#you're my...AAAANNGEELLLLLLLL!!!!

[regrettablewritings]

Arthur Curry x Shy!Reader HC

A/N: Uhh... Heehee...Hi. I’m not gonna pussyfoot, this thing is way overdue. But for anyone who vaguely remembers, I had an anniversary fanfic raffle thingy back in January and ... yeah this is the result. Many, much, and eternal kudos to @this-red-in-my-ledger for their infinite patience with me and my perfectionist brain, tendency to overthink, weird motivation schedules, and school and work schedule, etc. Words cannot express how flustered I am at how late this is. I hope its length proves to be able to compensate at least 5% of what you’d hoped for. ...Though if it’s too long (and it most definitely is), please regard me as a fool who never learns. Once again, thank you so much for your patience, you are an absolute doll!!!

Despite being a man mostly shrouded in mystery, Arthur Curry was not exactly what some may refer to as “demure.” Aloof, maybe. Cynical, definitely. Reluctant to interact with others without an arguable consequence, most assured. But absolutely none of this is out of shyness. In fact, it’d probably an actual fact to claim that Arthur had nary a shy molecule in his entire being.

A man of his size and appearance could never afford the characteristic of being shy, not ever. But a man of his background had insecurities to spare. Specifically, those stemming from a sense that he didn’t quite belong with either world he had been linked to the moment his human father managed to conceive a child with an Atlantean queen.

Making matters worse is the unspoken sense of duty he has towards either realm, with assuring that both remain as safe as possible from both one another and outsiders sticking their noses where they ought not to.

This lack of belonging gave way to a rebellious attitude, one that led the man to apparently decide that if he wasn’t going to be provided an allegiance to begin with, as most people do, then he wouldn’t accept any unless he gave them the okay. It was just better this way: To push away than to pull or be pulled in. It was very liberating, having that sort of control over his own circumstances . . . Or so Arthur professed.

Nevertheless, Arthur took advantage of the devil-may-care reputation (or perhaps lack thereof, given his inability to stick to one place for too long). He owned that sense of disconnect and renamed it freedom. And he would own that freedom: He would take what he wanted within reason, party up if the circumstances were right, and leave with the tide.

. . . And then there was you.

You were also on the more closed off side, but for very different reasons. You didn’t have the same insecurities brought on by a lack of fitting in as Arthur had: You were just flat out shy.

However, you were nothing if not also dutiful and hard-working. That was what made you ideal in the eyes of one Lucius Fox, whose trust in you was enough for him to recommend you to Bruce Wayne’s services as his more publicized assistant. Though, in your own self-deprecating words, you were more like a glorified babysitter of sorts: When Alfred couldn’t accompany Bruce for certain travels, you came in handy to assure that there was always some form of backup.

(“He would attempt to survive off a diet of alcohol and perhaps occasionally a steak if he could,” Alfred scoffed once. “Maybe chased with only two hours’ worth of sleep, perhaps.”)

With Bruce’s newfound interest in finding the metahumans featured in Lex’s files, your presence was needed now more than ever

You admittedly had your hesitancies and were more than allowed to voice them but at this point, you knew it was mostly hopeless: You hadn’t been with Bruce for too, too long, but you had at least known him long enough to know that once his mind was made, it would take the combined force of a Kryptonian and Amazonian to actually move it.

And so here you were, out in an isolated village in Iceland, the wind slapping your face sore while your ass pained from riding on a pony across the rugged terrain. Your loyalty knew some bounds; unfortunately, these weren’t quite the bounds that would send your loyalties running. (Plus, the job paid well.)

It was this follow-you-to-the-ends-of-my-loyalty mindset that made you follow Bruce down, down, down into what you surmised might have served as the village’s gathering hall. All eyes were on you and Bruce, of course, as the two of you were outsiders in a hamlet that couldn’t have had a population expanding beyond perhaps seventy – and that was you being generous.

You were really hoping that some of that generosity would be extended to you, though: Their eyes bore into you with mixtures of curiosity and suspicion. You didn’t blame them for it, but it certainly did nothing for you dislike of having so much attention casted upon you.

