#SHARE THIS POST‚ MY SCARABS!!

[hackyourbrain]

heyyy gang whats up. we gots a blog for you to report and shit ^_^

@ . ginmakigeng0 <- its this freaktoid

they're pinging random queer, disabled blogs (ours was pinged like two hours ago) in posts that are basically short blocklists? idk. its dumb.

uh yah. just thought i'd let ya know.

-🌲

[starry-mang0s]

More practice trying to get these human designs right. Idk about Scarab quite yet but I’m pretty happy with how Prismo turned out!

[thistledropkick]

Endo:

Syndesinae stag beetles go through one life cycle each year

[speedy-beans]

actually no im gonna try & remember what the points in the momoyao article were. the one i remember most is they said she should just. create a nuke or missile. which yeah sure whatever she probably could actually where would she even learn how to make a nuke. anyway but theyre literally taught in the hero course to cause as little destruction as possible. & that is the exact opposite of what a nuke or even a missile would do. also they said something about making a cannon but i cant quite ok i found the article 👍im going to complain even more. they also say for inko midoriya to be a hero instead & that not using her quirk as a weapon is due to lack of imagination. what. half the characters theyre picking they say "they just arent around enough to fully show off what they can do" & then every character is a side character. one of them is from class b theyre not supposed to explore her that much.

???

[dusterbishop]

i mistakenly called them by your name.

summary. || you're the avatar of anubis and the biggest secret you harbor is your relationship with jake lockley and the daughter you share. when the scarab falls into the hands of a cult, you delve into the fray and hope you can balance saving the world with protecting your secrets.

pairing. || moon knight system x f!reader (established relationship with jake, marc and steven join in later)

count. || 6.2k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. my annual moon knight obsession has taken over my brain and it's currently missing jake lockley hours </3

part one. || part two.

Despite being the Avatar of an ancient Egyptian deity, you don’t necessarily believe in fate. There is no such connection between the world and an individual such as destiny, such as there is no connection between one person and another that classifies as a soulmate bond. People exist in a state of utter abandon, and they are nothing but reactive to the state of the world around them.

Yet, as you turn around to show Eliana another exhibit on Ancient Egypt, dutifully reading aloud the brass-plated plaque she points at, you wonder how much of a coincidence it is that you see your husband standing there, just behind the gift-shop counter. The sight of him plunges your every nerve into a tumultuous sea of arctic water, the waves crashing through your body in a rush of panic. If he knows you followed him back to London, with Eliana no less…

Until you see his gaze meander your way, then slide right over the two of you as if you are nothing but ordinary museum attendees. There’s a slouch to his shoulders, his presence curled up in itself, but you have to tear your attention away before he catches you staring. Or, more likely, before you break and stride over there to demand answers. You have had enough time to sketch out and fine-tune your list of questions for him, and when you booked the flight to London you thought you were composed enough to be able to propose your tidy list to him without wanting to grab him by the lapels of his coat and shake some sense into his stupid fractured brain.

You let out a slow, controlled breath. You’re composed, of course you are. Nothing can shake you.

“Mama,” Eliana says, tugging at your hand impatiently, and you feel a jolt of awareness at the back of your mind that signals the creeping presence of a god nearby. This one isn’t yours.

“Yes, habibti?” You say, casually scanning the museum lobby. It’s a public, brightly-lit institution with sparkling glass cases displaying relics far older than you. There are groups of people sparsely scattering around the room, milling idly from one display to the next, unaware of the oversized jackal trotting through people and the display cases as a spectral entity.

The black-tipped tip of its tail wags in gentle greeting when it catches you looking, and you manage a pointed glance at Eliana before turning your attention back to the exhibit she dragged you to.

“It’s you,” she announces cheerily, grinning up at you. She is a dead-ringer for her father; same loose black curls and dark eyes that glimmer with a mischievous streak of satisfaction in teasing you. You look closer at the replicated statue of a jackal-headed god and huff out a laugh. It’s a statue of Anubis, of course, and you don’t have to look behind you to know that the jackal lingering in your shadow has an open-muzzle grin at the acknowledgment.

“Your flail is better,” she adds, pointing to the replicated flail dangling in the statue’s hand. The museum’s version is plated with imitation gold and striped blue, the metal sparkling beneath the fluorescent lights. The length of its handle fits flush to the statue’s forearm in the traditional symbol of a shepherd’s tool.

“Mine does look different,” you agree, idly swinging your joined hands between you. She stares up at the statue of Anubis with an intent solemnity, and you feel that familiar pitch of guilt in the pit of your stomach. Your service as a god’s Avatar is absolute; as his hands and his faith, you have had to adjust to a life of constant change. What began as a simple career at a local mortuary has transformed into a globe-trotting itinerary with a rapidly-expanding catalog of adversaries.

You resist the urge to glance over at the gift-shop counter and instead tuck a stray curl from Eliana’s eyes, smiling at the way she twists to look over her shoulder and scrunch her nose up at you. “I think we should take a break for lunch, habibti.”

“I wanna see the Ennead,” she frowns. Well, it’s bordering closer to a pout, but you can tell she’s getting hungry and her temper is on a shorter fuse than normal. She points to the banners on the wall, naming off the gods she sees, then pauses. “Where are the other gods, Mama?”

You study the display. There are only seven of the Ennead displayed, Anubis included, unlike the nine traditionally depicted. It’s clear who is missing immediately, and some strange emotion flutters in your gut at the realization.

“Khonshu and Ammit are gone,” Eliana announces. She twists around, peering for any sign of their presence, and she goes tense in your grip when she spots the man at the gift shop counter. “Oh! Daddy’s here.”

“He’s not himself today, habibti,” you tell her. She squints at him, studying the curve of his posture and the polite smile he gives the old woman buying a glass paperweight in the shape of a pyramid. There’s an earnest sheen to the clumsy way he gestures towards the display of fridge magnets that makes his customer smile, polite yet uninterested. He looks like he’s spouting off a laundry list of information, and the old woman nods kindly as she collects her change and receipt before retreating. He manages a wave in goodbye then moves onto his next customer.

“He’s nice,” Eliana decrees. “Can we say ‘hi’, Mama?”

Yeah, Jake is going to kill you for this.

“Sure, habibti. Let’s get a souvenir and we can see him when we checkout.”

In the very least, it’s an easy redirect towards getting her out of the museum to get lunch. She practically drags you over to the gift shop, her eyes taking in the inventory with ravenous longing, and you notice the display of plushies with a resigned sigh.

“Taweret!” She shouts. You let go of her hand before she yanks you off-balance to follow behind at a slower distance, smiling as she gazes reverently at the tower of plush hippos. The black bead eyes shine kindly under the display lights, perfectly reminiscent of the goddess herself. She would be utterly delighted to see the merchandise in her likelihood.

“Oh, we just got those in,” an accented voice says, coming around the checkout counter to edge closer to the two of you. The relentless buzz of worry and stress that you have been harboring since Jake went missing in the dead of a Cairo night eases as his body comes into view. Of course, you assure yourself, his body is fine. With the Moon Knight suit to accelerate his healing instantly in battle and Anubis’s blessing to keep him whole, he was never in danger of death.

Still, your shoulders loosen from the relief, and you turn to smile at him. The name tag fastened to the lapel of his jacket says ‘Steven’, though you figured as much based on the British accent and the seemingly exemplary customer service skills he has displayed. Marc, during the plentiful amount of life-threatening occasions you’ve clashed with him in, is not as patient as his alter, and you know Jake prefers limited contact with strangers when necessary.

“She’s a bit of an Egyptology enthusiast,” you tell him, gesturing to Eliana. A sensation of warmth spreads through your chest as you watch Steven turn to your daughter, his face lighting up in delight. Jake liked to lament the fact that she was just as Egypt-obsessed as Steven was, though you knew he was secretly pleased that she shared that trait with his fellow alter. Steven is a soft-hearted history nerd, he had told you, and he never shuts up about it.

And you love him for it, you had translated, and Jake had expertly changed the subject by changing the channel on the television to put on the game show you both liked. There was something to be said about the way he complained about Steven’s constant stream of history trivia facts only to religiously tune in to Jeopardy with you during his time in the body. Not to mention how damned good he was at it.

“Hello, there,” he says to her, crouching to get closer to her level. He points to the display of stuffed hippos. “I reckon you know who that is, yeah?”

“Taweret,” Eliana beams. She looks to Steven with that smile, and he returns it just as brilliantly. “She’s the goddess of women and children, an’ she helps steer the boat in the Duat.”

Steven raises his eyebrows at that, but his voice doesn’t falter from that kind, attentive tone. “Wow, you’re an expert! She helps guide the souls through the afterlife, yeah?”

“She weighs hearts,” Eliana agrees.

“Oi,” Steven says, sounding a little put-out by the declaration. “Well, that’s more of Osiris’s thing, innit? Weighing the heart, comparing it with the feather?”

Uh-oh. You know that her furrowed brow mean she’s gearing up to properly educate Steven on the true nature of the Duat, so you edge your way back into the conversation, crouching down to be level with her and Steven.

