#steven x reader

"Yeah," you sigh, and that word alone is spoken heavily enough that he can't help but pout.

"Want to talk about it? Or rest?"

"Rest. I just want to sit on the couch and do nothing. Not think." You toss your jacket over a nearby chair before you plop yourself down on the couch. Your head tilts back, and the sun from the window casts your skin in golden hues. Steven takes one look at you before he knows how he's going to help you relax.

Steven kneels in front of you, his hands ghosting up your thighs. "Can I help you not think, my love?"

You look down at the man between your legs. His big brown eyes looking up at you with hope. "You don't have to."

"Nonsense," Steven says as he already begins unbuttoning your jeans. "I want to."

You lift your hips, allowing your boyfriend to pull your hands and underwear off in one go. "If you're su-" you break off into a moan as Steven wastes no time bringing his mouth down to your core. His hands hold your legs open, holding you at the edge of the couch as he sloppily licks your center. Your hand comes up to play with his hair and he moans right into you. "Shit, that's good."

Steven pulls away with a wet smile. "I'm just startin', hun."

Steven was sloppy at eating you out. And you loved it.

His tongue slipped through your folds, warm and wet, gliding through your center, slurping up all you had. Every bump of his nose against your clit had you jerking on the couch. He threw your legs over his shoulders, pulling your core further into his face and holding you there. His calloused hands squeezed your ass.

"Shit Steven, don't stop!" You encouraged. Each sloppy lick was heaven on Earth. His thumb rubs circles over your clit, building your pleasure up and up and up.

"Give it to me, yeah," Steven moaned. "Show me how good I make ya feel."

"So good!" You cried, fingers pulling at Steven's short curls.

"Show me!" Steven demanded. "Please baby,"

You climax felt different this time, the switch so sudden you couldn't warn you boyfriend in time before you were coming. Your vision went hazy but you could hear it over the dull roar in your ears, the splash, liquid falling on the ground.

Your body felt heavy in the way that only came from sex, particularly good sex at that. Your eyes opened and you found yourself staring at a very wet man.

"Oh Steven, I'm so sorry!" You reached out for your boyfriend, prepared to force your tired limbs to move in order to get him, and the floor, properly cleaned.

"Sorry?" Steven asked with a quirk of his head. You always found it so sweet when he looked at you like that. Wide eyes, tilted head and crooked smile. "That was bloody brilliant, yeah?" Steven sat up and pinned your hips to the couch between his arms. "We're doing that again, baby, this time in bed."

A/N: Hi babydoll! Thank you for the request, it was very fun to make and i appreciate the compliment on the series! I hope this is to your liking and that everyone who also reads this will like it, enjoy!

STEVEN ADLER

~Oh, Steven would be such a joy. ~He's definitely funny AS FUUUCKK, making you laugh all the time, ~even when you're mad at him. ~If you're a sweet girl, especially nurturing, he'd be wrapped around your finger. ~Always coming to you when he did something stupid. ~''okay, don't be mad, but-'' ~He'd flirt A LOOOT. Its out of habit though, if you'd be tight as friends there wouldn't be much intention behind it. ~But yeah, the first time you met he 100% hit on you. Like, immediately. ~But once you're close, he switches into best friend mode FAST. ~AAAND if it were for you to be younger, he'd probably see you as a little sister. ~Would play-fight a lot, tickle you, poke you, grabbing your stuff and running away with them, etc. ~Literally doesn't know how to stop. ~secretly needs your approval more than lets on. ~He'd be such a sweetheart when you feel down, most probably would hold you and listen to you. ~Sometimes he could get very cocky and just have an attitude that makes you wanna slap the shit out of him. ~you don't. ~mostly

DUFF MCKAGAN

~PROTECTIVE older brother energy, but not in a soft way, in a ''don't test me'' way. ~still jokes around though. he's chaotic ~annoying, to say the least. ~if you're short, you're COOKED. ~that mf will grab you, just because he can. ~get ready to be picked up when you annoy him. ~with you he can be a lot more grounded. ~always aware of your surrounding, walks slightly behind or beside you in crowded spaces. ~if something feels off, he's already stepping in. ~doesn't make a scene, just stuff like: ''you good?'' or a low ''nah, we're leaving.'' ~you listen, cause all of them are rarely wrong. they've seen enough to know better. ~highkey proud of you, but would show it in annoying ways. ~''aww look at you being a nerd. good job" ~would come to you if you were there and he was feeling anxious before a gig, maybe. ~trusts you a lot, as well. ~LOVES to drink with you, cause you guys turn into idiots. ~like, sharing the same braincell kind of idiots. ~will dance with you, do the grease pick up move, for example. ~YELL absolutely everything and everywhere when you're both drunk. ~will laugh absolutely all the time and everything would be turned into a inside joke only you two would know. ~(the others wanna kill you when you get like this) ~but yeah, you'd feel really safe with him. :)

SLASH

~very calm. like sometimes annoyingly calm. ~until he's not, and you want to smother him with a pillow. ~funniest one in the room in a very unexpected way. ~makes the dumbest jokes with a straight face. ~lowkey pervy humor, but never crosses a line with you. ~flirts, but smoother than Steven :))) teases you a lot. ~he tried at some point to teach you guitar ~but he's an AWFUL teacher. ~will play something insane and go: ''ok. just, like, do that.'' ~he's cute tho when he teaches you stuff, he'd sit behind you or next to you and guide your hand when needed. ~claims that you're the one who sucks. ~gives surprisingly good advice, regarding boys. ~will laugh his ass off when you tell them dumb stuff they wrote you ~like little love notes and shit. ~once called you ''cupcake'' for A MONTH just to be an asshole after reading a dudes poem. ~will 100% make some pervy comment if you look hot that certain day/ if you dressed more revealing, and accept his fate when you chase him around. ~or cuss him out. ~or smack him. ~but truly, he respects you a lot. ~doesn't play about you. ~you're also one of the few people he trusts to touch his hair. ~definitely comes to you when he needs help with his hair, or clothes or whatever. ~lets you hang around while he plays, appreciates when you give feedback or try to help him out when he's out of ideas. ~you both feel safe with eachother.

