#Off to read fanfic to distract myself

[revenantghost]

Oh man hoo boy I'm very nervous to be running an event again tomorrow. I feel like Bookclub was honestly just a blind attempt to have fun and make myself read Trimax again but I am just a fool with a blog, hoping people will celebrate Trigun with me

[ramp-it-up]

Cassandra’s Muse

Summary: Your job is to distract and read all who dare to go against Cassandra. And you take pride in your work

Word count: 2.5 K

Pairing: Deadpool x Reader; Wolverine x Reader; Johnny Storm x Reader; Deadpool x Wolverine x Johnny Storm x Empath Reader

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. S MUT Not Beta’d. DEADPOOL X WOLVERINE SPOILERS AHEAD of this line!Read at your own risk. S MUT! Morally Grey reader, sex worker reader, reader is an empath, lots of dark emotions, group sex, oral (m & f receiving) pansexual touch and intentions (it's Deadpool, folks) explicit sex acts, raw p in v (wrap it up), anal sex (f receiving) rough sex, dvp, squirting, copius amounts of cum, bukakke, after care. Reader has pet names from each hero: Sweets, Sweetie, Sweetheart.

A/N: Ok. I had to do it. If you inspired this, you know who you are, you menace. 😘 This occurs within an imagined scene between the scene where Pyro captures Johnny, Wade and Logan and when they were delivered to Cassandra Nova. This is pure filth. Let me know you like it by liking, commenting and reblogging!

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————

“Let me put your hair up for you. So pretty.”

Wade Wilson cooed down at you to the music of his shackles clinking as he gently pulled your cloud of hair up and out of the way. 

“Need to have a clear view of you hoovering that anaconda.”

Your lips were stretched around Johnny Storm’s thick, tan cock as his blue eyes stared down at you and a steam of eloquent pornography flowed from his lips.

“Mm. That throat is so gatdamn tight Sweetheart. Can’t wait to fuck that tight little wet gash of yours. Holy shit, that’s good. I know you can take it deeper. I know you can. Such a sweet little innocent slut for us.”

He had no idea. You were in service to Cassandra. She called you her muse, a tool to service her future victims so that when she felt their minds up, she had something more to get off on. You were her little slut, her psychic empath who fed off of other’s joy and you loved your job.

Giving others joy got you off something fierce. The fact that Cassandra loved it and that kept you alive was an added bonus.

Johnny’s hand snaked around the back of your neck to encourage you to take more of him. You looked up at him, eyes wide with tears streaming down your cheeks, while saliva escaped from your stretched-out lips.

“So pretty for us like this, Sweetie.”

Wade’s mask almost seemed to be emotive as he looked down on you, his long fingers fisting his cock with increasing speed as he watched you take Johnny down. It was disconcerting that he was completely naked except for his mask, but that was none of your business. He was sincere, despite the sarcastic monologue.

“I’ve always wanted to say that in real life and not just in my 1D/Destial crossover fanfics on Tumblr. Username is MrsLarryDestiel (no spaces) if you want to follow.”

Wade was leaning over to Johnny, who had steam rising from his head as he gazed down at you with devotion. You felt his amusement at this entire scenario. You tried to smile back around him, even though you knew his affection was only due to your skill.

After all, you’d just met him less than an hour earlier. 

“Get your hand off my ass before I burn it off, Wade.”

“Was just trying to help you push it in her tiny little mouth. Wasn’t trying to cop a feel of what looks a lot like America’s Ass, not really,” quipped Wade who was stroking and looking down at Johnny’s derriere.

Before anyone got injured, you pulled off of the hot one’s dick and licked Wade’s thick plum shaped tip.

“Sssss. Ahhhh, yes!”

 Wade groaned and threw his head back.

 “Suck that dick like your life depends on it, Sweetie. It may be our very last night on earth. I mean, in the void.”

You sensed no fear in Wade, only irreverence.

You followed his direction and opened wide as he slid his long, thick, Deadpool dick along your outstretched tongue. Wade was still talking, of course, even as he made eyes at Logan, who was lurking on the edges of the light, pulling on his dick with two hands and making low, almost indiscernible grunts. 

Now there were about a thousand different emotions coming off him, irritation, rage, despair, grief, a deep sadness, and foremost right now, need and frustration. You tried to watch him through your tear-filled eyes.

Wade and Johnny took turns with your mouth as Logan just moved nearer, his large, impressive cock raging against those impossible abs. His stare, and his body, made you drip even more in the dirt floor of the cave they were captive in for the night.

You needed him inside you, to at least extinguish his need. But yours was growing too.

“Why don’t you relax over there while we get her ready, Mr. Grumpy Pants. Little Miss Triple Threat looks like she’s almost ready to take three cocks at once in all of her holes.”

The Wolverine grunted, but went to a spot just a few feet away and reclined against a cave wall as he continued to handle himself.

Wade looked down at you and stroked your hair again, stage whispering to you as you deep throated Johnny’s cock down your throat.

“I know he seems like a party pooper and not down for this at all, but the fact that his beautiful meat is hard and leaking precum, which is delicious, bee tee dubs, oh, AND HE'S NAKED, means he definitely is.”

You smiled around the dick in your mouth and nodded as you pulled off Johnny, a string of saliva connecting you three as Wade grabbed you by the hair and plunged down your throat, barely giving you time to take a breath.

As you choked, you could see Logan jacking off faster from the corner of your eye as you swallowed Wade whole. Even with the mask, you could tell when his eyes rolled back into his head as you took every single inch.

“Get over here and sit on my dick.”

You were surprised at Logan’s voice, not having heard much of it during his ride in the cage, except to tell Wade and Johnny to shut up. Currently, his tone was more intense and raspy with desire.

You did as you were told and the action moved from the fireside to where Logan was reclining. 

“Move the fuck around, asshole.”

Wade stomped his foot.

“That’s what I’m trying to give you, Wolvie, baby.”

But he moved from in front of you so that you could take your throne.

“C’mere.” 

Logan reached up for you, the tender gesture a contrast for the crude situation you are in: fucking these men because it was the last night of their lives, which it almost surely was. You knew when Pyro let you into the cave halfway to her lair where they stopped for the night that no one escaped Cassandra.

You almost felt sorry for them. But when you read their emotions, you sensed no fear in these heroes. Only a myriad of other things including pent up tension, stress and desire for you. And for freedom. Or at least the sensation of being free.

Fucking all three of them would free your own soul, if only for the short time you would spend with them. They were all fine, and they looked like they would be a good time. If they only knew that your purpose was distraction, to keep them busy and not trying to escape.

If you searched their emotions hard enough you might find that they knew what you were about, and that they didn't care.

You accepted the offer of Logan’s hands and settled on his muscular thighs, glancing at the other men stroking themselves by firelight to the sight of you stretching yourself around the thick head of Logan Howlett, the Wolverine’s, cock.

Their attention only made you wetter and you slid further down Logan’s thick staff than you thought you could. When Johnny and Wade each grabbed a nipple as you whined and got even slicker the sensations allowed you to encase that extra inch at the base of him.

You were so full, not having been stretched like this in a while with a human, visually pleasing partner in a long time. You moaned in pleasure and closed your eyes, biting your lip at the delicious sting of taking him.

Logan looked up into your eyes and then commanded you with that deep, sexy voice.

“Open your eyes, look at us, and bounce on this cock Sweets.”

The smack on your ass spurred you on as Johnny leaned against the wall, watching your tits bounce as he jacked himself, and Wade got behind you, straddling Logan's thighs and rubbing them. You thought you knew what was coming next as you felt Wade’s hot breath on your shoulder as his hard length slid through your slick folds. But you were surprised as he entered you, although not in the hole you expected.

Within a few seconds, Wade was nestled deep within your cunt, cock alongside Logan’s in your snug sleeve, making you mad with pleasure. An obscene groan from you accompanied Logan’s warning to Deadpool.

“Watch it fuck face.”

Loan’s voice was husky, and there was a glimmer of a smirk as he grasped your breasts, roughly pulling on your nipples. Fear of his claws coming out and injuring you caused the contractions of pleasure in your belly to quicken, even as Wade sassed him back.

“You can fuck my face later buddy. Right now, let’s both concentrate on fucking this beautiful, nice, accommodating lady’s beautiful, nice accommodating cunt..”

The two men fell into an oddly synchronistic, sinful rhythm, both of them filling you to the brim in the best way possible, sexy groans finally replacing the smart words coming from Wade and literal grunts and groans coming from Logan.

Johnny moved, filling your mouth and causing your moans to vibrate around his shaft as Logan and Wade fucked you stupid.

“Holy fuck!”

Johnny rasped as you started sucking his balls, your legs shaking as Logan and Wade pounded you into oblivion. You feel a tremendous pressure and you tried to run from what was coming, but Wade’s fingers were circling your clit and Logan’s hands are around your waist, his mouth latched onto your left nipple. That and the feeling of Johnny’s fingers massaging your scalp collided to make your impending doom come much more quickly.

You pulled off of Johnny's unit to scream.

“Oh shit, oh shit, ohhhhhh shitttttt, I- I- I- I’m cummingggg!”

“Holy shit, she's gushing like Old Faithful all around us!”

You soaked Logan as you squirted, seemingly never endingly, all over. everywhere. Wade slipped out of you and so did Logan, but instead of giving someone else a turn with your pussy, Logan growled in your hair and pitched you forward onto his chest with his hands underneath your thighs. 

“Want that ass.”

You clenched around nothing as Logan lifted you up and squeezed your ass cheek in order to give his hard, thick cock access to your puckered hole. You were so wet that he kept slipping around until you felt Wade reach in and grab Logan’s dick, pumping it a couple of times before guiding it home inside your tight ass.

You saw the sneer, and you heard the ‘schnick’ of Logan’s claws coming out and Wade’s giggle as he explained. 

“Just trying to help with the mission, Boss.”

You didn’t care about any of it as your head lolled back on your shoulders because Logan was filling you up deliciously.

Wade retreated and pulled his mask up to lick his fingers. He and Johnny resumed stroking as they watched Logan pounding you mercilessly from below, your cum making it embarrassingly easy. You locked eyes with him, and grabbed the tufts on top of his hair for purchase as you screamed and came again, just from his cock in your ass.

"Ahhhhh! Shittttt!"

“Mmmmnhhh! Incoming, Sweets”

Logan’s cum spurted inside you and began to leak out around his cock, making you even messier than before.

“Ugh. Fuck. So good.” 

He kissed your forehead as he softened inside you, then lifted your thigh to slide out from underneath you. You braced yourself on the wall as you tried to catch your breath and savored the feeling of him dripping down your legs and the peace, if only momentary, emanating from his soul. You didn’t realize that your eyes were closed until you felt  a new desperation accompanied by a hand on your arm and two hands on your ass. 

“Don’t usually go for sloppy seconds, but I’ll take it tonight.”

Johnny’s sparkling blue eyes and sincerity held you captive. His tender kiss on your lips distracted you as you felt Wade’s hands on your ass and you lowered yourself down around Johnny’s long cock.

Johnny slipped easily inside you because Wade and Logan had stretched you out, but he was so hot, literally, that you quickly clenched down on him. Your hands caressed his shoulders and trailed down his sternum and his happy trail to where you were connected. 

The way he looked at you from under his long eyelashes made you want to give him a show. You bit your lip and circled your clit, earning a groan and an appreciative stare from him as you started to ride. 

You sensed a sudden a wave of mischievousness from Wade and felt his tongue in our ass. He moaned, sending vibrations up your spine as he caused you to clench around his wet muscle and Johnny’s cock. He slurped you up, and pulled away momentarily to come up and whisper in your ear.

“Mmmm. You and Logan taste so good. You’re doing amazing, Sweetie.

He was down again and licking you clean, causing irritation to emanate from Johnny.

“I’m tryna cum, here, Wilson. Stop licking my balls, you jerkoff.”

Wade came up and wiped his mouth.

“So sorry, that was a total mistake. Didn’t mean to touch your huge, full, sexy balls with my velvet tongue. Not at all, Johnny.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to concentrate on this Sweetheart right. Here.”

Johnny kicked Wade away, stroked upward to make you moan, and then grabbed you by the neck as he flipped you over onto your back, grasping your thighs and folded you in half like a pretzel. 

“You ready to take this hot cock?”

You nodded enthusiastically as Johnny Storm began to fuck you relentlessly, his long cock reaching that magic spot inside you as you tightened around him, much to your chagrin.