“Do you want to tell Steven what we noticed, Eliana?” You prompt, and her face turns solemn as she stares down Steven.

“You’re missing two,” she tells him. At his startled look, she points over his shoulder to the Ennead banners displayed on the far wall. “Khonshu gets cranky when you don’t talk about him.”

You barely manage to tilt your head down to hide your grin from Steven. She clearly picked that observation up from Jake, who often translated his disdain for Khonshu’s regular self-righteous rants into kid-appropriate terminology when he noticed her paying attention.

“Right,” Steven says, frowning. For a beat, you think it’s from the way Eliana talked about the Egyptian god of the moon with familiarity, but no, he looks justified as he points to the banners. “I told my boss the same thing, yeah? There are nine members of the Ennead and only seven banners. In a museum!”

Uh-oh. Now you got Steven all worked up.

“Stevie!” A voice shouts, startling the three of you. Eliana reaches out to clasp Steven’s hand, eyes wide, and some unspeakable emotion clogs your throat when you see his grip on her hand tighten reflexively, a silent comfort.

“Uh, here!” he calls. To Eliana, he says, “Donna, my boss.”

He dares a glance your way, and you blink at the flush of red creeping over the crest of his cheekbones. You aren’t used to your husband’s body looking so… soft and shy. Not in public, anyway. “I’m real sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize,” you tell him, soft, and he seems to blush harder only to yelp in surprise when Donna turns the corner. He straightens up to his feet fast enough to shake the display rack of Taweret plushies in a dangerously tedious wobble, which makes Eliana giggle and in turn draws Donna's attention to the way he’s still gripping onto your daughter’s hand.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She asks him, her voice edged in exasperated annoyance, and you rise up from your crouch, eyes narrowed. Donna gestures to their clasped hands. “Let go of that child, Stevie, what’s the matter with you?”

Steven releases Eliana’s hand as if her touch burns, and she stares up at him with wide eyes, hurt twisting her bottom lip into a wavering pout. You reach out and draw her closer to your side, smoothing a hand over her dark curls as she buries her face against the hem of your coat to hide her tears.

You look at Steven, and the gutted expression that flashes across his face nearly rends you in half. Jake. You would know him by sight alone, even if he only takes control of the body’s expression just long enough for you to see his hurt before he shutters himself away again. Got you, you think, relief unraveling the pit of worry trapped beneath your ribs. The body is alive, yes, but so is Jake. He’s there, even if he masks himself behind the presence of his fellow alter.

Part of you had thought… you had worried that…

“Steven is a real scholar,” you interrupt, forcing a smile to your face, hard-lined with polite disdain for her tone. Donna pulls her glare from Steven and looks at you as if just noticing your presence for the first time. “He was just telling Eliana about the Ennead. She loves Egyptology, I’m so glad she could talk to someone who loves it just as much as she does.”

“Oh, it’s nothin’, really,” Steven scrambles to add, flushing darker, his gaze darting from you to Donna with a wariness that reminds you so much of Jake you wonder if he’s still at the surface of the body’s consciousness, prepared to strike.

“I appreciate his help,” you add over Steven’s stuttering apology to Donna. She gives him a flat, annoyed look then turns to you with a fake smile.

“Well, at least he’s good for something,” she says, pointedly staring at Steven, and the defensive curl of his shoulders makes you want to throttle her. The blaze of fury that curls up the length of your spine is not only your own; a jackal’s rumbling growl echoes in the space above you.

“He is amazing,” you blurt out. She turns to stare at you, but you only have eyes for Steven. His posture is slumped, but those dark eyes are glittering with surprise as you stare at one another, a rising tide of unsaid words swelling in the back of your throat. You want to tell Donna of the incredible knowledge he has, the kindness of his heart, and the mirrored facets of his body that she could never fully understand. She cannot understand that when she disparages Steven Grant, she is also targeting Marc Spector, Jake Lockley, and Moon Knight.

Instead, you say, finally, “I really appreciate it, Steven. We would love to hear more when we come back.”

“Of course,” Steven says immediately, then blanches at the glare Donna gives him. “Right, uh, you’re welcome back anytime, yeah? Eliana, too.”

At the sound of her name, Eliana twists her head to look shyly up at Steven, her fingers easing their death grip on your coat when you gently tug at the curl falling into her eyes. The smile she gives him shines bright enough to make him grin back. “Thanks, Steven!”

“Thanks, Steven,” you repeat, and part of you wonders what Jake sees when you lean down and haul Eliana up onto your hip, carefully maneuvering your way out of the gift shop without bumping into the few patrons staring openly at the strange display between you, Steven, and Donna. He had told you that he stays aware during the day, giving his nights to Marc unless he felt a spike of adrenaline that signaled the start of a fight for the body.

You hope he sees your message loud and clear as you make your way to the museum’s exit, glancing over your shoulder just once to find Steven watching you, his face morphing into guilt and embarrassment when he sees you catch him staring.

You offer him a fleeting smile. You hope Jake sees your silent meaning: come and find me.

***

You get lunch at a cafe across the street from the museum, and you don’t argue when Eliana begs to sit at one of the bistro tables outside despite the clouds rolling in and muddling the sky. London is a dreary change of pace from your last apartment in Tunis, though you silently admire the way Eliana watches with open amazement at the crowded sidewalk and idling cars passing you on the street, enraptured by the bustle of pedestrians and flow of afternoon traffic.

You are no stranger to the world, but you forget how novel the entire experience is for your daughter. For a five year old, she’s been to more countries than you had been to at her age, but she still chews on her sandwich with an absent-minded instinct as she watches. Like the exhibits in the museum, she is utterly taken with the foreign display of another life.

The french fries you ordered taste like ash in your mouth, but you manage to chew and swallow without feeling too nauseous. It helps when you have a spectral jackal curled up at your feet under the table, its weightless head resting on your shoes in silent support. Its head is pointedly aimed to the front doors of the museum, acting as a sentinel. You don’t expect Steven to lose control of the body any time soon, especially not to Jake. Last you heard from him, he was intent on keeping his role in the system as a secret.

There’s enough going on in their head without me, querida.

Fair enough, you think, though you give up on picking at your fries in favor of scrawling another entry in your travel journal. It was a simple way to keep track of Jake’s memories during your former glory days as traveling Avatars, but you keep the habit without him there to add his own observations or opinions.

Noon: Visited the National Art Gallery with Eliana. She took us around the Egyptian exhibits for an hour. Saw Steven in the gift shop. Saw you briefly in the front. Got lunch at the cafe across the street.

Staring down at the entry only furthers that jolt of longing in your heart, so you snap the journal closed and slip it back into your tote bag, far out of sight.

“Oh,” Eliana says, breathless, and you barely have time to look up before you see her get swept up out of her seat by a pair of hands.

Your choked gasp of shock catches the attention of a nearby table, but the older couple looks away when Jake glares back at them, hoisting Eliana up onto his shoulders. He carries the body with the same lithe grace as a panther, you think. Where Steven is huddled and wary, Jake burns as bright as the sun, his shoulders squared, every step graceful and sure.

Even his smile to you is near-predatory. Unhappy.

“Fancy to see you here, querida,” he says. Not unkindly, though you know it’s more for Eliana’s benefit. There’s an edge lining the corner of his mouth that is reserved only for you to see now that she’s stashed safely atop his shoulders.

“I saw Steven!” She tells him, burying her hands in his dark curls. She leans down to press her temple to his, only to squeal in delight when he turns to kiss the tip of her nose.

“You told him he was missing the gods on that poster, princesita?” He hitches his shoulders to make her bounce, and she curls up to steady herself in his grip, giggling riotously against the crown of his curled hair. “I think you forgot something when you left.”

“Not-uh,” she declares. “I got my jacket!”

“Hmm,” Jake muses. “What about your shoes?”

“One, two,” she shows him one foot then the other. Jake’s smile softens at the sight of the untied laces, and you know he’s thinking of the same daily rituals you are. So many mornings he has spent muttering over her sneakers, constantly re-tying the laces, failing to convince her to get velcro shoes because she likes Jake to tie them for her and he cannot resist making her smile, even in that small way.

A morning ritual the two of you have tried to remedy together since he left. You’ve shown her how to tie her own shoes many times since then, but both of you can feel the gaping emptiness that he has left since Cairo.

“¿Estas segura?” He teases, and when she lets out an offended squawk of annoyance, he releases his grip on one of her ankles and pulls out a fuzzy dark-fur plush from his pocket.

You laugh despite yourself. A plush jackal, colored just like the god tucked in at your feet.

“Anubis!” Eliana gasps. She takes the plush from Jake with reverent joy, tucking it securely into the crook of her arm as her other hand curls gently into his dark hair. The exhaustion and annoyance that lined his face earlier is long gone, and a gentle adoration softens his eyes as she leans in to whisper in his ear, “Gracias, Daddy.”

“De nada, princesita,” he whispers back. For a moment, they stay just like that, her face ducked low to lean against his, his hands clasping her ankles to steady her perch on his shoulders. She has the same sort of smile that he does, too, as if it’s a secret split open and divided just for the two of them to share.