IZZY STRADLIN

~nonchalant to the point it's offensive. ~will look at you after you say something dumb, like: "are you serious?" ~blunt. BRUTALLY honest. no filter ~may the lord have mercy on thy soul. ~but never actually mean, he has his limits. ~deffo thinks you're very pretty, but he'd kinda friendzone you. ~or just respects you a lot and doesn't wanna ruin the friendship. ~the type to silently help you without making a big deal out of it. ~actually a pretty good guitar teacher. ~patient, but won't baby you. ~"again." ~"no, thats wrong." ~will give you homework, and will get pissy if you don't do it. ~"go ahead and find someone else to teach ya. you either practice, or bye-bye. I'm not kidding." ~bought you alcohol at least once before you turned 21. ~will lecture you and the next night share a blunt. ~will absolutely ruin any delusion you're having with one sentence. ~gives the most realistic advice about relationships. ~he makes you laugh a lot when you're feeling down. ~might beat up someone with Axl if that person did you wrong. ~if you're close, he'll vent to you. and he doesn't do that with a lotta people. ~his girlfriends always LOOOOVED you. ~like actually adored you. ~and you feel safe with him, too.

AXL ROSE

You looked at him briefly before locking the doors, your heels clicking against the terrazzo flooring, each step confirmation of your annoyance.

"Really, it is!" His eyes widened with enunciation as he dug through his wallet to retrieve a crumpled, hole-punched card. "I've reached twenty-five books—see?"

The smile plastered across his face was enough to make your demeanor soften a little. The man truly was sweet, albeit a bit quirky. You raised your brow and took the card, punching a fifth hole and handing it back to him.

Silence fell between you as he continued to stare, an expectant look in his eyes.

"My…prize?" he asked coyly, his smile beginning to falter.

"Oh, of course," you realized. "We're all out of cards for Tesco, so it'll have to be Padella."

He paused, eyeing the card in your outstretched hand.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Grant?"

He exhaled, gaze darting from the card to your face. "N-No, it's just…I thought maybe we could…come up with an alternative?"

Your brow furrowed as you lowered your hand. In all the years of Steven visiting the library, this was a first.

"What sort of an alternative?"

"Well," he began with a coy laugh, "I thought maybe you could show me the books in the Egyptian archive—you said we could have a look when you had a moment. What better moment than now, yeah?"

Glancing down at your watch, you let out a stiff exhale. "Yeah, I suppose. Follow me."

—

The room housing the archives was much larger than Steven had imagined. Rows of shelves filled with boxes, books, and manuscripts. Temperature-controlled rooms branched off the main room, their contents hidden behind thick metal doors. The air smelled of old books—earth and leather, history and memories. He found it comforting, like when he'd wander the halls of the museum after hours, reading information placards that he'd read a thousand times.

You swiped your keycard at one of the doors and it opened with a metallic click.

"Anything in particular you wanted to look at?" you asked, stepping through the doorway and beckoning him to follow.

You didn't notice the way his eyes lingered on you when you spoke, observing, silently calculating.

"Um, I've been doing some reading about the Ennead—the nine major Egyptian deities. We actually have a new exhibit dedicated to them—they got the posters completely wrong, if you can believe it. They featured seven instead of nine—"

A smile tugged at your lips as you began thumbing through a box of manuscripts. It was endearing, charming even, the way he'd trail off on tangents about his interests.

You pulled a box from the shelf and set it on the table beside you, still thumbing through its contents. Steven's voice had trailed off, but you could feel his presence behind you, a feather-light touch on your waist.

"Mr. Grant…" your voice was candid, but firm.

His hand fell back and he ran it through his dark curls, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

You resumed your search, pulling a folder out to begin paging through its contents.

"Ennead…Ennead…" you mumbled, still flipping.

A hand reached out again, this time a light brush against your arm.

"Mr. Grant, we've spoken about this." You let out an exasperated sigh, palm flat against the table.

He recoiled once more, this time letting out a huff and running both hands through his hair. He wasn't the best at this sort of thing—making a move. But he'd told himself he was going to be assertive this time.

He bit his lip, eyes traveling across your frame. He noted the way your fingers splayed across the tabletop, how your pencil skirt hugged your hips, your tousled bun threatening to tumble from its elastic prison. If he stood at an angle and craned his neck a bit, he could see the nude lace of your bralette beneath your button down.

Had he ever let it slip that he was down bad for the whole librarian thing?

He swallowed hard again in an attempt to compose himself.

"There is no dessert without a fire," he whispered to himself like a prayer. He placed a hand on your waist again and gripped your wrist with the other, spinning you around to face him.

Your gaze found his. Dark eyes contrasting with the florescent lights, harsh shadows cast across his features. He almost didn't look like himself. Your breath hitched as you watched him lean forward and plant a chaste kiss against your lips.

"Mr…Grant…?" You barley managed the words.

His expression grew darker, hungrier. Eyes narrowed and a subtle smirk tugged at his lips.

"Keep calling me that?" He threw out the request with a nod, almost breaking character.

He kissed you again, this time with ferventness. You stopped him once to move the archive pages out of the way, before letting him resume kissing and nipping at your neck.

Pulling at the buttons of your top, he slid the fabric off your shoulders, tossing it aside. He lifted you onto the table, but paused for a moment.