It was going to be over too soon. You wanted him to use you longer.

“Mmmmph, Darlin’ I feel you, still so tight around me even after these two knuckle heads fucked your cunt silly. Should be loose, but damn, girl. C’mon. Cum for me like you did for Wolverine and Wade. Gimme that shit.”

Johnny reached down and strummed your clit, as Wade came and held your legs in place, his oddly beautiful cock hard against his abdomen. You stretched your neck and teabagged him, earning a choked, garbled moan, and no words from him.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Logan standing over you and stroking his hard-for-you-again dick.

“Shit, shit, sheeeeiiittttttttt this pussy is so good. Fuck!”

Johnny pulled out and stood over your body as you scrambled up on your knees to open your mouth for your reward. The men gathered around you as first Johnny spurted white, hot cum all over your face, then Logan jerked on your tits, rubbing his bulbous tip all over your nipples, and Wade just sprayed everywhere as he watched the show.

You collapsed on your knees, wiping your face as strong arms lifted you up and took you to the other side of the cave and started washing you off with a bucket of water that had been warming by the fire. You looked up into Logan’s eyes and he avoided your gaze, concentrating on getting the cum out of your hair.

“You can rest now. We’ll cook up this bird that Pyro threw in here for food and you can sleep for a while.”

You sensed genuine tenderness, and another spark of a future need within him. You knew that they would wake you up for more than food later.

And you were more than okay with that. 

So you just smiled at him as his hand trailed the water down your body, this moment a respite for all of you, in the chaos of Cassandra’s world.

——

If you liked it, hit Reblog!

[topazadine]

Okay, okay, here's perhaps my spiciest and most controversial take yet.

Now, before I even say anything, please note that I am talking specifically about fantasy. Not retellings of myths, not historical fiction set in different countries, nothing like that. This is for second-world fantasy, where you're creating a whole different world.

Ready?

Stop making everything so damn complicated!

This is not to say that you can't have a rich and exciting world filled with lore, religion, different societies, traditions, unique geographies. Not that. Of course we want that: it's the whole reason we read fantasy. I'm talking about something else.

This is my simple takedown, and you can read the rest to better understand what I mean:

Stop jamming your story with five billion weird words.

Don't use super complicated nouns.

Keep the characters to a minimum so we can know and like them.

Don't yammer on about all the backstory.

Stop making readers do homework just to understand things.

Focus on the feeling a story gives instead of the intricate worldbuilding.

And lastly, a pre-emptive note to those who are putting their hackles up and telling me why they are an exception.

Why is it important to keep things simple?

A lot of people shy away from fantasy because they assume that every fantasy story is going to be so complicated that their head will hurt. Not in terms of plot - many people like complicated plots - but in terms of terminology and history. Things that ultimately don't really matter to the plot.

We as writers often assume that everyone cares about our story as much as we do and is equally captivated by every detail. This is simply not true.

To your reader, your story is not their life's work: it is entertainment that they want to be able to enjoy at their leisure. It's a distraction from their difficult lives and all their real-world frustrations. If they get really into it and, say, write fanfic or whatever, that's amazing! But they're not likely to do that if they feel like they'll be jumped on for doing something wrong or that they have to include every single little detail.

For example, I wrote over 1 million words of Touken Ranbu fanfic. Touken Ranbu, at its heart, has a very simple premise: you've got a bunch of legendary swords that were turned into hot men and fight evil time-traveling monsters. You can understand it with just that. There are layers to it, though, that you can slowly untangle. That makes for good writing because it works on multiple levels depending on how much you care about it.

I would have given up on the story if I felt like I needed a dictionary just to understand the plot. Most people would. Language needs to be accessible and premises need to be clear, or no one is going to want to go deeper.

Subtle little details that people can pick up are way more enjoyable than tossing every single factoid at people so that they feel overwhelmed and can't think. It's wonderful to have rich layers of symbolism, mythology, etc. That's excellent. But you can only get people to care about those things if they can actually comprehend your damn story.

A lot of the things that turn people off from fantasy are all about a writer's ego, and it oozes through the work. People can tell that you're wanting them to pat you on the back for putting so much shit in your story. It's annoying and a total turn-off when you make readers work so hard to comprehend what you're saying.

So what exactly am I talking about? This.

Using made-up terms for everything that could easily be explained with a normal English word

When I am writing fantasy, I imagine myself as a translator. After all, my made-up societies have their own made-up language (Seinish) that is referenced a few times.

However, I'm not using Seinish words all the time. I'm writing in English. I didn't write out a Seinish dictionary or even come up with most of the terms because, honestly? Most readers don't care. They want to understand what's going on in as simple of terms as possible, with only a few specific terms that remind us that we're somewhere different.

I may use some specialized terminology, but it's always couched in context clues that make us aware of what it is without actually having to just say "sdlkjfslkdjf, also known as a marketplace."

For example, in The Eirenic Verses, the High Poet Society has religious centers called meronyms. (Which actually isn't a made-up word.) We know they're religious centers because we see all the religious leaders living there. Someone sees the term "meronym" and goes "oh yeah, that's the religious place" and moves on.

It's one of the only confusing, specialized terms in the book other than place names, which people expect whenever they're reading fantasy. Because of that, it stands out and is easy to remember. It's not one of 1029310283012830132 different terms someone has to remember in order to follow along.

Even Tolkien, famed for literally writing an entire extra book full of lore for his stories, doesn't really use that much specialized terminology except for place names. My favorite author, China Mieville, only uses specialized terminology for things that have absolutely no basis in our reality and that can't be explained otherwise. And he's an extremely eloquent guy who uses the weirdest words possible whenever he can. If he can write a book that's mostly comprehensible without a cheat sheet, you can too.

If there is an English term for what you are trying to explain, just use that, for the love of god. The point of writing a story is not to show how smart and special you are: it is to tell a story. You need to remove as many barriers to access as possible.

Things that get a pass and can be made up most, if not all, of the time:

Place names (as in specific places, not categories of things)

Peoples' names

Languages

Species that don't exist in our world

Modes of transportation that don't exist in our world

Magic that can't be explained in any other way

Technology that can't be defined by our language

Look, if you have an animal that is basically a dragon, just call it a dragon. If you've got a wheeled carriage, call it a carriage. Call earth magic something based in earth terms, like "terravitae" or something, idk. There should be some connection to our world in your terminology because you are writing this in English for an English-speaking audience.

It doesn't make you a lazy writer, it makes you one that wants people to understand what you're talking about. Again, imagining yourself as a translator is a good way to keep yourself from going ham on the nouns.

Proper nouns that are way too complicated

Let's look at some well-known proper nouns from fantasy.

Middle Earth

Narnia

Earthsea

Discworld

Westeros

Ankh-Morpork

Bas-Lag

Wonderland

They're all ... simple. They're not a million syllables with weird intonations and accents and all that. If you showed this to a medieval peasant, they'd probably be able to pronounce them and would likely understand that they were place names.

Unless there's a good reason to have a weird name, don't use one. Come up with something simpler.

All of these I mentioned are three syllables or less, making them easier to remember. In fact, I'd argue that nearly every proper noun in your book should be no more than three syllables. Maybe one or two four-syllable ones.

Any very weird name should be balanced out by several easier ones so that it stands out.

40 million characters

Younger writers often want their world to feel very lived in, so they introduce dozens of characters with their own names, descriptions, backstories, etc etc etc. The problem is that this is a huge mental load on your reader, especially if a lot of the characters have very similar names. It makes reading your stuff into a chore rather than an enjoyable experience.

Now, some literary greats do have a lot of characters. But they get away with it because they're great.

I'm not great, so I don't do that.

I'd also suggest that you don't do that, regardless of how good you think you are.

To see if you have too many chracters, write out a dramatis personnae and rank it in terms of importance. Does your top tier have like 15 characters? Cut some. Figure out where they are in the story and if they don't exist for more than a few pages, delete them. Absorb them into someone else.

If a character is only in one scene, don't bother naming them. They don't matter enough. This reduces the cognitive load for your reader because they can see that character for what they are: a background person who exists only briefly.

Any time you name a character, they need to have deep plot relevance. The more unusual your character's name, the more important they should be. And they should have some sort of relationship to another character, preferably the main character. Otherwise, why are they there? Why do we care? Go away!

Way too much backstory

I am an adult and my brain is filled with 50 million other things. I have to remember stuff for my job, I have a to-do list, I have family I care about who needs me.

Your story is not the end-all be-all of my existence. Hell, my story is not the end-all be-all of my existence either. I want to be able to pick up your book, understand what's going on, and then delve a bit deeper or even make up my own headcanons.

I do not need the entirety of your story's world thrown at me right off the bat. It is overwhelming and tiring. Imagine if you visited a different country and someone immediately came up to you and started spewing the whole history of the country right after you stepped off the plane. That's what you're doing to your readers!

Think also about how you approach your everyday world. Do you reel off a million facts about your personal history the instant you meet someone? No, of course not. It'd be weird and creepy.

Are you constantly recalling facts about your city while walking down the street? Do you even know any major facts about your city? You probably know a few little trivia points and that's it. Because it's not relevant to you, and it's not relevant to your readers, either. I can't recall off the top of my head when Cleveland was settled, but I can tell you that we have the world's first Dunkleosteus fossil in our museum, because that is interesting to me. That's the kind of thing that makes a place feel lived-in, not four hundred thousand pages of exposition about the place's history.

Give your readers time to settle in, and reveal things slowly as they make sense. Maybe we hear a little bit about the country's government as they pass a parliament house, or because they have to visit the city center for a different reason. If it's not pertinent to the current scene, then don't put it there.

I've got tons of lore for my world. Some of it may be referenced one singular time, and some of it may be never referenced at all. That's okay, because it's just for me to get a better sense of the place I created. If a reader doesn't need it, then I don't bother putting it in, because it might detract from their enjoyment.

Overall: stop making your readers do homework!

We do not want our readers to feel like they are working when they are reading our stuff. Excellent writers can infuse deep themes and symbology into their stories without making it feel like work. These are the writers who are remembered forever, because not only have they made a good story that you can enjoy at a surface level, but they have also twined in deeper themes that you can dive into after you've digested the story.

I did my undergrad in British literature, so I read a lot of Shakespeare and contemporaneous authors. Shakespeare is considered complicated by modern standards because of the Elizabethan language, but if you translated it into modern terms, his stories are simple. People betray each other and stab each other, or fuck each other, or get transported to weird magical worlds.

You could watch a Shakespeare play and think absolutely nothing of the themes, but still enjoy the story. You could know absolutely nothing about Greek history and still get the gist.

This is because Shakespeare specifically wrote his plays to appeal to a mass audience. He was a god-tier author when it came to balancing symbology and plot. To be like Shakespeare, be simple. Remember that your reader does. not. really. care. all that much. They don't.

It's very unlikely that your writing is going to become someone's life's work and they're going to spend their whole existence studying. Cool if true, but unlikely.

Your job is to make a story that people like and want to read. Only when you've gotten people liking and reading do you get permission to go ham with the backstory and the characterization and the weird names, because they trust you to create a story that they will like. Otherwise, your primary objective is making people feel things so they want to feel more things and read more stories.

People care more about how a story makes them feel than the specifics

Yes, of course there are outliers to this who really want every single detail of the world, but those are few and far between. You should not tailor your story to these exceptions. Think about the average everyday person.

I have many books that I love, but I can't tell you everything about them now. I can, however, tell you how I felt when I was reading them: the plot twists that made me gasp, the thing that made me cry. I can give you a general, sweeping impression of whether I liked or disliked the story and what made me feel something. This is what people recommend books based on: how they felt.

Your story should focus on the plot and the emotion. People watch movies, listen to music, read books, or look at art to feel something, not to memorize factoids for later usage. Even if they do want to memorize factoids, they won't do that if they haven't built an emotional connection to the story.

While in life, we want facts over feelings, it's opposite in creative writing. We want feelings over facts. The emotional resonance, the mood, the characters, the plot: that is what is important, not showing off how smart you are and how much you have thought about your story.

"But Topazadine, I am special and different! I'm not going to follow your advice."

Sure. Go ahead. I can't stop you. If you want to have a million characters and an entire dictionary to explain everything, that is your choice.

No one can tell you how to write; my advice is just advice.

If you don't like what I have said here, then feel free to ignore it. You don't need to justify it to me or anyone else.

