I’m a writer who specializes in G/t and size shifting, and I haven’t posted on Tumblr in like, literal years.
Seeing as the G/t tag has been going through a sad drought lately, my friend has convinced me to resume posting my writing to help feed any fellow hungry G/t fans.
Some of my posts will be oneshots with my size shifter OCs, some will be old Cinderella Boy fanfics. (Which btw, is a super awesome Webtoon with a canonically G/t main couple. Highly recommend!)
All of my content, including the fanfics, is written in a way that doesn’t require knowledge of the source material or context of the magic system to be enjoyable from a G/t perspective.
A play on the classic "Because I'd never let you go" G/t trope, but make it 🖤✨StarGoth✨🖤
Reading time: <10 minutes
AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66219943/chapters/170696725
They did not touch like this.
It did not matter how strong that erratic urge to relax into Chase’s hair was that day, nor how soft his hands. It did not matter how physical they were in their latest story—it did not carry over. It was an unspoken rule, perhaps, that Nox was only touched if absolutely necessary. These times were few and far between, usually only occurring in the moments before entering a book. The moments when Chase would offer his hand, palm up, and they would be in contact for no more than a few seconds before Nox was deposited onto the simple white table.
The clock was ticking down, as it had been in the months since Nox and Violet were found. Nox wished he could say their aid was mutual. That by choosing to join the air-headed teenagers, he was somehow helping them just as much as they were him. That he was, at the very least, another person to speed up their narratonin gathering. But he was not. He was simply there, taking up space (much more than he would have needed, at that. The humans had donated their entire attic to the keys.). Existing uselessly. Almost idly. There was not much he could do, not much he could help with.
It was unbalanced. Unbalanced the way they helped him readily, unquestioningly. When he was slowly opening up to Chase at first, when he was cautiously releasing bits of his backstory, he was met with no less than pure, utter determination to help him. Reassurance, promises. They were not empty. No, the blond’s actions supported his own words. They supported it every day. From the day that another jar was obtained to the present. When Bronze had emptied one of his peanut butter containers and they hurried to rinse it out, setting it next to their foolish brown teddy bear. Setting it next to the ugly little pickle jar, half filled with their hard-earned magic, and labelling it with his name in black sharpie. Not his real name, no—that was too much of a risk, Deacon was quick to point out. No, instead it was labelled with his gifted name, in big letters half as tall as he was.
They would find the other keys. They would be reunited. Then Chase’s mother would be wished back to good health. Then, Chase had promised with bright eyes and a determined smile, they would wish to return his humanity.
Two wishes. Twice the narratonin required. Twice the books, twice the time. Twice the energy.
Nox sucked in a breath as the others shifted to their key forms. Violet fell into his arms, and he focused as he carefully inserted her into the book alongside the others. This was what he, selfishly, looked forward to every day. Violet would carefully distort his features. She would give him a sparkling outfit and normal, black pupils. Skin a shade of brown instead of grey. And a height… well, a height that allowed him to lean down into a kiss if he so pleased.
He very often did please. He wallowed in his ability to thread his hand into Chase’s curly hair, to look down on him with a teasing grin, to flow with him in a dance. They stayed on track, of course. Nox and Deacon were an excellent combined force in ensuring Chase and the child did not deviate too much from the story. Excellent, that was, when Deacon was not getting distracted by the nearest maiden who glanced his way.
The most disappointing times were when he would need to correct himself. When he would be resting against a tree, Chase at his side, staring up at the midnight stars serenely. One laying his head on the other’s shoulder. When too much time would pass, he would need to tighten his jaw and force himself to stand. Force himself away from the touch, back to the hasty calls of the plot. Their narratonin earnings would dwindle should they become too distracted. Should a hug last a moment too long.
Then it would be over. The end, another book complete. Nox would go from confident teasing to respectful quiet, from color to shades of gray. Chase would too, a little bit. He would go from constantly tugging on Nox’s sleeves, from passionate kisses and excited dances, to hardly making eye contact. To offering his hand only when absolutely necessary. They would talk, yes, but not like they did in books. It was not the same.
Nox imagined it would be different to go from enjoying another person’s skin to the cold touch of metal. Or perhaps it was all in his size—perhaps it was repellent to go from looking up at someone to having them the size of your finger.
He did not know. It wasn’t until Chase fell ill one week, when everybody had insisted he stay in bed and take a break from stories for a few days. When they had barely talked, barely interacted outside of the occasional “How do you feel?” and “Like the bottom of a shoe.”
So finally he choked down his pride and asked. The answer, he was sure, would sting like acid. But it would be useful, he reasoned. It would help to know what specifically about his true form separated them so much.
It was late in the evening. The keys were asleep in the attic, the child back home, and the boys in their respective rooms. Chase was in a groggy, half-awake state full of sniffles and baggy eyes. Nox was where he had been the last several days—on his nightstand, by his side.
It was good that it was dark. Good that his partner was only half conscious. Perhaps that made it easier for the words to push past his lips, to form themselves into a quiet, coherent question.
But perhaps the best part about the dark was that Chase could not see Nox’s reaction when he muttered a tired answer,
“Because I would never let you go.”
-The next morning, Nox grows the guts to test what Chase said.-
Chase’s fever was getting worse.
The pathetic little idiot couldn’t even handle a simple respiratory virus.