"This is stable enough, yeah?"

"Mm-hm." You pulled him back, your hands playing with the hem of his shirt before pulling it over his head.

While he continued to kiss you, he took a moment to cup one of your breasts, pinching the nipple through the thin lace, eliciting a short gasp from you.

You felt a warmth press between your thighs and you instinctively nudged into it, making a low moan escape him.

"Darling, you can't do that," he feigned scolding you as he hiked up your skirt.

He lowered his hand, pressing two fingers against you, feeling the dampness of the fabric and gently circling around your core. Your breath hitched and you found yourself rocking into his touch.

"Mr. Grant," you breathed, lips hot against his ear.

You undid the button on his pants, letting them loosely hang at his hips. You could see his outline pressed against his boxers. You were surprised when he didn't stop you from shimmying them down and leaving him exposed.

The air in the room was cool, and the sudden temperature change made him gasp as you took hold of him and began gently working your hand along his length.

Your gazes met and he bit his lip again, eyes nearly fluttering shut as you continued.

"Darling, hmm, love," he stumbled over his words.

He felt a heat rise within him like a smoldering coil, tight within his abdomen and wrapping around his flank. Fighting the urge to give in, he stopped you to pull your panties down and ran two fingers along your warmth.

Oh, wow—no, keep it together, Steven—focus on the task.

He gripped your thighs, nudging himself forward, with what you decided was painstakingly too slow. You pushed yourself forward, wrapping you legs around him, which caused him to enter you faster than he intended. He tried holding back the moan that escaped him, to no avail.

"I told you, slow and steady," he breathed, hips bucking against you, driven by instinct.

You sighed, running fingers through his ink-black curls and rocking into him. "Stop breaking character, Stev—er, Mr. Grant—"

You let out a loud moan as your core ground against him with each thrust, the pace moving faster as he followed your lead, unable to hold back.

"If you keep this up…

…and keep calling me that…

…I'm not going to…

…last very long, I'm afraid."

He could feel the stitches already coming undone as you worked him over. The coil within him on the brink of snapping as it wound tighter.

This happened more than he liked to admit, his habit of arriving too quickly, to put it delicately; not that it bothered you much. You found it attractive, how you could make him unravel so easily. And besides, you knew he could be generous in other ways.

He dug his fingers into your back as if holding on for dear life. Sweat beaded across his brow and he moved a hand up to cradle the back of your head, kissing you with reverence. When he pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours, his cheeks flush, mouth turned into a concentrated frown, hips still in rhythm.

"I'm—"

Before he could get the words out, he shuddered, the coil finally snapping as he pulsated within your walls.

He leaned against you, one hand on you thigh, the other on the table. He breathed slowly and deeply, head resting against your shoulder. Putty in your hands.

You traced your fingers along his back, feeling the muscles twitch beneath tacky, salt-covered skin.

"You're an absolute dream," he exclaimed, still catching his breath, "you know that?"

A breathy laugh escaped you as you kissed his shoulder, his forehead, his lips once more.

Perhaps you needed to find reasons to stay after hours with Steven more often.

—

Steven had insisted on walking you home. The night air was cool, a welcoming relief from the stuffy archives. He bought you a sausage roll from a street vendor and asked if he could hold your hand, still soaking in the afterglow bliss. He hadn't stopped smiling since you locked up the library for the night.

You stopped outside the door to your flat.

"Uh, funny," Steven mused, looking up at the building. "We live in the same block."

"Steven," you laughed and ran your hands from his shoulders up to his nape.

"Would you mind if I popped in for a cuppa, Mrs. Grant?"

A cheeky smile broadened across his face as he pulled you in for another kiss.

"Come on, love," you beckoned.

There was a pep in Steven that night, stepping into your flat. He couldn't think of anything better than curling up next to you as he drifted off to sleep. The scent of tea lingering in the air, sheets that smelled like you, and the warmth of your hand as your fingers played with his dark curls. You sighed and leaned into him, content to be in his arms. He opened his eyes, blinking steadily as he met your gaze. For the time being, his mind was content, and his heart full.

the first thing you need to know, is that Steven would be very attached to you. he had seen someone die multiple times as a child, that made him very anxious and he always worries about you. please don’t be mad at him, he doesn’t the person he loves so much to disappear.

He absolutely adores PDA. he loves holding your hand on public, though gems sometimes tease him about it, and gets very shy about it.

we know that Steven is half human and a gem, that means that you two probably can fuse! i can imagine scenario when you two were hanging out, and then poof! you two fuse. you’re confused and don’t know what’s happening, while Steven is freaking out(in a good way)

later after that, he explains you what fusing means, he’s worried that you may be uncomfortable with that, but you reassure him that everything is alright.

if you’re ever feeling sad or upset, one hug from him can immediately wash away all your worries, trust me.

When he has free time, he invites you to larr’s(is that how his name is pronounced?) cafe to relax and drink some tea with delicious food!

the other gems like you, they know and trust you with Steven, because they know that you’re the only person who Steven trusts the most.

with that, in the end of the season 6 when Steven dissapears, the first person gems asked about him was you, all of you were incredibly worried about him. but after calming down, your dear partner returns to you.

A colleague? you wonder, tucking this information into your catalogue. Maybe his brother. Or is it his partner?

Systemizing mediocre life details is like sustenance. You stuff loosely related events into patterns, patterns lending rules. Like with your neighbour, the pattern says he’s occupied, so the rule demands that, every time your paths collide, you smile, meet his eye, and exchange a ‘hi’, ‘hello’. Like at work, two weeks is fortunately enough time to measure up different coworkers’ expectations: Alice, who is loud, but doesn’t expect reciprocation; Pete, who enjoys intermittent conversation; Rahish, who tends to stick to short phrases about work itself, and on and on and on.