However, you must recognize that this may not resonate with readers. It will turn people off.

I'm not a completionist, and neither are many others; they'll roll their eyes and click out when they are faced with ten pages of character names upfront.

Of course you should always write for yourself first, but if you are planning to write fiction for any level of commercial appeal and you intend to make any amount of money on your work, then audience does matter. If you want kudos or comments on your AU, audience matters. You won't get engagement if you are alienating people.

Your writing decisions are always your own and no one can demand you do something different. You just need to decide whether your personal satisfaction in writing your story in a certain way outweighs your desire for validation, and, perhaps, money. I can't tell you the answer for that; it's up to you.

If you enjoyed this, maybe you'll consider reading my fantasy book, 9 Years Yearning, which does not have 121238103 characters and 3230123 strange words. It does, however, have double-tsundere-mutual-pining-gay-boy-awakening. And horses. It's also just $3.

[simp-ly-writes]

Dates with Harvey Headcanons

Pairing: SDV Harvey x Reader

Summary: Date locations and activities you would do together throughout the year.

Warnings: longer than I was expecting, brief mentions of drinking.

A/N: Still can't believe it's already 2024- but I distract myself from this information by writing yet another fanfic about a pixelated doctor who I wish to be real. May turn some of these blurbs into longer fics one day.

Masterlist | Taglist | edited.

Spring

↳ You would go on walks together by the community centre as the snow began to melt. Hand in hand underneath the sprouting trees, you would share a lunch together by the fountain and sit on the swings, drifting back and forth as you talked to one another about both everything- and really nothing at all

↳ Driving out with your hand on his knee to go to the closest home and garden store. Picking out new plants for the flower boxes at the clinic as well as for the front garden on the ranch

↳ Once you finish choosing various plants and flowers alongside planting them to the necessary survival conditions. I can see you both sitting on the front steps of the home, sharing a pottle of wine as you watch the sunset together

↳ When a last minute snow falls upon the ground, Harvey brews a kettle for the both of you as you settle on the couch. Flicking on some random reality t.v. show to watch together as you talk about the various things you both want to get done this year

--

Summer

↳ In the summertime, you and Harvey paint the various fences surrounding the farm alongside the barns, sheds, and stables. It is a time-consuming job as you both sit in a pile of hay, taking a break from the sun within the interior of a barn. All the animals are outside enjoying the weather as you both take a short nap together with your straw-hat's covering your faces from the sun appearing through the cracks between wood panels

↳ In the warm summer nights, you both enjoy a small fire at the back of the house or by the beachside. Cooking a dinner off to the side as you both enjoy a cheeky marshmallow or two before the meal

↳ Taking Willy's boat out to Ginger Island, you both walk up and down the beaches with your sandals in hand. Harvey has a strip of sunscreen across the bridge of his nose while he enforces that you do the same. The poor doctor is already worried about how much you tire yourself out underneath the sun already from working on the various crops and animals

↳ Havrey helps you to set up your display for the community fair, blowing up balloons alongside painting last minute sign details. Anytime someone comes up to compliment your work- you always add how much Harvey helped as well- loving to watch him become a blushing mess before turning around to go chug his water bottle

--

Fall

↳ In the fall time, you both go out for walks once more since the temperature is dying off. You and Harvey collect various leaves to scrapbook later at home together

↳ From trying to help donate to the museum, Harvey sits in the library for support as he watches you meticulously organize each jewell and artifact to just the right position and room. When you come to take a break, Harvey holds your hand from across the table as he flicks through a medical book he was re-studying. A teapot and a few small snacks sit prepared by the doctor as you squeeze his hand in thanks, Harvey looks up from his book, glasses tipped down his nose as he squeezes your hand back before flipping the page and continues his reading

↳ You and Harvey take knitting classes at the community centre together, making one another a scarf and matching touque. Though having a multitude of loose stitches and a few holes, you both wear them to work proudly as Evelyn chuckles to herself softly- noticing your patchwork

--

Winter

↳ When the ground becomes frozen and the animals are each tucked away, warm in the barns with wine brewing in the sheds from prior seasons. You decide to take Harvey ice-skating at the local rink a town or two away where the ice is thick enough. A few wobbles and falls into your await arms, you and Harvey skate side by side while discussing the holiday plans

↳ Harvey drives on the way back as you fall asleep on the passengers side. When the car stops back in Stardew Valley- Harvey picks you up as delicately as possible- not wanting to wake your slumber as he takes you inside and to bed. Lighting a fire in the fireplace before cooking a meal for when you awake

↳ Hosting your friends and family at the farmhouse was a test of both your patiences. But the time spent together planning, grocery shopping and choosing wines from the cellar were highly memorable between the jokes said and memories shared from throughout the year

↳ When its snows enough, you both make snow-people together in a competition. Rushing in and out of the house for extra details from carrots to coal, hats and twigs for arms. You stand back, looking at the work as Harvey wrapped his arms around your waist, leaning down to plaster a kiss against your cheek

[lightfeltmemories]

trouble trio sharing a partner.

characters include: feitan, phinks, shalnark

note: fun fact, this was left as a draft on my main for like over a year and i read over it and thought.... it would be better on here, but anyway, there's a lot of adult trio poly stuff, why not trouble trio? I have plans (just me announcing it, I already know it'll take years for me to actually go through with making said content) on making trouble trio content, fanfics and whatnot. so, here's a headcanon post about how the trouble trio would go with a polygamous relationship with the reader, nsfw themes will have a 🔞 on the side so look out! and when it comes to requesting anything similar to this..... no, i will not do the adult trio.

trigger warnings: yandere tendencies (but there's no actual yandere stuff like obsessiveness and whatever, most of it is just their normal way of showing affection), mentions of kidnapping, possessiveness, reader's eventual death, feitan carves his initials onto you because "you're his."

parts of this contain nsfw material, do not interact if you are a minor.

How It Starts

So, who are you? For them to actually even care about your existence, you would either have to be a part of the troupe or be someone they know way back from Meteor City, I highly doubt they would go heart eyes over some really stunning person they ran into on a mission or so, because looks aren't everything, right? A pretty girl, a handsome boy, or an attractive genderless person isn't gonna phase them in the slightest, unless you're powerful enough to woo them out their boots, other than that, the choices are; being apart of the troupe (which is the most likely case, since they have a chance of them all being with you more often) or you being a friend of theirs in meteor city and their feelings grew overtime.

Who would fall for your first? I'm honestly tied between Phinks and Shalnark, for Feitan it would take like 2 billion years for his crush to kick in since he isn't in tune with his more softer emotions (yet), Shalnark to me is.... odd... he seems like the type to fall for someone oh so easy but dude is like, the personified version of "don't judge a book by its cover," and the only thing Phinks got going for him is..... anger issues, so I'd go with Phinks on this one! of course when people (troupe members) ask him about his affections towards you, he denies them with the most obvious blush on his face, his infatuation isn't exactly that obvious but there are some hints like him wanting to be next to you more or even the two of you hanging out on your off days! next on the list: Shalnark, so how exactly would he fall for you? well, he'd probably get paired up with you more on missions and when he starts to hang out with you more he starts to feel himself grow fond of you more, and it slowly grows into a crush! kind of simple really. And finally after those 2 billion years are up, Feitan is up next! Everyone has this collective idea that if he realizes he has a crush on you, he'd do the opposite of his two counterparts; he'd want to avoid you so that the feelings won't grow stronger as he considers it a distraction, he may even contemplate on killing you, which is something I really hate to say since I feel like the idea is slightly far fetched for his character (i'm guilty of saying this myself but i considering the topic of that specific post i wanted to be dramatic) but I can see why people think this, killing you only goes if you aren't a member of the troupe but since you are, he'd have to deal with you, forcing himself to accept the fact as time goes by that he is in love with you, he's confused with his feelings when it comes to you, he isn't used to crushes, no one to him is that special for him to fall for, love is very sacred to him, it's something he and the others mentioned above haven't really experienced, and as it grows, he starts to form a soft spot for you as he gets to know you well, he starts to find parts of you that made him like you to begin with. (ik Feitan's is kinda longer than the others but I'm biased he's my fav).

How would they act around you? This was really hard to do for some reason but I already stated above that Phinks would hang out with you more and would be near you a lot, at first his affections towards you wouldn't be too different to how he acts towards others, for someone like him he's pretty good at hiding his infatuation, though over time he's starting to loose the "I have a crush on Y/N" allegations, the others would tease him a little for how he acts around you, he shows to have more sympathy and affection for you, like he's more handsy with you than everyone else, and is most definitely protective over you, he really is a girly girl, ain't he? Shalnark is a bit more happier when he's in your presence, he opens up with you way more than everyone else (when you two are alone ofc) and plays video games with you, he'll never give you a break and let you win though, he's just too good! (And competitive) May not be as protective as Phinks but he damn sure isn't gonna let you getting injured slide. Feitan once again is an interesting case, since he's come to terms with him being infatuated with you, the signs will be waaaay more subtle than Phinks', you would lowkey be left confused, like something tells you he likes you but you can't exactly prove he does, you're seen with him more often, he talks to you more, but in the beginning that's about it really, but overtime he gets more handsy with you like Phinks but not as much, he would most definitely tease you when he's in a good mood, giving you nicknames and such, and of course, very protective over you.

Confessing & Relationship

Finding out they all like you! When they start to see one of the other become more affectionate towards you, shit starts to get real, a scenario where Feitan sees you and Shalnark playing a newly released game, the both of you are so happy, laughing and all, and Feitan is hiding somewhere and just stares at the both of you, the worst scenarios are running through his mind, are they dating? do they like him? he wants to do something about it but can't because for one troupe members can't fight and two, he sees how happy you are, how can he ruin that? Another scenario is the old fashioned switcheroo where you and Feitan are getting a little too handsy with one another, he's got his hand on your thigh and your hand on his shoulder, Shalnark is now in Feitan's shoes, bad scenarios running through his brain thinking the two of you have a thing for each other, a part of him wants to step in but he can't. It's kind of subtle at first until everything starts to build up, they can see each other's jealousy seeping through, let's say Phinks was the one to save you from an attacker and Feitan wasn't quick enough, a glare is shot at Phinks' way as he sees the way he's holding you and reassuring you, and he catches it, he's confused, what the hell is going on? Another scenario where the troupe is having fun or whatnot and you and Shalnark are laughing about something a little too hard, he spots both Phinks and Feitan seething in jealousy, he's also confused! Until it all hits the three of them; they all like you!

Them finding out..... So, when they finally sit and conversate about the rising tensions between them to solve it, they come to the conclusion that you are the reason why, how will they go about this? They all have a goal in mind; a monogamous relationship with you, they are all trying their absolute hardest not to start anything between them, they were all on good terms until this very incident, they had no idea what to do about this, their own friends are crushing on the same person they want, and the tensions can only grow from here, and beyond this point things can go either north (good) or south (bad) really quickly. From here on out, they challenge themselves to impress you so that one of them finally gets you, an unspoken rule, until they realize that you like all three of them, and things grow extra confusing, they're happy because "yay they like me!" but also mad because "grrr they like him back!!" So everyone involved is kinda like.............. "omg??"

Poly? So, because everything came out, they all like you and you like all of them back, they're stuck here wondering how this will work, a polygamous relationship isn't even a thought to them because they just want to have you, and it may be one of your biggest fantasies, you eventually let it out that you want all of them at the same time and because of their confusion you would have to explain to them, they argue that it's not going to work well, since for one, they are all territorial when it comes to you, Feitan is most definitely the worst one since he's never exactly felt this feeling before and it's most likely his first crush and potential relationship, and since you're pretty special to him he doesn't want to lose you to someone else, in all honesty he'd probably kidnap you and hide you away from Phinks and Shalnark if you weren't apart of the troupe, so you can be his forever, yayyy, we love yanderes!!!! Phinks is in the middle, while yes he wants you to himself he doesn't want to admit that he would want to at least give it a chance, Shalnark is pretty chill, the idea of him having you to himself is nice also, but a polygamous relationship would probably solve all this conflict between them.

They Agree, so The Relationship Starts Here! So they decided that just for you, they would all agree to date you, of course at first this doesn't sit right with them since they want you to be with one of them, but they're also like... shit, I mean we all technically got what we wanted so we might as well make the best of it!

