up and over his head as best he could as he crossed the street and aimed for the first building he saw with its neon, ivory OPEN sign glowing against the gloom—on the corner directly across from the museum entrance. The door was heavy, the handle cold enough he was surprised his palm didn’t stick to it, but he managed to pry it open and tumble inside.

A few people glanced up from their tables to give him a range of skeptical to humored looks before going about their business. Steven hedged to the side of the door in case someone else came in, dripping onto the old hardwood with no small amount of regret.

It was a coffee shop. Comfortingly warm against his numb face, he basked in the scents of espresso and sweets permeating the place. His attention was caught by the bookshelves on the wall to his right, and he was entranced—all until a barista slipped out from the kitchen and addressed him with a croon. “Oh, goodness, look like the weather caught you!”

Steven almost accidentally ignored you thinking that you were talking to someone else (for so rarely did someone speak to him in a tone that wasn’t irritated or dismissive). After his cursory glance in your direction, he did a double-take, realizing you were looking right at him.

“Yeah, I—looked at the forecast wrong, methinks!” he responded sheepishly (and he had—he’d been expecting Saturday’s overcast mist, not Sunday’s shower). “I’m makin’ a right mess, aren’t I? I should probably go before I warp the stain—”

“No! No, just wait a second.” You raised a placating palm before dipping below sight behind the counter. You emerged and rounded the corner next to the display case holding a towel, walking right up to him and offering it to him with a sympathetic smile. “I can’t count the number of times I thought I could beat Mother Nature,” you joked. “It sucks that it’s been so cold on top of it. I’m surprised I haven’t gotten sick.”

Steven accepted it graciously, muttering his earnest thanks as he went about mopping up his sopping curls. Once he’d wiped all the rain he could off of him, he handed it back to you. “Hope I don’t get one, neither,” he responded. “It just wouldn’t do to catch cold in the middle of all this, would it? No.”

You chuckled a bit, eyes glittering with mirth. “Maybe it’ll help if I get you something hot to drink?”

Steven glanced at the menu hanging on the wall behind the counter, eyes rounding a little at the prices. He’d overspent on books again after payday, so he was having to be a bit more frugal this week than usual. “Oh, no, don’t go to the trouble, I’ll just call a cab and get a ride home before it gets too bad.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” you assured him, wringing the towel between your hands. You hesitated only a heartbeat before you leaned in a little closer, smile turning a bit bashful. “I’ll make it on the house, how’s that sound?”

Steven normally considered himself one to give where charity was concerned, but he had to admit that the sound of something warm on his urgently empty stomach was divine at the moment. He cleared his throat, glancing towards the other customers still wrapped up in their own little worlds. “No, I couldn’t—wouldn’t want anyone jealous that they’re not gettin’ the special treatment, you know.”

“It can be our little secret,” you offered quietly, winking conspiratorially at him.

He blinked, heat creeping up into his face. “Oh, well. If you insist, then…just this once?”

“All right.” Your smile lit up your entire face, and you headed back behind the counter to deposit the towel in an unseen hamper.

Steven followed, training his eyes on the menu—the standard fare was reasonable, with alternative options for dietary restrictions. A lot of the custom concoctions did seem lovely, and he was a tad surprised to discover that they served breakfast and lunch, also—with vegan options, most notably. “Wow, I never even knew this place existed. I must’ve been walkin’ right by it this whole time.”

“Do you work at the museum?” you inquired, folding your arms over the counter and propping your chin up in your palm.

“I do, actually,” he beamed, though it was dashed a tad with his next confession. “I want to be a tour guide one day—you know, I’ve been studyin’ up for it and all—but they’ve got me in the gift shop. For now! They said they’d move me up with a new position becomes available.” They said that they would consider him for the role, but Steven clung to his hope that they’d soon realize how bloody good he’d be at it, as hard as he’d been working for it for so long.

“You always have to start somewhere,” you replied warmly. You gestured to the shop around you. “This is just to hold me over ‘til I’m finished up.”

“Are you a transfer student?” Steven asked.

Your brow rose slightly, but your smile didn’t waver. “How observant. Most people ask me how I got lost on this side of the pond.”

“It isn’t often I see Americans anywhere but in the more touristy spots,” he agreed, “but the university is quite prestigious. You must be very academically successful if you landed a transfer scholarship like that.”

“It took a lot of work,” you admitted, “but it’s been worth it. I never thought I’d do anything like this, and I would’ve laughed at you a couple of years ago if you’d told me I’d move this far away from home. I’ve never really been the traveling type, but I’m so grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to do so.”

“What are you studyin’?” Steven inquired. An English major, perhaps—you struck him as the literary type with your articulation, despite your soft, southern drawl.

“Oh.” Your face darkened and you fiddled with the hem of your sweatshirt—dark gray, warm flannel, with a silver astronomical design embroidered into the front. “Well. I went to a university back home and got a degree in writing—” Nailed it! “—but I was notified at graduation that I qualified for this so I thought why not? It’s a bit self-indulgent, really, as I’ve always been a history nut, but I’m, um…” You reached up and scratched the nape of your neck, glancing away as though embarrassed. “...focusing on Egyptology?”

Steven’s brows shot halfway up his forehead. “No kiddin’!”

“Nope,” you confessed, a bit sheepish. “I picked up a book with pictures of King Tutankhamun’s treasures when I was three and I’ve been in love with it since. Maybe it’s a little niche, but it makes me happy—I’m taking other history classes, too, so I’ll end up with an Ancient History major with a minor in Egyptology—that’s just my main focus since I always wanted to be an Egyptologist when I was little. I don’t know that I could ever stand the heat, though, so I’m happy with writing in the comfort of my own home.”

“No, that’s great!” he raved, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m a bit of a history buff meself! The museum has a huge Egyptology exhibit coming up next month, so I’ve been brushin’ up on it all. You know, in case I get to audition.”

“Oh, yeah?” you tried, emerging from your shell just a bit. “Do you have a favorite period?”

“New Kingdom, definitely,” he said immediately. His heart was thrumming, and he was trying (in vain) to contain at least the majority of his enthusiasm. “There’s just so much material to go through. All the texts recovered from Deir el-Medina fascinate me to no end!”

“Yeah, Paneb was a right bastard,” you joked. “He had the whole town stirred up all the time. But we’re not going to talk about Ea-Nasir.”

“Oh, yeah—imagine keepin’ all your hate mail for posterity,” he returned, strumming his fingers against the inside of his sleeves. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m an Old Kingdom gal,” you said with a chuckle. “Pepi II’s letter about the pygmy won me over. Not to mention all the drama with Teti’s assassination. The workmen’s village at Giza? Oh, how could I pick one thing?”

Finally! Finally, it felt like Steven was talking to someone that spoke his language!

“It’s really hard to, isn’t it?” His stomach was starting to grumble. He cleared his throat, tamping down his anticipation just enough to concentrate on the matter at hand. He glanced up at the menu again, a little remiss with some of the unfamiliar choices—most of those displayed were coffee, but he’d been trying to curb himself off of it in favor of cutting out caffeine altogether for a better sleep schedule. “I, um…sorry, got a little sidetracked there. What would you recommend that’s decaf?”

“Oh, I love chai,” you told him. “Most of the teas we carry are decaf, though we do have decaf coffee, too. We’ve got all the usuals like chamomile, mint, Earl Grey…” You tilted your head slightly. “I’ve been avoiding caffeine since I was a teenager—it makes me antsy.”

“How do you normally take your chai?” he queried, curious.

“As an iced latte,” you said. “Cold foam, cinnamon, whole milk. I like it warm, too, especially this time of year, but there’s something about it iced that I can’t seem to part from—maybe that’s the southern upbringing in me.” You gestured to the equipment behind you. “Would you like to try it?”

“Yeah, sure! But with oat milk, please?”

“You’ve got it, darlin’,” you beamed, and set to work immediately. “I usually drink a small since it’s a bit sweet, that okay?”

“Certainly.”

Never would Steven have thought that he’d find such a deeply kindred soul a stone’s throw away from his workplace he’d never even noticed before today. He had to confess that he was charmed by you almost instantly. It had been a while since he’d met someone so engaging and open—not to mention generous and drop-dead gorgeous to boot! Ironic, really, that the foreigner was treating him more kindly than his native kinsmen. What did the Americans say about southern hospitality?

“Thank you so much,” he said when you returned with the cup and set it in front of him. “It looks great!”

“Go ahead and try it,” you suggested, “and if you don’t like it, I’ll replace it for you with something else.”

Steven had absolutely no intention of telling you to your face that he disliked your favorite beverage, even if he did decide it wasn’t to his taste—much less make you go out of your way to make him another free drink. But as he sipped the heady, sweet mixture the spices melted over his tongue. Despite being served cold, the flavors warmed his mouth and settled cozily into his belly.

“Oh,” he suspired, licking the foam from his lips, “that’s lovely. You’ve won a convert.”

Your smile was nearly blinding with delight. “I’m glad! It’s not for everyone, certainly, but those who do like it always seem to love it. No in between, I guess.”

Steven resisted the urge to suck the entire thing down, folding it between his hands instead as he committed more details of your appearance to memory. Your black apron was a bit big for your frame, dwarfing you a bit, but your sweatshirt did, too—your jeans were well-fitted but not snug. You were wearing very little makeup, just a touch around the eyes, but it emphasized your lashes like a fawn’s. While comfortable, if a bit plain, your ensemble made you seem like the epitome of homey.

“How long have you lived in London?” he asked after another delightful sip.

“Since the start of spring semester,” you said. “It was a big adjustment to show up at the tail end of winter, but I think I’ve gotten the hang of it now for the most part. I still get lost occasionally, but that’s why Google Maps was invented. I’d be up a creek without a paddle without it.” You leaned against the counter again, bracing yourself on the stained surface and gazing up at him as if there existed no other person in the world. “I live right next to the campus, but I work here to get away even though my scholarships carry most of my bills and fees. Ironic, though, ‘cause I don’t exactly consider myself a socialite.”

“You’ve fooled me,” he said with a chuckle. “Bit odd bein’ an ambivert, yeah?”

“I really only talk a lot when I get excited or when I’m with people I’m comfortable being around,” you confessed shyly. “I’ve been told I talk too much about stuff nobody really cares about, so I try not to bother anyone.”

“Now who on earth would have gone and told you that?” he pressed, heart aching all the while. How many times had he been told the very same thing, sometimes with less polite wording?

“Oh, not exactly like that,” you rectified in a hurry, “it’s just…you can tell, you know? When someone isn’t really paying attention to anything you’re saying. I usually get interrupted anyway, so sometimes I find it easier just to keep quiet.” Your skin darkened again, and cleared your throat as you dipped your face to conceal it with a hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I went into all that. See? Rambling too much—words got away from me.”

It was like looking into a mirror—so much so that Steven almost felt a bit of deja-vu.

“No, don’t be sorry,” he said softly. “I understand completely—really, I do. Better than you might think.”

You raised your gaze back up to him, and he understood at once why the philosophers and poets both waxed so romantic on the concept of windows to the soul. He could see your tenderness, your diffidence, your sincerity all there in your jewel-like eyes.

“People talkin’ over you all the time,” he continued with a low murmur, looking down at the cup when the intensity of your stare grew too much—just like looking directly into the sun, “actin’ like you’re invisible or somethin’. Gets frustratin’, yeah? Couldn’t even bother to act like you’re there, could they? No. Seems like too much to ask.”

“Yeah,” you said somberly, but when Steven dared a glance up at you, your expression was one of complete understanding. Never before had he felt so seen. “It doesn’t help when you’re really not a people person to begin with.”

And now that Steven considered it more deeply, he realized that you were right—why did he prefer to stay home rather than go out? Keeping company with a goldfish certainly wasn’t an extrovert’s definition of a good time. Hell, the only reason he really went out of his way to engage with those on the fringes of his daily routine was because he felt it was rude not to because of constant exposure, not because he was itching to have the conversations themselves. He worried constantly that he’d overshare or annoy people, when most wouldn’t even think of it.

He let out a soft laugh, pressing a palm across his forehead.

You quirked a brow, your expression perking up just a bit at the sound. “What?”

“I just realized I’m not really a people person, either,” he said, shaking his head. “Thought all this time everyone else was just awkward at social interaction.”

“Oh,” you chuckled, and there was that ephemeral sparkle of mirth back in your eyes. “Well. Better late than never, right?”

“Right.” He paused, then set the drink on the counter to fish around in his pocket for his wallet. “Here, since you’ve been an absolute angel—”

“Oh, no, please,” you said, waving your palms at him in an attempt to dissuade him, “it was my pleasure. Finding someone else as big of a nerd about Ancient Egypt was tip enough, thank you. You’ve made my whole day.”

And even though his morning thus far had been an utter disaster, Steven believed that you had made his entire day, too.

“Well, all right.” He pointed a finger at you with a wry, toothy grin. “But next time you won’t be able to talk me out of it.”

“Next time?” you echoed, and the unadulterated hope in your eyes made his heart clench.

“Yeah,” he said, “where else will I be able to order the ambrosia of the gods? And nerd out about ancient civilizations? Not all baristas carry a double-edged sword like you do.”

You bit your lip, rolled the hem of your sleeve between your fingertips, and looked down and away. “Oh, stop it. It’s really just a hobby.” You gave him another cheeky smile. “But, if it would make a difference to you, since you seem the type…” You leaned in across the counter, and Steven found himself copying the action as though you had magnetized him. “...there’s a bookstore upstairs, too.”

Oh, bloody Nora, as if you weren’t already perfect enough.

It wasn’t until Steven returned home, soaked to the bone and shivering from the cold that seeped into his bones after running from the cab into the apartment building, that he realized he hadn’t thought to ask you for your name. And he was normally so reliable about it, too! He kicked himself for it the rest of the day. He hadn’t even looked to see if you’d been wearing a name tag (pretty sure you weren’t, because he would have noticed it, surely), but he had been so disarmed by you in general that every other thought had flown from his brain.

After that, with the scribbled ingredients on the cup immortalized forever via a picture saved on his phone, he developed a fast habit of stopping by there at least three times a week. He had to rearrange his budget just a tad to ensure it did not turn into blatant overspending, but all the teas were excellent and the food was even better. Oftentimes he’d grab at least one meal from there one the days he did decide to go, which varied depending on how terribly he’d slept the night before. Most of the time he opted for lunch since he was afforded only a half-hour break and it was the closest spot to the museum. (The vending machines didn’t have much in the way of variety, vegan options notwithstanding.)

He learned your name the next time he saw you, which had taken a couple of separate attempts—evidently you’d been filling in for someone else for extra hours that dreary morning, as you usually came in for the closing shift during the week due to your morning classes, and typically were station in the bookstore upstairs, at that. You’d confessed that a lot of the part-timers were still inexperienced, and the staff oscillated so much that you had to juggle multiple positions throughout the week in order for the business to keep up efficiency.

Steven decided, at some indeterminate point a couple of weeks later, that you must be sunshine incarnate. Even if there was barely any daylight seeping through the brumous mantle looming over the sleepy city,  you lit up the place with your warm smile, easy laughter, and gentle soul. He could spend countless hours talking to you, although he was usually only limited to the time allotted between him ordering and someone else coming in to do the same. After he got off work late after inventory (again), on the rare occasion that he’d missed lunch and needed supper, you gave him some of the free handouts the employees were allowed to take home and let him sit and talk while you locked the place up.