It’s not until today that a succession of crash-bang-wallops tears you from your music. You remove an earbud. And breaks the pattern, your neighbour’s anonymity.

A rap on the wood: the latch slides free. 

“Oh, hello. You alright?”

Your preloaded question, he fires right back at you.

And whether it’s the politeness of his expression, or the airiness of his tone (or his hair, which is slightly skew-whiff), you stiffen.

You glance down. Hot water bottle.

Then, catching yourself, “Hi,” you say. “Sorry, I don’t want to int—int—int.” You break off, forcing a self-deprecating smile, and it’s usually at this point that the one on the receiving end fills in the blank.

He doesn’t. His attention diverts to the bottle with a small, “Oop.” Hands shrugged inside the little pocket, he scoffs at himself before flinging it to the carpet. When his gaze lifts, the upturn of his lips is soft, as if sharing in your inconvenience.

“Start again,” you say. “I don’t want to interrupt. I heard a bang, that’s all, so I just wanted to check everything’s okay?”

“Okay? Oh, yeah. Yeah, don’t worry. I am an absolute menace for hanging everything up on the floor. Well—first example right there. Thank you, though. For checking. I’m sorry, I should have said before. Steven.”

You balk. Your cheeks flush.

“Err, I’m sorry?”

“Oh!” He flings a hand between you. “I’m Steven. You are…?”

Accepting his offer, you say your name, which he repeats under his breath before releasing you.

“Really, I would have introduced myself sooner. My neck of the woods, you keel over in the middle of the road, and someone might, might get out the car to have a go.” You chortle, and he hops back in: “‘S’alright, I don’t mean that, like, literally. I’m not that accident-prone, swear.”

“You’re not. I am.”

“Really?” His eyes light up expectantly, and you realise you hadn’t anticipated that far.

“Well… Yeah. The other day I—I was preparing this meal and I…” With each word, that familiar hole widens, that self-sabotaging voice that chants, ‘you’re about to forget what you want to say’, ‘you’re going to forget’, ‘forget, forget, forget.’ “I made an absolute mess.”

When it clicks for him that you have nothing left to add, “Snap. Don’t get me started, mate,” he says. “I can make you a late welcoming meal if by ‘make’, you don’t mind me banging her in the oven. Food absolutely disagrees with me, and not in the stomach way. Cooking? Pfft, nope. I usually leave that bit.”

“Oh, you don’t live alone?” you ask innocently.

Dread inks down Steven’s features.

“What? No. No, I do live alone.”

“Oh. You just said about leaving the cooking, so I…” Your voice starts to wane, a tell-tale sign that the rest of that sentence isn’t going to escape ungarbled. You swallow. But it doesn’t matter: you’re not certain Steven heard you in the first place.

His focus pulls away. A fog creeps down over his focus. He’s gone. For a second, he’s completely gone.

“Are you—"

“I’m sorry,” he suddenly says, collecting himself. “It’s lovely talking to you, it really is. But I just remembered I’ve got to accept some silly call in a minute or two.”

“Oh. Course. Don’t wanna miss that.”

His fingers curl around the doorframe.

“It’s nice meeting you, too. But I won’t be keeping you.” 

“Cheers.”

He raises a hand. Several farewells manage to squeeze through the gap before he disappears. Even then, you stare at his door, just as readable.

Did you say something wrong?

You slip your headphones back on before you let yourself back into your flat. One inside, you crash into your chair and crank your music ear-scathingly high. You look past your phone screen, dimly aware that your concentration is liquifying.

Several minutes later, you awaken from the trance.

The jingling of keys. It’s coming from next door. You press pause.  

A rumble sails through the wall. The sound had become a familiar companion, but only now do you register its source, and as you listen closer, Steven’s intonation. He jangles the keys again.

“That’s what you are. ‘Stop talking. Stop talking.’ Well if you... harping on in my ear… actually think straight.”

You frown. So maybe you did say something wrong. But it wasn’t about your shared neighbour.

It didn’t even cross your mind, the innumerable phone calls day in, day out. You asked him whether he lived alone. Perhaps, literally, Steven didn’t, but by the sounds of it, someone was taunting his life day-in, day-out. An ugly long-distance relationship.

At least, that’s the opinion you carry until another unexceptional weekday.   

It starts when the lift begins to slide shut.

Stifling a curse, you surge ahead, tote bag enclosed in an iron grip, and call out a belated, “Excuse me!” 

The doors pause. 

You close the distance in a heartbeat, hopping over the threshold and mentally singing the figure’s praises as you crash against the wall. In your month and a bit, you’ve never been late to work. You will not let a buggered alarm clock fizzle that streak.   

“Thank you,” you breathe.

Only once secure in the fact you’re not going to be rejected like a foreign organ do you look up.

“Oh. Hi,” you say.

Steven presses his lips together in greeting. Silence weighs in, digging into your sides.

“Slept in,” you joke, because it’s easier than the real explanation. You just need a first step up for Steven to bridge the quiet.

This time, he offers a curt nod. Tighter, he tugs the line of his mouth. His focus melts through the floor as if he hopes to discern the impending ground, and unease ripples in your gut. That wasn’t the reaction you’d anticipated.

You twist as if to meet your reflection, and you drift towards the circles pressed beneath Steven’s eyes, narrower than usual, and the hardiness of his low-hanging brow. It isn’t just the silence. It’s something indescribable, an alarm of otherness that the rational mind scolds, but for all it tries, can’t push down.

His attention flickers in your direction.

He steps out first. A second sooner and he’d have slammed into the door. A transactional wave, and he marches for the exit. You watch him go as you release your hold on the shoulder of your tote. You stretch your fingers, the colour rushing back into the tips. 