Small Miscellaneous Things

When they don't receive enough attention. Despite you all agreeing on a polygamous relationship, they all still get jealous whenever one is getting more attention than the other, when Phinks isn't receiving enough attention he gets more agitated, prone to more outbursts and will even straight up pull you away from the other, when Shalnark isn't receiving more attention, he would tap your shoulder or find ways to annoy you like hugging you or getting in your face, when Feitan isn't receiving more attention he finds ways to get yours by breaking something like a glass cup so that you can at least say a few words to him even if they aren't exactly the most kind, or staring at you for an ungodly amount of time to the point where you can physically feel his eyes on you, or like Phinks, will pull you away from the other so that you can be with him more.

🔞 What sex is like! Sex isn't too different from the usual, you can't really have group sex with them often since shit gets competitive real fast, they will go above and beyond to make you cum the hardest and scream the loudest, but when one or two of them so happens to be away, Feitan will make marks on your body to be territorial, so show the other two or to other people outside that he was the one who made that mark there, and it's even worse because he puts them in places that aren't exactly the easiest to cover, either it be a bite mark or a scar that spells out his initials. Shalnark will mark hickeys on your neck or will have photos of you having his cum dripping on your face or you laying beside him just completely slutted out and send them to the other two just for giggles, Phinks won't do anything outrageous (he can't you'll fucking die) but will have you wear his clothes afterwards to let the other two know when they get back who fucked them out ;).

Things start to get better! Overtime they start to realize that the petty fights over who gets to spend more time with you are meaningless, and that they all love you and you all love them, it takes them a while for them to come to these terms, but in the end, it gets better for the future, and everyone loves each other, movie nights aren't filled with who's chest you get to lay on anymore, sex isn't "who gets to make them cum harder" more, you don't feel as if you're some type of prized possession, you're now treated with actual respect and love and consideration, of course there's fights here and there like any other normal couple, but life is good.... for them anyway.

You were murdered! If they ever come into your house to find it ransacked, their first priority is to see if you're alright, they find your body laying in your room, devoid of all life, shit starts to get real, they never rest to look for the one who did this to you, since Shalnark has cameras hidden away around the house, it doesn't take long to find out who did it from hacking and such, and once they find them, it takes so much to not just rip their head to shreds and feed it to wild animals, Feitan wants to give them the worst of all of his tortures, and afterwards they die by their phinks blowing their head clean off their shoulders or shit maybe shalnark will do it.

[humongousgothskeletonfarm]

tsc thoughts while reading (beware of spoilers) starting with -

david wymack my fucking beloved

also i never rlly liked/cared for thea but her scene with jean and her nickname for him was cute

chapter 3 thoughts:

jeremy being in awe of neil and the foxes is giving me life

fanfics with alvarez in them gonna go crazy now that we actually have a first name for her (and don’t have to invent one)

oh they rich rich (in reference to jeremy’s family butler?!)

jerejean first interaction!!!!

chapter 4:

omg sunshine court mentioned

having the sudden realisation that i can never read fanfics that have jean’s perspective or anything about the how the ravens work, raven!neil/aftermath of the kings men in the same way again

my neighbours are having a party and while i’m loving the music and absolutely jealous i’m not there, it’s really distracting me from reading

ngl i rlly miss neil and andrew and the foxes please let me see my family soon

‘ what you hold onto is less important than the act of holding on itself’ nora sakavic shut the fuck up you philosophical genius i’m gonna cry this is so real to me

renee i love u

WIT WTF JEAN IS NINETEEN I DIDNT KNOW THAT OH MY GOD BABY HE JOINED THE RAVEN LINEUP AT SIXTEEN WTF

i’m drinking red wine while reading and i think that’s appropriate… also i’m listening to that jean moreau playlist someone made and it’s mega depressing https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5zlPt63Ap0AjJQ1Ff5OKrd?si=75oEzLE8SO-bfJwewM8Evw&pi=a-ge04jIlVTJGY

this is so funny to only me but i’ve been hyperfixating on one direction again and zayn just dropped new music so everytime i read about jean’s raven roomate zane i think of one direction and confused myself a bit about what fandom i’m reading rn

fuck riko u sick fucking fuck u put jean into a box with a singular hole for air and left him to die u fucking cunt

KEVIN ASKING JEAN TO PROMISE NOT TO KILL HIMSELF AFTER NORA WROTE COUNTLESS DRAFTS IN WHICH JEAN KILLED HIMSELF WHILE ON THE PHONE TO KEVIN AND THE ONLY TIME SHE DIDNT KILL JEAN OFF IS THE VERSION SHE PUBLISHED AND THE REASON WE GET TO HEAR HIS STORY TODAY IM SO BROKEN

jean’s ‘gift’ from the ravens with his broken magnets, blacked out postcards and angry letters is making me cry he deserves so much better

slowly realising that this book is gonna be super triggering lol whoops

a cool evening breeze 🥲

THAT CREEPY LITTLE GOALKEEPER IS MY FAVOURITE GUY OK

‘kevin saw nothingn but the court, but jean had stopped hoping for more than that years ago’ shut the fuckkkk uppppp i cant do this anymore kevin/jean relationship is so deeply important to me (i say this about everything)

chapter 5:

SECOND NEIL/ JEAN INTERACTION OF THE BOOK IM SO FUCKING EXCITED

‘of course it’d be you, you tedious malcontent’ ‘good morning to you too’ is so ‘morning sunshine’ ‘fuck you’ coded (neil and matt bromance confirmed)

the amount of mitski on this jean playlist is making me sick

FUCKING SCREAMING OMFG THIS IS THE JEAN/NEIL CONTENT I YEARN FOR

‘abominable cockroach’ aww jean u say the sweetest things 🥰❤️ neil loves u too babe

literally devouring every last scrap of information jean feeds us about neil - his slow, hungry, hateful smile and the madness in his eyes (neil baby i love u never change)

oh jean don’t diss aaron, do u know how many fanfics have been written about u two

tsc is confirmation that jean moreau will come into ur house and judge u based on the contents of ur fridge (and then throw out ur stash of lollies)

‘to have a real match as a palate cleanser’ jean is really trying to win my favour by borrowing neil’s sassiness huh (no wonder i love them so much together) ((and yes i know he’s BEEN sassy ok))

jean reaching for the tv screen as if he could save neil and describing andrew running for neil as if hell was on his heels is making me absolutely giddy idk whether to scream or cry i’m doing both and i’m giggling

I bet on losing dogs is so jean moreau coded omg

holy fuck nora, the moments after the raven/fox match when riko tries to kill neil is fucking amazingly written. reading from jean’s perspective as he watches the game on tv, the tension, the breathless anxiety and confusion of the scene is palpable i coukd fucking taste it, my chest is tight just reading it

JEAN SAYING ANDREW WILL BE COURT IS IMMACULATE

[pjo-tvs-version]

I wrote another Percabeth fanfic! After seeing that you all actually liked the first fanfic, I decided to write another one. This one is about Annabeth's POV of the scene in The Last Olympian where she gets stabbed by a poison dagger. Title is from Willow by yet again Taylor Swift (it's one of my favorite songs). Happy reading!!

Life Was A Willow and it Bent Right To Your Wind

"Percy!" I yelled. "You've already routed them. Pull back! We're overextended!" Percy was being too heroic at the moment. Just one look at my surroundings told me that we had to retreat. I saw the crowd at the base of the bridge. The retreating monsters were running straight toward their reinforcements. It was a small group, maybe thirty or forty demigods in battle armour, mounted on skeletal horses. One of them held a purple banner with the black scythe design. The lead horseman trotted forward. He took off his helm, and I recognized Kronos himself, his eyes like molten gold. The Apollo campers and I faltered involuntarily. Luke I thought. No it was Kronos. Luke did not have those cruel, heartless golden eyes, Kronos did.  But I couldn’t help but think about my memories of him- all of which broken in my mind because of everything he did. Focus Annabeth, see the battle around me. The monsters we'd been pursuing reached the Titan's line and were absorbed into the new force. Kronos gazed in our direction. He was a quarter mile away from us. 

"Now," Percy  said, "we pull back." The Titan lord's men drew their swords and charged. The hooves of their skeletal horses thundered against the pavement. Our archers shot a volley, bringing down several of the enemy, but they just kept riding. "Retreat!" Percy told the group of demigods. "I'll hold them.'" In a matter of seconds they were on us. Michael and his archers tried to retreat, but I stayed right beside me, fighting with my knife and mirrored shield as we slowly backed up the bridge. I couldn’t leave Percy alone in a situation like this and after our last experience in the Labyrinth, I never will. Kronos's cavalry swirled around us, slashing and yelling insults. The Titan himself advanced leisurely, like he had all the time in the world. Being the lord of time, I guess he did. I felt tears brimming at the corner of my eyes. Luke had been a brother to me when no one even cared about me. Whatever he did and is doing is beyond wrong but still I cannot make myself believe that we have to kill him soon enough or we are doomed. Ugh why are thoughts distracting me so much today? I try to concentrate on the fight so as to escape my depressing thoughts.

  I felt a stab of pain in my heart as I looked at Luke’s no Kronos’ army. I tried to wound his men, not kill. That slowed me down, but these weren't monsters. They were demigods who'd fallen under Kronos's spell. I couldn't see faces under their battle helmets, but some of them had been my friends. I slashed the legs off their horses and made the skeletal mounts disintegrate. After the first few demigods took a spill, the rest figured out they'd better dismount and fight me on foot. 

Percy and I stayed shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite directions. I felt a spark of warmth at the familiarity. Ever since the labyrinth, we weren't the same and I missed the many things we did together. I will never admit it out loud but Percy was the best battle partner I could ask for. I kept on blocking the attacks of a dracaenae when I saw a demigod, a knife in hand ready to plunge. .He wore an eye patch under his war helm: Ethan Nakamura, the son of Nemesis. He was alive only because of Percy’s generosity. I followed his gaze which was difficult considering I was already battling a reptile woman.  The knife was not aimed at me but at Percy. Panic arose in my mind and my thoughts were speeding inside me. I had a few seconds but my mind was running in different directions. Percy is invincible, I chided. But I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease inside me. I had to make a decision now. I had to make a similar choice back in the labyrinth. However I regretted it so I corrected my mistake now. I won’t let Percy get hurt again if I can help it. I take a deep breath and hurl my shield at the dracaenae. After that was done, I hurled myself in front of the knife.

I braced myself for the pain to hit. I had anticipated that it would be pretty bad considering the force with which Ethan plunged it and I just added more momentum by hurling myself in front of it. It was way worse. A scream arose which I couldn't control.I reflexively clutched my shoulder which was now oozing with blood. The blood had seeped through my camp t-shirt. My head felt dizzy and my knees buckled. 

Behind me, Percy shouted "Annabeth!". I couldn’t think thanks to the wound but there is something else too. The pain got more intense with every passing second and I could feel myself shivering. Percy’s face showed every possible emotion he was feeling. Confusion, concern,anger and worry. Percy locked eyes with the enemy demigod. Perhaps he was regretting his decision to set Ethan free. To my astonishment, Percy slammed him in the face with his sword hilt so hard he dented his helm. My vision is getting blurry now. From the pain? From tears? I had no idea.

 "Get back!" Percy slashed the air in a wide arc, driving the rest of the demigods away from me. "No one touches her!" I had a feeling that the pain was making me so delirious that I was hearing things. Did Percy just say “No one touches her” or was it just me hallucinating. I had never seen him so vehement about anything. Through my fuzzy vision I saw Luke (no Kronos)  towering above us on his skeletal horse, his scythe in one hand. “Interesting,” he said. It sounded downright ominous. "Bravely fought, Percy Jackson," he said. "But it's time to surrender . . . or the girl dies." No, I couldn't  let him surrender. Not now after all the training and preparation. After all the sacrifices. I find my voice and manage to croak the words "Percy, don't". It happened so fast, barely in the blink of an eye. "Blackjack!" Percy yelled. As fast as light, the pegasus swooped down and clamped his teeth on the straps of my armour. We soared away over the river, into the sky.

I must have passed out from the pain midair because right now I was covered in blankets, lying down on a lounge chair, on a balcony. Under different circumstances I would've loved the view from the terrace. It looked straight down onto Central Park. The morning was clear and bright—perfect for a picnic or a hike, or pretty much anything except fighting monsters. My thoughts race and my thinking process is still not clear because of the stab wound. My first thought was Percy. Was he okay? Is he alive? Did he die again because of me? My Athena heritage isn't helping much either. The many logical facts and the unfair odds threaten the hope I have about Percy being alive. I hear crying and recognize it at once. Silena Beauregard, daughter of Aphrodite, was sniffling and speaking. I heard her saying “... better come quickly with a healer from the Apollo Cabin. Hurry Percy.” 