It was just so easy. Where he’d struggled to even introduce himself properly without making himself out to be a bumbling fool with everyone else with whom he’d interacted, fighting against an invisible current of perceived disapproval and rejection, engaging with you was as natural as breathing. You shared so many adjacent passions with him, the both of you had never once run out of topics to peruse. When either you or he would bring up something with which the other was unfamiliar, all ears would be given in total enrapturement. You got him. You understood him. It was such a relief to have finally found someone with whom he felt comfortable enough to natter on about the Edwin Smith papyrus for a solid thirty minutes without ever losing interest. Neither still had he stopped to imagine what it would be like to be so caught up in what someone else had to say, because you sure knew a hell of a lot about mythology, too—listening to your humored yet romanticized renditions of the tales delighted him to no end.

Your book recommendations were always impeccable, likewise—although you did primarily focus on fiction unless conducting research for your own books, your taste in storytelling relied upon well-developed, detailed, and impactful characters that carried the plot rather than the other way around. (You seemed to genuinely enjoy all of his recommendations, too, despite your general avoidance of nonfiction other than history, much to his relief.) You had a soft spot for romance, whether it was found in modern, historical fiction, fantasy, or sci-fi settings, and Steven took careful note of your mentioned favorite stories, scenes, and characters when he read them himself. You’d both even started annotating and trading books to exchange reviews, and your infectious adoration of certain authors and series decidedly did not help his book collecting problem—although you confessed that you shared the same issue (only to your bank account, though). The used section of the bookstore upstairs was his dream, really—he never thought he’d manage it, naively, but he was actually starting to run out of bookshelves in his flat.

You were fiercely intelligent, hilariously witty, and unbelievably kind—a breath of fresh air where London normally left him suffocated. You were the one ray of sunlight that could pierce the gloom that would encroach on the fringes of his mood no matter how badly he felt. Visiting you was the one routine that kept him grounded, even when he only seemed to lose track of more and more time as he went along—it kept him sane, seeing the way your whole face would light up like a supernova whenever he’d slip through the door. It made him feel normal.

So when a full month had flown by since your first meeting (a happenstance for which Steven would be eternally grateful), he found himself relying on your anchoring presence more and more. The occasions that he was waking up from sleepwalking in completely random places around London were increasing at a worrying rate. No matter how many additional precautions he added to his flat in feeble attempts to keep track of and prevent the episodes (each one perhaps sillier than the last), he never could seem to determine any rhyme or reason for them. His dreams (and sometimes they edged into the territory of nightmares) were growing more frighteningly vivid and visceral by the night, even if he was following every technique suggested by Google to help mitigate his condition.

The evidence was stacking up more rapidly against everything that he’d thought he knew than Steven could neither comprehend nor keep up with—despite thinking that nothing about him could ever be anything but ordinary, a small part of him was truly starting to wonder whether he’d somehow dodged a psychiatric diagnosis all of his life. He felt like he was going mad, watching the lines between what he’d thought were conjurations of his sleep-deprived mind and what he’d been convinced was reality inexplicably blurring beyond any conceivable recognition. ( Was he mad? Had he always been mad?)

Dreaming that he had woken up in the Alps with a frankly ludicrous series of events following shortly thereafter was one thing—the angry booming voice in his head notwithstanding. Discovering that Gus had been mysteriously replaced overnight was another (because there was no way he had regrown a fin—he’d double-checked every pet site reputable enough). Finding out that he had lost track of an entire weekend, accidentally standing up a date he didn’t even recall initiating in the process, almost pushed him over the edge—it had certainly dragged him to it, nevertheless.

Then the secret compartment in his flat, the burner phone and mysterious key, the countless missed calls from a stranger named Layla, who had sounded so deathly worried about whoever in the bloody hell Marc was…Steven didn’t even want to think about the second new voice in his, grave and severe and sounding a little too much like his own to be of any significant comfort, or the mummified apparition of a plague doctor, or Lovecraftian eldritch horror, or previously undocumented cryptid that suddenly decided to start haunting him, for that matter.

But Harrow was real. His odd little cane with the creepy, glowy eyes was real. The magic scales tattoo on his arm that moved without him flexing his arm and changed colors on its own was real. His followers were very, very real. That jackal, with the frothing, rabid, snapping teeth and the milky, glassy eyes and the malnourished, gangly limbs and the wicked, scrabbling claws and the deathly, musty stench was, somehow, terrifyingly real, despite having been invisible to the security cameras.

The security cameras that had captured Steven’s own grim scowl, resolute brow, and defiant, dark eyes—but it wasn't Steven, because he didn’t look like that, even though he shared the same face with the stranger on the footage.

Marc. His name was Marc.

Why is he stuck in my bloody head?

Marc’s property damage, somehow having managed to kill the ghastly creature, if the lack of physical remains and other evidence indicated, and save his life ( ...their lives?) in the process—and at the very least, Marc had kept his word on that front—ultimately cost Steven his job. Several thousand pounds’ worth of property damage, in fact, which somehow Steven was going to have to be able to afford paying off (in increments, at least) to avoid legal prosecution—while also being suddenly and unexpectedly unemployed.

Bloody hell. The not-so-patient request to turn in his bloody nametag had somehow stung more than the pamphlet handed to him boasting the most excellent psychiatric care in the city.

(...He was mad, wasn’t he…? How had he not known? How had he missed all the signs?)

Left remiss with very few ears into which to confide, he spoke in Crowley, always the listening sort. He expelled his tizzied thoughts until he was able to regather them into some vague semblance of order, and decided his next course of action: to chase the one lead he had to hopefully deduce whoever Marc was. It seemed simple enough, although daunting. A simple image search would take him to the location associated with the logo attached to the keychain, perhaps the only source of answers to all the questions brimming in his harried head.

He wanted to know. (But should he?) He had to know. (...Did he really?)

Reeling with inconsolable stress, insurmountable anxiety, precarious emotions, and now the tumultuous internal debate of whether to delve into the affairs which Marc had warned him very explicitly not to, Steven turned to the only other person whose word he valued and trusted above all others in his immediate vicinity (save, perhaps, his mum).

It was mid-afternoon by the time he crept into the coffee shop, and fortunately it was vacant as a couple of university students breezed past him with paper sacks laden with books tucked into their arms and laughing raucously as they headed back out into the sunny spring day. Another barista was slumped behind the counter scrolling on her phone, so Steven knew you were stationed upstairs instead.

He picked his way gingerly up the winding wooden staircase, wincing every time his weight caused a plank to creak in protest. He avoided looking at the narrow windows for fear of seeing any more reflected shapes in them that he couldn’t control, eyes trained resolutely on his feet as he focused on regulating his harsh breathing in an attempt to manage his racing heart.

It was in this way that he ran right into you upon stepping into the bookstore proper. You carried a stack of new prints taller than your head and nearly dropped them all upon impact. Steven’s arms latched out to steady them and you, apologies already spilling from his lips before he could even think of a comprehensible reaction. “Oh, bullocks, sorry—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve been watchin’ where I was going— bloody hell, where’s my mind?”

“Steven,” you laughed breathlessly, recognizing his subdued voice and fluttering hands without even seeing him, “it’s okay! No harm done, see? Not a one dropped.” You lugged them over to the display table and set them down on the vacant surface with a soft grunt, swiping your sleeve over your shining forehead. “Whew! Updating all the new publications is a pain. My back’s killing me. I’ll definitely regret all this tomorrow.” You turned back to him, all sunshine and smiles with your terracotta sweater and the gold hoop earrings (clip-ons, he knew, because you’d never had them pierced) dangling amongst the loosened locks framing your face. “It seems a little early for your lunch break, Steven. Are you off today or have I just managed to lose track of time again?”

Your innocuous, innocently humored phrasing should not have sent him spiraling again, but…after the last week of hell that he’d endured, who in their right mind (because he surely wasn’t in his) could blame him for the already tenuous grip on reality he’d been clinging to with only whitened knuckles and sheer force of will?

Your expression fell instantly as tears welled more quickly in his eyes than he could reign them back in, slipping over his cheeks.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry,” he blurted, face burning as he reached up to swipe away the undeniable evidence of his breakdown—in front of you, of all people, Christ alive, he really was losing it—with the edge of his sleeve…to no avail. More tears followed immediately thereafter, blurring his vision, dripping from his chin as he ducked his head and buried his face behind his covered hands. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what’s come over me, I—”

There was a split second of silence on your end, though he scarcely noticed it but for his pulse raging in his ears and the deafening roar of his thoughts deafening him to any other sound. He barely registered your urgent call over your shoulder further into the bookstore, muffled by the harsh rasp of air dragging in and out of his lungs faster than he could dictate. He was shaking all over, adrenaline coursing through him a kilometer a minute, and his knees were on the verge of giving out from beneath him.

The warmth of your fingers curling gently—always so gentle, you were—around his wrists provided just enough of a distraction to open his eyes again, almost afraid of what he might see. But as you tugged his hands away from his dampened face, standing so close that your clothes were brushing against his and your breath fanned over his face, your eyes drew him in and dragged his thundering thoughts to a murky but much more manageable muddle.

Your brow was wrinkled with worry, mouth set in one of the few frowns he’d ever seen on your otherwise sunny disposition (even when harassed to no end by customers of the ruder variety, although your customer service smile was, decidedly, much colder and not nearly as welcoming). Your eyes were brimming with questions, but you uttered none of them, only, “Come on, there’s a quiet corner in the back.”

Steven allowed you to lead him by the hand like a child through the winding, ceiling-length bookcases into a musty reading niche set up with a lounge chair and ottoman next to a window spilling golden light onto the floor and highlighting every mote of dust that floated through its brilliant stream. You guided him to sink into the chair with a light hand on his shoulder, adjusting the ottoman back to give you enough room to sit directly in front of him. Your knees pressed into his, and when he shakily extended his trembling, open palms with a desperate snivel most people would have found repelling, you only laced your fingers with his and squeezed his hands tight enough to let him know that he could do the same.

“What’s wrong, Steven?” you murmured, beseeching him with your fractaled irises—the sunlight was illuminating every last shade and striation of color in them, more brilliant a palette than the shade ever granted justice. It gilded the edges of your features and the sweep of your fawn-like lashes in gold leaf. “Did something happen?”

Boy, didn’t everything happen—all during one weekend, no less?

The broken, wet laugh that leapt from his lips didn’t startle you, but it did make him jump. He lowered his gaze to focus on your hands clasped firmly in his, studying the creases in your palms, the whorls and arches of your fingerprints on your fingertips, and the light, faded smattering of scars in between—all to avoid the magnetic intensity of your gaze. “What hasn’t happened?” he croaked, throat burning with the effort it took to speak without loosing the gut-wrenching sob clawing ferociously at the pit of his belly. “I can’t sleep, I ruined my date, I lost my goldfish, I managed to get fired from the most pathetic excuse of a job anyone could get for something I didn’t even do, and I think I’m quite literally going mad.” He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting, feeling more tears slip out and trickle down his flushed cheeks. “Nothin’ seems real anymore. I can’t keep track of time. I’m seein’ things that would make an asylum patient have nightmares, but then it’s all comin’ back and tryin’ to eat me, and—” He clamped his mouth shut with a whimper, dropping his chin to his sternum to shut out the intrusive thoughts digging into the back of his mind. He unconsciously ripped his hands free from yours and knotted his fingers in his curls just to feel the ache. “—oh, God, I can’t—it’s too much, I—”

“ Steven, ” you said softly, hands threading through his arms to cradle his face and to thumb away his tears as you leaned in and nestled your forehead against his hairline, lips brushing his brow as you continued to murmur in a low, soothing tone that pierced through the noise like Apollo’s arrow, “it’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you—nothing’s coming after you in here, okay? Just our quiet, little safe place. I want you to breathe with me, okay? Just a little, I know it’s hard to concentrate, but just try for me, okay? You can breathe between if you need to. Want to try? Okay. In…one, two, three, four…out…one, two, three, four. And again. That’s it. You’re doing so good, darlin’, just focus on me. Feel my hands? And my knees? The chair, your feet on the ground, my forehead. Smell the books, the candle, your cologne, my perfume? Hear the traffic outside, the music in the other room, my voice? Okay. Good. Look at me, Steven. Please?”

He raised his head, trembling still but not nearly as close to convulsions as he’d been mere minutes prior, and you interlocked your fingers with his once more to hold them between you as you drew back just enough to peer unflinching into his eyes.

“Good. There you are, darlin’.” Your gentle smile was as precious as molten gold. “You see the books, too?”

He nodded once, unable to tear his eyes away from you. Had you always looked so divine or was he still experiencing delusions?

…No. No, he couldn’t be, because there was nothing about you that wasn’t so blissfully, sincerely, relievingly real. You were just that ethereal. How had he never noticed it before?

“Okay.” You squeezed his fingers lightly. “Can you tell me one thing that you can taste?”

“My…my tea, from this morning. Ran out of oat milk so I had to drink it straight.”

“There we go.” Your expression tightened just slightly at the edges, scanning his own carefully. “Better? Just a little?”

“A bit, yeah.” He sniffled again, swallowing roughly and finally managing to look away. “Sorry about that. You know. For…breakin’ apart in the middle of your shop like that. You…you didn’t have to stop what you were doin’ just to give me a pep talk.”

Your brow furrowed. “Steven, you were having a panic attack. I wasn’t about to go back to sorting the BookTok smut table while you looked on the verge of collapse.” You shook your head slightly, as if in disbelief. “You wouldn’t have come to me for no reason, so I can take ten minutes to help you calm down. I’ve been running around like a headless chicken all morning and I haven’t had enough time to stop. I’ll be fine.” You squeezed his hands again. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I’d fix it if I could.”

Oh, how he wished that you could. He’d let you do anything you wanted if he could just feel normal again.

“Do you want to talk more about it?” you tried gently, tilting your face down to gaze up at him through those utterly enchanting lashes. “It’s okay if you don’t. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, for whatever you need, whether it’s to listen or just to sit with you.”

He swallowed, nodding jerkily. “Yeah, it’s—just complicated, yeah? A lot to take in. I really don’t mean to be a bother, I just needed—”

“Steven Grant, you are not a bother to me.” You single-handedly stole the breath you’d helped him regain not minutes prior. “You can tell me anything, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I…okay.” He drew in a deep, shaky breath, held it, and released it in a hiss from between his chattering teeth. “I’m…investigatin’ somethin’. It might be dangerous, I don’t know. But I’ve got too many questions to avoid it anymore and I…I’m scared. Terrified, really. Everything seems like it’s fallin’ apart and I’m losing grips on it the tighter I try to hold on.” He blinked away another fresh onslaught of tears filming over his eyes with no small amount of frustration. “I feel like it’s my only option, to move forward, you know? I just…wanted to make sure I’m not hallucinatin’ everything around me first.” And that was the reason he’d come here, wasn’t it? Because you never failed to make him feel safe and secure and human, no matter the storm.

You studied him for a long moment, considering. But instead of accusing him of being a loon, you only tipped your chin to seek out his gaze once more—and he, like a moth to flame, was inexorably drawn to it. “Do you want me to go with you?”

The offer took him by surprise, but he knew immediately that it shouldn’t have. You had a protective streak a mile wide—he’d observed it in your fierce defense of your coworkers against irate and lecherous customers alike, as well as the thinly contained fury you’d only had enough strength to withhold in all but your tone when he’d finally vented to you about Donna for the first time. As much as he’d like to see you rip out her cheaply applied extensions one by one until she cried, he had made you promise never to start a fight with her. That you would offer first to accompany him to a destination he’d unthinkingly labeled ‘dangerous’ before anything else, regardless of currently sitting in your workplace that demanded more of you than it ever should any single person, reassured him—but he couldn’t ask you to get involved. He wouldn’t, because it was dangerous—whatever was going on inside his head (and outside of it) was something he was increasingly suspecting was beyond the scope of his present comprehension. The last thing Steven wanted was to get you hurt, too, just by proximity.