That feeling… Maybe if he hadn’t been so fast, you would have been the first to beat a quick retreat. It’s nonsense, you swear, it really is, but the thought won’t leave your head. He didn’t look like Steven. The features were there, plain and simple, except you’ve always had an ineptitude in facial recognition. It’s the other things you find yourself clinging to, like hair colour, build, mannerisms. He carried his features incorrectly, almost as if someone—or something had tucked itself away beneath the folds of his skin.

You suppose that’s what happens when you hyper-theorise around mediocre life details. Next stop, delusion.

You have to reshuffle your system to accommodate this new Steven. It’s accompanied by an odd sense of grief, which is, again, odd, because what was there really to lose? You spoke a grand total of once. No doubt the encounter meant significantly more to you than it did him, which is fine. You let yourself get too far ahead, picturing you would become part of the world where people are good acquaintances and chat with their neighbours. You see now that that’s not going to happen.

It starts off simply and unintentionally: he strides your way, you duck down a perpendicular corridor; he locks up his apartment, you wait a moment longer before following suit; he waves at you and he’s Steven again, you wave back but don’t speak a word. You’re a teen again, missing cake ingredients because someone was stood in front of the shelf, being late for school because your neighbour was fastening her kids’ seatbelts.

After a little while, he stops saying hi. After a while, that conversation you shared becomes a distant memory with stretched edges, rewrapped and reshaped in your vault, until he was never that chatty, until the smile didn’t really meet his eyes and he was just being polite.

The only confirmation the conversation happened in the first place is, one spring morning, is a striking sense of déjà vu.

A slam. A muffled cry. 

You don’t jump-to like the first time. Should you go to check considering last time’s events? It’ll probably be just another continuation of his saga against static objects. Besides, he’s already made it abundantly clear he would rather keep you on the receiving end of a wave than a conversation. 

But concern soon wins out against embarrassment. At the risk of making a muppet of yourself, only a moment later do you wind up outside his door.  

A rap on the wood. 

You leave it a second. Silence hunches over your shoulders, scrutiny in tow. 

You knock again, then again. 

“Steven?” You didn’t intend to practically whisper. Your raise your voice. “I’m just harassing you again… I heard next door… Are you okay?”

Nothing. Uneasiness begins to take root, prickling down your neck, as you incline an ear towards the door. He’s in there. You know he’s in there not because you hear him, but because he got back from work. Didn’t he? Yes, he was earlier than usual, around 3 instead of after 5:30.

What if he came back to the flat early because of sickness? Could it have been bad enough to pass out? If he passed out, would he have had enough time to react? Could he have landed on something and gone under?

A tangible warmth curls around your ears, pulsing and expanding. If you don’t do something right now, something terrible is going to happen. What if it already has? What if you’re wasting time?  

“Steven!” Fuck. “Steven, please let me know you’re there.” The pretence of politeness evades you now as you pound a fist against timber. “Listen,” you shout, “if you can hear me, don’t worry. I’m coming in.”

Before you can even assess the next port of call – the time-intensiveness of the landlord, the silliness of ramming your foot against the door, the simpleness of checking if it’s even unlocked in the first place – the door cracks ajar.  

Darkness stares into you.

“Steven?”

Could he have dragged it open?

“Steven?” You cross over the entrance. “I don’t…” Without thought, you flick the light switch.

A man is stood in Steven’s flat.

He marches towards you; you recoil.

Your balance gives.

And he’s there, this stranger, who eloquently wraps his arms around your waist and steers you to your feet. In a beat, he releases you.

“Woah, nelly!” he says with a grin, clapping his hands together. “Woah. Be cool. I’m a friend.”

Is this… Marc?

“Sorry, who are you?”

“Told you. Just a friend, collecting something. Don’t mind me. I’ll get out of his hair—”

This is stupid. This is so stupid. You should just let him go. You should just ignore the bulge in the back of his pocket, or the absence of keys, or the fact he drew the curtains, or the dark shape swirling behind the figure’s eyes. But then you go and ask,

“What’s your friend’s name?”

He chortles. Filling the beat of silence that precedes that answer.

And that’s all the confirmation you need.

“Steven,” he says.

When he caught you, he brought you deeper into the room. He’s now blocking your only exit.

Your mouth snaps shut.

Your breath punches against the muzzle: the texture of skin. You sink your teeth inside, spluttering, choking, as salt, iron swashes against your tongue. Something edged bristles against your spine.

“Stop.” The ‘p’ sound ricochets off the internal chambers of your ear. 

No, no, no.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

“Fucks sake,” the man murmurs, as he slides the door shut with his boot. It clicks.

NO.

Instinct possesses like a familiar ghost, the compulsion to kick, to thrash. But it doesn’t understand this entrapment. Not only in this man’s cage, but in your own limbs, which betray for their inability to slice through skin. Whilst your mind, ablaze with horror, could do it easily. 

“Now, you’ve made me another job, haven’t you? So, we’re going to have to take this to your room. Do me a favour. Which side?”

You tilt your head to the left.

“Leave the door unlocked?”

You nod.

“Beautiful. Going to scream?” 

You shake your head–he tears an incision across your side. You scream into his hand. As you fight to abate each breath, chest heaving up, down with the weight of each exhale, he pivots until you’re facing dead-on, the switchblade, towards your stomach.

“Again for me. Are you. Going to. Scream.” 

The cut – it’s small like a dash of kerosene, your skin set alight. 

You shake your head.

He slowly removes the pressure from around your mouth and drapes himself over your shoulder. The other, he buries beneath your jacket as if hugging the small of your back, the honed edge of his blade only a hair’s breadth away.

You have to do it. You have to propel yourself forward, then scream as all hell.

“No time like the present.”

You can do it.