So Percy is alive. Thank the gods. At once I am threatened by another thought- Did he surrender. Then a wave of pain washes over me causing me to grimace. My thoughts are scattered and I feel  as though my wound is burning. My forehead breaks into sweat and Silena places a cool cloth on my forehead. She is crying, sobbing and apologising. I try to ask her why she is so miserable but the words stay stuck in my throat. “I’m sorry Annabeth. I’m so sorry.” she sniffles. I am puzzled. Why is apologising? She wasn't even there when I got hurt. “It isn't your fault Silena.” I try to reassure her through my broken voice. “Rest now Annabeth, she said, feeling my forehead.”

It was difficult to abide by Silena’s request. I kept on drifting into unconsciousness and consciousness, unable to ignore the throbbing pain in my shoulder and the burning sensation I felt around the wound. It must have been a while when I heard panicked footsteps approaching towards me. I try to turn my head with all my remaining energy to see Percy running and Will Solace behind him.

He looked aghast whilst looking at me. Was I looking that beat up? “Annabeth-” he choked. He looked so concerned, so guilty that I tried to lighten the mood a little. “Poison on the dagger, Pretty stupid of me. Huh?” I mumbled. Will undid the bandages. He exhaled with relief. "It's not so bad, Annabeth. A few more minutes and we would've been in trouble, but the venom hasn't gotten past the shoulder yet. Just lie still. Somebody hand me some nectar." 

Percy grabbed the canteen of nectar faster than I could have said Seaweed Brain. Will started applying the godly drink on my wound and as if on reflex. I grabbed Percy’s hand, squeezing it. The pain was too much. Will had told me to lie still which was becoming more difficult with every passing second. "Ow," I said. "Ow, ow!". Silena muttered words of encouragement. Will put some silver paste over the wound and hummed words in Ancient Greek—a hymn to Apollo. I felt better. The pain was relatively less intense and the poison’s burning sensation had been significantly reduced.Then he applied fresh bandages and stood up shakily. The healing must've taken a lot of his energy. He looked almost as pale as me. "That should do it," he said. "But we're going to need some mortal supplies." I realised that I was still gripping Percy’s hand (which had now turned purple because I gripped it a tad too hard) and let go awkwardly.

Will  grabbed a piece of hotel stationery, jotted down some notes, and handed it to Malcolm. "There's a Duane Reade on Fifth. Normally I would never steal—" "I would," Travis volunteered. Will glared at him. "Leave cash or drachmas to pay, whatever you've got, but this is an emergency. I've got a feeling we're going to have a lot more people to treat." Nobody disagreed. There was hardly a single demigod who hadn't already been wounded . . . except Percy. "Come on, guys," Travis Stoll said. "Let's give Annabeth some space. We've got a drugstore to raid . . . I mean, visit." The demigods shuffled back inside. Jake Mason grabbed Percy’s shoulder as he was leaving. "We'll talk later, but it's under control. I'm using Annabeth's shield to keep an eye on things. The enemy withdrew at sunrise; not sure why. We've got a lookout at each bridge and tunnel." "Thanks, man," Percy said. He nodded. "Just take your time." 

He closed the terrace doors behind him, leaving Silena, Percy, and me alone. Silena pressed a cool cloth to Annabeth's forehead. "This is all my fault." "No," I said weakly. Why did she keep blaming herself? "Silena, how is it your fault?" "I've never been any good at camp," she murmured. "Not like you or Percy. If I was a better fighter . . ." Her mouth trembled. Ever since Beckendorf died she'd been getting worse, and every time I looked at her, it made me worried even more about her. Her expression reminded me of glass—like she might break any minute. "You're a great camper," Percy told Silena. "You're the best pegasus rider we have. And you get along with people. Believe me, anyone who can make friends with Clarisse has talent." She stared at Percy like he had just given her an idea. 

 "That's it! We need the Ares cabin. I can talk to Clarisse. I know I can convince her to help us." Silena beamed. "Whoa, Silena. Even if you could get off the island, Clarisse is pretty stubborn. Once she gets angry—" Percy tried to say. "Please," Silena said. "I can take a pegasus. I know I can make it back to camp. Let me try." He exchanged looks with me. I nodded slightly. I didn't like the idea. I didn't think Silena stood a chance of convincing Clarisse to fight. On the other hand, Silena was so distracted right now that she would just get herself hurt in battle. Maybe sending her back to camp would give her something else to focus on. "All right," Percy told her. "I can't think of anybody better to try." Silena threw her arms around Percy. Then she pushed back awkwardly, glancing at me. Well that was weird. "Um, sorry. Thank you, Percy! I won't let you down!" she added.

Once she was gone, Percy knelt next to me and felt my forehead. He had so much concern in his eyes. The expression on his face was endearing. Maybe the poison did something to my head because the next words just sprouted out from my lips. "You're cute when you're worried,". "Your eyebrows get all scrunched together." My thoughts were unclear, but here I am complementing Percy on his looks after being stabbed by a poison dagger. It was true after all. His eyes reminded me of a cute baby seal and his hair was tousled making him look cute. No Annabeth, I chide myself, I am not going to go over my feelings with battle going on. "You are not going to die while I owe you a favour," Percy retorted. 

"Why did you take that knife?" He said nothing about my comment. It hurt a little considering the events of last summer (I’m looking at Racheal here). I sigh, hope doesn't come without a cost (the cost here being my broken heart but lets ignore that, we are at war).  "You would've done the same for me." It was true. I guess we both knew it. I stare at him and he looks at me dead serious, the twinkle in his eyes was lost. I realised then something else more serious must be going on in his mind because he was seldom this serious. 

"How did you know?" he asked, panicking. "Know what?" He looked around to make sure we were alone. Then he leaned in close and whispered: "My Achilles spot. If you hadn't taken that knife, I would've died." My heart skipped a beat as he leaned. Why do I always feel like this around Percy? Then my ears caught on the words ‘Achilles spot’. So he took a dip in the Styx. That was such a risky and stupid thing to do. But it was exactly the type of thing he will do. He would sacrifice himself for anyone close to him.  Even though I call it stupid, it was indeed a smart move. Maybe I’ll tell him that if (no when there can be no if) we come out alive from the war. He looks at me and suddenly I remember that I should answer his question. "I don't know, Percy.” I admit. “ I just had this feeling you were in danger. Where . . . where is the spot?" 

I didn't expect him to tell me his weakness though. I could be fatal and I would understand if he didn't want to tell me either (though it would hurt on the inside but let's forget about that part.) He should know that he wasn't supposed to tell anyone. "The small of my back." he answers. He told me? He told me his one weakness? His one fatal liability? I was in utter shock. I didn't expect  Seaweed Brain to trust me about something this fatal. But he did and that surprised me.

I guess curiosity is an ingrained trait of the Athenian brain. I wanted to know exactly where. Without thinking, I lifted my hand. "Where? Here?" I asked.  I put my hand on Percy’s spine, and my skin tingles from the warmth of the touch. Why do I keep feeling sparks every time I’m even close to Percy?  Percy moved my fingers to the one spot that grounded him to his mortal life. I shouldn't be feeling like this but  I will confess that I loved the intimacy that this moment carried. "You saved me," Percy said. "Thanks." I could practically hear the gratitude in his voice. It made the pain worth it. I cannot believe that I am saying this but I would have taken another poisoned dagger in a heartbeat for him. As much as I hated it, I removed my hand.  But I kept holding it. I am not going to lie, it made me feel surreal when it shouldn’t.  Small gestures by him send jolts of electricity through me. But I shouldn't feel like this. He saw me only as his friend and battle partner, nothing else. So I just switch to our usual banter.

 "So you owe me," I said weakly. "What else is new?" We watched the sun come up over the city. It felt peaceful and I was content for a moment. I wanted to savour the moment. In battle you appreciate the rare quiet times one gets. But of course my thoughts wonder as I study my surroundings.

The traffic should've been heavy by now, but there were no cars honking, no crowds bustling along the sidewalks. Far away, I could hear a car alarm echo through the streets. A plume of black smoke curled into the sky somewhere over Harlem. I wondered how many ovens had been left on when the Morpheus spell hit; how many people had fallen asleep in the middle of cooking dinner. Pretty soon there would be more fires. it made sad to see such a busy town being reduced to a battlefield by the Titans… and the Gods. Oh gods, Percy must be feeling terrible seeing his town in such a condition.  Everyone in New York was in danger—and all those lives depended on us. 

Did Annabeth sound a little too lovergirl in this? I don't know. Phew, this was a long one so it will probably have a lot of mistakes. As always positive criticism is appreciated. Hope you liked it!

You can read it on AO3 here

[hayleythecannibal]

Hi,

do you still take requests? If you do, could you please write Hannibal fanfic where the reader dirstracts Hannibal, while he is doing his paperwork.Preferably ending in smut? Thanks for considering

Distractions, Distractions

TW: SMUT, MDom, FSub, PIV, Oral (Male receiving), Breeding K!nk, established Relationship.

My Heels click as I arrive home from Work, Today had been exhausting. I put my coat on the rack and go and search for my Husband, He's probably in his Office. I knock on the office door and hear him call. "Come in"

I smile and open the door, "Hello Doctor Lecter." I saunter over to him and give him a soft kiss. "Hello Doctor Lecter." He replies, I look over his shoulder And see the Paperwork on his desk. I'd roll my eyes if he didn't find the action rude.

"Thought you were done with work?" I say softly as I gently massage his shoulders. He places a hand on top of one of mine. "Jack Crawford asked me to take a look at this case." I kiss the side of his neck softly. He sighs.

"Patience is a virtue one always should possess" My husband says wisely. "Hannibal...I have missed you." I pout lightly. "I promise once I'm finished I will attend to your needs my love." He says as he resumes his reading. I roll my eyes and I leave his office with a wicked idea in mind.

I quickly and quietly go up to our room and I go into our walk in closet. I find my lingerie drawer and pull out my favorite set. I put my silk robe on and reapply my lipstick. A smirk on my face as I look at myself in the mirror.

Oh the trouble I will be in….I bite my lip softly and smile. I place my heels back on my feet and walk back down to Hannibal’s office. I knock softly. I tie my robe shut and open the door. “Sorry, I just wanna keep you company. Is that okay?” I say in a sultry tone.

“Is that really what you want Y/N?” He asks as he takes in my appearance. “Of course. Can’t I just keep my husband company?” I smile softly. He takes a good look at me and gestures me forward. He pays his lap and I sit down. “Now are you gonna be a good girl and tell me what you really want?” I blush deeply.

“I want you” I say softly, I place my hands on his chest. “You are a Distraction my dear.” He grips my waist tightly. “Is that such a bad thing?” I untie my robe. “Not always.”

He cups my jaw, stroking my lips with his thumb. I open my mouth and wrap my lips around his thumb. “Good girl, get on your knees.” I bite my lip and obey. Sinking to my knees, happy to please my husband.

I unbuckle his belt and undo his slack. My mouth salivating. I pull his cock out of his pants and gaze up at him. He pets my hair softly. “Go ahead, I know you can take it.” He says with a smile.

I wrap my hand around his cock and spit on it. I start pumping my hand. He groans softly as I wrap my lips around the head of his cock. Swirling my tongue expertly. I look at him through my lashes as I take him deeper into my mouth and throat.

Stroking the underside with my tongue. Hannibal makes a ponytail with his hand in my hair. Bobbing my head in the pace he wants. Moaning. Oh his moans make me soaked. Probably because I know I’m the one making him feel this good.

I pull off his cock, still pumping his slick cock in my hand “I need you…please…” I plead. I’m needy and soaked. “Such a good girl for me” he strokes my face. I whimper softly. “Please”

He lifts me from my knees. His desk cleared now. He kisses me passionately. I moan into his mouth. The robe slips from my body and my bra strap falls. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” His hand trails down to my pussy. “Y/N your soaked.”

“Hannibal Fuck me please” he undoes my bra and cups my breasts kneading my nipples between his fingers. I moan loudly. “Fuck- oh fuck”

He removes my panties as I unbutton his shirt with desperation and need. Kissing his neck and running my hands through his hair. He strokes his cock before he sets me on his desk.