You felt almost ashamed as you stuck to Bruce as a duckling does to whatever they’ve imprinted upon. You only let up once a decent enough crowd had gathered, and Bruce attempted to speak with the denizens about the metahuman he’d come to potentially acquire the assistance of.

And that was how you first laid eyes on Arthur Curry. Not that you had much of a choice: He was taller than even Bruce for one thing. And if that weren’t enough, his naturally-tanned skin and glorious dark-and-sandy locks surely stood out against the small sea of pale faces topped with mostly blond hair.

It also didn’t hurt the situation (or your eyes) that that this man was certainly quite attractive even at a distance. Ruggedly handsome, but not in the same way some might consider your employer.

This man had a look about him that said he could easily swig Jack in one hand and swing fists in the other without breaking a sweat. (However, if his body was anything like you imagined it must be beneath that clumpy sweater and dingy coat, you wouldn’t have minded seeing a little perspiration on him.)

These features proved to be key in your determining that this striking man differed from the rest.

Unfortunately, so could your boss. This, along with his smart mouth, let to the long-haired beauty of a man promptly grabbing your boss by the collar and slamming him into a wall, an aura of primal aggression radiating from him all the way to the back of the room where you stood.

 In short, your first introduction to Arthur Curry was far less than ideal. You were downright intimidated by this man more than you already were by default of your own timid nature. When the two men left the hall to discuss the matter, you made sure to keep your distance. You knew Bruce could more than take care of himself alone, but you couldn’t trust this new guy for jack shit after that scuffle.

“That your assistant?” Arthur questioned, glancing back at you. Your distance did nothing to hide your tensing at his sudden regard. Bruce sighed, exasperation coating the visible puff of air. “…Yes,” he responded gruffly. Arthur nodded with approval. “Nice…” he murmured before looking back at Bruce. “She single?” Bruce’s eyes narrowed with exasperation as they rolled in their sockets. He wasn’t sure which annoyed him more: That Arthur was clearly trying to remain off topic, or that he was doing so by using you (and with such a lackadaisical manner, no less). “Can we please focus on the matter?”

Yes, but to less than ideal results.

You stood there, gobsmacked as you watched the tan man begin to strip down. At first, your thoughts encircled around the insanity of it all: You were in the ice-blistering realm of Scandinavia during a particularly freezing bout, this lunatic was about to catch a death of cold!

As you were beginning to question further Bruce’s credibility for attempting to recruit such an idiot, however, Arthur removed his shirt – and your tune was peeled away along with it.

With the way you felt your cheeks burning, you no longer noticed the biting cold. His body was far more than what you’d initially imagined it to be. But perhaps more startling than his finely-cut physique were his eyes: Like the ghosts of sunken ships, illuminated by the sheer will to survive. You’d never seen anything like them, and you highly doubt you ever would again.

They flickered in your direction once more, for a split second, before returning to Bruce. “You’re out of your mind, Bruce Wayne,” Arthur ridiculed, and his sights went back to you. You felt your heart leap ever so slightly as you watched him aim a nod at your person. He then flipped back into the water before torpedoing elsewhere, away for your boss’s ludicrous proposal.

That would’ve been the last you’d have seen of Arthur Curry, had it not been for Steppenwolf’s less than pleasant surprise visit to Atlantis.

The next time you saw Arthur, he wasn’t nearly as undressed as the last time you’d seen him. You experienced a very short-lived flicker of disappointment, overthrown by the concern with the reason as to why he’d even taken up the previously rejected offer of joining the team.

Also . . . Whatever he was wearing did look quite impressive on him. Almost draconian, yet doubtlessly born in the sea. Much like the man himself.

And, once again, Arthur was quite aware of your stares at him whenever you entered the area. When you came to the Batcave to serve Bruce and “his new friends” drinks or to bring down any equipment as requested by Alfred, you would always somehow manage to spar Arthur a glance.