You’re loath to interrupt their first moment of peacefulness in nearly two months, so you merely catch Jake’s gaze and hold it, silently conveying every thought rattling in your head.

Cairo. The apartment abandoned in Tunis. The journey to London through international flights, hauling around a cranky kid that missed her dad and didn’t understand why it was important to pretend she wasn’t Eliana Lockley Spector when the boarding agents checked them in. Seeing Jake’s body being piloted by a near-stranger in the gift shop, knowing he was close enough for you to touch but you had no right to ask for the privilege.

“Join us?” You ask softly. He swallows thickly, and for a beat, he lets you see the emotions filtering through his mind in his subdued expression: exhaustion, stress, panic, relief, love, love, love.

“I have an hour for lunch,” he says. He doesn’t say that it’s Steven’s lunch, though you know that based on the tension ticking in his jaw, he’s already wondering how he will cover the blank spot in Steven’s memory when he comes back to front.

You push your plate across the table, and he eyes the untouched sandwich and half-eaten fries with a knowing look.

“No mayo,” he assumes. It’s endearing, you think, watching him scrutinize the lunch date you arranged while Eliana pets his curls with gentle fingers, tangling up the sleep-mussed locks even further. If Steven looked tired and rumpled, then Jake seems exhaustively spent. There’s a firm tilt to the corner of his mouth that reminds you of the way Marc always frowns when he’s in the front, but as Eliana carefully combs through his hair with her little fingers, you can see his expression smooth out and soften.

“You should finish lunch,” he finally says. He’s looking directly at you, but he lifts Eliana up and over his head to settle her in his lap, claiming the chair he swept her up from. She wiggles to lean her head against his collar, her posture loose and sated. He pulls her plate closer to the edge of the table so she can reach, and one of her hands dart out to snatch a french fry.

“Ay, have more than just the fritas,” he admonishes, but he takes a fry off of your plate with a wink only you can see. Eliana giggles but obediently reaches for her half-gnawed sandwich next, and so Jake doesn’t complain when she curls up in his lap to nibble on it, watching the passing traffic with a bright smile that makes your heart ache.

The three of you will never have your little life in Tunis again. You know it, even if you want nothing more than to take Jake by the hand and drag the both of them back home. It eases the sting to know that Jake would go with you and he wouldn’t fight it. His willingness to settle down was never the obstacle in your relationship.

“How was the shiva?” You ask. It’s easier to switch to Spanish; you can feel the sidelong stares from the old couple at the table next to yours, still uneasy at Jake’s sudden appearance. They are likely harmless, but you don’t have enough energy to sidestep the actual topic you need to discuss by using petty code-speak.

Jake takes the offering without stumbling. “Didn’t go in. Had to nudge them through the city streets before one of them got run over.”

“The museum is just his day job, then?” You ask, nodding to the name tag still fastened to Jake’s coat. Or it was technically Steven’s coat, you supposed. The three of them have their own preferences, and you know Jake would have preferred something softer and warmer for the tepid English weather.

“Gallivanting at night,” Jake agrees. He takes another fry off of your plate and eats it slowly, chewing as if he can delay the conversation entirely. Eliana eats just as slow, you notice, and you wonder if it isn’t just Jake who feels the tension brewing between the two of you.

It isn’t fair for her, you think, and that gives you the courage to speak first.

“I’ve been talking to my sister,” you start, and the next sentence dies in your throat when you see Jake stiffen, panic flashing through his eyes before his gaze settles in wary distrust. The slope of his shoulders tense into a straight, drawn-back posture. A soldier’s stance.

“You,” Marc says flatly. Eliana straightens up at the sound of his voice, looking at you with wide eyes, and you can only offer her a smile in what you hope conveys comfort. Either that, or you just might expose some of the frustration welling up in your chest.

“Just having lunch,” you tell Marc. His brows draw together, unsure, and you quickly jump back into English. “We invited Steven to lunch.”

Wrong thing to say. The tension stiffens into protectiveness, his dark eyes slowly taking in the plates on the table, the half-eaten vegetarian sandwich pushed between you and him. Then his attention trails down to Eliana, and his expression smooths out when he realizes that she’s watching him with rapt attention.

“Hi, Eliana,” Marc says, soft. When he looks at you, that wariness turns the softness of his black eyes back to stone. “Steven isn’t involved in any of this, Lockley.”

You nod. The sound of his voice sends that shiver down your back. God, you missed this so much. Jake may be the alter you married, but Marc is still the reason you have him and Eliana. He was your partner in a way Jake didn’t quite equate to.

“I know.” You offer your best apologetic look, but he doesn’t seem swayed until you nod to Eliana. “We came to the city for my sister. I got a lead and I needed the babysitter.”

“Lockley,” he warns. He glances around the cafe, and you follow his gaze. The old couple that sat next to you have gone while you were distracted, and you supposed it was good they left before they noticed Jake switch into a brooding American from Chicago that looked like he was holding a pipe bomb rather than your daughter in his lap. The faces around you are different but unassuming, and none seem interested in your suddenly tense conversation. It’s only the three of you, and the jackal curled languidly at your feet, unbothered by the display.

Good. That must mean Khonshu isn’t here yet. When Marc looks back to you, you smile at him.

“I know,” you say, soft enough to sound less like a defense mechanism and more like an olive branch. It doesn’t loosen the slope of his shoulders, though there’s less wrinkles across his brow. “I just needed time before meeting with Sophia. Eliana wanted to see the exhibits.”

“I saw a mummy,” Eliana adds, patting Marc’s shoulder to get his attention. The anger clears from his face when he tilts his head down to offer his full attention. His eyes linger on the plush jackal clutched in the crook of her arm, but he merely offers her a kind, gentle smile.

“Oh, yeah?” He says. He pokes her side, supporting her weight when she jolts away at the ticklish touch with a giggle, then pokes at the plush on her other side. “You picked up a souvenir, too?”

“Anubis,” Eliana affirms. She pulls it out to offer it to Marc, and his hand is gentle as he pets the top of its furry head, his smile tugging ruefully at the corners of his mouth. You take a brief, gracious moment to silently thank Jake for his thoughtfulness. Not only did Eliana have a souvenir, but it was a good cover story for when this exact scenario happened: they saw Steven at the gift shop counter during checkout, and they got lunch together.

From what you knew of Steven, you gathered that he was an earnest, kind-hearted, and well-mannered man. He wouldn’t refuse an offer for lunch, and he was just as likely to strike up a friendship with Eliana through a few conversations about their shared love for Egyptology.

Like you choosing the vegan-friendly restaurant, Jake chose a prop for a lunch date. For all of the complaints he had about Marc’s love for strategy, he could be a formidable opponent in the game of chess you all played with the system. Hiding Steven from the world of Avatars, hiding Jake from Marc and Steven, hiding who you and Eliana truly are from Marc.

It was all a delicate circus act of balance and lies, and you wondered just how far you could let it go before it all came crashing down. Marc would be gutted if he knew the girl cradled in his lap was his daughter just as much as she was Jake’s and Steven’s. He would be furious if he knew his marriage to Layla was null and void just because he was married to you, instead, long before he started to even date her.

Yeah, some chess game you all played. Some days you wondered if it would be easier simply to set the board on fire and let it all go.

“I’m sorry,” you say suddenly.

Marc and Eliana both look to you, an eerie mirror to the life you pose for. She has his striking dark eyes and soft curls, and thanks to you, she has his name, too. One of the contacts you worked with beyond the scope of Marc and Layla’s influences forged her birth certificate and passport, sympathetic when you explained to her that Eliana was a surprise and her father had no interest in being involved. She needed identification papers, and you couldn’t go to the local embassy to register her birth with her father, and so you made them up.

You couldn’t blame Jake for lying about his role in the system. You were just as complicit in the deceit of your daughter’s life. By extension, for better and for worse, that meant Marc’s life, too.

“For showing up so suddenly,” you explain. “I didn’t expect to get so caught up in a museum today. We just had to kill some time.”

In emphasis, you check your watch, and you don’t have to fake the tired sigh that overcomes you at the acknowledgment of the time. Steven’s lunch was about over, and you had to catch the next bus to your sister’s house before she started to worry about you.

Marc, ever attentive, takes the hint.

“I understand,” he says, though he doesn’t sound happy. “Just… leave him out of this. We can talk about the scarab later.”

“Didn’t tell you that was my lead,” you point out, a little sly, and he levels you with an unamused look. You relent, “I’ll share my sources and we can make a plan. You don’t have to rush in alone.”

The smile he gives you is bitter. “Am I ever alone, Lockley?”

With that, you watch as his posture softens, Marc stepping back from control. For a moment, you wonder if he intends to have Steven step in, in which case explaining the lunch arrangement again will get much more confusing. But no, you can see Jake’s mouth twitch with a muted frown before he gives you a wide, uncharacteristically bright smile.

“Right, look at the time,” Jake says, and you can’t help but smile at the British accent. “I best get a move on, right, love?”