Just don’t think about the knife.

You open the door, and he bows his head. The camera is directly above, flashing its red bulb. But before you can cross the threshold, he smashes his lips against yours.

Nausea lurches in your throat. He pushes you into the corridor; you slam against your own apartment. You practically fall inside, him fumbling the lock, and by then, it’s too late. He shoves you aside, and he has the fucking audacity to wrinkle his nose in disgust as he snaps the door—

—shut.

It’s too late. You didn’t have time to think.

You didn’t.

Immediately, you feel it rising. You shake your head. No, no, no. A bawl of warning escapes caged lips. Don’t cry. Don’t. Exhales rush in shallow, painful gasps. As your focus sears through the floor, the pain pushes deeper, deeper against your ribs. You need to get out. Whatever that means, you just need out. 

His gaze flickers to yours, and he must realise the crazed look in your eye because he’s there when you lunge for the lampshade. His fingers enclose around your forearms, twisting. You shrink. He rears closer. You smash into his nose. He barks, instinctively reaching to massage the inflicted spot. An opening: you shoot for the ankle.

Your stomach slams into the ground.

The scream cracks open. You scream until you can no longer breathe. You scream until, panting, acid pushes its way to freedom. 

You will not die. 

You scream into his hands. No one can hear you. No one can hear you. 

He strikes your head against the floorboards. Pain erupts through your nostrils – you gag – followed by the sickly stench of iron. His footsteps recede.

Again, you try to scream, but your mouth is the texture of dried paint. Dimly, you hear the low shirrk as your curtains snap shut. You prop yourself atop trembling elbows, ignoring each strangled moan. Please. “Please.” Just keep going. Just keep moving.

His shadow descends, and with it comes the bobbled fabric of a towel. Bile explodes in your mouth, but it has no escape. The screech of floorboards, your chair, approach. You shudder. It doesn’t stop, the shuddering, not when he lifts you, not when he binds your arms, ankles. There’s nothing you can do.

This time, less temporarily, he vanishes from view. You watch the curtains. They’re still: no breeze.

You don’t sink into severance. It claims you. In the vault, there is safety in sedation, and you’re tucking yourself away.  

You drum your fingers.

You can’t.

You have to think. You have to. You have to stay alive.

Skywards, you blink back your blurring vision. Your shoulders tremble in an irregular rhythm of hiccups and gasps. Softly, in the dark, a world revolves unperturbed. And this time, you let yourself panic.

You’re going to die. 

He’s just biding his time. He’s waiting to take you somewhere more convenient. 

You’re going to die. 

You know how this works. Foot tapping, eyes darting, head bobbing. Energy coursing from crown to toe, you’re a lightning rod, conducting slashes of your own decimated corpse. 

For half an hour, there is no hope for you. Your world is ending, and it will not be missed. You die and you die and you die.

After half an hour, your tears begin to dry up.

Your heartrate slows. The energy concentrates to a narrow point.

And you think.

With your neighbour’s door unlocked and his belongings tossed in disarray, Steven’s intruder must have pictured himself long gone by his return. Vague scuffles interject your thoughts. Why he’s pillaging your belongings, you can only presume. This isn’t just a regular break-in. He had to be looking for something in particular, otherwise, what kind of thief would scoff at Steven’s wall of pricey collectables? So he thinks you possess the object of his interest. That, or more likely, he only wants to discern who will notice your absence.

But you can’t think like that. It’s much more solvable to pretend this is a treasure hunt, and you’re the only one who can lead him towards the X.

In your periphery, the man straightens from beneath your bed and suspends something in the light. You twist to get a read.

“Now this is lovely.”

The light traces your friend’s face.  

The man runs a thumb across the frame.  

“Who is she, I wonder?”

Someone who’ll miss you? you think, completing his sentence.

Now’s your chance. You mumble into your gag.

“What’s that? You’ve got something important you want to share?” He closes some of the distance. “Wow. Wow, that’s really interesting. You know what? I must hear all about—” He tosses the picture onto your bed. “That was rhetorical. Learn to tell the difference.”

Someone knocks. 

Hope plunges through you like a harpoon. Someone’s at your door. Shit. Someone’s at your door. You crane your neck until it throbs. Another knock.  

Then a voice, his voice. “You in? It’s just a quick one!”

Steven.

“Fucking piccadilly circus, this place,” the intruder hisses between his teeth, marching behind you.  

Already, Steven’s footsteps begin to retreat. No. You will not let this opportunity fly.

You shove your weight, and your heart skips a beat. You bite down. Hard. A roaring ache, like a dozen bared nails, tears into your side. But it’s all worth it. Lying skywards, you raise your head from the crook of your neck. Because Steven is rattling a fist against the door. 

“Hello?” Voice pitched with anxiety, “Is everything okay in there?” he shouts.

“You little shit,” The intruder is by your side, yanking the chair upright. You recoil as he squeezes your arm. “You repugnant little shit.” His breaths fly quick and hot, all the while Steven is rattling the handle, calling your name.

Then he lets his hands fall. 

Steven is about to make a scene. Good. Please, Steven, shout all you can.

He takes a knee. Confusion breaks through your dread. That’s when, as methodical as a worker bee, he frantically begins untying your binds. Before you can think to move, it prickles against your neck. You inhale sharply.

With a moment’s hesitation, he wrenches you to your feet. The next thing is your gag, which he tosses to the ground. He assesses you, snatches a hoodie from the floor.

“Up and over.”

He tugs it down – “Hey, if you can hear me, I’m gonna go get the landlord, yeah?” Steven calls – and, as you brace, pats it into place.

“You fell and hit your nose. Comprende?” he whispers, as he steers you to the door.