Unfortunately, not much was exchanged beyond a simple “thank you” or “excuse me.” Even on Arthur’s end, he could barely get a flirtation in before he’d be ushered elsewhere or snapped at about losing focus by your employer. And you? Expecting your coyness to be put aside for one second just to speak to somebody of his stature was an order taller than the man himself. (Plus there was the whole “he’s only here because Steppenwolf got the Mother Boxes and was preparing to bring about the Earth’s reckoning” but, you know, what can you do?)

Which was a shame: From what you were able to conclude from what few and often distant interactions you’d had or were able to observe, Arthur wasn’t as bad of a guy as he’d made himself out to be back in Iceland.

Back in the village, he was cold and gruff, exuding an air that said he was constantly ready to knock somebody’s teeth in over the smallest slight no matter how unintentional. But here? More laidback, still somewhat intimidating, but in the same way as a fellow who hung out at the local tattoo parlor and made small talk with the artists and customers but otherwise caused no real trouble.

Plus, his wiseass comments toward Bruce even managed to crack a smile out of you – something which he made note of and couldn’t help but muster pride from.

All things considered, the pleasant relief that he wasn’t as bad as you’d thought managed to relax the nerves you’d accumulated since you first laid eyes on him. It almost made you forget that you were on the verge of the end of the world. Almost.

Things were being received surprisingly well on Arthur’s end, also.

While you admittedly weren’t the type he usually found himself drawn to (which must be noted was essentially closer to a female version of himself), your more introverted nature still had its charms.

For what it was worth, he initially read your timid nature as one of a “stone-cold bitch” in the most respectful sense: The image of the aloof, perpetually unimpressed career woman who took no shit from her male coworkers (or, in this case, employers), and who always had an acerbic comment waiting to drip off her tongue if pushed beyond a limit she had personally set. Basically, his expectation of you in your “natural habitat” had been formulated through what he’d seen on TV or in movies.

Regardless of whether you truly did have anything to snap with, however, this proved to not be case exactly.

He quickly noticed that your quiet, withdrawn attitude wasn’t one of disinterest as he assumed anyone working for the likes of Bruce Wayne would be in possession of. In fact, on the contrary, you seemed quite interested in the matters at hand. He could see it in the little things: The ways you might lean in somewhat whenever Bruce brought up a diagram or whenever Victor brought forward new information; the occasion where you would tap Bruce’s shoulder, prompting him to lean towards you so that you might show him whatever it was you had pulled up on a tablet that might service the cause; that glimmer in your eyes that Arthur had managed to catch sight of during the very, very few moments he was just close enough and you simultaneously dared to look up at him.

The first time he’d seen it, he thought it might have been a fluke or the trick of lighting. Maybe he’d mistaken it for a desperation to leave, call the rest of the night off, and spend what may be your last night of existence binging Netflix and pizza at home.

But the second time he’d caught it, Arthur knew what he saw: Dedication, a yearning to be a part of this to a bigger extent than what you already were. But on that note . . .

He did also capture some nerves in your glances: Ones that, in spite of your eagerness to help, also seemed to want you to hide behind a one-way mirror and pitch in without the possibility of sounding clueless or out of line. In short: You weren’t this stone-cold bitch who would, without hesitation, necessarily break a man’s balls beneath her heels – you were just a bashful ball of nerves, and not in the nervy sense of being emboldened enough to look him dead in the eyes!

Not at all the type he usually found himself looking at. In fact, it was the brash, almost bullyish part of him that was beginning to coax him into teasing you a little bit, maybe riling you up.

And yet . . . He liked for someone of such an introverted manner, you seemed to have a lot more going on than what he’d initially thought. Almost like an oyster, if he could be pardoned for the clumsy comparison.

After witnessing the smiles you would occasionally share with Diana, the ever-present, underlying flame of determination that flickered as you helped to prepare the team for what was to come . . . Arthur Curry couldn’t help but wonder what more there was to you. What lay deep in your depths, beneath the seemingly one-note surface?

Plus, let’s be real: he had totally been checking out your ass every chance he got. The weather-proof gear he’d seen you in back in Iceland did absolutely no justice to your figure. He was quite pleased with what lay beneath all those goose down wears.