“No,” he said firmly, and your brows rose slightly. “No, I don’t—thanks for the offer, I really appreciate it, but you shouldn’t…I don’t want you at risk.”

“I don’t want you at risk, either,” you pointed out softly.

“I…” Well, shit. “...I know. But I’ll be okay. I think. I know! I’m just going to take it real careful and just see, yeah? It’ll…it’ll turn out all right. Right? Yeah.”

Your grip tightened, and your gaze turned sharper than he’d ever seen it, even at your most agitated. Deadly serious, with no room for avoidance—as if he’d ever want to avoid you. “Steven.”

He stiffened. “Y-yeah?”

“If anything happens,” you told him slowly, “I want you to call me, okay?” He opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted him for the first time in the two months he’d known you. “I mean it. I’m not going to push my way into your business, but if you ever feel like you need help, do not hesitate to tell me. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he suspired. Why was his mouth dry all of a sudden? When had he started sweating? Was his blush as obvious as it felt?

You regarded him for another moment, scrutinizing his expression—perhaps for any traces of falsehood—before nodding and releasing his hands. You reached into your pocket and drew out your phone. “What’s your number?”

Steven recited it to you nervously, fiddling with the hems of his sleeves. You typed it in, saved it, then sent him a message that buzzed in his back pocket. (He never thought that he’d get your number in a context quite like this .)

The lapse of silence continued, stifling in its weight, until your expression softened once more into something far less grave. “...Do you trust me, Steven?”

The answer came without hesitation. “Of course,” he breathed.

Your eyes were so damned deep, he’d drown in them willingly. “All right. Just know…whatever you need, okay? I’m just a phone call away.” You swallowed, then glanced away for the first time since he’d walked into you. “I don’t like seeing you scared. It scares me. ”

He was about to apologize on reflex, but the words died on his tongue. He noticed that you, too, had started to fidget with your fingers, rolling a wrinkle in your jeans. He reached out and laid his hand over yours, drawing your attention back to him. “Where’d you learn that trick? You know, the one about the five senses?”

“I had really bad anxiety when I was a teenager. Had an acute spell for about six months straight that made me hate sleeping because the thought of waking back up to deal with it all over again the next day kept me up all night. I lost a lot of weight because my stomach stayed upset and I didn’t have an appetite at all—it took a long time to go back to eating normal afterwards because my stomach had shrunk.” You looked so vulnerable, uncomfortable with baring yourself just a little bit more to his sympathetic gaze, but doing it anyway—all for his undeserving benefit. He squeezed your hand, this time. “I did a lot of research at the time to find ways to mitigate it. Figuring out the biological basis of it helped me to rationalize my triggers and responses so I could understand how to manage it better. It’s fight, flight, or freeze at its most dire state—so once I learned that, I was able to talk myself down by convincing myself I was safe.” You traced the roughness of his palm, and a flicker of something passed over your face before he could register it. “That trick isolates stimuli so you can focus.”

“That…that makes sense. I’ll have to remember that one.” He cleared his throat quietly. He hadn’t known—you hadn’t told him any of that before, never had indicated that you’d had such a rough time of your anxiety that you so often made light of in passing. “I’m so sorry you went through that. It sounds horrible.”

“It was. But it taught me to be more aware of how my mind and body work, if nothing else. And despite all the hardships, I never looked for a way out, just…a way through. And I did get through it.” You sat up a little straighter, cleared your throat, and glanced through the bookshelves before you returned your attention to him. “Are you sure you don’t need me to…?”

“I’m not going to ask you to play hookey for me,” he told you, smiling and using what was hopefully a playful tone. It seemed to work, because the tension in your shoulders eased a bit. “I will let you know if I need you.”

“Promise?” you prompted, extending the pinky of your free hand.

“Pinky promise,” he assured, linking his with yours and marveling at how petite you really were, dwarfed by the breadth of him. He’d never really noticed that, before, either. (How had he not?) “I’ll let you know what I find out, yeah? Once I get it all straight in my noggin’.”

You nodded as you both stood and started to weave your way through the labyrinth back to the main area of the bookstore. “I’m holding you to that, Steven Grant. If I don’t hear from you I’ll be putting out a search warrant.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” he fibbed—just a little, because he hated seeing you worry like this. He’d evidently never really given you good reason to worry about him before, and he felt immeasurably guilty despite the comfort you’d brought him. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” You flashed him a small smile, less enthusiastic than usual. “Now that you’re not working, we could actually eat together since my lunch break’s always later.”

Tentative, as though you didn’t want to send him over the edge again. He appreciated it more than you’d ever know.

“I’ll be here. Just give me about a fifteen minute heads-up so I can make it on time?”

“Will do.” As he approached the exit, you reached out and brushed your fingertips along the blade of his hand, arresting him on the spot. “Steven. Please be careful.” You glanced over at the other clerk with his back turned towards the pair of you, organizing the table you’d abandoned in favor of bringing Steven down from the brink. “I care a lot about you,” you confessed softly. “I don’t ever want to see you get hurt.”

Steven sucked in a sharp, shaky breath, folding his hands over his stomach on reflex. His body sagged and his heart puddled into the pit of his belly. “I care a lot about you, too, love. But you don’t have to worry about me gettin’ hurt—just think about the other guy! I’ll just give them the ol’ Grant one-two!” He shadow boxed to punctuate, and your quiet chuckle soothed his fluttering nerves. He stilled, then, and dropped his arms to his sides awkwardly. “...And thank you. Really. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t…you know. Likely would’ve gone right bonkers, yeah?”

“You’re always welcome, Steven.” You hesitated, fists tightening, before you reached out to grasp his arm lightly, only enough for balance, and Steven’s rattled mind struggled to keep up with your hurried motion and didn’t catch up until after the fact—you leaned into him, all sweet perfume and warm softness, to press a chaste kiss to the dried, tacky tear tracks that would surely leave salt on your lips. You were back down flat on your feet and a full pace away from him by the time his mouth dropped open, and your embarrassment was glaringly obvious. “Take care. For me?”

“Of course, love,” he said softly, watching perplexedly as you nodded, mouth thinning, before you darted around behind a bookcase and out of sight.

Oh. You were shy.

Steven pressed his fingertips to his tingling cheek all the way down the stairs, stumbling a couple of times before he convinced himself to get a grip before he did break his promise and accidentally kill himself not two minutes after the fact. He floated through the coffee shop back onto the street, sinking his back against the wall, and closed his eyes to reclaim his breath.

The first genuine smile of unfettered delight he’d had in what felt like eons wormed onto his face, and Steven let out a dreamy sigh. He shifted, caught a whiff of your perfume, and realized that some of it still lingered on his coat collar. He resisted the sudden urge to bury his nose and to revel in it, clearing his throat and fishing his phone out of his pocket instead to start off his investigation by determining which storage company Marc’s key belonged to.

Your text waited for him, poised under his thumb. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Steven. Laters, gators! :)’

His cheeks ached with the widest smile he’d had in his life.

When the plane from Cairo landed at its destination in London’s biggest airport close at nine-thirty, well past dark, approximately two weeks later, Steven finds that he has never felt so tired in his (admittedly limited waking) life—even during the time of depriving himself of sleep in an effort to control his supposed ‘sleeping’ disorder. He’d…dozed, he supposed was the only way he could describe it, while Marc had fronted during the flight. Leaving Layla in Cairo had been hard on him (both of them, really), so Marc had needed some quiet time to himself.

Steven couldn’t quite find it in himself to blame him in the slightest.

 Marc and Layla had finally squared things away after Khonshu had finally released them—both Harrow and…their relationship. While Layla finally understood Marc’s motivations for all his blunders (and him personally, more clearly than she ever had in their married life, sad as it was to say), they both agreed that it would be for the best to go ahead and part ways. Too much damage had been done, the foundations of their relationship fractured by all the secrets and half-truths Marc had kept, and he had shattered her trust with his noncommunication.

She did make it explicitly clear that the entire ordeal in no way stopped her from caring about him (and now Steven, she made sure to add), however—Marc’s relief had been palpable, even while Steven had kept quiet and to himself listening to them discuss everything in the dingy motel room they’d shared the previous night before he’d departed. They mutually agreed to keep in touch, because while Marc had freed himself (and therefore Steven) of Khonshu’s servitude, Layla was still working with Tawaret as her Red Scarab. Hurt though he was (with mostly himself to blame, he’d admitted), Marc was protective more than anything—and though Tawaret had wormed her way past his initial suspicions with her sincere desire and success in helping them crawl their way out of the Duat, historically he didn’t exactly have a healthy relationship with Ancient Egyptian deities.

He hadn’t spoken much to Steven since then, but Steven was okay with that. Marc was a man of few words, he’d learned, and Steven suspected that it was best to give him space—regardless of when (or if) he ever decided to talk about it. Steven would be there for him either way (figuratively and literally). He’d need to make sure to remind him of that fact when they were both a bit better rested and recovered from the world-ending battle that they had managed to win by the skin of their teeth.

Steven hadn’t had the pleasure of knowing  Layla very long—and while perhaps some of his initial attraction to her could have been attributed to him inheriting at least some of Marc’s own memories, feelings, and familiarity via sharing the body, Steven was grateful that they could remain friends, at least—it spoke lengths of how close she and Marc truly had been, for her to still be willing to stay in contact despite everything that had happened. She’d made sure to send them both off with a tight, rocking hug for each of them, pressing a tender kiss to either cheek as they had seamlessly traded places per her request without so much as a shudder.

“Take care of him, okay, Steven? And you stay safe, too,” she’d murmured into his ear, her mirth belied by her melancholy. She’d paused, then reached up to adjust the lapels of Marc’s jacket lying crooked across his clavicle. “I trust you to do what I couldn’t.”

“I’ll certainly try my best,” he’d returned with a timid smile as she’d drawn away with sparkling eyes not only from fondness. He’d tried to ignore the stinging in his as he’d cleared his throat of the quiver that had threatened to creep into the back of his throat. “He’s a bit of a git when it comes to lookin’ after himself, yeah? But I’m kind of stuck with him, so…good to try to make the best of it, you know.”

“Thank you.” She’d seemed earnest in her gratitude, then, easing back another half-step. “For helping us. I owe you more than I fear I could ever fully repay.”

“You don’t owe me a thing,” he’d returned easily. He liked Layla—perhaps, in another life, he could have loved her, too, if things had turned out different, or if Marc had given him the opportunity. Marc’s envious accusations at the dig sight hadn’t hit quite so close to home as to ever confirm such feelings in himself—she was still virtually a stranger, in spite of him fearing for her life and trusting her with his without hesitation—so while he ached to see things between her and Marc end like they had, all he could focus on was that he was thankful they’d had the opportunity to meet. “You take care of yourself, too, all right? Don’t get into too much trouble kickin’ tail and takin’ names.”

She’d let out a wet laugh at that, not-so-subtly swiping at her eyes. “I will, Steven,” she’d said, and then Marc had taken over.

Until now, anyway.

Steven understood completely why Marc needed some time to himself after all that—perhaps better than anyone. It was why he was extremely grateful that, once all the process of checking out and fetching luggage was done, Marc receded in silence to the back of their shared headspace and left Steven standing at the front entrance of the airport with a flagged cab waiting expectantly for him on the drive below.

He hefted Marc’s duffel a little higher on his shoulder, curling his hands around the strap, and descended the steps quickly. He settled into the back seat, wrinkling his nose a bit at the faint but pungent scents of sweat, alcohol, and puke lingering there.

“Where to, mate?” asked the cab driver, sounding as bored as Steven would admittedly be if he had to drive people dead on their feet home in such dreary weather as this—it had stopped raining, thankfully, but mist still hung in the air and puddles littered the ground, causing any nearby lights to glisten and glitter off the wet surfaces.

Steven hesitated.

He…hadn’t really thought this far ahead, admittedly. He realized with a start that he hadn’t been home since Harrow’s cop friends…lackies… whatever had snatched him under the guise of a real investigation and arrest. It was probably a mess after they had ransacked it. It would be a miracle if not-Gus was still alive. He’d be lucky if none of his nosy neighbors had broken in to pilfer his things.

Steven fiddled with the strap pensively, evidently taking too long for the cabbie’s thinning patience. “Hear me, mate? Where do you need to go?”

It was almost instinct, the way that the coffee shop’s address spilled from his lips with some embarrassment—embedded into his memory since he’d ordered rides there on his days off. The cabbie flicked on the meter and took off once he’d entered it into his phone, and Steven tried to suppress his flustered response at agitating the man because what harm had he caused by waiting a moment longer than what was considered punchy? Nothing. It wasn’t Steven’s fault that the man was irritable. (What cabbie worth his salt relied on Google Maps, anyway? But then again, what cabbie worth his salt couldn’t be bothered to order a deep enough clean after toting about what must have been the cataclysmic aftermath of one hell of a stag party?)

Seeing and doing everything he had in Egypt had given Steven a slightly different outlook both about people in general as well as himself. People were, mostly, harmless—unless they were trying to resurrect and put into power an entombed goddess of destruction, anyway—so what difference did it make that Steven existed in the same place and time as them? It didn’t give them the excuse to be rude or dismissive or critical. Plus…while they’d given up that fancy healing armor (and that rather snazzy suit, unfortunately), Steven could still defend himself if need be. He had access to Marc’s muscle memory now that no more barriers stood between their psyches—he’d held his own against Arthur bleedin’ Harrow quite well, if he did say so himself, thank you very much. He’d still have to get used to the motions, sure, but…never before had he felt more capable and assured in his own abilities. He had Marc to thank for that.

Even still, as he steadied his breathing and calmed his heart, Steven frowned and directed his gaze out of the window to focus on the streets rolling by outside. The coffee shop didn’t close until ten, and you usually didn’t make it out while locking up until ten-fifteen. But because Marc had left Steven’s phone in London (in his storage locker while getting supplies, Steven suspected), Steven had been unable to contact you at all. Given the domino's effects following him leaving the coffee shop in pursuit of Marc’s unit, he hadn’t had time enough to memorize your number (and believe him, under any other circumstances, he would have done so as soon as he would have had the chance). He’d promised you lunch the next day, as well as to check in to let you know he was all right, but by the time Steven had woken back up post-jackal boxing extravaganza, he’d had to deal with Marc’s…less than ideal interrogation techniques.

Things only had…devolved from there. Steven really and truly didn’t care to give any of it much more thought—not until later, when he could see clearly without his eyelids drifting shut.

Steven wrung the hem of the jacket’s sleeves between his fingers, worrying the inside of his cheek while he did so. Even throughout…all of that…Steven had found his thoughts straying inevitably—gravitized, perhaps—back to you, over and over, no matter how hard he’d tried to concentrate on…well, you know, saving the world. Even when he’d been distracted, and terrified, and fighting for his life, he’d recalled snippets of memory so visceral he’d glanced over his shoulder more than once to make sure he was just imagining things.

Your features drenched in sunlight like a goddess in your own right. Your eyes glittering as you tittered in genuine mirth at once his silly little jokes he cringed over every time he departed from your reassuring company. Your smile warming him inside as much as your meticulously brewed teas did going down. Your lilted, soothing drawl, the shape your mouth formed as you’d snowball into a lecture on how ridiculous all the internet conspiracies about aliens building the pyramids because the Egyptians were too primitive to accomplish such feats but the Romans were esteemed geniuses of their time with all their architectural novelties, the unfettered passion that brought such vivacity to your normally demure, soft-spoken demeanor.