When he releases his grip, a fist balled within the plush lining of your sleeve, you slide the key from the hook. Just before you open the door, the man gives you pause.

“Tell me… does he sound like a fighter to you?”

Steven breaks off.

Relief wells within you when the gap falls away and reveals his matching expression. For a moment, you forget the blade that punctuates the space between your ribs. 

“Jesus. You gave me a fright.” His arm jumps from his side. “Oh fuck! What happened? You need a first-aid kit. I have all sorts of—” 

“No, no. It’s okay,” you cut in, gesturing for him to cool off. But, unbeknownst to your captor, you’re fluttering your eyelids. Only pausing for a beat in between to widen, narrow your eyes. Help, you silently cry. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. Tripped. That’s all.” 

It fleets across his features, an apparition of bewilderment. As you prop an arm against the door, his focus chases towards the trail slithering down your wrist, moulding into comprehension. 

“I’ll be fine.”

He snaps back to you as you continue to blink. Please.

“My fault, really, for making my apartment a deathtrap.” 

“Oh.” As he clings to you with wide eyes, the buoyancy in his voice gives the uncanny impression of clambering from another’s mouth. “Thank God for that.” He nods, pressing down on the air to signal for you to stop. “Speaking of deathtraps, your mum’s not coming round anytime soon is she? I mean, I’d be safe if I wanted to pop over this weekend?”

“Don’t know about safe,” you say slowly. “She might just be psychic. Doesn’t matter where, when, how. I swear, she’s got a watchdog on me. You can bet anything she’ll know I’ve got a man around.”

“Yeah, well mums can be a bit like that sometimes.” He laughs. It’s like watching the rumble of a tomb. “Take it from me, at least you’ve got the safety of distance. Where abouts is she?”

He glances left and right in question. 

You copy the former. That’s all it takes. 

He hurls at you like a man possessed. The entryway screeches against its hinges, discordant against the thrumming of Steven’s footsteps.

With one hand, he shields you against the door; with the other, he twists the man’s blade and grinds it into his shoulder. A shriek – he cages the man’s mouth, heat reeling from his breath as he meets him against the wall, the blade pushing deeper. You don’t think before bolting your captor’s escape. His eyes bubble with tears as they scramble for something, anything, to grab on to. Steven sends a boot to his shin. 

When he whirls, time disintegrates.

You stagger.

This is wrong. You’re slipping. You squeeze the cut on your arm to sharpen your senses, but this man’s face, which lies somewhere between imagination and a loose conjure, swims and shifts, from a thinning mouth to an atypical nose, from exchanging kindred smiles, not counterfeit, but with crinkled eyes and lips curving upward with ease, to rage. It’s just the dark. It has to be.

Your attacker dislodges the blade. 

“Steven!” 

His mouth springs open in protest.

“No!”

A knee adjoins his stomach and sends him to the ground. 

The instinct to surge forwards evaporates: your attacker wastes no time clambering over Steven’s coiled frame. And you just bolted the door. He drags his feet with a monotonous thump, thump, thump.

You seize a side-table and bring it down hard. Its severed legs, you snap and wield in mid-air.

Panting like a dog, he slides a grin into the corner of his cheek.

He hits the ground.

And you don’t hesitate. You don’t care about the mummified hand enclosed around your attacker’s ankle, or the fist rising to beat your attacker’s head in.

You strike.

Someone is calling your name.

You strike again.  

“Can you hear me? You’re okay.”

In your periphery, that hand now hovers. With each hit, it wavers.

“He’s done.”

The second skin retreats, revealing Steven’s unfamiliar familiar face. What—

You drop them. They clatter against the ground. You step back. The world sways. Your captor lies in a whimpering heap, blood oozing from his back.

“Hey.” Steven shadows him, snatching you back from unreality. “Concentrate on your breath. You’ll get through this. Just focus on breathing in… and out.” But his accent is all wrong. This whole thing is all wrong. How is he on two feet? “Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

As if awaking for the first time, you pull away from him. 

“Where are you hurt?”

His pace racing, “I will explain everything, I swear, but now is not the time,” Steven says. “Look, I get it, that you’re in shock, but right now, I really think I should—”

“Stay away from me.”

“—take a look.”

So you have an ineptitude in facial recognition. But right now, you know exactly where you’ve seen this face before.

You’re shaking your head as you retreat. “No, no. Are you kidding? I don’t even know what you are. You were… You were stabbed. I saw it…” Your gaze falls to the intruder, the pool of red seeping between your feet. “I am fine!” you all but yell, despite the throbbing in your side. “You shouldn’t be!”

And you don’t miss it, the way he instinctively looks to your arm, guilt bleeding through his composure.

“What the hell even are you? Who are you, when you’re not hiding behind this stupid ‘Steven’ act—”

“Steven is not—” He encloses the words in a fist. He exhales. Then, as if compelled by some sudden irritation, folds his shirt sleeves, clawing them up one by one. “It wasn’t a lie,” he says, slowly. “I am real; Steven… Steven is real. It’s just difficult for me to explain right now. I’m trying to help. That’s all.”

You stare. When your lips part, he glances away, jaw tightening as if preparing for your reproach.

“Can I speak to Steven?”  

Surprise flutters across his features.  

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, if you need.”

You watch it happen. That alarm of otherness rings out as his eyebrows lift, his eyes widening somewhat. His shoulders slacken. Immediately, he takes a step closer, and, without thinking, you flinch.  

“Ah, sorry. Sorry!” He withdraws. “We’re both speaking to you. We’re trying,” he says, and he’s Steven again. Actual Steven, accent and all.

Is this a joke? part of you demands to snap, but you can’t. No, not can’t. It would be all too easy, given the events of the last hour, to launch your anger. But you won’t. Why? Because you’re worried you might upset him? The man that just ground a knife into someone’s shoulder without a second thought? Except, that wasn’t really him, was it?