As you watched the team depart for Russia, you couldn’t help but feel your stomach drop into a low, dirty pit. There was no guarantee that anything would work into anyone’s favor, but you forced yourself to keep a calm countenance as you followed Alfred back into the labs. There was no use in worrying; all you could do was hope for the best. In the meantime, it would do some good to help monitor Bruce’s mechanisms.

Still, you found yourself considering the weight in your stomach, that sickening twist that twanged almost nauseatingly when you regarded what its source was: The regret of not having actually spoken more extensively with Arthur.

You found it weird that you were feeling so much over someone you’d barely met. Sure, the version of him that had been here not even a full hour earlier was a complete upgrade from the one you’d met less than a week ago. But still, it seemed odd of you to put that much weight in not having talked with the nearly complete stranger.

“Well,” a voice in your head thought, “isn’t that more reason to have gotten to know him better?”

You blinked at the intrusive thought.

You were unable to stop your thought process from forming its next declaration: “If they survive this, I’m going to overcome this shyness and actually freaking attempt to talk more with Arthur Curry.”

Meanwhile, on the Flying Fox, Arthur Curry was glowering: Diana had left that stupid lasso laying all will-nilly, and he’d been its unfortunate victim. At this point, he’d made an ass of himself by light-way insulting all the males onboard, flirting with its one member of the fairer sex, and then going back to Bruce to say, “ – and you know what? I don’t wanna die! I’m young, there’s shit that I wanna do – like Bruce’s hot assistant.” Bruce’s eyes hardened, befuddled at the crudeness. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself. “Don’t gimme that look, I know you’ve seen her. Look, man, if I survive this, I’m asking her out, sorry that you missed your shot but – ”

By the time he’d realized the extent of what he’d said, the damage had been done. He scowled as he tossed the Amazon the Lasso of Hestia and threatened Barry to keep his silence of the series of revelations before storming off, face burning. He trusted the other three members to hold some semblance of maturity on the matter and never bring any aspects of it back up.

He’d put too much faith into the one who was the most mature of them all.

“I look forward to you keeping your promise,” Diana smiled, almost tauntingly.

Arthur Curry sat onboard the flying transport. Against all odds, they had won, and now they were en route to Gotham, where he’d left his more comfortable clothes, where a nice, hot shower was, where a place to crash (courtesy of Bruce’s hotel connections) was, and where –

His pale eyes widened in spite of their owner’s exhaustion. Shit. Shit.

Gotham was also where you were: single, shy, giving off no hints as to whether you were ready to mingle, much less with the likes of him.

Your heart was beating so fast, you thought you were about to vomit it up. Sure, you’d told yourself you were going to attempt to talk with Arthur if he got back. But if you were being honest, you were sort of hoping it’d be after a buffer of time where he would be recuperating from the battle and you would be prepping yourself to actually speak with the rugged man. That, and you were really thrown off by the fact that not ten minutes after he’d gotten off the Flying Fox, he had marched straight up to you. He hadn’t even changed out of his war gear, arguably adding to his threatening appearance.

And yet, everything he said and the manner with which he said them seemed to work against his daunting form.

“I uh…I honestly didn’t think this would wind up happening. To be honest,” he coughed, hand scratching at the back of his wavy locks. He was even less like the man you’d met in Scandinavia than before.

“Uh . . . Listen.” He steadied his eyes on you, causing you to tense somewhat visibly. “I know we haven’t . . .” he lazily gestured his hand in a rolling motion “—talked. Formally, I mean. But I kinda made a promise sorta thing and . . . Okay, look, I think you’re really hot in a sorta sexy secretary kinda way but also I think it’s kinda cute that you always wanna help and all and sorry for being fresh but you’ve also got this real sweet caboose on ya and I just – ”

He froze. You weren’t sure if it was because you possibly had a rejecting expression (really, all you knew about your face right now was that it was blazing with blush and that your eyes were wider than usual), or if he’d considered the possibility that he’d gone too far with the blunt statement about your ass. However, as he glanced down and grimaced, you found your answer: There, wrapped around his lower thigh just enough for impact, was a shining lasso, the rest of which trailed away from the two of you. Its end was found, wrapped around the hands of one grinning Diana.