Lays me back and spreads my legs. Pushing his cock into my pussy. “Ohh- fuck- ah-“ one of his hands are gripping my waist the other is playing with my clit. “Oh my god- fuck! Feels so good- feel so full-“ I moan, gripping his arms.

He shows no mercy in the way he’s pounding me. Fucking me silly. “You like the way I’m pounding this pussy” i nod my head, my eyes rolling back as my body bucks up to meet his thrusts.

“Feels so good” I’m drooling, been a while since he’s fucked me this good. My nails scratch at his arms and back and chest gripping onto anything they can get a hold of as my body bucks in spasms. 

He moans. “I could cum inside you, start our family. You’d like that wouldn’t you lovely”

“Please, please cum inside me. Get me pregnant” I beg, the thought of being full of his cum, and carrying his child almost brings me to orgasm itself. “Yeah want me to make you a mommy?”

“Yes- fuck-! Please I’m so close-“ he speeds up his pace and the stroking of my clit. I could tell he was getting close. My moaning became unintelligible as I come closer to cumming.

“Oh- fuck-! Hannibal” my eyes roll back and my body spasms as I orgasm, my clenching pussy, and bringing him to his. I feel his seed fill inside me. Oh, and what a wonderful feeling it is.

“I should distract you more often if it means you’ll fuck me like this” I joke with a smile as he softly kisses me.

[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.

[muiitoloko]

Become a Better Man

Summary: Grieving father Eli struggles with his past mistakes as he adopts a puppy, hoping to find redemption and heal his broken heart.

Pairing: Eli Michaelson & Daughter! Reader

Warnings: Angst, negligent father.

Author's Notes: I finally managed to crank out something for this fanfic, and surprise, surprise, it turned out totally sad—again! But hey, a part of me is happy I could write it. Hope you like it too! Heads up, it's pretty detailed and sad. Oh, and fun fact: Otto is also my dog's name! 🐶😅

First, Second, Third and Fourth part here.

Also read on Ao3

Eli paced the office, his steps quick and agitated. "Why would Lionel Shabandar buy my daughter's paintings and not tell me about the connection he had with her before?" he demanded, his baritone voice echoing off the walls.

The therapist, Dr. Reynolds, sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Eli, there's nothing strange about this," he began, his tone calm and measured. "You have to start realizing that maybe you're just trying to suppress your sadness over your daughter's death by directing your attention for meaningless things, creating a theory in your head."

Eli stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping as he absorbed the doctor's words. He turned and sat down heavily on the couch, his head in his hands. "Maybe you're right," he admitted reluctantly, his voice filled with exhaustion. "Maybe I'm just trying to find something to distract myself from the grief."

Dr. Reynolds nodded, his expression sympathetic. "It's natural to look for answers and create narratives to make sense of loss, Eli. But it's also important to confront the grief head-on, to allow yourself to feel it and process it."

Eli let out a long breath, his body sagging with the weight of his emotions. "What do you want me to do?" he asked wearily, his eyes meeting the therapist's.

"I have another task for you this week," Dr. Reynolds said, his tone encouraging.

Eli rolled his eyes, his impatience flaring. "More stupid tasks to do," he muttered under his breath, his irritation palpable.

Dr. Reynolds noticed Eli's reaction and gave him a thoughtful look. "Have you ever considered adopting a dog?" he asked, his voice gentle. "Maybe having a puppy to take care of will help you overcome your grief and leave you less alone."

Eli frowned, taken aback by the suggestion. "A dog?" he repeated, his tone skeptical.

"Yes, a dog," Dr. Reynolds confirmed with a small smile. "Pets can provide companionship and comfort, and they can give you a sense of purpose. It might be just what you need to help you through this difficult time."

Eli sat back, his mind racing as he considered the idea. He had never been much of an animal person, his life always too busy and chaotic to accommodate a pet. But now, with his daughter's death leaving a gaping hole in his life, the thought of having a loyal companion by his side was strangely appealing.

"Maybe," Eli said slowly, his skepticism giving way to curiosity. "I'll think about it."

Dr. Reynolds nodded, his expression approving. "Take your time, Eli. There's no rush. But I truly believe it could help you find some peace."

Eli left the therapist's office with a heavy heart, but also with a flicker of hope. The idea of adopting a dog seemed absurd at first, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. A puppy could be a distraction, a way to fill the emptiness that had consumed him since his daughter's death.

That evening, Eli found himself browsing online for local animal shelters, his mind filled with images of playful puppies and wagging tails. It was a small step, but it was a step towards healing, towards finding a way to live with the pain of his loss.

Eli scoffed and turned away from the computer at his desk, his bitterness intensifying as he stood up to get something to drink. He didn’t need a dog, he told himself, his irritation growing with each step. But the voice in his head, a voice that had become more pronounced in the last few days—a voice that sounded vaguely like his daughter's—protested.

"Maybe it would be good to have a dog," the voice argued softly, urging him to consider the companionship and responsibility it would bring.

"No," Eli muttered under his breath, his grip tightening around the glass in his hand. "No dogs. They make a mess of everything."

The voice persisted, coaxing him gently. "But it would give you something to feed and take care of, something to focus on besides your grief."

Eli shook his head vehemently, his frustration boiling over. "No! They piss and shit everywhere. And I don't even want to think about bathing a dog. I'm not going to have a dog."

The voice in his head was relentless, its tone filled with gentle insistence. "Yes, you will. It will be good for you."

"No, I won't!" Eli snapped, his anger directed at the invisible presence. "I won't!"

"Yes, you will," the voice replied calmly.

"No, I won't!"

"Yes, you will."

The argument continued in his mind, an endless loop of defiance and persuasion. Finally, exhausted and exasperated, Eli threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine!" he shouted into the empty room. "I'll just look. But I'm not promising anything."

The next day, after work at the university, Eli found himself walking into an animal shelter, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. He walked past the cages of dogs that barked at his presence, ignoring their eager faces and wagging tails. One of the shelter staff approached him, a friendly smile on her face as she began to speak about the dogs.

Eli interrupted her, his tone brusque. "I just want a puppy."

The employee nodded, undeterred by his abruptness. "Of course, sir. We have a few puppies available. Let me show you."

She guided him towards a cage, pointing to a male French bulldog puppy, about four months old. The puppy looked up at Eli with large, expressive eyes, its small body trembling slightly.

"This little guy has been returned twice," the employee explained, her voice tinged with sadness.

Eli's curiosity was piqued, despite himself. "Why?" he asked, his tone more demanding than curious.

The employee sighed. "It's because of his health problems. He has a few issues that require regular attention and care."

Eli’s initial reaction was one of indifference. "Good," he thought to himself, "health problems mean I'll get rid of it faster." But the voice in his head protested, telling him not to think that way.

Eli ignored the voice, focusing instead on the practicalities. "I'll take him," he stated flatly, his decision made.

The employee looked surprised but nodded quickly, not wanting to lose the opportunity to find the puppy a home. "Alright, let's get the paperwork started," she said, leading Eli to the front desk.

As they walked, Eli glanced back at the puppy, who was now watching him with a curious, hopeful expression. Despite his best efforts to remain aloof, a small part of him couldn't help but feel a pang of something—maybe not quite affection, but something close to it.

The voice in his head was quiet for now, and Eli couldn't help but wonder if he had made the right choice. Only time would tell, but for now, he had taken a small step towards something new, something that might just help him find a bit of solace in the wake of his grief.

Later at his home, Eli laid two newspapers on the floor, pointing to the dog, Otto, as the animal shelter had informed him, and then to the newspapers, stating firmly, "This is where you piss and shit, got it?" He gave a stern lecture to Otto, his voice tinged with impatience. "Don't try to piss or shit anywhere else, or you'll be sleeping in the backyard."

The voice in his head urged him to be more gentle, but Eli ignored it, watching Otto sniff everything around. He left the puppy to it and went to pour himself a drink, needing something to calm his nerves. The voice persisted, suggesting that Eli should buy a dog bed and maybe some toys for Otto, but Eli dismissed the idea as too expensive. "The dog already has food and water," he muttered to himself, "and that’s enough. It’s just a dog after all."

The voice in his head seemed to sigh, saying, "You're so stubborn, Daddy."

Eli ignored the comment, going to sit on the sofa and watching Otto explore the new environment. The puppy sniffed around the furniture, occasionally glancing back at Eli with curious eyes. Eli took a sip of his drink, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling that had settled over him since bringing Otto home.

"Why did I even get a dog?" he thought, frustration bubbling up. "What good will it do?"

But as he watched Otto, a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The puppy's innocent curiosity and playful energy were strangely endearing, despite his initial reluctance.

Otto approached Eli, his tiny paws padding softly on the floor. He looked up at Eli with those big, expressive eyes, and Eli felt a pang of something he couldn't quite name. It was a fleeting moment of connection, a small spark of warmth in the cold, empty space that grief had carved out in his heart.

The voice in his head was gentler now, saying, "Give him a chance, Dad. He might just help you heal."

Eli sighed, setting his drink down and reaching out to pat Otto's head. The puppy's fur was soft and warm under his hand, and for a moment, Eli felt a flicker of peace. "Maybe," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe."

He watched as Otto continued to explore, the puppy's boundless energy a stark contrast to Eli's own weariness. Despite himself, Eli couldn't help but feel a small, tentative hope that maybe, just maybe, this little dog might bring some light back into his life.

As the evening wore on, Eli found himself paying more attention to Otto, watching the puppy's every move with a mixture of curiosity and caution. Otto, seemingly unfazed by his new surroundings, continued to explore with unabashed enthusiasm, occasionally stopping to sniff at a corner or chew on a stray shoe.

Eli couldn't help but chuckle softly at the sight, the sound surprising even himself. "Alright, Otto," he said, his voice softening. "Let's see if you can manage to follow some basic rules."

He got up from the sofa and went to the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers until he found an old, worn-out tennis ball. "Here," he said, tossing the ball to Otto. "Maybe this will keep you entertained."

Otto pounced on the ball with glee, his tiny tail wagging furiously as he chased it around the room. Eli watched with a mixture of amusement and relief, grateful for the brief respite from his own troubled thoughts.

As the night drew to a close, Eli found himself feeling a bit more at ease. He set up a small corner for Otto in the living room, using an old blanket as a makeshift bed. "It's not much," he muttered, almost apologetically, "but it'll do for now."

Otto seemed content, curling up on the blanket with a tired but happy sigh. Eli stood there for a moment, watching the puppy settle down before finally retreating to his own bedroom. The voice in his head was quiet now, a gentle presence that seemed to offer a small measure of comfort.

Just as he began to drift off, he heard a soft whining and scratching at the bedroom door. Eli sighed irritably, pulling the pillow over his head in a vain attempt to drown out the noise. "Otto, go away!" he muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow.

As Eli lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, he couldn't help but think of his daughter and the unresolved pain that still lingered. He tossed and turned in his bed, trying to shut out the thoughts that raced through his mind. Lionel Shabandar, the mysterious benefactor who had bought his daughter's paintings and paid for her art school, loomed large in his thoughts. What was Shabandar's connection to his daughter? Why hadn't he said anything? Eli tried to recall the therapist's advice, but the questions swirled relentlessly.

But Otto persisted, his whining growing louder and more insistent. Eli cursed under his breath, throwing the pillow aside as he got up and stomped to the door. "What do you want, you little pest?" he grumbled, opening the door with a sharp tug.

Otto bounded past him, ignoring Eli's question as he headed straight for the bed. The puppy leaned against the side of the bed, his tiny paws scrabbling at the sheets as he looked up at Eli with pleading eyes.

"No, no, no, no!" Eli protested, waving his hands in a futile attempt to shoo Otto away. "You can't sleep in here. This is my bed!"

Otto whimpered, his eyes wide and sad as he continued to beg for Eli's attention. The sight of those soulful eyes brought back a flood of memories. Eli remembered his daughter, her big, hopeful eyes looking up at him, asking him to play, to spend time with her, to show her love. He had been harsh and distant then, pushing her away, too wrapped up in his own world to see the hurt he caused.

Would he reject her again?

With a heavy sigh, Eli's resolve crumbled. He reached down and scooped Otto up, the puppy's warm body snuggling into his chest. "Alright, alright," he muttered, carrying Otto to the bed. "But don't get used to it. This is the first and last time you sleep in my bed."