On the ground, your attacker emits a low groan. Something flickers in Steven’s expression.

He stalks towards the body and, with a shout, boots him in the face.

“Plug-ugly bastard,” he murmurs with his retreat. His face softens. “Sorry.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I mean we’re really really both in here.”

Do you actually believe him? Them? 

“So, you’re Steven…”

He hardens. “Marc.”

“Two of you,” you murmur.

“Two of us.”

Marc.

When you speak, Marc’s isn’t the only voice that sounds foreign. Yours is too eccentric, whilst your stare lingers in the air as though misplaced. “To be honest, that was the last thing I was actually going to ask.” The amusement slips from your face as fast as it sprung.

“I have a medi-kit in my apartment. I’d understand, given the circumstances, if you didn’t want to. But I think it’s best we get you away from that body.”

You nod.

“Okay.”

He looks past your shoulder, a beat of silence passing between you.

Then, “I’ll sort it. Don’t worry,” he says.

🌟 Steven

—“Uh… y-you…” was all he could manage to stammer when your lips parted from his. Despite being the oldest, his eyes were wide, staring at you as if he couldn't believe what had just happened. The tips of his ears turned red and his body went completely rigid as you laughed softly at his surprised face. He stayed quiet for a long time, looking at you nervously out of the corner of his eye, avoiding your gaze while you played with his fingers to calm him down. Finally, after catching his breath a bit, he cleared his throat, ran a hand over his neck, and tried to feign indifference, although his voice trembled: 'It’s not that I’m surprised… I just… didn’t expect you to be the one to go first.' But his shy smile, hidden by lowering his head, gave him away completely.

🌟 Jeongwoo

—The kiss was so sudden that Jeongwoo froze, blinking several times as he processed what had just happened. His breathing became a little faster and you noticed how he clenched his hands at his sides to contain himself. His gaze slowly dropped to the floor, a small but sweet smile appearing on his lips as his cheeks were tinged with a faint pink. He finally looked up, his eyes shining with tenderness and a touch of surprise. In a low voice, almost a whisper, he murmured: '...I didn’t know you were so brave.' And then, after a few seconds of awkward silence, he looked at you out of the corner of his eye, still red, and added: 'But… I liked it.' His gaze remained fixed on you, softer than ever, as if the whole world had disappeared in that moment.

🌟 Woongki

—His eyes widened and blood rushed to his cheeks. Woongki brought his hands to his face, covering it completely as he let out a small, muffled sound. He stayed like that, hidden, muttering something under his breath that you couldn't understand, but from the way he was swaying on his feet you knew he was about to melt from embarrassment. Then, very slowly, he peeked at you through his fingers, still red, and with an adorable pout he said: '...Again? Just to check that it was real.' His voice sounded childish, almost pained, but his eyes shone with a perfect mix of shyness and joy.

🌟 Shuaibo

—It was a quick kiss, but enough to make Shuaibo stand petrified on the spot. His hands were halfway to reaching for you, as if he didn't know what to do. Slowly he brought them to his cheek, touching it gently, feeling the warmth that was still there. His mouth opened in a perfect 'O' as his eyes remained fixed on yours, unable to hide his astonishment. A few seconds passed where you only heard his ragged breathing, until he finally murmured, almost to himself: 'Was that... for real?' His voice was so low that you had to lean in to hear it, but his eyes were already telling you everything.

🌟 Han

—Upon feeling your lips on his, Han's eyes widened so much they looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets. He became completely motionless, almost not breathing, with such an amused expression that you burst out laughing as soon as you saw it. When you pulled away, he followed you with his gaze, still surprised, and suddenly started laughing too, that low, mischievous laugh that so characterized him. Then he leaned towards you, rubbing his forehead against yours, and said with a playful tone but full of promises: 'You have no idea what you've just started... now you won't be able to escape.' And his eyes shone with a new fire, as if he was already planning how to return the dare.

🌟 JL

—JL blinked a couple of times, more curious than nervous, and immediately smiled, that confident smile he always wore when something took him by surprise. Although his heart was beating fast, his first reaction was to tilt his head and look you in the eyes with intensity. With one of his hands he carefully caressed your cheek, and then he tilted his face towards you as he murmured: 'Oh... so you were waiting for this too. What do you say we do it right now?' And before you could answer, his lips were on yours again, this time slower, more determined, enjoying every second. 🌟 Chi En

—For a moment he just stood still, as if he didn't know what to do with his body or his emotions. Then, when he saw how you laughed at his astonished face, he relaxed a bit and smiled softly, his eyes shining with tenderness. Without saying anything, he raised his hands and took your face between his palms, pulling you closer again while he murmured barely audibly: 'Come here...' And this time it was he who kissed you, deeper, calmer, but with that sweetness that made him unique.

🌟 Juwon

—At first he blushed like never before, his ears burning as he looked at you in surprise. But it didn't take him a second to react: he wrapped you in his arms and returned another kiss, then another, and another, until it soon became a small 'battle' between the two of you, kissing and laughing between each one. 'Oh, is that how you want to play? Well, I know how to play dirty too…' he murmured playfully as his hands held you by the waist, with no intention of letting you go.

🌟 Daisuke

—The reddest of all. His eyes widened as if he had just seen a ghost and his breathing stopped. He quickly covered his face with his arms, trying to hide his expression as he shrank slightly in on himself. His voice, trembling, was barely audible behind his hands: '...Next time... at least warn me!' But his shoulders trembled slightly, not out of fear, but because he couldn't hide the huge goofy smile that formed on his face. And although he tried to maintain his dignity, he soon lowered his arms just to look at you with tenderness, unable to be truly angry."