He presses a kiss to the top of Eliana’s head, and only you can see the way he closes his eyes for a heartbeat, a wave of longing sweeping across his face before it settles back to an imitation of Steven’s soft look and he leans back. When he looks at you, his face betrays nothing of his true nature, and you wonder what he would say if Marc wasn’t hovering so close to the front, watching your interaction.

He would probably be pissed. He didn’t like to be left out of the loop, and you coming to London was so far out of left field that you came from another stadium. Bringing Eliana only complicated things, but were you supposed to leave her with your neighbors in Tunis? As much as you liked and trusted the al-Karims that lived next door, they were vastly unprepared to take care of Eliana if you never came back. Next of kin was the best opportunity you had, at least for now.

“It was nice to see you,” you say to your husband. You hold his eyes for a long moment, a silent conversation held delicately between the two of you. Years of working side-by-side as Avatars and the aspect of parenthood where being aware of what Eliana shouldn’t have to hear finely tuned your silent communication skills, and you are more than fluent in the language of Jake Lockley.

He is beyond pissed. He is utterly fucking terrified. He wants you to leave just as much as he wants to pull you in and keep you close. He wants to settle in and rest, even for just a little while, and he does not want to let the two of you out of his sight.

I will be back for you, you tell him silently. We are not doing anything alone. We are going to fix this and go back to normal.

Jake says, with the slightest furrow of his brow: I want you to be right, querida.

Yeah, you want to be right, too. It’s a work in progress.

“You ready to go, habibti?” You say to Eliana, gathering up your tote bag and her small pink backpack. Before leaving Tunis, you packed it with her clothes, along with some of her favorite books and a few toys. How strange your life was that you had a go-bag for your five year old. It had been even worse that she recognized her backpack and had gotten ready for your flight before you even explained the trip to see your sister.

She heaves a world-weary sigh and shuffles around to face Jake, lifting up her Anubis plush to kiss his cheek with a soft peck of its nose.

“Anubis likes you,” she tells him, solemn. The jackal at your feet, nothing more than a shimmering mass of sand and shadows, gives Jake a bared-teeth grin of acknowledgement that no one but you can see. She isn’t far off, though you would rather not have Khonshu overhear that his Avatar has a soft spot in a rival god’s heart.

Marc must still be close to the waking consciousness of the body, because Jake nods enthusiastically and generously pats the plush’s head.

“Right, thanks, mate.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to muffle a laugh. His impression is openly expressive and earnest, though not entirely overdramatic. The accent is a dead ringer for Steven’s stereotypical posh English. It makes sense; he has spent many years posing as flashes of Steven to keep Marc unsuspecting of certain blank spots in his memory. Typically, it’s softer errands, such as grocery shopping or doing laundry, but you have heard Jake’s impression of Steven and Marc enough to know when it’s him putting on an act, even if it happens to be a very accurate act.

Jake keeps up his front as Steven, and you wonder if you’re the only one that notices the way he reluctantly passes off Eliana to you, his hands lingering just a moment on her untied shoes before they drop back in his lap, empty.

Eliana nuzzles her face in the crook of your shoulder, her arms wrapping around your neck in loose comfort. She’s exhausted after your morning of travel to London by bus, followed immediately by your museum visit and the impromptu lunch date. When you reach your sister’s house, you know she’ll be grumpy until you can convince her to nap.

Then, you will have to leave her there, and meet up with Marc.

“Thank you,” you say to Jake, though it’s half meant for Marc, too. The two of you can manage to find the scarab and keep it out of the cult’s hands, surely. The quicker you locate the artifact, the quicker you can arrange a real routine for Eliana while you adjust to London life. Or maybe you’ll get lucky and you can go back to Tunis, the three of you, to go back to enjoying the sunshine and frequenting the food stalls in the Medina.

“Pleasure’s all mine, love,” Jake grins, and this time, it’s his own flirtatious smile that makes you grin back.

[noodletime]

Idk if I just can’t find it on your blog, but I beg of you if you haven’t already, please post your wonderful Ken x reader here, too, because I want to reblog it to my own blog so badly but I can only spam hearts in the TGD community tab! You’ve got me crushing on a guy with a knife in his head, it’s just too good to not reblog, too!

OMG your right,,, im so sorry yall,,

HERES TO THE FOLKS WHO WANTED IT IN PUBLIC AND NOT ON COMMUNITY PAGE!!!!!!!!!

(inspiration/idea by @corni-the-flowercat)

Ken X Wife!Reader Headcannons

GIF by veelzebub-the-dingus

Ohhh, where to begin. First off, you have NO idea how you got into the situation of marrying a sadistic butcher and gaining both a yeast golem son and a *human* daughter. But who cares? You have managed to get by just fine, and that isn't a problem for you at all!

You and Ken were a PERFECT match. From the day you two locked eyes with eachother, he knew his future would become brighter from that day onward. And he was right! Ken has never felt lonely ever since, and neither have you!

You two often take turns running the shop while the other goes out on a mission. When you walk back into that shop with bits of purple blood on your clothes and hair he SWOONS at the sight of you. And he'll gladly help you clean up after yourself after a mission. Change of clothes? Hes got a folded pile ready in your rooms. Need a wash? Shower/bath has been made sure theres enough hot water. Feeling tense? You'd be surprised that his large hands can do a good massage!

When your not out on a mission and instead holding down the shop, your glad to do so! Especially with the kids, they wouldn't admit it but they adore you more than Ken..

Speaking of, you've never been happier to be the proud parent of Breadhead and Mel! Often helping them serve customers, wash dishes and cook up some recipies for the orders. Mel likes to play tiny tricks with you and often bets on random things. E.g. who can serve the most people before Breadhead finishes a song on the piano? And Breadhead certainly is a mama's boy when it comes to you. Any buisness you ask him to do WILL be taken care of, whether you ask him or not.

Oh, and you have a.."friendly" banter with Mud often. You'll catch him stealing a few scarab, so you go over and SLAM your fist into his stomach so he retches them all back up. You'll be serving up a customers order, and all of a sudden the plate is gone (and Mud has an awfully cheeky grin on his face).

But anyways, back onto Ken! When theres a slow day in the shop, and the two of you are alone, Ken would walk over to the record player and put on a song for you two to dance to! Often its a slow song, but if a slightly quicker song comes on? Ken WILL have to learn to match your speed quickly, or else!

Acts of affection are often acts of service or physical affection. If your standing near him you'll possibly find his hand your shoulder or waist. He'll go and gift you anything he thinks you'll like, from fancy clothes to jewelry and such -- he gets paid a good amount of scarab, so you don't have to worry about the costs.

DEFINETLY the big spoon, this man is so large he takes atleast more of the bed you two share (bro IS the bed 😭😭/j /j /j ). He'll be curled up around you while you rest in his strong grasp, his body protecting yours from the cold outside. It'll take a while for you to escape it, however. If you need to go grab something before you go back to sleep, you'll have to wake him up first, and hes a HEAVY sleeper.

When going on missions TOGETHER, you two are an unstoppable force. Tearing through anything you can see until you get to your objective. No opposing gang is safe from the smiling dead duo's grasp! Plus Ken LOVES the way you become so unhinged in the heat of the moment. Your crooked smile, bloodlustful eyes and crazed hair make you all so charming in a way Ken can't explain.

Although, such a relationship with a guy like him *does* come with its cons, especially with his mood swings. Your the one to try and make him calm down when he snaps, and for most of the time it works! Until it doesn't, and now your faced with a raging, monsterous tryant (who is also your husband) in front of you. When you two get into arguements, theres always two main factors: One, its about one/both of your kids health and safety. And two, it never goes and/or ends pretty. Lots of yelling, accusing and angry gestures all over. But don't worry, if theres anyone whos apologising first, it'll be Ken.

How he apologises is either him talking to you up-front about it, or leaving a few thoughtful gifts in places where you often walk to inside the shop. It might be on your shared bed, on the counter or maybe even in the freezer. Either way, he feels bad for yelling at you, and wants to make it up to you no matter what. How could you say no?

Overrall, hes a sweetheart. Your so lucky you married him out of all the rotlings out there in the Gaslight District. Your life has been crazy, but your glad that your darling husband will be there by your side no matter what, and the rest of your family too. <3

[artbyfuji]

Might you be able to share on here the Yang wip you posted on twitter a couple of weeks ago? 👀

go my scarab 🌻✨

[silvertear1108]

AMULET // TALISMAN

How to protect yourself, repel negativity or return evil to the sender, remove evil eye? CARRY AN AMULET.

AMULET, also called TALISMAN, is an object either natural or hand made and believed to be endowed with special powers to protect or bring good luck/ fortune in specific life area. There are thousands of things available for usage as long as you believe in it's power and activate it or someone activates it for you. A bit bellow I will list some protection amulets as they are really needed nowadays. We live in a harsh world. When making an amulet you can inscribe on a stone, carry a small image or charm of mentioned thing or even an item itself. You can also incorporate said thing into the spell. Usually amulet is made of sturdier material such as metal, most usual one, while talismans can be made of paper. They come under the same at the end there is just the difference in materials. Usually when amulet is made you need to do so with intentions and belief, so it can work perfectly. Amulets are carried on a person or kept in the place that is the desired sphere. - (ex. protection in career, at work in desk put few mustard seeds) Ultimately the power is all in the mind and a persons emotional and spiritual vibration.