Deacon’s worry lines deepened when he pulled the thermometer from Chase’s mouth for the umpteenth time that week. They’d successfully brought down his temperature with a suspicious combination of cheap over-the-counter medications earlier that afternoon, but the fever had returned with vengeance after merely a couple hours. Not enough time had passed for Deacon to safely administer another dose.
Nox stood emotionlessly on Chase’s nightstand, leaning against his sticker-covered eyesore of a water bottle. His arms had remained crossed at his chest since freckles entered the room. Deacon’s under-eyes rivaled that of Chase’s, his clothes were the same set from two days ago, and his bangs hung shapeless over his forehead.
Bronze was lounging atop his shoulder, his brown an ugly combination with the muted clothes. The boy’s hideous sweater vests were one of the first things Violet commented on after meeting the humans.
The other keys stood at the foot of his bed. Silver flitted with her hands, Goldie’s infectious smile was no more than a ghost on his face, and even Violet made an appearance that morning. She’d been adamant on not being in the presence of the “germy” and “weak” human, but Nox figured everybody else’s anxiety finally swayed her.
With a sigh, freckles set down the thermometer and reached out to gather the other keys. He glanced briefly at Nox, who firmly shook his head in response, before carrying them up to the tower and traveling downstairs for breakfast.
Chase seemed to lose consciousness the second the door closed. If one could even call whatever state he’d been in a moment before consciousness, that was.
Nox’s arms dropped to his sides, his shoulders relaxing a bit. A beat. The room was vacant, right? Yes, they were all gone.
He stepped over the narrow gap between the nightstand and bed, balancing as his feet carried him from solid wood to fluffy pillow. Chase lay before him with glistening skin and shallow breaths, his eyes closed peacefully. Nox dared a step closer.
Yes, he was undoubtedly asleep. Seemingly deeply enough not to be easily disturbed.
He reached out, hesitating before letting his fingers weave into the roots of bright yellow hair. It was stiff from dried sweat. The heat radiating from Chase’s skin was all but visible. Nox couldn’t imagine what it felt like. Chase had tried explaining a few days prior that fevers weren’t necessarily painful, only “kinda annoying.” This seemed wildly illogical, considering the same temperature outside the body would be nearly enough to burn.
He sighed, settling down next to his partner’s face. They hadn’t entered a book since Chase fell ill. And it had been precisely that long since Nox had felt his skin. He leaned forward, checking once more to ensure Chase was asleep before leaning his forehead into the boy’s temple. He inhaled Chase’s scent—muted from a couple days without a shower full of artificial fragrance, but present nonetheless.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it.
Nox ground his jaw. One of his hands fidgeted idly with Chase’s hair while the other rested on the sensitive skin just below Chase’s brow, his head leaned slack against his partner’s.
But he’d been starved. Starved for over a week.
Another glance; Chase’s eyes still closed. Slowly, as if that would make the action any less real, Nox planted a peck on Chase’s temple. The entire room was still. If he’d been paying attention, perhaps he would’ve noticed that Chase was no longer breathing.
Nox dared another kiss, then another. He wrapped a little lock of hair around his finger, planting a line of soft kisses above the boy’s brow. He’d been starving. To the point that he couldn’t even look at him without his heart raging in hunger. Without remembering what his lips felt like. Or his hair. Or breath. Or baby-soft skin. Without his patience positively dying as he willed the boy to get better so they could hurry back into a fantasy together.
If Nox had been paying attention, it wouldn’t have surprised him so when the blond finally lost his composure and fell into a big, sloppy grin. Nox was midway through another kiss when all of the muscles below him tensed and shifted, the skin next to Chase’s eyes creasing beneath metal hands. Nox jumped back, landing with a humiliating thump on the pillow under him.
Big brown eyes blinked open, a skat-eating grin making them sparkle. Wordlessly, Chase tugged a hand free from his blankets, sliding it forward. It was slow, deliberate, and obvious in its intention. Yet despite this, Nox made no protest as it came down behind him, cupping him softly. Chase’s head lolled lazily to its side, cheek pressing against the part of the pillow his whole body had been seconds before. Half-lidded eyes scanned the key up and down, smile never wavering, before shattering the distance and pushing his still-grinning lips against Nox’s torso. Then his shoulders. Then the side of his face. He wasn’t as quick as Nox had been, choosing instead to move slowly with murmured giggles all the way.
Nox lay paralyzed for a long moment, Chase’s lips still moving through various sections of his body at a time. Finally, his hand shaking a bit, yet thankfully at an angle that he wouldn’t have been able to see properly anyway, he reached out to touch under his chin. Chase froze, exhaling for a moment, before Nox guided his lips to his face instead.
He would be ashamed to admit how much and how long he’d been wanting this.
He would be even more ashamed to admit it wasn’t solely the ability to kiss Chase as a human that he’d been craving.
After time,—however much time, it would be impossible to guess—they fell asleep like that. Nox tucked against Chase’s face, two hands cupped around him, warm rays of sunshine peeking through the curtains.
Somewhere downstairs, freckles was attempting to concoct a breakfast that he could force his cousin to consume. Upstairs, the occasional… questionable… sound could be heard from one of the others. In the future, Nox was surely repeating a thousand apologies for daring to get so close to Chase in his sleep. But right there, right then, all that mattered were slow breaths and warm skin.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
romaincrisis
amandla
titsay
2087