Well shit.

After forcing himself to calm down from the huffiness left from removing the lasso, Arthur cut to the chase: “So anyway, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to get a drink with me? Or something?” At that last bit, you could’ve sworn you could make out a very specific type of infliction. It was a very familiar one to you because it had been the same kind that plagued you your entire life: One of shyness.

Arthur noticed it as well and inwardly cringed. His alpha male persona? Ruined by the slip of a tone.

But for you? It was just what you needed to feel encouraged to look into those strange eyes of his and actually respond.

“Well…,” you began, if not a bit quiet and trembly (after all, you weren’t completely removed of your nerves), “I’m not sure if a bar is exactly the greatest first place to get to know one another.” You quickly added ad you watched his shoulders begin t slump, “Buuuuttt…maybe I could have a certain somebody pull a few strings; get us a nice place to ourselves?”

Two things then happened that pleased either party: Your eyes replicated that twinkle of interest that had him intrigued before; and he smiled a genuine smile. It was a very nice one, if you said so yourself.

Nobody honestly expected the relationship to go entirely too well, save for Diana. Arthur is brash and gung-ho and while the team now knows he’s capable of a softer side, his demands that they never bring it up again honestly make them hesitant to trust in his ability to show that part of himself to you.

Your shyness, coupled with your sensitivity, mean that he’s going to have to at least try and tone it down a bit; you’re at a 4 or 5 at best! – and he’s at an 11 when you need him closer to maybe a 7.

Bruce, against his initial intentions, sort of goes into Papa Wolf mode where he lightly threatens to mess Arthur up if he puts you out of your comfort zone

What can we say? Bruce has some paternal traits kicking around in him.

Still, he prepares himself for the worst when the day finally comes. To his surprise, however you don’t call him in hysterics, ranting about what a jackass his unrulier teammate is. You don’t call off the next day due to a rage-drinking-induced hangover, or even from one caused by you feeling pressured to keep taking shots.

Instead, you arrive at work practically glowing.

To everyone’s surprise, Arthur isn’t too bad of a boyfriend for you.

Okay, he’s actually just flat out not a bad boyfriend period.

His intense demeanor makes it so that nobody dares mess with you when you go for walks downtown; his sense of humor surprisingly tickles you, and he finds yours to be appealing in its own right. He knows you struggle with speaking to others, even if you need help, so he has no problem with stepping in and making sure that you get what you need and that nobody takes advantage of your demure mannerisms.

Plus, to everyone’s surprise (including his own), he likes talking with you. That interest in your unintentional enigma never went away: he wants to crack you open, see what pearls of intrigue lay within you that you don’t generally bring to surface for everyone. He feels honored to be the one with the most potential to see all of it.

(Though, to be brutally honest, he’s still going to tease you about certain aspects of yours. Maybe lightheartedly, but nevertheless with frequent vengeance. Calling him Fishcakes tends to get him to back off for a little bit, though.)

Unfortunately, due to his commitments (as a hero, as a ruler, etc), he can’t always be there. But he tries his damndest to make it up to you whenever he’s back in town.

Dates between the two of you are kinda compromised.

Arthur isn’t used to having a long-term relationship, so dates with actual meaning are a bit wobbly for him. Honestly, given his history, a “date” usually meant going to a bar, him and the girl he’s with getting hammered, and getting frisky.

Maybe they’d try it again another time, but nothing serious ever came of it because it was made from nothing serious.

Bars – at least the dives he’s used to – aren’t necessarily your scene, though. So he has to get a little creative.

He’s learned to swallow his insults aimed at museums and bookstores because if it means seeing you smile, then it ain’t all that bad, is it?

You’re still gonna buy him, like, three cheeseburgers after this, though, make no mistake.

Besides, picnics in the park have their pros: For one, it gives him an excuse to put his head in your lap and demand you scratch his scalp for a bit while he takes it easy,

The two of you don’t really go to the aquarium, though; it makes him feel a little anxious to see all these aquatic creatures contained.