PROTECT YOURSELF

🍓BAY LEAF ➸ protection against evil and spells. 🍓CARAWAY SEED ➸ protect child from illness. 🍓BUSKEYE ➸ protection, draws money. 🍓HORN (sheep, ram, cow) ➸ ward of evil eye, vinitity. 🍓LUCKY HAND ROOT ➸ return evil to sender. 🍓MUSTARD SEED ➸ good luck, protection. 🍓ONION BULB ➸ absorbs evil. 🍓SCARAB ➸ ward evil, eternal life. 🍓GARLIC CLOVE ➸ repel evil. 🍓VIOLETS (flower) ➸ protection and boosting spiritual power. 🍓DAISIES ➸ used for love divination, protection against everything and for increasing luck.

I will make a post about ingredients used in kitchen which can be used in spells. For all my kitchen witches ♡ Follow me and stay tuned.

I would appreciate if you could add me on instagram, I will be sharing some tips there and will hold lives on which I will do tarot/ astrology readings, one question free of course.

IG: reina.priestess

(just click on username and ofc I will follow back)

THANK YOU, BE BLESSED.

[artisplatters]

Since this has gotten a lot of attention since I posted it THIS MORNING, I thought I'd share the second part of this headcanon;

I've seen a lot of "Prismo being flustered and Not Normal about touch" and not a lot of the other side being pretty much the same

My science reasoning behind this is, in edition to Scarab having a kind of prickly personality, his exoskeleton is also extremely uncomfortable to touch.

in regular scarabs they have a sharp exoskeleton to try and ward off mites and enemies, but it doesn't really bother humans much due to it's small size, like how diatomaceous earth feels like cornstarch to us but it shreds bugs if they try to walk through it

However, Scarab is obviously not small, and so he'd inadvertently hurt those who touch him.

In this colorful shadow form, though, he doesn't have that painful outer-shell, and is safe to interact with and be interacted with others. He, as it turns out, enjoys this quite a bit more than anyone would've thought, including himself

[moonlight-tmd]

So what's bee like when he's carrying?

Is he emotional or is he the calmest bot ever? Also how would the sire react to bee doing literally anything? (The sire being either blitzwing or prowl)

Also another question how would be be right after carrying?

(Love your blog still♡♡♡)

Well it really depends on the situation. I've had plenty of those written on the blog it's hard ot keep count so I'll just give few examples.

The immediate post this question reminded me of was this. Prowl literally crashed when Bee says he's carrying, it was only a tip of the panic iceberg that followed during his carrying. Bee's carrying is risky so he's not allowed to do much but he doesn't mind, he's doing it for the bitty. In that scenario he's possibly the most responsible mech from the two (wow). Prowl is a mess, constantly triple checking everything and if Bee is okay and stuff, he's running at every request and a mere mention of something; berth is uncomfortable? here's a 5 more pillows. oil not warm enough? he's making double steaming cups with all the things bee likes. and many more. He's all over the place and worries for Bee's wellbeing and the newspark's. After the bitty arrives Prowl is more calm but still frets over tiny things, Bee is also a bit hesitant to do things but he's doing a good job at being a mama.

Another ProwlBee example is something i've not shared yet but it's a good idea. (and prolly my new fanchild for these two) Bee and Prowl having a bit too much high grade after winning the final battle and ended up wit a one night stand. A week of so after it Bee ends up with an injury during reconstruction work and Ratchet finds out he's carrying. He initially planned to scold the scout for being so reckless but had to change his behavior instantly when Bee freaked out about the news and had a full blown panic attack.

Prowl is later called in medbay without an explanation, there's Ratchet and Bee who looks like he just finished crying. Ratchet leaves them to talk, it's difficult for Bee but he finally confesses he's carrying a newspark- Prowl's newspark. Prowl, although equally shaken, is very supportive and says he'll be there for Bee whether he decides to terminate or keep it. Bee is very dependent on Prowl's answer and can't think for himself at the moment but ultimately, they decide to keep it. Bee's frame was defective so this was really the only chance he'll get to carry a sparkling, Ratchet was surprised his forge even managed to make a newspark to begin with.

So Bee, while calm and obedient to doctor's orders, is really freakin nervous and scared. He's never had any experience with this and doesn't want to accidentally screw up. Prowl is taking good care of him and making sure he's comfortable and well few all the time, which Bee sometimes makes jokes about. I'd imagine that they fall in love during that period and become an actual couple by the end of the carrying.

They pick out a protoform matching the newspark's size and thus a new bitty is born. They didn't have a name picked out when it emerged, only during a small celebration party they chose it- The bitty had a yellowish-green coloration and horn-like antennae. When the sun hit its plating a whole range of glittery shades of green and yellow and even orange showed. They named it Scarab, which would grow into a confident femme with interests of her sire and passion and attitude of her carrier, her alt mode is a quad.

And for a BlitzBee example, i can't really think of anything right now so i'm gonna use a situation i wrote a while back in this post. It's mostly showed how they acted during the carrying then so imma skip to right after the sparkling (later sparklings) is there. After carrying the first sparkling (Thunderbolt), Bee was extremely protective if not aggressive over it, he wouldn't let anyone but Blitzwing near it. After few days tho he began being distant to everyone. Post-partum hit him hard, and without his depression meds it was much stronger than he expected. Blitzwing tried his best to be there for him while also looking after their little one, Team Prime handled most of it and Bee was recovering being attentive to his bitty. Now when Blitzwing carried Bee was freaking out cuz he didn't want the 1st sparkling situation to repeat but Blitzy was very careful and obedient, even if he actively complained and huffed about being told what to do. Compared to Bee, he's much more tame when the other sparklings arrived (Frost and Flame), he knows team prime means no harm to them but he still gets possessive/protective of them sometimes. Bee is doing a good job as a sire but he's still having minor flashbacks to his own carrying from time to time.

That last one wasn't exactly what you asked now that i look back at the question but oh well, consider it a bonus. Ty for the ask <3

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I know I just sent an ask regarding the Miss Raven relationship post, but I saw the scrapped Yuus one and I wanted to ask smth related (⁠⇀⁠‸⁠↼⁠‶⁠) sorry if two asks in a row are too much in this regard too!

first of all I LOVE YOUR STYLE 😭 it's so cute, I always get excited when you post art. and it's so interesting to get to see a part of your creative process in making characters, even if they didn't end up existing. ( THE ONEE-SAN YUU... Miss Raven was saved from falling for another charming smile... and so were the rest of us )

in regard to ocs, I wanted to ask... do you have any other twst ocs? I think I read some old posts about some RSA ocs, but I wanted to ask specifically if there's another "big" one in terms of story/being as fleshed out as Miss Raven 🧐 or if you ever plan to make another Big Oc™️ in terms of lore like u did for her

also... I wanted to ask... now that you finished her main story, is there any other long form (?) stories you want to explore with her? I know you're hosting the future!au event rn, and you've written more side stories (?) about her in similar events... but I mean as in- again, a longer sort of story. I'm just genuinely curious, since I really like your work + her specifically and I'm curious about whatever you have planned for her 👀 but ofc it's totally okay if you have other plans orrr if you'd prefer to let the heavy Raven lore rest for a bit!!

[Referencing this post and this blog event; the asker’s Miss Raven relationships ask is here.]

adskjblfabfqyovf OTL Thanks??? I get anxious about posting my art because its usually hand drawn, non-committal sketches ��� I personally really like reading about other people's creative processes so I tend to scribble notes all over my drawings, and then they get all messy and cluttered... I'm glad you like them regardless though.

I like drawing Onee-san!Yuu’s art eyes and hair… She is very dainty and cute! Her personality is fun to toy with too, since how she acts and how she’s truly feeling are so starkly different. I’ve thought about her so many times, it’s almost like she’s psychically reaching out to me in an attempt to have me formally implement her 😂 Again though, not sure if I’ll ever settle on a Yuu because the concept of a Yuu does not really interest me.

Aaaah, my RSA OCs were back from like 2020-2021. I never did manage to flesh them out and I think I’ve lost the fire to. I have several NRC OCs that I haven’t shared because they aren’t that fleshed out either. Of those, I think my favorite is my twisted!Iago (who is in part also inspired by my own pet)… He’s just a punk ass (first year Scarabia) kid and Jamil’s self-proclaimed minion (Jamil has no idea who he is).

Ironically, I think the most detailed NRC OCs I have at the moment are the three based on mob students:

Even then, I don’t think they’re super deep… Pome A can be summarized as "ex-delinquent who now has the goal of becoming 'a gentleman'" (similar to Deuce, who wants to be an honors student). Scarab B is basically a Jamil fan boy (though he's less angry/pushy about it than Sebek is; he has more eager puppy energy). The most detailed one of the bunch is Octa A, who is very anxious (Idia-sh) due to being sorted into Octavinelle, where his dorm members are constant sources of stress. Outside of that, he's a very... homely "boy next door" type. I picture him coming from a tightly knit island town and helping out his family at a community center where they help people find jobs that best suit them. (If you couldn't tell, a lot of Octa A's backstory is inspired by the Lilo and Stitch animated series.) The mob student OCs were conceived because I thought it would be funny to sometimes write from the perspective of unrelated onlookers watching all of the crazy stuff that happens on NRC campus and just going, "What, AGAIN????" They feel more like unserious gag characters, if anything.