He had missed you. Terribly so. More than he would’ve expected, but he was unsurprised.

You’d no doubt have loved to have seen Egypt with your own eyes—you’d confessed your daydreams about it to Steven on a couple of different occasions, had told him how long you’d wanted to take a vacation there to visit all the sights and witness them for yourself. You’d shared, mortified and only after some gentle prodding on his part, that you’d even constructed an itinerary, once, complete with hypothetical flight times, prices, and locations, hotel reservations and rates, eateries recommended by locals, starting from the delta and traversing all the way up to Abu Simbel, as well as every notable tomb, temple, and archaeological site or tourist spot in between. “Maybe one day,” you’d said, so wistfully yet despondently that he’d wanted for nothing more in that moment than to sweep you up and take you there himself.

At the time, he had pictured your reactions to Cairo, Giza, and Alexander the Great’s no-longer-lost tomb with perfect clarity—your excitement would have known no bounds. You would have stopped to inspect and decipher each artifact and inscription if you’d had time enough to do so, ecstatic at the chance to lay your hands on such marvels (respectfully, of that Steven had no doubts). Steven would never have wanted you involved in such close and constant proximity to danger, but he’d still imagined it for his own sanity. You’d been his lifeline, in a way—even with his fleeting, misplaced infatuation with Layla—the thought of not making it back to London, back to you, was what had kept him going at the most harrowing of points.

As partial as you were to the mythology, you’d have been beside yourself to discover that the deities so long thought fabled—for better or for worse—were as real as anything else in this odd little home humanity called Earth. He’d sooner throw himself back into the ravenous sands of the Duat than have you anywhere near that bloodthirsty pigeon, but then again Tawaret had been an angel by comparison, so…maybe you interacting with her wouldn’t have been too bad.

You were his first recurring thought whenever he’d wake (whether he had emerged to the front or from slumber), and you’d been his last thought when Harrow had shot Marc—panicked, screaming, terrified knowing he’d failed to keep his word. When Khonshu had forced the breath back into their lungs, Steven had nevermore felt such relief at proving himself wrong.

He’d convinced Marc to loan him a little spending money, after all was said and done, and had visited a secluded marketplace to browse the vendors’ wares. He’d found a little statuette of Djehuty hand-carved from lapis lazuli, about as long and as wide as his index finger, and while the merchant’s asking price had been outrageous (and because Steven had no talent for haggling, try as he might), Marc hadn’t scolded him too badly for shelling out the questionable stack of bills. It wouldn’t go far in the way of a peace offering, perhaps, but he could use it as some sort of proof if things didn’t go over well.

You weren’t naturally a skeptical person, though, he reminded himself. You had taken him at his word during his mental breakdown without even batting an eye. You valued honesty and communication above all else, prided yourself on your integrity, and Steven knew that you would at least hear him out and consider his (rather implausible) story before you rejected it.

Maybe he could still salvage this. Maybe he wouldn’t have to give Marc one more reason to blame himself for something he’d claim that he ruined. You were a reasonable woman, driven by logic and intuition rather than emotion and feelings. Steven had always admired you for that, for your tendency to avoid taking sides, to play devil’s advocate, to balance and weigh all options, thoughts, facts, and opinions before daring to formulate your own.

A keen little set of scales you were, weren’t you? Yeah. If only you’d have been there, somehow, to help sort out his and Marc’s mess—it likely would have gone a lot smoother and faster. (Maybe they would have actually managed to balance before it had almost been too late.)

“Most everything down this way is closed for the night—you sure you want me to let you off here? Or would you rather me take you someplace else?” groused the cabbie as he eased to a stop on the street corner (because of course—why would any cabbie worth his salt take a man to his requested destination only to offer a longer drive if but to rack up a higher meter?)

Despite Steven’s increasing indignation (he was firmly placing the blame on his and Marc’s shared jet lag because he was just so tired and he would never normally get so irate by a man doing his job, no matter how lazily), he hesitated. Only the security lights were visible through the sheer blinds drawn over the windows to conceal the interior, and he couldn’t make out your shape at the till or anywhere else, for that matter.

Perhaps it had been wishful thinking to hope you’d still be there, or even on the shift for tonight at all. You’d probably worried yourself to death fretting about his sudden silence—no, scratch that, you definitely had fretted. Was he going to have to call the nearest police station to have them take down a missing persons report? Had you even filed one like you’d threatened to? Or had he inadvertently hurt you by what could in any other conceivable circumstance be taken as ghosting to the point that you no longer cared for his well-being?

The thought made his heart clench. It ached more than he might have been readily willing to admit. Oh, he had gone and messed things up royally, hadn’t he? The one person who’d actually treated him like a person (outside of Marc and Layla, of course) could very well hate his guts now. It sickened him, almost made him want to lock himself away in his flat and curl up under his duvet and hide for the rest of eternity.

But he couldn’t. Not on the off-chance you had recalled his concerns, had believed his worries, and still thought him innocent in the matter. Not if you were still waiting for him.

“What’ll it be, mate?” drolled the cabbie, muffled by a gargantuan yawn he didn’t bother to stifle. “I’d rather not sit here all night, you know.”

“N-no—I’ll stop here, thanks.” Steven patted through Marc’s pockets until he found his wallet, then rifled through the neatly organized mixture of bills until he found English currency as opposed to Egyptian—with enough for a decent tip, because Steven always tried not to be a knob. “You seem like you’re workin’ on fumes, mate, you ought to go home and get some sleep.”

“Sleeping’s for the dead,” he deadpanned, and Steven let out a breathless little chuckle as he shuffled out of the cab onto the curb and watched it round the corner and out of sight.

If only he knew.

The air was warmer than before Steven had been carted off to another continent, a bit muggy as the humidity settled like cobwebs in his lungs. He grimaced and unzipped the jacket, edging closer to the windows to squint inside properly.

Still no signs of life. Steven rested his fingertips on the dribbled glass, dropping his head. Marc still had the storage key in the bag, somewhere—he supposed that he could try going and getting his phone, but that would run the risk of the business not being open at all hours and require that much more time to charge the blasted thing back from the brink. Perhaps he’d be better off to wait until the next morning to try to sort his life back out—he wouldn’t be able to stand staying on his feet for much longer.

“ ...Steven? ”

He stiffened, straightened in an instant, and turned to see you standing at the corner, keys still dangling from your fingers after locking up and coming around the back. An impulsive glance at Marc’s watch told him that you’d finished up early—it was ten on the dot. Your expression, bleached by the cold ivory streetlamp looming over your head, was slack in disbelief.

Steven—despite having rehearsed over the last two weeks what he could possibly say to explain himself, to apologize for his abrupt absence and radio silence, to entreat you to at least hear him plead his case, to beg for your forgiveness and to seek it by any means necessary just so he could talk to you again—fell terribly short of his expectations as the moment came…and went.

His greatest shortcoming, that: his seemingly endless supply of words failing him when he needed them most dire.

“...Hiya,” he said meekly, raising his hand in a shameful little wave—then groaned internally and resisted the overwhelming urge to bury his face in his hands and pull at his hair in frustration.

Real chuffed she’ll be with a response like that, ol’ chap. Bollocks. I’m an utter pillock, aren’t I?

“S-sorry,” he floundered, face burning as you continued to stare at him with rounded eyes and a gaping mouth. You looked caught between fight or flight but trapped in freeze mode, every muscle in your body rigid as though the sight of him reviled you. His heart twisted, but he couldn’t find it in himself to blame you. He’d be right pissed at himself, too. “It’s…been a bit much, the time I’ve had. I’m proper exhausted after that trip. Not that, uh…not that it’s any excuse, yeah? I’m just having a bit of a hard time not fallin’ asleep on my fee— oof! ”

You’d moved before he could even track the motion. Had he looked away or dropped his head and closed his eyes out of humiliation? Had he almost blacked out again even though Marc made no sign of himself known? Or was he just that tired and you were that fast on your feet? (Of course you were nimble, juggling books and drinks all day long at a breakneck pace. Why would he ever have thought otherwise?)

He supposed it didn’t matter in the end, really, because your arms were coiled around his neck to drag him down closer to your height, your face was buried into his (no doubt grimy) neck, and your hands were trembling as they gripped his nape and threaded into his matted, oily curls as though your life depended upon it. Your breaths were muffled and warm against his throat, as were the tears that smeared against his thundering pulse, and it took Steven an embarrassingly long time to come to his senses and return your vice-like embrace with his own shaking arms.

“You scared the shit out of me, Steven,” you sniffled into his collar like a secret, voice tight and hushed with the ferocity of your feeling. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Steven swallowed roughly, throat tightening and eyes filming over with the familiar hot sting he’d been doing his damnedest to hold down until he’d returned to the safety of his home—but he supposed that he already had, so what was the point in resisting anymore?

“I thought I’d lost me, too, love,” he whispered raggedly, his tenuous resolve crumbling like sandstone as he buried his face in your hair and crushed you against his chest as tightly as your clothes allowed. His tears finally slipped free of his eyes as he squeezed them closed in an effort to shut out the world around him. He could feel your heart hammering against his chest even through all his layers, your earthy perfume saturating his lungs, your inherent warmth seeping into him so like the sunshine you epitomized in his mind. You didn’t give any inclination of letting him go anytime soon, and he had no such intention, either. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you murmured, voice cracking with the strain of keeping yourself in check, pulling your head back just enough to peer up at him with a warbling smile. The hand on his neck slipped around to cup his cheek in your palm, thumbing away the wet streaks trailing towards his chin. Your eyes darted over his features, scrutinizing, as though you were committing the sight to memory—as though assuring yourself that he was really real, really there, really corporeal and not an apparition. “God, darlin’, don’t be sorry, I’m just—I’m just glad you’re okay. Are you safe? Are you hurt? Are you still in danger?” You mirrored your own touch with your free hand, cradling his head as though you held the entire world between your fingers, stroking the corners of his mouth in reverent reassurance. “Where have you been? I tried looking, asking around the museum, but nobody knew where you’d disappeared, and I—I thought—” You let out a sob from between gritted teeth, quivering despite his desperate grip on your upper and lower back. “—I feared the worst, after what you said the last time I saw you, and I tried talking to the police, but they thought I was crazy, and…I’ve nearly worried myself to death wondering where you’d gone.”

Nailed it. Unfortunately. Steven let out a watery laugh, biting his lip briefly before tugging you back under his chin so you wouldn’t see the conflicted emotions fighting for prominence on the limited canvas space of his face. “Oh, love, I’ve been to hell and back,” he joked quietly (one you wouldn’t get, not yet, and one he didn’t particularly care to explain), rocking you from side to side and anchoring himself with the weight of your body against his. “But I never stopped thinking about—about coming back. To you. Not once.”

Your arms slipped under his to squeeze him tight, slowly but surely soaking his shirt with your relief. Steven was uncertain how long the pair of you stood like that, getting progressively more damp from the mist and more chilled from the cooling breeze, and finally he withdrew enough to tenderly pat your cheeks dry with the hem of his sleeve. You laughed a little at that, a frail but joyous little sound, and Steven could hardly contain himself—but you beat him to it.

“You look exhausted, darlin’,” you said softly, face pinching a little as you took in his drawn features. He was sure Marc had sat up through the whole flight, as antsy as he was—the body hadn’t gotten sufficient enough rest in so long Steven was surprised neither of them had yet to collapse. The deep purple semicircles marring the heavy undersides of his eyes were sure to be sights to behold. You traced his brow, temple, and cheekbone with a featherlight touch of your fingertips. “You said you just got back?”

“Yeah,” he responded, eyes fluttering shut at your gentleness with a long sigh. “I wanted…I needed to see you. To let you know I made it back, and that I didn’t mean to shut you out, and…to tell you what happened.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” you pressed carefully. “You’ve obviously been stressed about it. You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable talking about.”

“I want you to know. It’s…it’s important. To me.” He cracked his eye back open, taking in the minutiae of your features, too—you seemed just as bad off as he was. “But I don’t want to be a bother.”

You gave him a sharp look, and your last reaction to a similar statement he’d made rang clear in the back of his mind without you even having to echo your response.

“You just seem tired, too, is all,” he said. “Didn’t want to keep you up any later.”

“I’ll stay up all night if you asked me to,” you told him firmly. “Whatever you need. I meant what I said.”

‘I’m here for you.’

“I…could I ask one teensy favor?” he started, hating how small his voice sounded. “Just this once?”

You quirked an inquisitive brow.

“I…don’t really want to sleep by myself tonight,” he admitted sheepishly. “My place got broken into and…I’m not sure what it’ll look like when I go back there. I…I don’t want to be alone. Could I…?”

“Of course,” you said immediately, already reaching down and grasping his wrist. “You look like you could use a good meal, too—I’ve got some leftover minestrone that I could heat up for you. It doesn’t have any animal products in it.”

Oh, he could kiss you.

“I don’t mean to impose,” he prefaced, “but…that honestly sounds heavenly.”

“You’re not imposing. Come on. The bus will be making its stop soon—don’t want to miss it in case the rain starts up again.”

Steven allowed you to lead him along the street, perfectly content to allow you to guide him. The longer he went, the more difficult it was to stay focused. The late bus, one he’d usually been forced to catch when Donna had thrust him into inventory duty, was virtually empty save a couple of other night workers having finished up their shifts. You settled Steven near the back, setting him against the window and perching yourself in the aisle seat with a watchful eye directed towards the other passengers.

Steven found himself nodding off, forehead pressed heavily into the window, when your fingers tugged his wrist lightly. “Hey. Here, lean on me—I don’t want you to get a crick in your neck.”

Hardly conscious of it, Steven allowed you to direct with a cupped hand his temple to rest on your shoulder, sinking listlessly into your side. The press of your warm palm on his cheek remained as you murmured something he didn’t quite catch, too drowsy to recall anything afterwards besides the sweet scent of chai on your breath.

You roused him at the correct stop, and he managed to keep his wits about himself long enough to take in the new, unfamiliar surroundings. The university campus loomed on the other side of the highway, impressive in its splendor, and your flat was located in a nice but affordable gated complex that he suspected you’d chosen for convenience and security rather than luxury. Multiple other residences lined this side of the road, likely housing the majority of students.

“I’m on the top floor, but luckily they have elevators,” you murmured to him as you used your key card to buzz through the gate and unlock the side door to the main corridor. You led him through the place, let him lean against you while the mechanisms’ hum lulled him, and the first thing you did upon letting him into your apartment was have him sit on the loveseat. “Give me your feet.”

“Oh, don’t—you don’t have to do that,” he protested, even as you kneeled on the carpet and pulled one dusty boot up onto your knee to untie the laces. “Please, I couldn’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking, I’m doing,” you responded mildly. “Steven, you’re a blink too long away from going comatose—just let me take care of you, okay?” Your lips thinned for a moment, conflicted, before you dropped your gaze to your fingerwork before tugging the heavy shoe free and setting it to the side and reaching for his other foot. “I missed you. Let me do this, please.”

He had precious little will to argue, lesser so to refuse any sort of doting you might decide to bestow upon him. Steven Grant was many things, and a weak man was one of them. “I…all right,” he said softly.

“Good boy.” You patted the side of his leg with a wry little smirk that did funny things to his blood pressure, removing the other shoe, and leaving it with its twin. You stood, knees cracking, and made a placating gesture. “Wait here, I’ll be back in five.”