Otto wagged his tail happily, settling down on the bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Eli lay back down, keeping a stern face as he watched the puppy snuggle into the blankets. Despite his gruff exterior, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" he said softly, reaching out to pat Otto's head. "But maybe... maybe this isn't so bad."

Otto licked Eli's hand, his tail thumping against the bed. The simple act of affection warmed Eli's heart in a way he hadn't felt in a long time. As he closed his eyes, the weight of his grief felt a little lighter, the presence of the tiny dog offering a small measure of comfort.

"Goodnight, Otto," Eli whispered, his voice soft and uncharacteristically gentle. "Don't get too comfortable."

Otto's soft snores were the only response, a soothing sound that lulled Eli into a restless but ultimately peaceful sleep. For the first time in what felt like forever, Eli allowed himself to hope that things might get better, one small step at a time.

Later that same night, Otto woke up to the sound of soft sobs coming from his new owner. The room was dimly lit by the streetlights outside, casting long shadows on the walls. Otto blinked sleepily, his small body stirring as he lifted his head to see Eli lying on his back, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his silent cries.

Otto, sensing the sadness that filled the room, got up and padded over to Eli, his little paws barely making a sound on the sheets. He gently licked Eli's hand, his warm tongue a comforting presence. But Eli pushed him away, his voice rough with grief. "Leave me alone, Otto," he muttered, his tone harsh.

But Otto persisted, undeterred by Eli's rejection. He laid his head on Eli's chest, his eyes filled with concern. Eli pressed his arm against his eyes, trying to block out the memories that assaulted him. Memories of you, memories of the guilt that gnawed at him relentlessly.

He remembered the time he had come home from a long day at the university to find his lesson plans scattered across the dining table, each page adorned with your intricate, colorful drawings. His initial shock quickly gave way to anger, the rage bubbling up inside him as he realized how much time and effort he had spent on those plans.

"What the hell is this?" he had yelled, his voice echoing through the house. You flinched at his tone, your small body curling up in fear. "I gave you a whole painting kit to keep you away from my papers!"

Tears welled up in your eyes as you tried to explain. "I just wanted you to have some pretty drawings on those papers you always carry with you," you said, your voice trembling with fear and sorrow. "So you can remember me."

Eli just got angrier. "I don't want your fucking drawings! I don't want to fucking remember you! You already irritate me enough!" he shouted, his voice filled with venom.

You recoiled at his harsh words, tears streaming down your face. Sarah tried to butt in, her voice trembling with desperation. "Eli, don't say that! She's just a child!"

But Eli was relentless, his anger consuming him. "Be quiet, Sarah!" he yelled, his face contorted with rage. "You won't put your hand over her head again! She has to fucking learn limits!"

You ran to your daddy, trying to grab his legs, your tiny hands clinging to his trousers as you sobbed. "I'm sorry, Daddy! I didn't mean to ruin your papers!"

Eli pushed you away with a force that made you stumble and fall. "No, fuck! That's why I never wanted girls! You're an irritating fucking disappointment!"

Sarah shouted, her voice filled with a mix of anger and heartbreak. "Eli, stop it! Look at what you're doing to her!"

But the damage was done. Eli's face twisted with fury as he glared at you. "I never wanted you!" he asserted with all his might, his words hitting you like a physical blow. "You're grounded for messing with my papers again!"

You lay on the floor, your heart shattered by his cruel words. The world seemed to close in around you, the weight of his rejection pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket. You looked up at Sarah, your eyes pleading for comfort, but even her embrace couldn't erase the sting of Eli's words.

Eli stormed out of the room, leaving you and Sarah behind. The house felt cold and empty, the echoes of his anger lingering in the air. Sarah held you tightly, her own tears mingling with yours as she tried to soothe you.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "He didn't mean it. He's just... he's just angry."

But you knew that wasn't true. You felt the weight of Eli's rejection deep in your soul, a wound that would never fully heal. You clung to Sarah, seeking solace in her warmth, but the pain remained, a constant reminder of your father's harsh words.

You clung to your mother, your small body trembling as you buried your face in her shoulder. "I love Daddy so much," you sobbed, your voice muffled against her as tears streamed down your cheeks. "Why does Daddy hate me? Why is he so bad?"

Sarah held you tightly, her own tears mixing with yours as she tried to find the right words to comfort you. "Sweetheart, it's not your fault," she whispered, her voice breaking with sorrow. "Daddy's just... he's not well. He doesn't mean the things he says. You are so loved, my darling."

But your heart ached with confusion and pain. "I just want him to love me," you cried, your voice filled with desperation. "Why can't he love me like I love him?"

Outside, on the porch, Eli paced back and forth, the cool night air doing little to calm his seething anger. He could hear your heart-wrenching questions through the open window, each one like a dagger to his chest. But instead of feeling remorse, his frustration only grew. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, his hands shaking as he lit it and took a deep drag, trying to steady his nerves.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself, his voice rough with anger. "Why can't she just leave me alone? Why does everything have to be so damn complicated?"

The sound of your cries continued to filter through the window, but Eli couldn't bring himself to care. He took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke swirling around him as he tried to drown out your pain. "I'm better off out here," he thought bitterly. "Better off away from all of this."

But now, years later, the memory of that night haunted him. Lying in bed with Otto curled up beside him, Eli felt the weight of his past mistakes pressing down on him like a leaden shroud. He reached out to the small dog, his hand trembling as he stroked Otto's soft fur.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm so, so sorry."

Otto snuggled closer to his chest, offering a small measure of comfort with his warm presence. Eli's tears fell freely now, each one a testament to the deep well of grief and regret that had consumed him since your death. "I promise I'll be better," he vowed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I promise I'll change."

But the stark reality of his situation hit him like a punch to the gut. He didn't have you anymore. He didn't have anyone else. All he had was Otto, the small dog who had somehow become his lifeline in the midst of his despair.

Eli hugged Otto tightly, his heart breaking with the weight of his loss. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," he murmured, his voice raw with pain. "I'm sorry I couldn't be the father you deserved."

Otto nuzzled closer, his soft breaths a soothing balm to Eli's tormented soul. "I'll do better, I swear," Eli whispered, his tears soaking into Otto's fur. "I'll be the person you would have wanted me to be."

But deep down, Eli knew that no amount of promises or apologies could change the past. The memory of your broken heart, the sound of your desperate cries, would haunt him forever. All he could do now was hold on to Otto and hope that, somehow, he could find a way to make amends for the mistakes that had shattered his family and his heart.

[katy-l-wood]

I think the thing that bugs me the most about working in retail is how much of a waste of time it is. I called out sick today because, honestly, I'm reevaluating if I want to stay at Home Depot at all. In just the time I would've been at work today I taped a whole room, covered the floor in plastic, and painted that whole room. I edited and posted a chapter of my fanfic I've been posting. I formatted the first 30k words of my new manuscript and sent them off to my agent. I had dinner. I answered some Kickstarter messages. I even got groceries and did a load of laundry!

But if I'd gone to work I would've just. Stood there. I'd STILL be standing there for another half hour, in fact. At least when I worked at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science I could read when things got slow. And at the fossil job I could listen to podcasts while I worked.

But retail? Especially the paint department? It's just standing there. It's almost impossible to leave the paint desk and go do stuff in the aisles without constantly getting dragged back, and even if you DO escape into the aisles for a bit it's still only 3 aisles. There's only so many things to front face and downstock.

I just need a job where I can DO things the whole time, and if there aren't things to do I'm allowed to distract myself in other ways.

[enden-agolor]

the way how I can tell that something is at least readable to me is that if I can prevent myself from trailing off of the thing I'm reading. (like I'm not staring out the window constantly or thinking of anything else other than the thing I'm reading) and your forest deity fanfic does exactly that.

I cannot tell you how focused I am on that thing. If I take my eyes off of it, it's either to go into theory mode and try to figure out more lore about the au, or just to laugh at what happened. Like that one part in chapter 8 where Petra was telling Aiden off got a laugh out of me.

I can literally hear the characters speaking out what they're saying. Thank you and your boyfriend for sharing this with everyone who is able to see it, I love both of y'alls writing and I CANNOT wait to see more of the au!!!!!!! I hope your bf makes a good recovery from his surgery!

This makes me so happy to hear 🥺

My main goal with writing is to try and keep it simple yet descriptive enough to paint full pictures without using too big of words so you aren't going back and forth to google to look something up. I want my fics to be an easy read, while still being fun enough to keep the reader entertained (because I too am very easily distracted from reading). Yes, the au has a big mysterious plot and a lot of dark undertones, but I still try to keep it funny and silly too like how mcsm truly is. I like to get a good laugh out of people so I'm glad you're able to enjoy those bits. I love writing Petra and I'm so excited to get deeper into the lore behind her and the rest of BeaconTown (and Jesse too 😍). I keep seeing people trying to theorize certain things and it's got me so excited to see some people catching on. I won't be saying anything though 🤫 These things are always better for the audience when I keep my mouth shut and don't say spoilers. Questions are always welcome, but not everything can be answered if it's relative to plot.

Anyways, thank you for taking the time to send this (and to everyone else who sent asks that I haven't had the chance to get to yet).

Also yes!! Andy is doing great! He's made a speedy recovery. 😁 He also says thank you!

[sugarpasteltmnt]

Hi there! I've read a lot of ROTTMNT fics, and I mean. A LOT. But holy fuck The Neon Void is literally the most amazing thing I've ever read.

The pacing is FANTASTIC? I'm way too impatient for reveals to take so long in my own writing, the fact you've managed to make it last 20 chapters (so far)? INSANE. /POS.

The characterization is absolutely phenomenal, it genuinely feels like this is something that could have happened in canon. It FEELS like the characters in every sense, even with Leo being the way he is! Its genuinely amazing.

Not to mention the ANGST. Presumed death is my favorite trope ever, and the fact all of their grief feels so palpable? The way you described Raph's grief in one of the chapters stuck with me so much, I forget the exact wording but it was like "He couldn't be more grateful to have had Leo for a brother, or more proud of the fact he had been his big brother" I don't know something like that AND IT FELT LIKE A KNIFE TO THE CHEST. WONDERFULLY DONE.

AND THE TELEPORTATION THING- making true teleportation so difficult in such a smart way was such a great move. I LOVE that aspect so much.

I'm gonna cut this ramble off here before I further go off the rails, I just wanted to say this is my all time favorite fanfic EVER. Even long when this is over I expect myself to come back to reread it VERY often. You're doing an amazing job, and you're a really awesome writer!

Have a wonderful day! :D

SOB THANK U SO MUCH

But seriously, that means a lot ;w; I’m always worried that my pacing is too slow, or if I’m hitting the marks on the boys’ personalities. ESPECIALLY with Leo fighting between insane giggle fits and self-loathing. It's been a challenge for sure. The reassurance that it’s somewhat believable makes me incredibly happy ;w; The story beats of this fic are honestly new territory for me—so it means the WORLD to me that you took the time to let me know you like my silly story!!! Especially since this is the first fic I’ve ever published—it’s a huge relief knowing that people enjoy my brain worms LOL

Honestly the amount of positive feedback I’ve gotten just from my silly little fic has totally floored me. Everyone has been so sweet and so kind and honestly writing this fic has brought me so much joy and I’m so happy that it makes other people happy too ;w;

But like??? The fact you feel like it could be canon?? THAT IS SUCH A HIGH COMPLIMENT THANK YOU 😭😭😭 I will admit I am proud of the teleportation aspect, and while I have some other silly particle physics lessons planned I just hope it all makes sense to readers in the end ;w;

Thank you again so so so much ;w; I love big dramatic reveal fics too, so it’s been VERY painful for me to have made it this far without a reveal LMAO. Seriously, I can’t wait to get this silly guy written and moved out of my head to free up rent space for some fanfic READING again (I WILL get distracted if I let myself read other fics rn SOB) I’ll def have to check yours out too because it sounds DELICIOUS 🤤✨

[kwillow]

Ambroys basking in his cache of gifts and sweet words from secret admirers. Gotta be careful, though. If his ego is inflated any more, he'll pop.

(I wanted to doodle something to accompany a post answering some messages regarding this candy-colored cad but got a bit carried away. :P Well regardless, asks under the cut!)

Why thank you! He would drunkenly insult people, though he tends to be more passive-aggressive and backhanded rather than outright insulting - well, most of the time, anyway. He thinks he's a lot more subtle in his derogatory comments than he actually is.

Aaaw, this is too sweet!