I have actually considered writing a sequel to the Tale of the Cursed Raven for the longest time! If you've read the original tale, Vil, Azul, and Idia play prominent roles throughout it. The second saga would theoretically give the other dorm leaders (Malleus, Leona, Kalim, and Riddle) importance. Note that 3 out of 4 of the dorm leaders in the latter group are nobles or have noble relatives. That's because the (potential) sequel would involve themes of social status and who gets to shape the future. A-And hey, maybe it could focus on Raven's relationship with L*ona instead of J word this time-- The synopsis is as follows: Having finally broken her curse, Raven Crowley is now free to live as she wishes in a happily ever after of her own making... or is she? One day, a strange invitation arrives from an unknown sender, beckoning her to Briar Valley. Amid whispers of Malleus Draconia's ascension to the throne and a grand ball to decide the dragon's bride-to-be, the timing is certainly strange. "This is far too suspicious," she thinks. "I simply won't go." Then a sparkling carriage pulls up to the gates of Night Raven College, claiming to be looking for a princess in black feathers. Accompanying that carriage are two men cloaked in white and a woman that shines like starlight.

"Who are you?" Raven asks, feeling as though they've met before in some distant past. "Why, I'm your Fairy Godmother. I'm here to make all of your dreams come true."

Perhaps this meeting was always meant to be.

(I WANT TO BE CLEAR: despite how the synopsis sounds, it is NOT meant to be Raven x Malleus. I would appreciate it if readers refrained from discussing this topic, please and thank you.)

As you can probably tell by that 💦 the story sounds very ambitious... and unfortunately, I don't feel comfortable writing it because we're still missing so much from the canon main story. I'd like the OB Malleus and Grim arcs to complete so I understand the full scope of the story and how the loose ends are tied up (particularly Malleus's reaction post-OB and how, if at all, he embraces change). More lore on dragon fae would be helpful as well. I'd also ideally like a Briar Valley hometown event so I can see what the culture, traditions, people, politics, etc. are like before I attempt to depict it in my writing.

In this sequel, there would be many OCs introduced--at least 4 of them! I've been cooking a lot behind the scenes ^^ One of these OCs you've actually met in the original tale; it would be the Enchantress (Estella) that originally cursed the Storyteller. 2 of the other OCs are what I would describe as Estella's helpers, who are meant to be her equivalent to Silver and Sebek. One is inspired by the concept of the “messenger dove + dove with the olive branch” and the other is inspired by Swan Lake. The 4th and final OC is basically all but confirmed would be a foil character to Malleus, an ambitious nobleman twisted from Nerissa (the villain from Enchanted).

Here’s some doodles I have of the 4 OCs I mentioned! The first two are “the dove” and “the swan”, respectively. The bottom two are concepts for twisted!Nerissa and Estella.

This sequel would expand more on Estella's motives and background (something I mentioned in my afterthoughts), as well as tie in history and political intrigue as Raven’s forced to navigate those circles. It would most likely be set a year or so in the future, and the events that take place would inform Raven’s internship decision in her fourth year. (She would be a scribe in Briar Valley!) I’d like part II to feel like a story event that supplements or follows up on the development in part I/the main story.

xbjsbsjsjsb Anyway 🤡 That’s all I feel okay with revealing for now. I want to be clear and reiterate that this is all just a theoretical sequel and I’m not sure if I’ll actually get around to writing it. It’s definitely been fun to conceptualize though ^^

I’ll leave you with this concept art:

[jonnysinsectcatalogue]

Rugose Stag Beetle - Sinodendron rugosum

No insects were harmed in the making of this video. The finger visible was just gently poking. Today's post marks the 6 year anniversary since this blog's inception! Thank for you, dear reader, for 6 wonderful years of insect photography, research and appreciation. And thank you to my friends, family and followers for your support and contributions. This post is representative of that, and how the reach of this blog extends further than ever, with many unique and interesting species to find and enjoy on this blog (and my YouTube Channel as well) from Toronto and other regions of Canada. Cheers to many more great years on the horizon, with lots more insects to share with everyone.

With that excellent horn on its face and its well-armored shell, this insect could easily be mistaken for a Scarab Beetle (of the family Scarabaeidae). I was hopeful that my dear friend had sent me some variety of Squamish Rhinoceros Beetle, but its profile didn't quite match other horned Scarabs of similar stature (they tend to be more heavily armored and bulky). The pebbling on the wingcase is quite prominent, which led to the confirmation of this insect's identification. As it turns out, this Beetle is one of a variety of horned Stag Beetles (of the family Lucanidae). Quite a change this is, as all the Stags I've seen prior to this specie possess enlarged mandibles, rather than a horn or horns. Having said that, the two Beetle families aren't that far apart in terms of relation (both are under the Superfamily of Scarabaeoidea), and the males of both family branches use grand, and sometimes elaborate facial appendages to fight against rival males to secure mates (females lack a facial weapon). As such, this specie of Beetle relies on its bulk to keep it stable and its horn to flip rivals over. Of course, there's much more to worry about in the wilderness after emerging from wood as an armored adult. Despite the integrity of its armor, it cannot protect against everything in the insect world. The eager Ants scurrying around this Beetle were definitely probing for a vulnerable spot of the underside to bite, but the Beetle moved along, seemingly undeterred.

Video was recorded in Squamish on June 12, 2024 with an iPhone 12.

[dramagotchii]

'Aaru' 🌾✨ on twitter: (x)

My piece for cynonari zine Gilded Bonds, and a companion piece to CalmarSan's. Our pieces belong to the mythology category. And our idea was "what if cynonari always found each other and shared a fate together? and, in the after life, no matter if in heaven (aaru) or hell (duat), they would meet?".

My piece represents their love in the ancient Egypt heaven (Aaru). (basically, they passed Anubis judgement here lol) Aaru is the heavenly paradise also known as the "field of reeds", throughly permeated by the Nile river with its abundance.

I went for a more abstract depiction of the reeds (background pattern) and the river, while also trying to bring a 'heavenly' feeling and pay homage to the zine's title (Gilded Bonds), by using lots of gold. (everything was manually drawn, every single pattern o(-<)

My inspiration naturally got drawn towards Klimt's work. It was a challenge for me, but I'm quite proud of it. 💪✨

Another cool detail: Cyno and Tighnari's "wedding rings" are actually their earrings, which have a strand of hair of each of them, braided together and adorned by jewelry pieces. This was 100% a self indulgent idea x3

Cyno is also wearing one of those Heart Scarab amulets that some ancient egyptian people used as a funerary rite. It was believed to protect the deceased and help them undergo a smooth cycle of rebirth.

In a last minute whim, I wanted to have Cyno blowing flowers to Tighnari (very typical romantic imagery), sort like Haku in Spirited Away. They come from Cyno and circle their way to Tighnari.

Tighnari's tattoos were also self indulgent and have no particular meaning, other than adorning his skin since he uses less jewelry and prefers more natural adornments than Cyno.

(Also, in the initial draft, they were v much naked lol What gave sort of a Renaissance painting feeling to it. But I had to censor it bc it is a sfw zine. Maybe someday I'll post the unclothed version, bc I went thru the trouble of painting muscles, only to cover it later x'])

[scarletlight-has-issues]

Okay so I've held onto this one for quite a while bc I was self-conscious ab my art style and how it doesn't look nearly as good as a ton of other prohibited wish artists on here but I think it's time to share it-

I had this idea in my head and I just needed to get it out sooo um.

Sorry for the pain

Also I was testing out how I draw maskless Scarab (which is partially inspired by the INCREDIBLE @time-woods's design for their Carma sorry for the @ I just wanted to credit you for the inspo- btw) so it's changed a bit since I drew this bc Ive gotten more used to drawing him-

I have a ton more art in my backlog I'm just,,, self-conscious lol. trying to get better-

PLEASE [tumblr] fix the quality when I post this bc it looks like ass in the editor as Im looking at it rn

[thrownsoul]

realizing it's been a million years since i did something like this, post pride headcanons i guess 🏳️‍🌈

alice dated exactly one person in high school and it ended badly. it was a boy who broke up with her because (he said) he liked her more than she liked him. it hurt alice's feelings, but later she found the term aromantic and felt very seen.

and for awhile she thought that was the end of it. she was interested in romance with any gender the same amount: none. but when she went to college and had a more exploratory environment she realized that sexual attraction was also the same amount: a lot.

and then she fused with the scarab, so she had bigger bugs to fry. but she was also feeling a severe lack of control over her body, which only got more intense later, so sexuality was a way to reclaim that for her.

i think wolfin @teoporiuli is, like, 'canonically' the first woman she dated, and also the first time she realized that there were also shades of aro. her attitude at the time went basically from "oh my god what is HAPPENING TO ME" to "never mind, i don't care"

she likes the term aroflux more than demiromantic; it's less that she needs time with a person and then might fall for them, but more that her capacity for and interest in romance really does fluctuate. with that said, she tries not to spend too much energy analyzing it.

she did not share this journey with her parents, just like she didn't talk to them about scarab. her grandfather is a pastor, and not the affirming kind; she had already stopped believing in hell by the time she got to college and wasn't going to church anymore, but she still didn't want to have that fight with them. with her sisters, she was a little bit more open, but she was never completely out at home, and had not figured out how to work herself up to it by the time she was kidnapped by the reach.