“All right,” he repeated sleepily because he couldn’t help it—his eyes were already falling shut again. He became dimly aware of an added weight draped over him, but it wasn’t until you came back and sank into the cushion next to him that he jerked back awake and realized you’d pulled the heavy knit blanket off the back of the couch over him.

“Here,” you said, pressing a large mug into his hands. “I know microwaved leftovers aren't as good, but I’ll be lucky to get you to down anything before you pass out on me. Again.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, drawing up a spoonful and blowing the steam off it. It smelled divine, and his stomach pinched and growled as though it, too, had wrenched itself awake.

“Stop apologizing,” you said, eyes twinkling. “It’s kind of cute.”

“Only kind of?” he tried, slipping the spoon into his mouth. A salty medley of flavors bloomed over his tongue and Steven was convinced he’d been sent to Aaru after all. “Oh…you never told me you were a king’s cook,” he mumbled.

“I am a bit proud of my cooking,” you chuckled. “I had…tweaked that recipe, to see if you’d like it, actually. I just so happened to have made it last night.” You glanced off to the side, briefly, towards the floor-to-ceiling window that lined the far wall and displayed the heart of London in all its twinkling glory. “Good timing, I guess.”

Steven ate as much as his waning patience could stand before propping the mug between his knees and tentatively resting a hand on yours draped over your thigh. You looked back to him immediately, the only light in the room spilling off to the side from the kitchen and casting all but the curve of your face in shadow. “There’s too much to explain in one night,” he began with a sigh, “and, honestly, it’ll probably take me a bit to work up to some of the…worse stuff. But I did want to tell you what I figured out about my sleeping disorder.”

“All right.” You shifted and contorted to face him completely, folding your legs crossed under you and lacing your fingers with his. “Did you get an official diagnosis, or…?”

He tried to ignore that in favor of staying undistracted. (It didn’t work very well, and he squeezed your hand back.) “Well. Sort of.” He recalled the certainty with which had (sparingly) detailed their ‘insanity’, the clarity with which the Duat had conformed to Marc’s self-perception as an institutionalized patient in an asylum. “It’s not a sleeping disorder.”

“Okay,” you responded encouragingly, expression neutral.

“I have…well. We have…” He sighed, ducked his head, and scratched at his hairline. “...Have you ever heard of Dissociative Identity Disorder?”

“I took a psychology class back home, yeah.” You frowned slightly. “What, like…Multiple Personality Disorder?”

“Yes.” Steven’s eyes were drawn to your hand, and he turned it over to inspect the lines of your palm with his blunt, callused fingertips (no longer a mystery why they stayed in such rough shape, he mused). “I’m, uh…well…it’s harder to…to say out loud, I guess.” He faltered, then, eyes flashing up to beseech your understanding. “I want you to know that we’ve worked things out as much as we could, so it’s a lot better than it was, but we’ve still got a ways to go, I think. Just—just know that we’re sound of mind, and neither of us would ever, ever hurt you.”

“Steven,” you said gently, realization slowly dawning in your softening gaze, “I never once had doubts about that.”

“I…good. That’s good.” He swallowed. He’d seen the stereotypes in popular media just like everyone else ever had, and while Marc had indeed hurt people, his remorse told Steven just how little he’d enjoyed it (that being none). “Okay. So…there’s this little American man that…lives inside my head, I guess. Marc Spector. Bit of a twit when you first meet him, but he’s not a half-bad bloke once you get to know him.”

Steven paused, waiting for a biting remark from the nearest reflective surface—but your offlined television remained passive. He let out a breath of relief.

Your expectant, patient silence spurred him on. “That’s what I thought, anyway—that he lived inside my head, that is. Just started poppin’ up out of nowhere, tryin’ to scare me off of figurin’ everythin’ out. Didn’t realize ‘til later that he was just tryin’ to protect me and being a real sorry arse about it.” Steven pressed the flat of his thumb into the crease of your palm, feeling your steady, calmed pulse thudding against his skin. “Turns out…I’m the one living inside his head.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, but you didn’t interrupt him.

“He had a rough childhood,” Steven continued, voice carrying over into a rush, “lost his li’l brother. His mum blamed him for it…did some things she shouldn’t have. Marc…developed an alter based on a fictional character from his favorite movie.” He let out a shaky sigh, dropping his chin to his sternum. “Doctor Steven Grant, debonair, world-traveled archaeologist extraordinaire.” He cleared his throat, voice lowering. “I think I may have fallen a bit short of his expectations.”

He had only learned the terminology in the snippets of time Marc let him front while he and Layla were still organizing things in Cairo, looking up articles to learn more about their shared mindscape.

“I…remember our childhood,” he said, much more quietly, “but not any of the bad parts. He let me keep all the good memories. I never remembered Mum except on the good days. Learning all this…was really hard. I never thought…I knew I had gaps in my memory, but I didn’t think…I never figured it out until the wall between us got broken down.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “When…when Mum died. I didn’t know. Marc couldn’t control it anymore, and…things happened. He moved to London, got me all set up with the flat and the job at the museum, and he was finishing things up so he could…I don’t know, fall to the wayside and not come out anymore? I’m not really sure how that works…if it would even work, like that.”

He didn’t dare look up at your expression. You’d fallen completely still and eerily quiet.

“So…yeah.” He was whispering by now. “I guess that makes me the fake identity.”

“Steven Grant,” you interjected, voice low and calm, “there is nothing about you that’s fake. I don’t ever want to hear you say something like that again.”

He gulped, peeking up at your resolute expression. “Yes, ma’am,” he croaked.

“You’re the most vibrant, thoughtful, selfless person I’ve ever met,” you said, gripping his hand so tightly he felt your pulse in each of your fingertips—he wouldn’t be surprised if your prints melded with his. “You have filled my life with more joy than I’ve felt in years. I give thanks almost every day that I had the privilege to have met you at a time when I needed you most.” You leaned in closer, eyes sparkling like the stars faintly visible on the horizon beyond your balcony. “For whatever reason that Marc Spector may have created you, he did a damn good job of it. You embody every positive trait anyone could ever hope to have. You are undoubtedly one of the best men I’ve proudly called my friend. And whatever you went through, with him or without, I have no doubt in my mind that you are integral to him, a part of him he idealizes. Even if you’re an alter, not the original owner of this body,” with this, you tapped his shoulder with your free hand, “you are just as important and just as precious to me for it.”

Steven thought he had cried enough, but his eyes betrayed him yet again. Only a couple of tears slipped free before you were smearing them away, steadfast in your presence, knees pressed into the outside of his thigh. He sank into your touch, shutting his eyes in relief.

“You can tell me as much or as little about the rest of it as you want,” you murmured. “And I apologize in advance for anything that I may accidentally say or do out of ignorance—but I promise you, Steven Grant, I will stay by your side as long as you’ll have me. No matter what.”

“Even though I’ve turned out a little crazier than you may have expected?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood with such a feeble attempt at a joke—but the words came out a little bleaker than he had intended.

“You’re not crazy,” you stated, “you’re a survivor. Both of you. And I am so very grateful that you survived.”

Steven did not remember falling asleep after that. He did not remember you taking the mug back to the kitchen and turning the lights out. He did not remember you leveraging him longwise across your loveseat, a couple feet two short for him had he not already been curled up, piling multiple blankets over his lanky form and carefully slipping a pillow from your bed under his head. He did not remember you tenderly combing his unkempt curls off his forehead, gazing at him with love brimming in your eyes, and laying a lingering kiss between his brows.

He did, however, remember in perfect detail the sight of you slumped over in your recliner, facing him, wreathed in the most beautiful golden sunrise he’d ever seen in his life.

[astroboots]

hello cici ! i saw that requests are open! i hope you enjoyed your holiday :)) may i request a steven grant x reader in which she goes to the museum and sees the tour guide flirting with steven (not knowing (or knowing. hell, why not) that he’s in a committed relationship with you) and he defends y’all’s relationship and it can be fluffy or maybe even smutty if you wanna feed off of the readers jealousy? thank youuuuuu

bwahahaha I love this idea:

Museum tour guide doesn't know he has a girlfriend, and is subtly flirting with him.

She's talking to him about how they're thinking of restoring the Roseta stone (because this woman knows that's the way to peak this man's interest) she's batting her eyelashes at him and asking if he wants to come by after opening hours to watch, and Steven is just so excited and starts going off on a tangent listing up all the artefacts that has been listed for the latest auction at Somersby that he still wants to see/hope they can get.

When he doesn't seem to get the hint, she ups the ante, touching his wrist when she speaks and then rests her palm on his chest. At first Steven being Steven, clueless and sweet, thinks: oh, maybe her balance is off? maybe she needs someone to hold onto.

So he doesn't pay it any attention and keeps prattling on. Until finally the poor woman asks when he gets off today and if he wants to grab a drink. Steven (still clueless as always) thinks it's a co-worker hang out thing and goes: sure! Let me grab J.B! (the security guard). Do we invite Donna too? I'd rather not in all honesty.

And the now exasperated woman has to shake her head and go: "No, Steven, just us."

And at this point, Jake is laughing his ass off in the mindspace and finally has to let him in on it. "Sunshine, she's flirting with you."

Watch Steven flush into bright red at the realization. Before he stiffens up awkwardly and then grab his phone and pull up a photo album named after you, and starts flicking through photo after photo of you and awkwardly tries to explain that he has a girlfriend and starts talking about you endlessly.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Friendship is the root of freedom

These are not just words; they are clues and prods to earthquakes in kin making that are not limited to Western family apparatuses, heteronormative or not.

—Donna Haraway[44]

Freedom and friendship used to mean the same thing: intimate, interdependent relationships and the commitment to face the world together. At its root, relational freedom isn’t about being unrestricted: it might mean the capacity for interconnectedness and attachment. Or mutual support and care. Or shared gratitude and openness to an uncertain world. Or a new capacity to fight alongside others. But this is not what freedom has come to mean under Empire.

Look for the dictionary definition of “freedom” today and you’ll find rights, absences and lack of restrictions at the core, applied to an isolated individual. Here are some of its definitions in the Oxford English Dictionary:

The power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants: “we do have some freedom of choice” The state of not being imprisoned or enslaved: “the shark thrashed its way to freedom” The state of not being subject to or affected by (something undesirable): “government policies to achieve freedom from want”[45]

At bottom, all of these definitions are about getting away from external restriction or influence: being unhindered, unaffected, independent. Under capitalism, freedom is especially associated with free markets and the free agent who chooses based on individual preferences. In spite of colonization and capitalism, this vapid form of freedom still can’t get a foothold in many parts of the world. Even in Europe, where so many tools of colonization were refined, the roots of freedom were different. Centuries ago, some Europeans had a more relational conception of freedom, which wasn’t just about the absence of external constraints, but also about our immersion in the relationships that sustain us and make us thrive.

“Freedom” and “friend” share the same early Indo-European root: fri-, or pri-, meaning “love.”[46] This root made its way into Gothic, Norse, Celtic, Hindi, Russian, and German.[47] A thousand years ago, the Germanic word for “friend” was the present participle of the verb freon, “to love.” This language also had an adjective, *frija-. It meant “free” as in “not in slavery,” where the reason to avoid slavery was to be among loved ones. Frija meant “beloved, belonging to the circle of one’s beloved friends and family.”[48] As the Invisible Committee writes in To Our Friends,

“Friend” and “free” in English … come from the same Indo-European root, which conveys the idea of a shared power that grows. Being free and having ties was one and the same thing. I am free because I have ties, because I am linked to a reality greater than me.”[49]

A few centuries later, freedom became untied from connectedness. The seventeenth-century philosopher Thomas Hobbes imagined freedom as nothing more than an “absence of opposition” possessed by isolated, selfish individuals. For Hobbes, the free man is constantly armed and on guard: “When going to sleep, he locks his doors; when even in his house he locks his chests.”[50] The free individual lives in fear, and can only feel secure when he knows there are laws and police to protect him and his possessions. He is definitely he, because this individual is also founded on patriarchal male supremacy and its associated divisions of mind/body, aggression/submission, rationality/emotion, and so on. His so-called autonomy is inseparable from his exploitation of others.

When peasants were “freed,” during this period, it often meant that they had been forced from their lands and their means of subsistence, leaving them “free” to sell their labor for a wage in the factories, or starve. It is no coincidence that these lonely conceptions of freedom arose at the same time as the European witch trials, the enclosure of common lands, the rise of the transatlantic slave trade, and the colonization and genocide of the Americas. At the same time as the meaning of freedom was divorced from friendship and connection, the lived connections between people and places were being dismembered.

As Empire was enclosing lands and bodies, it was overseeing the enclosure of thought as well. The Age of Reason was marked by a new kind of knowledge that could subdue and control nature and the human body, enabling capitalist rationalization and work discipline.[51] Time and space would become measurable, stable, and fixed. Bodies were no longer conduits for magical forces, but machines to be harnessed for production. Plants, animals, and other non-human creatures were no longer kin, but objects to be dissected and consumed.

Even among intellectuals in Europe, not everyone agreed with Hobbes’s fearful vision of freedom and the divisions imposed by Cartesian thought. Descartes’s contemporary, Baruch Spinoza, articulated a philosophy in which people were inherently intertwined with their world. Spinoza left instructions for his most important work, the Ethics, to be published after his death, because he knew he would likely face torture and execution for the ways his relational worldview undermined both monotheistic religion and the dualistic philosophy that was emerging during his own time. Instead of a passive Nature on one hand and an active, supernatural God on the other, Spinoza envisioned a holistic reality in which God is present in all things, and in which all things are active and dynamic processes. Everything is alive and connected. Mind and body, human and non-human, joy and sadness, are intertwined with one another.

We do not mean to present Spinoza’s philosophy as a handbook for living in today’s world. In many ways, Spinoza remained a product of his time and place: he used the geometric method to create proofs for his philosophical claims, he couldn’t overcome patriarchal divisions, and he remained wedded to the state as a vehicle for security. Our interest is not in Spinoza himself, or even his philosophy as a whole, but in the way that his ideas are part of a minor current in Western thought that is more relational, holistic, and dynamic. Spinoza’s work remains marginal compared to that of Descartes and Hobbes, but his relational worldview has nevertheless been taken up by radicals at the margins of philosophy, ecology, feminism, marxism and anarchism.[52]

Most importantly, for us, Spinoza’s philosophy is grounded in affect.[53] Things are not defined by what they are, but by what they do: how they affect and are affected by the forces of the world. In this way, capabilities are not fixed for all time, but are constantly shifting. This is a fundamental departure from the inherently ableist and ageist perspective that measures all bodies in relation to the norm of a “healthy,” “mature,” or “able” body. When starting right from a body’s material specificity, without any intervening “should,” learning becomes fundamentally different: rather than detached categorization or observation of stable properties, it happens through active experimentation in shared, ever-changing situations.

[eletricheart]

Illicit Affairs

(Mother Miranda x Fem!reader)

*image from @imagineyourcuento on tiktok

Word count: 1.186

Warnings: allusion to sex (no smut)

ps: not proofread, pls forgive me for any mistakes

ps2: it has almost nothing to do with the song😭

ps3: song at the end

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

It started small, a few phone calls throughout the week to discuss some experiments, it then became private reunions, night visits and generous gifts. After that the attraction between you grew enough for her to kiss you and murder a villager who apparently stared at you for too long.

Of course, with being the latest addition to the family, your affair with the Priestess had to be kept a secret. Alcina already hated you after Miranda chose your ideas over hers. Karl would probably make you enemy number one if he found out about your relation with her. Moreau would cry himself to death, which is not so bad for you. Donna wouldn't care, hence her being your favorite. In conclusion, high chances of one of them murdering you.