Plus, he’s heard what some of them are thinking and it’s generally not good

He enjoys taking you to places with “good water.” As in “nowhere near the shithole that is Gotham or the arguably polished turd that is Metropolis.”

If you’re up to it, he’ll happily create a pocket of air for the two of you and speed the both of you to clearer ocean waters. (Don’t worry, he’ll hold you nice and tight, nothing to worry about.)

If this man can get a date with you at a beach, he’s one happy fellow. He’s totally in his element and is in the perfect environment where he can show off not only his body, but his abilities.

Even if you just want to keep it simple and build sandcastles or collect seashells, he’s going to find ways of showing off: He’ll manipulate the tide a smidge to keep it from coming in and ruining your hard work, or he’ll request his aquatic friends to make scooch some pretty shells or any available sea glass close enough to the shoreline that the tide will do the rest.

You may roll your eyes at this, but you do eventually thank him for it after every time. After all, you now possess a mighty fine bowl full of gorgeous shells and soft, rounded pieces of green glass because of his efforts.

He enjoys trying to find ways to get you to open up a bit more.

It’s not that he finds your shyness annoying or necessarily a hindrance, far from it: he enjoys that your modesty sort of creates a series of slides for him to try and pull back, creating layers upon layers of new things to learn and love about you.

But, as mentioned before, he can’t always be there: He doesn’t like the idea of you becoming too reliant on his boisterous behavior and getting taken advantage of during one of the instances where he isn’t present.

“M’kay, so you’re at a bar – ” “Lies, slander, libel, misinterpretation of character – ” “Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re at the ice cream parlor – shut it, you had your chance – and some, I dunno, punk who frequents the sodie fountain comes up to you and starts causing you trouble. What do we do?” “Tell him to please leave me be, I’m trying to enjoy my sundae.” “Mhm, or?” “If he’s persistent, call management.” “Good, and what else?” “Well, jeez, Arthur, do you want me to break a milkshake glass on the counter and use it as a shiv!?” “Noooooo: You could always say, ‘Piss off or else my big, scary boyfriend’s gonna come and shove a piranha down your dick.’” “What the – I’m not saying that!” “Not now, you’re not, but by the end of our training, you’ll be saying all kinds of tough guy and gal things!”

It’s . . . a work in progress.

He loves it when you blush. Even if you have dark skin, he’s picked up on cues that hint that your face is on fire.

He’s more observant than he lets in on, but trust me: he knows how to read you after getting to know you. He can see that way you smile or that certain way your eyes may flicker or whatever may have you and instantly know that roses are blooming in your cheeks.

“Aaaawww, is Babygirl feelin’ sheepish?” “Shut up, you big fool.”

Now, when it comes to the more . . . physical side of the relationship, he struggles with taking it slow

Not to knock on you, but Arthur’s rather used to women throwing themselves at him. Hell, he’s had at least two women wrap their legs around his waist in the same evening he’d taken them out on their first (and often only) date.

It’s because he’s used to, well, bolder types of women.

Honestly, he struggles for a good while: He’s not going to force you to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with, not ever, but he’d be lying if he said it was easy to not think about smashing his lips against yours and pinning you to a wall (preferably around Bruce’s place) and mark you up with hickies and possibly other, more personal things.

However, this change of pacing in a relationship, coupled with the fact that this is his first long-term one, does the man good: It teaches him more patience and consideration.

He even begins to enjoy the softer, sweeter things that he’d previously scoffed at as being “too vanilla”, such as kisses to the forehead or hand-holding.

Still, he does get strong makeout hankerings. (If you appease him, he’s more than grateful every time.)

That being said, if and/or when you do start to feel a bit braver about venturing further into the realm of intimacy, you still may possess some insecurities.

You’re no fool – you know what sort of man you have on your hands. You don’t need to look to the sides or behind you when the two of you walk somewhere to know that he’s being checked out by at least three people. He’s practically a demigod species-wise, and still remarkably attractive from the viewpoint of him being a normal human.