[dusterbishop]

i was let down it wasn’t the same.

summary. || you're the avatar of anubis and the biggest secret you harbor is your relationship with jake lockley and the daughter you share. when the scarab falls into the hands of a cult, you delve into the fray and hope you can balance saving the world with protecting your secrets.

pairing. || moon knight system x f!reader (established relationship with jake, marc and steven join in later)

count. || 6.8k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. you guys leave the sweetest comments, thank you!! i love sharing the drama with y'all. if you would like to be part of a taglist, just throw me a mention! or you can follow. :)

part one. || part two.

In true Marc Spector fashion, he tries to sneak out to Austria without you.

The advantages to having the favor of one of the Ennead is that you are adaptable to the whims of your mission. Moon Knight, whether its identity is being worn by Marc or Jake, is capable of flight in the winds of night, his silhouette cast far above like a crescent moon. It’s a convenient trick of Khonshu’s.

Your service to Anubis is convenient in terms of air travel, too, though the similarities are not lost on you. It’s an amusing thought as you summon your ceremonial armor. Eliana is safely tucked into bed, your sister is thoroughly distracted by her TV show, and you are standing on top of the roof, the night wind rustling the keffiyeh draped protectively over your mouth and nose. Your armor is simpler than Moon Knight’s, since battle is not your forte, but it serves to protect you from the elements all the same.

You shake away the lingering exhaustion and tap the emblem of Anubis on the chestplate of your armor, a quick two-time rhythm that echoes through your body with a shiver. The gleaming gold of your suit fades into the shimmering white sand of intangibility, weightlessness settling around you like a cloak.

Traveling in the wind under the moonlight, you let your body dissipate into a rush of sand. Vertigo tilts you into a spin cycle, pitching nausea in the pit of your stomach, but you keep your mind sharpened on your destination point. It’s much easier when you know his face as intimately as you know the back of your own hand.

Marc, to his credit, doesn’t flinch when you swirl into tangible being at his side. He has worked up into a dead-set pace through the airport terminal, a baseball cap pulled low over his furrowed brow and his travel bag hiked up defensively over one shoulder. His entire demeanor deflects attention like a shield. Don’t look at my face, don’t step into my way and distract me.

He’s very good at it.

Marc sighs when you fall into step alongside him. “Lockley.”

“Spector,” you hum. His strides are long and unfaltering, and for a moment you let that acknowledgement lay without further explanation while you keep pace. Avatars have enhanced endurance and strength while bolstered by their God’s favor, including you, not to mention that the life of a mercenary demands careful maintenance of your body’s upper limitations. You have gone for days on the run, never sleeping longer than an hour or so at a time, surviving off of nothing more than shallow sips of water and pure determination.

You are no stranger to pain, fear, anger, betrayal. Neither do you flinch in the face of Marc’s stony silence, though you would like to get through this mission without actively antagonizing him, either. The scarab is far more important than his prickly hesitance to let anyone close enough to help him.

“You could have flown,” you say.

His only answer is a grunt of annoyance. You’re inclined to believe that his ire is directed mostly to Khonshu’s stubbornness, but you figure he’s still irked to see you in London.

“There’s also the matter of my ticket,” you continue. That gets him to slow his rampant pace, and he reaches up to rub at his eyes with a harsh scrub of his palms. Nearly able to pity him, you add helpfully, “I brought my own props this time.”

“You are such a pain in the ass,” he finally says, dropping his hands. He gestures impatiently to you. “Boarding is in ten minutes. Hurry up.”

Despite the grumpiness, he follows in the wake of your steps as you duck into a secluded terminal lounge. You pass your purse for him to hold, ignoring the pang in your chest as he tucks it into the front pocket of his backpack with familiarity. He hangs back a few paces away, surreptitiously looking away as you crouch down and press your fingertips to the golden cuff on your wrist. The colors in the lounge fade to dull monochrome between one blink and the next, and you give a soft chuff to let Marc know you’re ready.

While you had changed, he had enough forethought to pull the harness and leash from your purse, and he looks briefly miffed as he reads the new lettering on them.

“Service animal,” he reads, and you give him an open-maw smile. You’ve seen yourself in the mirror when you’ve changed forms. You’re small, less than fifteen pounds, and you have the distinct markings of a black-backed jackal. It should be impossible to pass as anything other than a wild animal, but Anubis’s favor must conceal you from skeptical witnesses, because you only get looks if you’re wandering around by yourself in public. Even then, the concern is mild, the sort of panic the sight of a stray dog would invoke while you visit other countries.

You’ve chosen to lean into it over the years. Jake likes to tell curious passersby that you’re a purebred German Shepherd. Marc, when pressed to pretend that you’re an animal and not the favored Avatar of Anubis, simply shrugs and calls you a mutt.

The designation as a service animal is new, but so is traveling via traditional air travel. He can’t expect you to wander onboard at the last minute without a passport, boarding pass, or luggage. So, in this case, you’ve become his luggage.

Despite his frown and the headshake of disbelief, he crouches down when you trot over to him and swiftly connects you to your harness. It’s a familiar ritual by now. With Marc, it’s almost easier than having to endure Jake’s jokes about enjoying being tied up. You do, but you don’t necessarily enjoy having to flirt with your husband while appearing as a twelve pound jackal. It kills the mood.

When Marc finally clips your leash on and straightens up, he takes in the sight of the bold SERVICE ANIMAL lettering and your dog-wide grin. You take the time to admire him, too. At this angle and in a tint of monochrome, the furrow of his brow is stark against the darkness beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted. The body itself is exhausted, running ragged with the lives of three people crammed into one skull, of which none of them try to coexist easily with another. Marc can act as protective of Steven as he likes, but it’s no life to be isolated by Moon Knight’s midnight rendezvous and stuck in a dead-end job selling plushies.

Not that you’re any better, not when it comes to secrets.

“Oh, my God,” he mutters at you. “You look ridiculous.”

You can’t speak, but you snap your teeth up at him in gentle rebuttal. Eliana thinks you’re cute as a jackal, at least. Wearing the form of a jackal is less about appearance and more about how to further serve your purpose as Anubis’s Avatar, but that doesn’t mean you’ll take an insult lightly.

Marc is fortunate that you’re currently stuck in animal vocal cords, and that the airport’s overhead speaker crackles with boarding information about your flight to Austria.

“Come on then,” Marc sighs. He gives you another look, and the faintest hint of amusement tinges the corner of his mouth. “You look great in neon orange, Lockley.”

You shake out your fur in agreement. You keep up a steady trot as the two of you navigate through the crowded terminal, basking in the muted atmosphere of your jackal senses. You aren't really a jackal in this form, despite appearances, and you don't have the same sharpened sensory facilities as one. The perk of this form is to allow you to seek out decay and carrion.

The airport terminal, mercifully, has a noticeable absence of dead things. It makes it easier for you to keep pace with Marc's long-legged stride. He always moves as if he's being chased, relentless and hunched in on himself. Steven minimizes his presence, too, but not like Marc does during a mission. You don't think you will ever stop marveling at the way the body changes with each alter, every movement tailored to their own unconscious intent. You're still in the process of learning Steven, but you know Jake and Marc well enough to see through their glamoured appearances.

"Here goes nothing," Marc mutters, and he shifts his shoulders back in a soldier's determined stance, tightening the slack on your leash. You adjust yourself to press your side firmly against his leg, willing your tail in droop in a neutral posture, your ears pricked up to catch the voices around you.

"Cute little pup," a boarding agent whispers to her coworker. "I love when we get service dogs, they're the sweetest things."

"If they're real," her coworker mutters back. He approaches you and Marc first, not bothering to deign you with a proper glance. He's taller than Marc, but there is none of the restrained grace in his stance that makes him appear as a threat. He also has an English accent that could rival Steven's for proper British poshness. "Good evening, sir."

"Evening," Marc says. He offers his passport, boarding pass, and the folded certificate you packed for your service animal prop. The agent studies his passport briefly, then reads through your service animal certification twice before handing it back to Marc with a gruff hum.

"Your service dog is cute," his coworker tells Marc, and she gives you an adoring smile. "I've never seen a little German Shepherd like that!"

You flash her a dog-wide smile, your tail swishing softly in acknowledgment. You hope Jake is close enough to the front to catch that little comment about your supposed breed. He loves to convince people that you're actually a full-blooded German Shepherd and not a mixed breed. It's easier when you're in an airport and the poor English boarding agent has likely never seen a jackal in her life.