However, it's not like you two cared about having to stay hidden. The secrecy, hiding, plotting, made it all more thrilling for you.

The stolen glances during the gatherings, the quick kisses before and after a village service. It was all so beautifully dangerous, the prospect of being caught made Miranda feel so alive.

𓄿

Miranda was being more strict than ever during the lord's reunion, and that meant you were obsessively paying attention to her (not in a respectful way).

She noticed, as always, making sure to harden her voice even more.

It was a fun game, she'd have full control of the situation while you were trying very hard to not orgasm just by her voice.

The meeting passed by in a blur, the only thing you managed to understand was the Priestess leaving and Angie laughing at your face. You, of course, went after the Goddess, finding her a bit far into the forest, away from any prying eyes.

Miranda was still wearing her robes and mask, leaving you completely hypnotized by the woman.

She'd chuckled. "Are you going to just stay there?"

You smiled widely and walked to stand in front of her. "Maybe…Mother told me to not go deep into the woods."

Her grin turned machiavellian. "Oh really? And why is that?" Miranda asked, trapping you behind a tree and removing the mask.

Your breath was coming out shallow, your brain was turning to mush only in seeing how close the woman was. "A very pretty and very dangerous woman would try to seduce me."

Miranda hummed, leaning her head so as to keep your lips barely touching. "Would she succeed?"

You made only a sound of agreement before pulling her by the waist and kissing her. It was hot and rushed, both of you had places to be but couldn't stand leaving before tasting one another. Your hands would roam around her body, not knowing where to stop, making the woman chuckle and lock in around her neck.

𓄿

You and Miranda were going undercover at an Umbrella facility. The plan was simple, she'd steal some samples and you'd guard. It would be at night, so no workers, only security guards, the system was easy to invade so it also wasn't a problem.

What actually was a problem for Miranda is you wearing a lab coat and having your hair in a tight ponytail.

The scientist wasn't always so impulsive, but the moment you were alone in the room she pulled your hair and kissed you against the table. You both had to run off after getting the samples because you lost track of time.

𓄿

You hated afternoon tea, not because of the meeting itself, but because Alcina usually stared at you as if she'd poisoned your tea. It was just you, Miranda and Alcina, the boys weren't allowed in the Castle and Donna hated leaving her house, so you had to actually pay attention since Angie is the one that helps you when you get distracted.

They were discussing the latest experiments, talking about mistakes and solutions. You…you were trying to figure out how someone could possibly clean the ceilings, it was higher than any ladder and a fall was life threatening.

The Countess had been waiting for you to make a mistake since the moment Miranda introduced you as one of them. Therefore, she noticed your quite obvious distraction. "And what do you think?" She asked, staring at you with a smirk.

You jumped slightly in your seat. "Well. I um…" You peaked a glance at Miranda who arched her brow. "I agree with Mother Miranda's view, her wisdom is perfect as always."

Miranda suppressed a laugh and took a deep breath. "Of course. However, your opinions are welcome at this moment."

If thoughts could kill this room would become a bloodbath. You were trying so hard to remember anything, but the conversation was so boring you couldn't help zoning out.

Now you're pretending to think of a wise answer, knowing full well you'll get it wrong. "I believe we are all working hard to reach your goals, my Goddess. Each proposition has it's unique way and the success will be reached as long as there's true commitment to the cause."

Alcina rolled her eyes while Miranda nodded and smiled. They soon returned to their previous conversation and you managed to stay partially alert to it.

Alcina had just left to handle a confusion at the kitchen, leaving you and Miranda alone.

You let out a breath in relief. "I swear she'll choke me to death one day." You said, dramatically moving to sit beside her.

She chuckled. "You should be paying attention, actions like this should be…punished."

You smiled. "I was simply thinking about your holiness."

Miranda laughed and pushed you slightly. "I'm serious. I'm not supposed to be playing favorites."

You groaned and hid your face in her neck. "She will hate me anyway." You said with your voice muffled.

The Priestess sighed and started to caress your head. "Do you care so much?"

You nodded.

Miranda rested her chin on the top of your head, partially hugging you. "I'll talk to her."

You lifted your head to look at her, and smiled softly. "You're not supposed to play favorites."

She rolled her eyes and pulled your head into the previous position. "Shut up."

𓄿

Donna was the first to know about you two. She had forgotten a needle and went back into the church when you were making out at the altar.

The dollmaker couldn't look at you for a month, Angie not only could look but would stare at you.

No wonder Miranda had to threaten the doll to not tell anyone.

𓄿

Alcina was the second.

After Angie becoming a menace and blackmailing you, Miranda took pity on you and told Alcina before the doll made you jump off a cliff. The Countess reacted well enough, but you're not allowed to be alone with her.

𓄿

Karl and Moreau were told before a meeting began.

Moreau did cry, and Karl now constantly mocks you, but still better than death.

𓄿

At first you thought that revealing it all would end the thrill of the relationship. But soon enough both found out that traumatizing the other Lords and sometimes villagers was way more fun.

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

masterlist

[emma23]

Whispers in the shadows:

Steven grant x reader

————————————————————————

The British Museum after hours was a quiet sanctuary, a place where the echoes of ancient civilizations mingled with the whispers of those who roamed its halls. For you, it was a second home, where you delved into the mysteries of Egyptology. For Steven Grant, it was where he worked in the gift shop by day and studied the artifacts in his spare time, his passion for Egypt's history unmatched by any other.

You and Steven had crossed paths often, your shared love for the same subject sparking many late-night conversations amidst the relics. However, it was a chance discovery that changed everything. One evening, while both of you were poring over an ancient papyrus in a secluded corner of the museum, a spark ignited between you. It was subtle at first—a lingering glance, a brush of hands—but undeniable.

Recognizing the risk of a workplace romance and wary of how it might be perceived by colleagues, you both decided to keep your budding relationship a secret. It became a thrilling, whispered conspiracy between you, adding an illicit thrill to your interactions. The museum's shadowy corners became the backdrop to stolen moments and secret smiles, your affection for each other growing in the quiet places where only you dared to go.

————————————————————————

Days at the museum were filled with the usual bustle of tourists and researchers. Steven would be at the gift shop, explaining Egyptian mythology to curious visitors, while you navigated the academic world, curating exhibits and working on publications. Your professional lives remained as they always were, but beneath the surface, a current of unspoken affection flowed.

You found yourself looking forward to your shared shifts, the anticipation of a brief touch or a fleeting, knowing look keeping your spirits high. It was in the small, seemingly insignificant moments that your relationship thrived: a quick exchange of texts during breaks, a smile across the room during meetings, the briefest of touches as you passed each other in the hallways.

Steven, with his soft-spoken demeanor and gentle nature, became your anchor in the hectic environment of the museum. He was thoughtful, always knowing how to make you smile, and his quiet confidence in your relationship was reassuring. You, in turn, became his confidante and support, encouraging him to share more of his knowledge and step out of the shadows where he often hid.

————————————————————————

Maintaining a secret relationship was both exhilarating and challenging. The museum's security cameras, watchful colleagues, and the general busy atmosphere meant that you and Steven had to be careful. You developed a subtle language of gestures and glances, a silent communication that spoke volumes in a world that couldn't know about your connection.

There were close calls, of course—moments when your secret almost slipped out. Like the time when Donna, Steven's overbearing manager, almost caught you both lingering a little too long by the exhibit on ancient Egyptian deities. Or when a colleague teased Steven about his sudden interest in volunteering for late-night cataloging sessions, unaware that you were the real reason behind his enthusiasm.

These near-exposures only added to the excitement, a reminder of what you were risking. Yet, neither of you regretted it. The secrecy made your relationship feel like a precious gem, hidden away from prying eyes, something uniquely yours.

————————————————————————

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Steven invited you to his apartment for dinner. It was a rare opportunity to spend time together outside the museum, away from the prying eyes of colleagues. His apartment, filled with books and trinkets, felt like a sanctuary, a place where you could let your guard down.

As you sat together, sharing a simple meal Steven had prepared, the conversation turned to the future. The weight of your secret relationship suddenly felt heavy, the fear of discovery mingling with a deeper, more pressing concern: how long could you keep this up?

Steven reached across the table, taking your hand in his. "I've been thinking," he began, his voice soft but steady. "About us, and... what we want. I don't want to keep hiding this. Hiding you."

His words echoed your own thoughts, the longing for a life where you could be open about your relationship, where you didn't have to steal moments in the shadows. Yet, the risks were real—both of you knew that a workplace romance, especially a secret one, could lead to complications.

You squeezed his hand, feeling a swell of emotion. "I want that too, Steven. But I'm scared. What if it changes things? For us, for our work?"

He nodded, understanding your fears. "We can take it slow, figure it out together. But I don't want to keep pretending that what we have isn't real, that it doesn't matter."

————————————————————————

The conversation marked a turning point in your relationship. While you continued to keep your romance under wraps at work, there was a new sense of determination to find a way to be together openly. The thrill of secrecy was replaced by a longing for authenticity, for the freedom to be yourselves without fear.

One day, during a museum event, the inevitable happened. A slip of the tongue, a too-familiar gesture—something small but unmistakable—gave away the nature of your relationship. The reaction from colleagues was mixed: surprise, curiosity, a few raised eyebrows. But amidst the whispers and speculation, there was also a surprising amount of support.

Donna, who had always seemed more concerned with rules and protocols, surprised you both by pulling you aside. "Just be careful," she advised, a hint of a smile softening her stern demeanor. "Relationships can be tricky, especially at work. But it's clear you both care for each other."

————————————————————————

With the secret out, you and Steven navigated the transition from clandestine to public couple. The initial days were awkward, with colleagues adjusting to the new dynamic and you both learning to balance your professional and personal lives. Yet, it was also liberating to no longer hide your feelings, to be able to hold hands, share a kiss, and be openly supportive of each other.

Steven, once hesitant and shy about the relationship, seemed to blossom in the open. His confidence grew, not just in his relationship with you but in his work and interactions with others. You, too, found yourself more at ease, the burden of secrecy lifted, replaced by a sense of shared joy and partnership.

The challenges didn't disappear, but they became easier to face together. The museum, once a place of shadows and hidden affections, became a backdrop for your shared life—a life where you were no longer afraid to show the world what you meant to each other.

[springsteenicious]

That 70s Show: Would They Survive Five Nights At Freddy's?

this is my opinion on which characters would survive being a night shift security guard at Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria.

Eric: no. he would quit after night one.

Donna: yes, and she would do so much research that she would figure out the animatronics were haunted by the missing kids

Hyde: yes, but barely. he wouldn't believe they were actually alive until it was too late, then it would be a near escape

Jackie: yes, but she would be freaked out for years afterwards

Kelso: no. he would get chomped and killed night three

Fez: no, he would die on the last night

Red: no, because he would never close the doors. he would not believe the animatronics could hurt him and he would be focused on conserving power, so he would never close the doors and they would get him

Kitty: no, also would quit night one

Bob: no, he would freak out and quit night two or three

I can keep going with these, let me know if you want more

[www-librarytearoom-com]

Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if someone just took mcd Dante and just held him, like just proper hugged him. Be it Garroth or Laurance, or Donna etc - just someone holding him and him realising he's been starved of that comfort of someone older than him for such a long time and fully having to grasp that he had everything taken from him and that he doesn't always have to act like he's okay. I need someone to hold him and offer him that comfort that he so freely gives out to others and allow him to be that scared little boy again, let him process all that he's been through.

To him, he probably feels like everyone he loves gets taken away - like he's cursed. It's already happened to him twice at this point, his newfound family disappearing practically in front of his eyes. I want someone to go back to Phoenix Drop (other than Nicole obviously) and realise that he's been there on his own, he was practically fresh out of guard training he'd be soo young and he was alone. Someone just needs to realise that and just COMFORT HIM PLEASE

It happened a third time, just after he started feeling secure with the family he had. A wife, kids, friends (even his old ones!) But then the person who originally took it all away came back, and that reawakened the trauma he had previously experienced. He acts strong, pretends like he's okay because he has kids and he needs to be strong for them but I want a scene where someone asks him if he's okay, someone who he maybe confided in about his fears, and he finally opens up about what Gene did. Just please. I need more on him, he's too complex to be ignored like this

This whole post is a mess, but it's okay. Cuz dantes life is also a mess. That's why we love him.

[penguinwithitsarseonfire]

Didn't Have It In Myself to go With Grace

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (you’re here!) | Part 4 |

Pairing: 10th Doctor x Reader

Word Count: 5,812

Warnings: major character death, regular death, violence, possession, some body horror, (we’re in for a doozy)

Summary: The orchestra conductor has been possessed by a parasitic alien who feeds off of fear. It is up to you, The Doctor, Donna, and the Queens of Arteides to save the day... But not without a deeply personal cost.

A/N: Sorry this is a tad late, covid is a bitch. I’ve been really excited be the reception this has gotten, thank you so much! Hope you enjoy this - feel free to yell at me if you do!

Donna Noble was a resourceful woman. She learned fast, had memorised the Dewey-decimal system, and was quick to read the emotions of others. Besides, when travelling with the Doctor, being resourceful was just the tip of the iceberg of the various skills she needed.  Now, it wasn’t like she wasn’t resourceful before meeting him. She was just… quicker, now. Joined the dots faster, was lighter on her feet.

Which was why she whacked her bag into the nearest drone head.

The head spun into the orchestra pit, hitting another head like a pin ball. It floated there, spritzing, red light sparking around the eyes.

The Doctor’s hand was out in a flash, fingers clasped over his sonic screwdriver. It whirred quickly, and he pulled it back to inspect.

With a yell, a woman’s handbag was flung into the air, soaring over your heads as it met the growing crowd running to leave. It brought the noise into focus. Suddenly – except, it couldn’t have been, and this was a testament to your focus that you hadn’t heard it, droves of people were storming through the area, their cries matching the weight of their running feet.

You turned in a daze. It was panic. The bright colours which had delighted you only moments ago were now overwhelming, wrapped around terrified faces and too fast people. Masses of people were gathering in any available surface, clustering closer as they tried to escape.

A head shot down an old woman, her terrified cries caught in her throat. Her body shuttered, going bright with red light, before toppling over.

Your body went cold.

This was going to be devastating.

The Doctor’s groan caught your attention. “Oh – oh no,” he narrowed his eyes at the sonic, as if doing so would change the data. “It’s a Krusqet. Oh, of all the things it could bloody well be, it had to be a Krusqet.”

“For the non-space men in the crowd Doctor,” Donna said, pulling the rack of clothes in front of the Queens.

After all, she was quicker now. Hit the weird scary alien? Done. Protect the Queens? In progress.

“A parasitic race,” The Doctor replied, voice pitching as he began to look around the room. You recognised the look, could see the cogs turning. “They bury themselves into your mind, feeding off of emotions, off of fear,” his voice fell as his eyes met the crowd, grim. “And this place is full of it.”

All the blood left Karyia’s face, leaving her with an ashen grey complexion. Her voice was hollow when she spoke. “We have been warring with them for centuries.”

“Let me call the guards,” Inari added, voice rising in frustration. She brushed at one of her many earrings, and bloomed into bright red. “This is a party,” she added in anger. “Security is by the entrance.”

You turned to the Queens. “Which is where?”

“The edge of the city.”

You went to reply – perhaps to ask why their guards were so far away – but Inari had already moved. She came to a still in the centre of the crowd, weaving through the crowd like water. Her voice pulled at the people surrounding her, drawn to her like moths to a flame. Using sweeping motions, she began directing them to various exists around the space. Here, she stood as an imposing figure, the blue of her gown making her appear taller, elevating her above the people. She was a beacon they followed.  