Older Ambroys is much more reserved about seeking and accepting physical affection than his younger self, for myriad reasons (that one day I will expound upon in more detail, fate willing). He still enjoys it, though.

He's still proud of the stars on his cheeks and the gold in his hair and all that, but the signs of age are something he is not at peace with. For some, like the wrinkles, they're a sign that his time on this earth is finite - and death terrifies him. For others, like his paunch, it's more just embarrassing to him in a more mundane and vain "I was voted Prom King in high school and I was on the Varsity track team now look at me I'm an old man boo hoo hoo" type of way (though he's actually more physically adept in his older age than he was when he was younger for Magical Heritage Bullshit reasons, the sentiment remains).

As for your question, it's totally fine with me for Ambroys to be portrayed as non-heterosexual in fanfic or fanart or one's secret imaginings. Even though all of his "canon" love interests are women, I wouldn't rule out of the possibility of him developing affections for someone who isn't a woman. Chase your bliss!

Haha well both furry and aasimar Ambroys would bask in the attention, though poor aasimar Ambroys' jealousy is not going to be helped!

No shame on being a furry though. I didn't consider myself one either but I feel like it's harder to make the argument that I'm not given the sheer number of ponies I've drawn by now...

He would accept this, so long as you don't mess up his hair.

He would say: "good!" I would say "don't waste your life on him!"

Oh he would be pleased to be so distracting, I'm sure.

And sometimes we can't help but to have a type... I know I seem to have a thing for rich effete douchebags with buck teeth and big pointy noses... not quite sure what's up with that.

Yessss... yesssssssss... or perhaps I should say "I'm sorry."

I didn't mean to make him this way... I guess I underestimated the power of a brushable mane.

Ambroys DOES like being worshipped (way too much and way too literally, as you might be able to tell) but he wants to have his imperfections hidden if he can!

He's just horribly, horribly vain and unwilling to let go of his youth... even though he got to enjoy being youthful for three times as long as a mortal would.

YES that song is on his playlist (which I have for all my main characters because I'm a dork). It's just too perfect. One of the many ideas on my miles-long to do list has to do with depicting a scene from that song. The trouble is that it has to do with dancing, and boy am I not very good at drawing dancing poses. xD Oh well, gotta try for the boy!

Heh well I think we could agree that a normal horse probably couldn't pull off the breeches he wears quite so well... I'm flattered that you think of him when you see horsies in the flesh! Huzzah, I've ruined one of the Earth's beautiful creatures for you! >:)

Oh wow, my guy is stepping out of my brain and into other people's subconsciouses... I need to put a leash on him. :P But this was a fun read!

It's very in character Ambroys to try to undercut a rival's self-esteem by framing it as something OTHER people say, but oh no, he'd NEVER say something like that, of course. Mean girl behavior. He does have friends that don't actually like him - and he doesn't like them either. But one needs to have friends for appearance's sake - just one more accessory, really!

OKAY, I think that's everything! Or at least enough for this post, ahah.

Thanks to everyone for your kind words on my not-so-kind character.

Unlike him, I'm really humbled and grateful by the positive reception he's received. I deeply appreciate your kind messages... even when it takes me eons to reply to them, gah.

[gaslysainz]

Lost (PG10) pt4

Summary: The world is utterly unfair. He was her most prized possession, her life, her first ever commitment of love. But to him, she was just a mere person lost in his big world.

warnings: ; unrequited feelings; Pierre is a douche , arrange marriage, angst, explicit scenes and languages.

Author's Note~ Heya guys! I present to you the 4th part of my fanfic. I'm overwhelmed by the response ❤️ Really Thanks a lot to everyone who had liked the story so far. Something's have started to cook. Hope you look forward to it. Love You All 😘 Here's my first ever story for you guys. As soon as I finish this one, I'll start taking requests maybe! Till then please show your love and support for "LOST".

This one's a filler chapter, so please bear with me.

Something completely different happened today. A knock at my door woke me up from my 1 hour nap which has unfortunately turned into a 3 hour nap. I stood up from the bed and opened the door only to find my husband standing there and running a hand through his curls. Oh! What a sight! He looks like a Greek God.

"Hey! Did you need something? I'm sorry I fell asleep, also you can come inside"

He thanked me and entered my room, this is completely new. But nonetheless, I had to take a chance. He was looking around the room and the pictures hanging on the walls. His eyes stuck to one picture in particular. A picture captured by Pierre's mom of Isaac, Pierre and myself. It was Halloween and Isaac wanted to be a Vampire and on the other hand Pierre and Me were Romeo and Juliet. He was 6 and I was 4! We did not even know who Romeo and Juliet were! It was because of the elders who had insisted on these costumes! Oh! What I'd give to have those days back.

"You need something?"

"Ah! No, um actually yes, I have to attend an event with the rest of grid tomorrow. And you have to come with me. So be ready by 7pm tomorrow, will you? Wear something nice. I'll send someone with dresses for you to choose today in the evening. Just pick something from there."

There it is! Like I've mentioned before, he only remembers me when he needs something or needs to go somewhere to show off the world our so called amazing married life. *Scoff* But I'm not mad, at least I'll be able to meet HIM after so many days. The only person who happens to care even a little bit for me. Who always greets me with a beautiful smile on his face. A friend? Nope, he's like an angel for me.

I really hope everyone gets a friend like him!

" *Cough* *cough* You there?"

" Oh yea! I'm sorry, I was a bit distracted. Umm, Why don't you take Julia with you? I'm sure she would love to accompany you and also I'm sure she has several dresses in her wardrobe already. Won't even have to buy a dress last minute"

The look Pierre gave me after I mentioned Julia simply yelled 'ARE YOU CRAZY'. I mean I knew why he wouldn't take Julia, but I just find a different kind of satisfaction by reminding it to him.

"Um, I'll be ready tomorrow. Don't worry. By the way, where's Julia?"

"I sent her home, no need for her to stay here for these two days, either way we'd be busy. It'll only distract us."

Oh well! That was odd! Distract us from what exactly? Sometimes this man leaves no tables unturned to confuse me to no end. Anyways. I know better now than to crack my brain over these things. It's actually useless cause I won't get anymore clear answers from him than this.

"Any specific colour that I need to keep in mind while choosing the dress?"

"Not that I'm aware of, just keep it a bit formal. I'll get going. If Julia calls or comes asking for me, just tell her I've been out for a meeting since morning."

And then he rushed out the door, not before checking our childhood photo once again. Okay! That was highly confusing! I mean why was he avoiding Julia? Or am I reading too much between the lines? No one knows. I better go eat something until then.

But still, I'm a bit lost here.

LOST in confusion.

PS - Please lemme know what do you think about LOST and also let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list ❤️

@peachiicherries @crimeshowjunkie @oblomovissad @torossosebs @janeholt3

[tmntxthings]

Hi! I really adore your writing!! I was wondering when you’re not busy if you could write a leo x reader oneshot where the reader has been feeling kind of touch starved lately and has resorted to reading fanfics when the turtles are out doing things? I thought it would be a kinda nice hurt(not really)/comfort concept, but I’m not great at writing myself, haha! Thank you for your time!

∑一Fanfic Tease。・゜・

author’s note: anon you are the sweetest, i hope this oneshot finds you well and this is kind of close right? I think I went off the deep end with this one, thank you for your support and request <3

warnings: lots of fluff, cursing, teasing, young love

『 donnie’s 』

—————————————————————————

“Hello hello??” Leonardo said into his phone as he was running with his brothers jumping from rooftop to rooftop. “I’m here!” You said as you scrolled through your tumblr feed, you had put Leo on speaker as soon as he called, trying to find something good to read.

“Sorry I had to portal out like that, all the mutants we’ve faced decided to team up so I don’t think I’ll be back for awhile” you could hear the wind whistling in the background. “I know, you don’t need to apologize Lee, you’re a hero go and defeat the bad guys! And please try not to get hurt,” you added on hopefully. “I’ll come back with a badass scar just for you,” he teased.

“Leo! That’s not what I-“ a loud crash could be heard and then some static. “Hello?!” Your voice raised in worry, “all good!” Leo groaned, “gotta go!” and then the phone call ended. Your heart was pounding and you told yourself that the turtles dealt with all kinds of crazy shit. Loud crashes were normal, yep a normal day in the life of a ninja.

You blew out a breath, hoped for everyone’s safe return, and distracted yourself. Which you had become pretty good at that, reading was your solace, when a story was good enough you could literally read for hours on end. Lately the patrolling and hero duty had taken a lot of time away from you and Leo. He’d get to your place and five minutes later he’d get a call or the voice channel tech on his wrist would blow up with his brother’s voices.

This had been the fourth time this week and Leo usually never called you right after portaling, maybe it had shown on your face how disappointed you were. The plan had been a movie night, and five minutes into the movie, (quite seriously you had paused it to see how far the both of you had gotten) and he was portaling away promising to finish it with you later.

You had just gotten comfortable in each others arms too. Your heart panged, it had been even longer since something like that had happened. Or maybe not, truly you couldn’t remember and yet you felt guilty, guilty for feeling so needy. The only thing that made you feel half better was a good fan fiction and tumblr was usually your go-to. You searched up hurt/comfort fics and got to reading.

You’d start smiling as the characters would be there for each other in the end, show so much passion and love for one another. It warmed your heart and made you feel so so happy, you were kicking your feet at one particular cute scene when a blue circle formed above your bed. “Incoming!!” Leo yelled as he front flipped into his portal and almost crushed you.

“Leo!” You said exasperated falling off your own bed. “Whoops! My bad,” he chuckled as he peered over the edge of your bed to see your fallen figure on the ground. You looked up at him and couldn’t stop the small smile, happy he was back and happy he looked uninjured. You stood up and Leo rolled over, making room for you to get back in bed. “Oh what do we have here?” Leo said as he felt your phone underneath his shell. He picked it up, seeing it was still unlocked and open on a story, he cleared his throat, “My darling, you know that I would cross galaxies if it meant I could be with you, then he leaned in impossibly closer, looking down at your lips asking silently for your permission, you’re eyes said it all as he claimed-“

“LEONARDO STOP IT!” Your skin went a few shades darker with embarrassment as you lunged for your phone. But Leo being the little annoying shit that he is, kept on reading, holding the phone away from you “-your lips in a warm embrace and it was everything you had dreamed it would be, soft and warm yet you could feel his burning passion for you,” Leo looked smugly at you and you decided the time for action was now. You got on top of his plastron effectively stunting his escape and eventually stopped his waving arm as you pried your phone from his three green fingers.

You huffed, locking the phone and shooting Leo the death glare. He was looking up at you, smirking, he was always so freaking cocky! Yet as the two of you had a staring match you could see a slight hint of a blush just underneath his bandana. “Sooo” Leo said looking down at where your legs were straddling him and was it possible to feel even more embarrassed?! You yelped and jumped off of him quickly, accidentally kicking him, “okay, I may have deserved that one,” he sputtered as he tried to regain his composure.

“Oh I’m sorry did I kick you ?” You said looking at his plastron and not seeing any bruises. “It’s fine,” Leo said laughing, “must’ve really embarrassed you huh?” You glowered again, all concern gone, “You think? I climbed all over you with no regard to get you to stop!” and then you sighed, turning away from him. “Aw Y/n I was just teasing, it sounded like a.. great story!” He said enthusiastically. “But isn’t it kinda cheesy?” he added on unable to help his questioning as to why.

“Not to me, it’s so romantic and,” you stopped short feeling your ears warm, “and?” Leo said scooting closer to peer over your shoulder to see your face. “I don’t know, just drop it!” You felt the all consuming blush take over again. “Darling~” Leo cooed and you looked at him to see he was blushing furiously too, “I’d portal across the entire universe if it meant I could be next to you.. watching our favorite movies,” he smiled down at you slightly embarrassed cause it was just so cheesy to him.

But to you it made your heart melt, especially since he said it so seriously. But then he goes on unable to stop himself from ruining a sweet moment, “then he leans closer,” but wait-! He really was leaning closer, your eyes widened and he looked like he was trying to act like he’d done this before, “silently asking for your permission,” but as he looked to your eyes he didn’t know what a ‘yes look’ was so as the seconds ticked on, you initiated despite feeling so flustered,

it was a soft, sweet kiss that was fleeting and chaste. You leaned back and opened your eyes to see Leo grinning, “well I can see the appeal,” he murmured as he leaned back in for one more. Maybe you’d have to leave your fan fiction up and open on your phone more often..