Even though you try not to, you can’t help but let some worries slip through the cracks: Maybe you’re just an appetizer to hold him over until he lands his sights on a more “fulfilling” meal; maybe you’re too plain for him (you know that that’s what goes through the minds of many gawkers); maybe you should show more skin . . .

But worry not: Cliché as it may sound, Arthur very much likes you the way you are. If you’re comfortable with you, then he’s comfortable with you. In fact, it makes him admire you even harder because it shows you’ve managed to do something he still struggles with: Being comfortable with his own self.

He finds it very sexy when you think you look nice in an outfit or when you take even the tiniest step out of your comfort zone to try a new look or accessory, and will honestly struggle all the more with keeping his hands or lips to himself.

But once you give him the okay, he’s all over that: Hands squeezing that ass he loves so much, kisses below the neck, utterances of flirtations ranging from PG to downright dirty.

If you gather up the guts to move even further or just flat out hit a homerun, it becomes a guidebook in itself.

Protip: One of the sexiest things you can do? Simply where one of his shirts, which is oversized on you thanks to his massive height. It doesn’t have to be wet, but it sure isn’t a problem in his eyes.

Cuddles. The boy is a slut for cuddles no matter what he tells you. Arthur may not necessarily be touch-starved, but he’s definitely bankrupt on accumulated touches of affection. His loner attitude always made it difficult for him to receive that sort of thing, especially since nobody he went out with was ever in the picture for too long. So when it hits him that in this relationship, such a thing is not only possible but welcome, he can’t help but feel a well of excitement brewing within him.

You in his lap, you by his side, you with your head on his chest, traditional spooning, you with your head on his lap or vice-versa, him lying down with you on his back, him sitting on the floor between your legs or the opposite, his loves it all!

The problem is, he won’t even admit this to you. But he tries to be sneaky about getting what he wants.

“What’s the matter?” “Hm? Nothing.” “Really? You look sad; you need me to cuddle you?” “What? I mean, it’d be nice but I’m not really –” He sighs, as if exasperated, “Can’t be helped; c’mere.” You aren’t given much time to object as you find yourself being collected into his warm, muscular embrace.

Sometimes, however . . . he slips up. And by that, I mean he’ll “happen” to slip into bed or onto the couch next to you in a way that presents himself as the little spoon.

Actually, of all the ways he likes to cuddle, jetpacking may be his favorite. Unfortunately, unless you think enough about it, you’d probably not notice it until later in the relationship due to how rarely he lets it happen. But it makes perfect sense otherwise: He’s so used to everybody having expectations for him. He’s so used to feeling obligated to do all these things for worlds he doesn’t necessarily feel the strongest connection with. Going off of that, there was the life-long sense of not being completely bound to either existence, creating insecurities galore.

Sure, he’s started to take the steps in the right direction but it’s still very hard, especially since those steps are accompanied with the extra weight of him now being a member of something bigger: An appointed rule of Atlantis, a balance-keeper between the land and the sea, a member of an actual team . . .

You don’t need to be told that it’s frustrating. You truly do commend him for taking it as well as he is.

But obviously, it takes its toll on the guy more often than he’d let his teammates in on, so it often times falls on you to help him cope.

Interestingly, this honestly seems to be the most he lets you do. Or rather, the most that even needs to be done at all.

But the fact of the matter is, you’ve come to love this position as well.

Because it allows you to feel like the brave and strong one in the relationship, just like how you suspect Arthur must feel much of the time. The way Arthur constantly wants you to feel, not so that he doesn’t have to try as hard at being a boyfriend to a person so different from him, but because he wants the best for you and doesn’t want the world to hurt you or make you feel out of place for who you are. Of course, he doesn’t want you to change, but he does want you to recognize the inner-strength you have, the inner-strength he sometimes worries you forget about amidst your worries and own frustrations.

But for the meantime, this will do: With your big, brash aquatic boyfriend allowing himself to feel delicate, and your usually quiet and shy self, feeling brave and protective.

It surprisingly works, this weird little world the two of you have created together. You both find that you fit into it together quite perfectly.