Karyia remained by your side, a tablet in hand – where she had gotten it, you didn’t ask. Her eyes flitted across the screen. “I can’t see how it got through our biosecurity.”

The Doctor scrunched up his face. “That can’t be your most pressing concern right now.” He turned back to the sonic.

Karyia snapped the tablet against her wrist, and you watched as it folded into a golden bangle around her. “You’re right,” she turned to the Doctor. “What do you suggest, old friend?”

Something cracked, the sound echoing through the space. You turned, the wall of tear-drop crystals splintered, threatening to topple the whole thing down. In the distance, the possessed conductor, with a shrill, distorted tone, laughed.

The Doctor spun around, sonic waving. His hand fell to his side. “They’re scared – everyone is scared.”

The Doctors comment was punctuated by a shrill cry from the crowd, as a woman was targeted by one of the drone heads. Its eyes locked onto her. She froze, paralysed. Her body, in a wave of red light, marking her bones and her heart, crumpled to the ground.

Her final cry swallowed into your mind, latching itself beside your ear. It ran like repeat, in time with every breath.

Your voice was airy, brittle with worry. “Well, they’re being attacked,” you waved your hand in a ‘well-obviously’ motion, earnest as you gestured around the room. “Of-course they’re scared.”

“So what do we do?” Donna asked. “Do we just make them not scared – is that even possible?”

Your gaze fell to the hanging gowns. Gowns of vibrant reds, rich purples, deep blues, brilliant royal colours that were stacked against each other. On the end rested a bright silver gown, glimmering in the light, as if already plucked for someone – most likely Donna – to wear.

It would be near impossible, among the chaos and the noise, to stop people feeling fear. Emotions weren’t controlled by a valve, with the ability to close and switch them off at will.

Behind you, someone cried out, calling for their friend. You forced yourself not to turn around. You forced yourself to tune it out. Fear would only make things worse.

Karyia’s eyes followed yours, scanning over the gowns. Her eyes brightened, stress brewing into something warmer, something you would almost define as hope. Hope however, wasn’t something you thought a Queen would ever lose. Slowly, her face grew into a conspiratorial smirk, and she met your gaze.

Your eyes flitted back to the ballgowns. Now, it would be near impossible to assuage people’s fear. But that didn’t mean there weren’t other options.

“You may be right Donna,” Karyia said. “It may just be possible to distract the conductor.”

Donna’s eyes fell from you, Karyia, and the dresses. With each movement, her eyebrows knitted closer together. It took her a beat.

But Donna was faster now. Joined the dots together.

Her face fell with her mouth. “Okay, if you’re suggesting some sort of song and dance to distract a parasitic alien from murdering people-,”

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” understanding dawned on the Doctor, his face brightening in his interruption. “You lot are brilliant. Might not be enough on the conductor,” he regarded the drones. “But it might work on these things. It’s worth a try.”

Donna’s voice was near breathless when she spoke. “If one of you big-brains could fill me in here,” Donna said ‘big brain’ with the same air of sarcasm as she said her witty insults. “That’d be great.”

The Doctor took Donna by the shoulders, pulling at the solution. “What’s the one thing people do when they’re not afraid?”

Donna’s face fell. “That’s absurd. We need to be getting people out of here, not waving our – our,” she gestured at the Doctor. “Our noodle arms around!”

Karyia’s hands were already on the silver ballgown. Her eyes twinkled as she smiled at you – and you wondered, briefly, if she was plotting something more.

“And we are,” Karyia said. “Now, we may give my wife the fright of her life, but she is more than equipped to lead people from the space,” she held out the silver ballgown towards Donna, like it was a token, or a dance card. “Donna, I would be honoured if you danced with me.”

Donna groaned. “Why’s it gotta be me,” she gestured to you. “What about this sprightly young thing?”

“This sprightly young thing has a name,” you gawked. “And sure,” you continued. “I guess I’ll dance.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” Karyia shook her head, eyes still sparkling with that same… you weren’t sure what to call it. Mirth? This was where her smirk grew, and it dawned on you that Karyia was using this as a plan to keep you and the Doctor together.

Talk about priorities.

“Excluding myself,” she said. “You know the layout of this space better than anyone, we need you as our first line of defence.”

“Hold on, absolutely not,” the Doctor said, and looked to you. “You’re not the first line of anything.”

You ignored him, keeping your focus on Karyia. She had a point. “What are you thinking?”

Karyia practically threw the dress onto Donna, which folded into the floor at her feet. “We will dance, do what we can to provide a distraction. My lovely wife will secure reinforcements,” she turned to you and the Doctor. “Doctor, I am asking the two of you to deal with the conductor.”

The Doctor’s mouth bobbed, processing the fact that he hadn’t been the one to come up with the plan. It was rare that this was the case, and it often took him a moment to come to terms with it. You frowned at Karyia; it was a convoluted plan at best – anything that involved dancing was. But the Doctor nodded. Convoluted was right up his alley.

Donna’s eyes mapped the room, flitting over the people and the destruction. She let out a heavy breath. “Do you really think dancing will help?”

The Doctor nodded solemnly. “Anything that makes people less afraid is worthwhile.”

Donna nodded once, determined, before scooping the dress off the ground. “Surely we’ll get to whack more of those drone heads out of the sky too.”

Karyia grinned. “I’m counting on it.”

“Well then, you two better get your macarena on,” The Doctor said before pointing at you. “Follow me.”

Donna scoffed. “If you’re making me dance, you best believe I’m doing better than the macarena.”

The Doctor took out his hand, which, instinctively, you folded yours into. You met Karyia’s eye, who was giving you a small, self-satisfied smirk. Part of her had planned this.

“Good luck,” you nodded to her and Donna.

Karyia laughed, looking at Donna. “I expect you can foxtrot, yes?”

The Doctor pulled you away, the distant sound of Donna’s startled half-laugh bidding farewell.

The Doctor weaved you through the crowds, which, with Inari organising them, were a lot more structured than they had been. Already, the large dance floor by the orchestra was clear.

The smell hit you then; pungent and volatile. The Doctor guided you over bodies – actual bodies, that were strewn around the floor. Their flesh sizzling and bright red. If you hadn’t seen what happened to them, with the red laser eyes and half-stifled cries, you would think all they were was sunburnt.

The smell rolled with your gut and bubbled up your throat. You retched, focusing on the Doctors hand in yours as he walked you over them.

“What’s the plan?” You asked him, hoping your voice was louder than the commotion around you.

The conductor – or whatever was left of her, hadn’t left the stage. She stood where she had been when she first revealed herself. Black tendrils leaked out from her base, wrapping like spider legs off the stage and into the people who were on the ground. She was talking, but the speech was the wrong pattern, a mixture of words that should make a sentence, but instead were left like a jumbled soup you had to interpret.

“We need to work out how to starve the parasite inside her,” he said, nodding towards the conductor.

You nodded, before pausing. “How do we do that?”

The Doctor’s mouth was set in a grim line. “I don’t know, it’s never been done before.”

You frowned. “So how do we know if we hurt her?”

“We don’t.”

His reply hung heavy in the air. It was chilling.

He was right of course, there was no way to know if you could help her. There wasn’t even a way to know if you should. The parasite was cruel, and the woman, the poor conductor, was nothing more than a conduit.

It sounded like a fate worse than death.

“Hey Maleficent,” the Doctor called out – and okay, you were doing this then. “C’mon and let us have a look at you. Sad you weren’t invited to the party?”

The conductor’s head was so fast, when it spun towards you it momentarily dislodged from her spine. It came out with a pop, before snapping back into place. “Gleeful,” her voice clawed at your back, like nails on a chalkboard. “It gives my friends and I and excuse to have so much fun.”

“They’re not your friends,” the Doctor shot back. “You’ve killed these people.”

She waved a hand, nails as black as the congealed smoke that pooled at her fingertips. “Those are schematics, tall one. A friend is a friend regardless of how it is made.”

A stringy, sinew, and knuckle finger stretched forward, pointing at the pair of you. “Maybe you will be next.”

The Doctor scoffed, his eyes flitting around her. Cogs turning, ideas slotting into place. “Not likely,” he spoke with that signature voice of authority he had, the decibels building and slotting into place, rising above the collection of noise around you with sheer audacity alone. This was the voice he used when he began one of his save the world speeches. When a plan was about to unfold.

“People like you,” he continued. “Species like you, you bloody Krusqets, so souped up on your own arrogance that you can’t see past the end of your nose.”

The stage was empty around her, head kept moving away from you. She couldn’t keep her whole focus on you, not entirely. Some of it was saved for the drones.

You followed her gaze, subtle about it, twisting your whole body into a would-be stretch. Donna and Karyia really were dancing, their bright dresses capturing the light. They weaved around angry red beams, Donna’s trusty handbag knocking them out of the sky. Karyia used her tablet.

They were distracting.

It wasn’t perfect. The heads didn’t fly as dramatically as the first one Donna hit. Sparks crackled around their eyes, but their fire held firm.

Maybe though, just maybe, it would be enough.

Those same wiry fingers folded around her nose, fingers latching into her jawline. “Are bipedal simians supposed to see their noses I wonder,” she mused, humour coating every crackle of her voice, thick like oil. “I would say it was interesting, but that is not my purpose here.”

“And what is it?” You asked, eyes following the Doctors gaze. You could only guess what he was planning. Capturing her alone? Using the fabric, the wires holding the lights above the stage to tangle into her?

Her smile stretched in humour, rows of teeth as sharp as her shrill voice. The conductors gaze fell onto you. “Why young thing,” her smile grew large, jaw dislodging at the strain. It hung lose, giving the grin an uncanny lopsided effect, dangling with every movement. “I’m here to kill the Queens. They seem oh-so-delicious when terrified.”

Her words left you as cold as her smile – if you could call it that – crawling through your spine and settling at the base of your neck. It itched, eliciting goosebumps on your skin.

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” the Doctor said, pulling her focus back to him. Her jaw bobbed, swaying with the same movement as an abandoned swing left in a soft breeze. It was equally chilling. “I’m the Doctor, you might have heard of me. You might have also heard that never, not once, has anyone in your species been able to follow through on one of your plans here.”

The grin stretched wider, the skin around her lips sagging with the weight of it. You recoiled; her molars black with the same tar as substance she leaked onto the stage. “Doctor,” her voice crooned his name, tongue scraping against yellow teeth. “You will most certainly be first.”

The Doctor squeezed your hand three times, and in instinct you looked towards him. He was nodding slightly by the base of the stage, where a lone power socket sat, unattended. A power chord was plugged into one of the sockets, but the chord led nowhere. You tried to connect the dots, to build the Doctor’s plan in your mind, but it was too far gone.

Then, he spoke. “Well yeah of course, that’s a lofty plan of yours,” his eyes twinkled. “Let me help you out, give you the energy you need for it!”

And he pulled you into a run. His sonic was held in front of him, light bright as it met the electrical outlet.

His plan hit you, and in a leap, you wrapped your fingers over the chord. You tugged once, the chord slipping from your grasp as it came loose from the fitting. The electrical socket sparked once, twice, until lightning crackled around it. It shot upwards, meeting the metal that lined the stage. The black, tar like substance was like liquid. The electricity caught, snapping through the conductor’s frame.

And she was alight.

She was blue. Her oily, pale skin bubbled. The golden sheen to it went bright, like the reflection of a streetlight in a pool of water. Her hair stretched beyond her frame, thrown back with her head. Her voice fell, her scream dwarfed by the sheer volume of the power that ran through her small frame.

The electricity echoed around you. You turned and found Donna as she knocked a drone head away from her. The same black smoke pooled out of its ears, gathering around her dress. She hit at it again, yelling something that was lost to the space between you both. It, along with the rest of the drones that were circling her Karyia clattered to the floor. Eyes as blank as the dead.

The Doctor called your name. “It needs more energy,” he told you

“Like the emotions,” you breathed, and it hit you. The emotions it was feeding on, those were just as powerful, just as filled with energy, as any electrical currant.

“Exactly,” the Doctor grinned at you, the bright, delighted one he always gave when you clocked on to his plans. “Give it enough and it’s catastrophic.”

You looked up the stage, at the same wires from earlier. “Would they work?”

The Doctor followed your gaze. “If we’ve got the time to get up there, yeah.”

But you wouldn’t have time.

The conductor slumped forward, her body racking with pearls of broken laughter. With singed skin, smoking into her hair and dress, she stood.

“You fool,” she seethed, and her voice was firmer now. “I feed off mad energy. Why do you think we chose fear? You have made me more powerful.”

She didn’t look human; she didn’t look normal. Everything recognisable, everything that made her alive and whole, was gone. Her clammy, pale skin glittered under the sunlight, her black, tar like hair dripped like jewels onto the floor, snaking outwards towards all they could reach. It was awful. Fear embodied into a broken figure; a person made doll.

You couldn’t tell if she really was more powerful. The drones left scattered among the hardwood; among the people they had frozen mid-run. She was angrier though, and anger might just be enough.

In the now empty space, without the drones, she looked near fragile. One gust of wind and she would shatter. Your heart pressed into your sternum, mind going to the conductor – who she had been before she had been possessed. How awful.

For the first time, you met her eyes. If nothing else, her eyes were her own. The black and red from the drones, the black that made up her skin and mouth, that wasn’t there.

And she was desperate. Terrified.

She was dying.

That knowledge left you near broken. She was just as much of a victim as anyone else here.

And they were her own eyes.

Without thinking you pulled away from the Doctor, running towards her. She didn’t deserve to die. No one here did. So many had died and hell, there were so many you couldn’t save. But her. Maybe you could save her.

And maybe that would be enough.

You reached for her, not thinking. You had no plan, no sense of what you could do to help. It just felt right. Her eyes flickered to your hand, to your face, meeting your eyes. Was that hope?

Your hand met hers, tar and dust squelching in your grasp. She cried out a harsh, grating yell, tendrils whipping out from her throat.

They flung towards you. You went to move but her grip held firm. Her eyes remained fixed on you. Sorrowful. Pleading. Hopeful.

It was like a beanbag to the chest. It was painful, throbbing, ripping the air from your lungs. You stumbled backwards, clawing for breath. The tendrils snaked their way up your sternum. You choked as it weaved through your throat, griping into the back of your eyes.

You cried out, throwing your hands against your eyes, pushing against the pressure. You wouldn’t let it take your sight. You couldn’t.

Your clothes felt like lead, tightening around you. It coiled hot, scratching against your skin. Someone called your name, and new pressure folded itself around your arms. You shook at it violently. The pressure stabbed at your nerves. It was pins and needles. It was fire.

You hated it. You hated this.

A low, scratched voice – distorted and all consuming, racked in your brain. “Let me in,” it breathed, its heavy voice shaking against your ribs, crawling down your spine. “Let me feel what you feel.”

Something pounded, and the vice on your arms tightened.

The conductor had been scared, terrified – wasn’t that right? That’s what this parasite had fed on, her fear.  

The voice let out a guttural laugh. It almost sounded like a growl. “Of course she was scared,” it mused, the voice itched its way along the hair on the nape of your neck. “It was delicious.”

It moulded itself into the base of your mind, pooling in the spot where you head met your neck. Energy was its power, it latched onto anything powerful enough that it could warp it into its own fuel.

So what gave you energy? Something had to give you life that it wouldn’t give the Krusqet.

You thought of the way she had looked at you. Terrified.

Hopeful.

Oh.

