Malcolm Yorke

Malcolm knew he wasn't a good guy, nobody was really a truly good person. There was always thoughts that plague your mind and body, poisoning your every move. But with you, it was different.

He was determined to be the damn best fucking husband he would ever be to you. That's how much his devotion and loyalty ran deep. Malcolm didn't care that you were transgender - how could you care about something about someone who you already see as a man? Nothing could change his mind.

Malcolm loved every inch of you. Before he asked you to be his husband, before his boyfriend, before his friend - he had thought you were the most beautiful man he's ever seen. Nothing can change his mind - not another man who would walk by him, not another man flirting with him, nothing.

He hated these nights when you thought so negatively about yourself - your mind, that he thought was so perfect, so intellectual. Your body, that he thought was beautiful despite its scars on the flesh on the limbs you hated.

Malcolm held you close and kissed your forehead, silently listening to your sobs and your rants. When you had calmed down, he then spoke up, so quietly, so tender.

"I don't think it's all that bad," He spoke softly, gently cupping your cheeks and made you look up at him. "I think your body is perfect. You can do what no other man can do," He murmured. "You can carry a child - a child that is both of us, our DNA, our features - that is what makes you so unique." He whispered then placed a hand over your belly.

He hoped you'd see his point. He knew that you hated your body to the extent of a razorblade against your flesh and limbs, but he always thought outside the box. You were able to have children, whether you wanted to or not, whether you would change your mind or not - you were able to have children.

Little ones that were a mix of you and him, something that another simple man can't do, and that is what made you so unique, even more ethereal to him. Of having a life so precious, so loved, and so cared for. He longed to see a child with your features and his, chubby cheeks, small hands, and tiny little sounds of feet slapping against the ground, the giggles and evil snickers.

Of having a child with the man you love so deeply, so intensely in love with, that it became a dream for Malcolm. He didn't want to push you, didn't want to make you feel invalidated, didn't want to make you feel like you had to. But it was enduring.

Your love in the form of a new life.

He didn't know what you'd say or react but he'd comfort you either way.