You forced your palms away from your eyes, pulling at the hands that held you. Desperately, you ripped your eyes open. Familiar brown eyes stared into yours, and you nearly sobbed in relief.

Love. Hope. That was how to end this.

The Doctors hands weren’t hot anymore, peeling against your skin like an ice scraper. They were solid, grounding. You wondered if, without them, you would have blown away. Become dust and tar like the conductor before you.

“Let go of me,” you said softly, voice strained. “It feeds off of fear.”

The Doctor nodded absentmindedly. His focus was on you. “We know that,” his eyes flickering across your person. Distressed. Heartbroken. “You’re brave, you can fight this.”

You shook your head, and, distantly, you felt yourself smile. “It runs when it feels hope.”

Your eyes flicked to the conductor. She stood on shaking legs. Donna held her.

Briefly, you wondered how Donna was here, how long you had spent clawing at your own skin as the Krusqet consumed you.

But the conductor was safe. She was alive.

You pulled away from the Doctor, watching his face fall with his empty hands. You balled your hands into fists. They were tingling.

“It’s the one energy it can’t feed off,” you continued, voice strained. “Because that’s what we use to survive.”

A deep, guttural cry rang against your head. There were no words. Only anger.

You had hope.

“So love…” a violent yell curled against your ears, silencing your voice. Sharp pain bowled you over, folding you in two. Your hand flew to your stomach, a curled fist held tight against the pressure point.

Your skin twisted, peeling like wet paper, rattling into your bones. It felt like lighting was dancing across your skin, itching, burning – desperate for release.

You pulled yourself away. You couldn’t let yourself touch anyone.

“Love,” you tried again, your voice sharp with pain. “Love will kill it.”

Like thunder your body bowled open, hanging in the air. Smoke hung from your feet, from your hair, from your hands. It folded into the air like steam. Near lifeless, you dangled off the cliff, with nothing but dead air to cushion your inevitable fall.

A broken cry came from Donna. It was a shattered word that sounded, distantly, like your name. “What are you doing?”

The tendrils twisted in your gut. They clawed against your skin, hot and heavy, ripping at your insides. Yet still, your body felt weightless.

You held a hand in front of you, smoke making way for… were they sparks? It was something. Something bright. Something new.

“What sort of chemical reaction is this?” Your voice weaved into the air, breathy, separate. It was difficult to believe it came out of your mouth.

The Doctor looked at you, eyes assessing. “High energy emotions, love, anger, fear, they all release cortisol and adrenaline. Artificial versions, they’re the bonds of the body’s chemical compounds, which is what energy is stored in. It doesn’t make sense – it should all be the same!”

You shook your head, or maybe your whole body shook, and your head simply joined in. “No, it’s more than that. Hope,” you breathed the word, trying to drive the point home. “It can’t feed on what it doesn’t understand.”

A yell shattered your mind, dark and visceral, snaking its way through every neuron, every pathway that stitched your mind together.

You knew you were right.

Donna’s gaze flickered between you and the Doctor, eyes widening in understanding. She ran a hand across her forehead, wiping at the blood there. Her voice was small when she spoke. “You’re dying.”

“I’m killing it,” you corrected, although – maybe you would die. The parasite rattled inside you, lighting your veins, pulsing burning hot blood through you. You let out a hiss, the veins against your wrist lighting into a startling yellow.

“It can’t feed if Y/N isn’t afraid,” the Doctor said. His voice was brittle. “It’s starving.”

Smoke boiled into tar, raining from the frayed edges of your jeans.

You shook your head, forcing your thoughts into consciousness. “You’re angry,” you said, although your voice hung for no one in particular.

It was like a switch. The Doctor’s sad eyes hardened, and he ran a hand through his hair. Tufts of hair stuck upright, and in an instant, he was moving. “Not yet,” he said, voice raised, frenzied. You tried to follow his movements, but sparkling dots met his footfalls. No – that wasn’t right. It was your own eyesight failing you.  

“You’ve been thick, oh so bloody thick,” he was near shouting, talking in that animated way when he had a crazy, stupidly successful plan. He turned suddenly, a collection of wires wrapped under his arms. You weren’t sure when he had gotten them – perhaps above the stage. His eyes locked on yours. “But I will save you. I’m going to win!”

You shook your head again. No, this was wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this. The smoke clung to your skin, lifting goose bumps against it. Your skin writhed, every little bump crawling like bugs.

It gripped into your spine, tar wrapping against your spleen. It pulled you taught, and your body was flung into the air with the force of a ragdoll. You hovered there, tar oozing from your fingers and toes.

“Doctor,” your voice shook, but it was harder. It was firm against the dots in your vision and the low buzzing that surrounded you. “Doctor you need to listen to me-,”

“Donna,” the Doctor pointed towards her, ignoring you. “I need you to run this cord to the stage.”

She nodded, setting the conductor into Karyia’s arms. The Doctor moved onto Inari. “What’s the voltage power on those lights?”

Her reply was lost against a sharp ringing. You whipped your head to follow the noise, but no one else reacted.

They were moving, Donna was running with a chord, her gown gathered under one arm. Lights flickered. They danced like streetlights. Karyia gripped her tablet, knuckles paling to the shade of her palm. Collections of maps, code, and data swam in the air, holograms appearing like magic. She spoke, but you couldn’t make out the words.

The Doctor held his sonic against your form, feet planted on the ground. He was determined. He was afraid.

Your head buzzed, the parasite ripping itself against your skull. It was dying.

Whatever the Doctor’s plan was, it wouldn’t be fast enough.

But it was never going to be.

“Doctor – enough,” your voice was strong, cutting sharp through the ringing and their chatter.

The sonic flickered off.

“Listen to me – no. Don’t argue with me,” your voice was hot, unwavering. The Doctors mouth tightened to a close. In the corner of your eye, you saw Donna had hooked the chord into something, and was running back.

“For once in your life,” you continued. “You are going to listen, and you’re going to listen well. There isn’t enough time.”

The Doctor’s voice was hard. “There’s always enough time, I own time.”

You shook your head. “Not today. It needs a host. You know it does. It needs to be me.”

“No,” his jaw clenched, and he called out a series of numbers to Karyia. He turned back to you. “It doesn’t. It is never meant to be you.”

His words crushed into you. It was desperate, frayed at the edges. But it had to be you.

Donna came by the Doctors side, but her gaze sat on you. Her movements slowed, understanding lacing her features, building into a devastated, broken frown. Her gaze flickered across you, against the smoke and the tar and the air under your feet.

She knew.

Of course she did, Donna had always been quick.

Her voice was broken when she spoke. “If not you,” she said, her breath quicker. “Then it would be Karyia or Inari.”

“Because it is killed by love,” Karyia said softly. She was looking at a new graph, her eyes sad. “The stronger the love, the faster it dies.”

It was one of the more creative assassination attempts that you’d witnessed.

Your gaze fell onto the Doctors. Your smile was small, sad. “I’m sorry Doctor. You don’t have time,” you gave him a meaningful look. “It’s dying too quickly.”

The Doctors face fell. Shattered.  

“Doctor, there’s one thing – one key thing you must remember, okay,” you said, voice warm. “If there is one thing I have learnt travelling with you two it’s this: you, Doctor, are a good man. You save people. Maybe not everyone, not always, but you always save someone.”

"Then let me save-"

"No, Doctor. No interruptions," you turned to Donna. "And you Donna Noble,” you couldn’t help your grin. “You’re brilliant. You’re going to be the most important person in this universe, I just know it.”

Donna shook her head, eyes glassy. “Well you should bloody well get down here,” she said, although there was no heat in her voice. You struggled to hear, the ringing growing louder. “We need to be important together. Who else is gonna conspire with me?” She flung her thumb towards the Doctor. “This lump of a beanpole?”

You let out a watery laugh. “He better, you’re going to do big things Donna.”

Your gaze fell back to the Doctors. “Please don’t get angry. Keep saving people. I need you to promise me that.”

The Doctor swallowed, his jaw wobbled.

It was the way he looked at you though, with his big, round eyes, familiar even with the grief. It was then that it really, truly clicked for you.

The Doctor never looked at you like you were grand, like you restructured the planets you walked on, that you grasped onto individual matter and shaped it into golden stardust. You had never needed to.

The Doctor had always, always, looked at you like you were home. His home. And he was losing it.

He loved you, just as you loved him.

That’s what did it.

The ringing in your eyes cracked into the horizon, drowning his reply. It pulled your body taught, lifting you higher into the air. You strained against the pressure, it built against your ears, your eyes, your throat. The parasite writhed, its grip pulling against the insides of your cheeks and against your toes.

Distantly, you heard a scream. It sounded like your own.

Your head lolled behind you. Hanging against your back. This should have hurt, should have pulled and ripped against the muscles in your neck.

But it didn’t. All you could see was the land beyond you. The view was stunning. The sunset dipped into the red earth, its oranges, purples, pinks, and blues reflected in the river. It was wide, stretching into the mountaintops that were scattered in the distance. They were blanketed in white - you wondered if it was snow.

The water seemed to capture the music. It played it back to you, the way it ebbed and flowed playing a private melody that only you seemed to hear. It swam into your mind, drowning out the cries. Silencing the buzzing, ringing, that had consumed you. It was peaceful. It was perfect.

Of all the ways to die, this certainly wasn't the worst. Your fists fell open, and new energy twirled its way through you. It pulsed, dancing through your muscles, twisting against the tar.

It didn't hurt - a part of you, the rational part that knew you were dying, knew it should. You weren’t afraid of that though. You weren’t afraid of anything. Not even death. How could you be when the hills sung your name, and the river flowed with the stories you would never live to see. Your head was left buzzing, dizzy as your skull vibrated. Something bright leaked from your mouth, your eyes, your fingers. It was golden. It was hope. It was love.

It was you.

The river flowed strong, the water sparkling under the starlight. Huh. The time had changed. How long had your body been suspended here? Time had moved. Time continued. As it should do. As it always would do.

You couldn't see the view anymore, you couldn't see anything.

You weren’t golden anymore. Your body plummeted to the planet below.

A/N^2: whew this was much longer than expected. The final part is almost done (although, when I said that for this part it jumped from 2k to. um. this. so we’ll see) and will be out ASAP! Let me know if you’d like to be on the tag list!

Tag list - @fizzymilkduds​ @justfloatingthroughtime​ @girl-inthestars​ @howdidthishapen​ @hopefulfuturenovelauthor​ @felicitybane1412​ @fanthiccs​ @distinguishedmakerpandapatrol​ @yeehawbrothers​ @ghostyv​ @charleslec-airlines​ @jutima55​

[lazbotronence]

Written by BAFTA-winning team Laurence Rickard & Martha Howe-Douglas (Ghosts, Horrible Histories) with Chris McCausland, hilarity and hijinks will commence on production this month at Sky Studios Elstree with the special set to air on Sky and NOW this Christmas.

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Chris McCausland & Lee Mack to star in Sky Original festive special ‘Bad Tidings’ [x]

Rebekah Staton, Sarah Alexander and Ben Crompton join the cast as production commences at Sky Studios Elstree.

Chris McCausland (The Wonders of the World I Can't See) and Lee Mack (Doctor Who, Inside No. 9, Brassic) star in Sky Original ‘Bad Tidings’, a mischievous festive special about two perpetually feuding neighbours in Stockport who become unlikely heroes, saving their street from notorious burglars with wacky booby traps and Great British banter. Written by BAFTA-winning team Laurence Rickard & Martha Howe-Douglas (Ghosts, Horrible Histories) with Chris McCausland, hilarity and hijinks will commence on production this month at Sky Studios Elstree with the special set to air on Sky and NOW this Christmas.

Joining the cast alongside McCausland and Mack are Rebekah Staton, Sarah Alexander, Ben Crompton, Emily Coates, Josiah Eloi, Millie Kiss, Tupele Dorgu, Sunil Patel, Susan Kyd and Donna Preston.

‘Bad Tidings’ follows a tradition of successful festive Sky Originals loved by Sky customers and star a wealth of British talent. Last year, ‘The Heist Before Christmas’ starring James Nesbitt, Timothy Spall and Laura Donnelly, was the biggest rating Sky Original of 2023 and followed 2022’s ‘Christmas Carole’ staring Suranne Jones, and 2021’s ‘The Amazing Mr Blunden’ staring Simon Callow, Tamsin Greig and Mark Gatiss.

This year’s Sky Original Christmas special revolves around grumpy home-security expert Neil (Mack) and his neighbour Scott (McCausland), who insists on keeping his Christmas lights illuminated all-year-round. And mixing up their bins, criticising Neil’s ‘project’ car and generally winding him up. Basically, Scott’s a git. He’s also blind and all the other neighbours think he’s great. 

When Scott is appointed head of the Neighbourhood Watch, Neil is the only one to question his suitability for the role. Their tit-for-tat argument culminates in Neil triggering a power-cut across the entire street. On Christmas Eve. 

Everyone is forced to evacuate, and Neil and Scott are left alone and on guard. But the local crime family decide to rob every house on the street in a single night, and the pair must set aside their differences to defeat them. They’ve got no lights, no cameras, no alarms and one of them is blind. Which might just be an advantage… 

Chris McCausland said: “Talk about a back of an envelope idea that has got out of hand, we are now making a Christmas comedy film and it's going to be awesome. I can't wait to get up to some hilarious mayhem with Lee and bring some festive spirit into people's living rooms this Christmas!”

Lee Mack added: “I love Chris McCausland, I love the script and I Iove Christmas. Where do I sign?”

‘Bad Tidings’ is written by Laurence Rickard & Martha Howe-Douglas with Chris McCausland, and is produced by Sky Studios. The film is directed by Tim Kirkby with Adnan Ahmed from Sky Studios producing. Anil Gupta Executive Produces for Sky Studios. NBCUniversal Global TV Distribution handles international sales on behalf of Sky Studios.

[jonathantaylorthomas]

The two superstars, the Kelce family and the Chiefs hit up a Kansas City hot spot after the team's victory on Sunday.

An eyewitness tells ET, "Travis bought out the restaurant for his family and team. Taylor arrived, wearing a denim dress, and was seen snacking, having some cocktails and dancing alongside Travis. The two were very affectionate with one another but kept things fun and lighthearted. Travis' teammates also showed up to the after-party, as well as his mom, Donna Kelce. The party lasted until 2 a.m." 

One diner tells ET, "So we went to Prime Social Rooftop for my friend's 22nd birthday. They informed us before we left that they had a 'hard close' at 8 p.m. and of course, seeing that Taylor was at the Chiefs game, we were already joking that she was going to be there."

As the clock neared 8 p.m., the restaurant staff approached diners with to-go boxes, informing them that they had to vacate the premises. To compensate for the early closure, the staff graciously offered free drinks at their sister restaurant a few floors down. The restaurant patrons couldn't help but wonder if this unusual situation was for the benefit of Taylor and Travis.

When asked about the unexpected turn of events, the restaurant staff maintained a shroud of secrecy, smiling and replying that they "can't confirm or deny" the reason for the abrupt closure. However, as conversations with the staff continued, it became evident that they were thrilled about the special guests in attendance and even promised to convey greetings to Taylor.

After relocating to the sister restaurant, the group of diners noticed a growing crowd outside and were informed by their waitress that some of Taylor's security personnel were seated just a few booths away. Eager for a glimpse of the pop sensation, they decided to make their way up the stairs, only to find the doors locked and guarded, resulting in good-natured laughter at their bold attempt.

While the diners missed out on a chance to see the couple up close, the unique experience left them in awe. The patron summed up the evening by saying, "I wish I could’ve seen her, but it was amazing!!"