"Thank you," Marc says, sounding just as amused as you feel. "She's mixed with something, we don't know what. Probably a wolf."

You press against his leg in soundless complaint. You aren't a mutt rescued from the shelter. The movement only makes the corner of his mouth tilt up in a half-smile, and he merely nods amicably to the other agent before leading the both of you on board.

He gets an aisle seat every time he flies, and it's the same row with the emergency exit. You settle comfortably at his feet, wiggling back to press your haunches beneath the seat and make room for your fellow passengers to get by. Marc fusses as usual; he adjusts his seatbelt twice and fiddles with the buckles on your harness. You rest the tip of your muzzle on his knee in silent comfort. Jake hates to fly, restless with the lack of control, but you know Marc is caught in the undertow of his own emotional whirlwind.

Your heart still aches with the fear from his sudden disappearance two months ago. It's not uncommon for Marc to be summoned for midnight missions at Khonshu's whim, but this was the first time that he did not come back. This time, Jake did not reach out to assure you that the system was still alive, and it was only through your shallow crossings of the Duat that you knew he was not dead. You had wondered, though, and you had spent too many sleepless nights curled up in the armchair next to the window in your apartment in Tunis, your face turned up to the moon.

In a rational shadow in the back of your mind, you know that he is nearly utterly invulnerable. Khonshu's ceremonial armor deflects most bullets and heals more than just bruises and cuts. The blessing of Anubis you performed on Jake all those years ago is just another fail-safe to keep him whole and alive, just in case he loses the god's favor.

Still, you don't feel comforted until now, when Marc gently rests his palm on the crown of your head, soothing back to run his fingers over the fur on the ruff of your neck.

You may have met Jake, first, but it was Marc that reluctantly began to invite you on Avatar escapades through the world. He still keeps himself walled off from your deeper probing, and he has no idea that Jake has already told you about the life their system grew up in.

You imagine Wendy Spector raising her hand, the air-whistling snap of the belt hitting her surviving son, and it almost makes the fur on your hackles bristle with anger. Jake had insisted on keeping your shared life separate from any mention of their childhood home, but it only serves to fuel your abhorrence of her actions. Whether it was the loss of Marc's brother or the escalation of Wendy's violence, it only contributed to Marc's trauma response.

The shiva made it all worse.

You look up to Marc, still resting your chin on his knee, but he's watching the passengers board the flight with rapt attention. His fingers, idly, stroke through your fur, over and over. You wonder how close to the surface Jake is at the moment. Does he know that you are following them to Austria, despite Marc's poor attempt to leave before you noticed? Can he feel the echo of your fur through Marc's touch, and does it steady him to know that you're right at his side?

You hope he does. You hope that it helps Marc, even in this small way, and you keep still so you don't scare him off from the simple comfort it gives him.

It's not a long flight, but his touch never falters.

Marc lunges for the window.

For a brief minute, you think he's going to summon the suit and use the momentum to float down using his cape. You're already intangible to human touch, a swirling figure of sand rushing through the winding hallways and scattered mercenary forces. Bullets whistle through your chest and skull harmlessly, punching holes of dust and sand into the wall behind you. It's an eerie feeling, like goosebumps prickling up the nape of your neck.

In this form, you are best suited for distraction, not attacking, but you manage to confuse a pair of cultists to shoot at each other by aiming for your abdomen. They collapse to the floor simultaneously, screaming in agony. It hurts to be shot in the gut. It's a pain you know intimately, and you don't feel remorse for the way they curl in on themselves, weeping and gasping for air.

A shocked shout from the window catches your attention. You forget the minor discomfort of bullets whizzing through your form when you watch Marc leap out of the window, wearing nothing but his travel clothes.

IDIOT, Khonshu rumbles in Marc's wake. DON'T LET THEM CATCH YOU.

"Not helping," you mutter. You tap your emblem of Anubis, gravity settling over your body like a shroud. With the flick of your wrist, you summon your staff. Sand drips from the cuff of your armor’s wrist to solidify into a gleaming golden pole just as long as you are tall, curving into a laughing jackal’s mouth at the top, its eyes glittering with blood-stone gems. In the mid-morning light shining through the castle's windows, the flecks of red in its eyes glow like a beacon, sharpening in response to the stench of death permeating the air.

To the disgruntled cultist aiming his gun at you, you offer him a polite smile. "Sorry, but you're in the way, and you tried to shoot my husband."

The jackal's jaw slackens to bare its teeth, and that is the cultist's only warning before the blood-stones emit a curling tendril of smoke that cripples him into a lifeless pile of limbs. He isn't dead, but he won't be able to shoot you in the back while you regroup with Marc and plan your escape. Khonshu seems satisfied by the effort because he crosses the room in four long strides, the heel of his staff tapping in succinct rhythm across the floor.

You sweep the room quickly, kicking the gun to the other side of the room under a set of drawers. The compound is sparsely decorated. As far as you and Marc figure, this is nothing more than a crash-pad for Harrow's cult, one of many international safehouses they utilize while recruiting new members. Still, you take the time to open the cabinet door of the armoire against the far wall, briefly rummaging through the lower drawers. Nothing but clothes, but it's worth a look all the while. You found the scarab tucked away in a sock drawer, after all. They are not very good at hiding valuable artifacts.

From his perch in the window, Khonshu calls down, GO BACK TO SLEEP, WORM.

That catches your attention. You raise your head and find Khonshu shaking his head in disgust. Marc must have hit the ground hard if he forced Jake to the front. It sends a chill of worry twisting through your gut, but you know the suit could heal internal damage if needed. Khonshu doesn't look annoyed by Marc's impending death, just the unexpected arrival of Jake.

You can't necessarily blame him. Jake's finesse is in his ruthlessness. He could go blind and deaf and still crawl his way to the next target without relenting. Marc is better at strategy, and right now, you needed a solid plan to escape the village without being followed by the cultists. Not to mention that he has the scarab.

"Don't call him that," you tell Khonshu. You shut the drawers and make for the doorway, mentally remapping the compound in your mind. There's still militia-trained forces prowling the building, and you know the town is full of Harrow's sympathizers. There's one winding road down the mountain that made you carsick just driving up it, but you figure your rental car might be sticking out like a sore thumb now that the hunt for the scarab is underway.

Khonshu may be right. You need Marc, and you need to get the hell out of here.

Unlike Marc, you have no intentions to leap from the window and break every bone in your body. Suit or not, you can manage to navigate to a lower level and avoid risking losing consciousness.

"Hello?"

You hardly hear it, lost to the distance and the mental gymnastics you're performing to plan an escape, and you freeze in the doorway. You have never heard Jake's voice sound so small and unsure. Did he suffer a head injury? Was there something wrong with their healing, some wound so dire that he sounds surprised to wake up in a new place? Jake is a punch-first and ask-later man. His first instinct is always to find a weapon.

YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE, Khonshu rumbles, irritation crackling in the air like ozone in a thunderstorm.

"Yep. I completely agree." A pause, then a faint and confused, "Where are you?"

"Oh, no," you mutter.

SURRENDER THE BODY TO MARC.

"Khonshu," you hiss. You check the hallway for soldiers and, blissfully, find none. Carefully, you step back from the doorway and tap your Anubis emblem, swirling into intangibility. You ignore the resulting dizzying swell of nausea that pitches low in your stomach. Your voice can still carry in this form, so you whisper-shout to him, "That's not Jake."

In answer, faint and pitched in concern, is Steven's stuttering, "'Surrender the body'? What body?"

Khonshu's lung-rattling sigh shakes through the room like a storm. OH, THE IDIOT'S IN CONTROL.

"He doesn't know what's happening," you say defensively. "Don't frighten him."

Without a backward glance, Khonshu dissipates from the windowsill, vanishing from sight. You swear under your breath and take off towards the window in four broad strides, leaping up to perch delicately on the open windowsill. The compound is nestled in the mountain-flanked valley of a quaint countryside village, and the picturesque endless field of green grass and wildflowers is violently interrupted by Steven's bewildered presence.

Looming behind him in disapproval is Khonshu, gripping his staff in a perplexed vice-grip. You shake your head down at the god's back. He's going to give Steven a heart-attack.

God, Steven is here. Sweet-spoken, non-confrontational, untrained Steven. The alter kept so tightly smothered by Marc and Jake that you have never formally met him face-to-face before the brief stint during your museum visit just yesterday afternoon. Now it feels like a lifetime ago. You watch, frowning, as he senses Khonshu's presence and jerks back to look behind himself, his gaze tracing up to you.

No, not you. He cannot see you in this form; Jake may have the uncanny ability to sense your sand-forged figure, but you know that to the naked eye you look as unremarkable as dust shimmering in the sun. Nothing more than a trick to the eyes. He looks up at the window you're perched in, squinting, before his gaze follows a shift of movement in the window next to yours.

From this distance, you see the way his frightened, wide eyes narrow in on the man leaning out to catch his target, his mouth opening in a soft gasp of shock. He offers a polite, if not utterly confused, wave up to the cultist staring down at him. You watch the exchange in silent disbelief, still poised to drop from the window to land far below if needed, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stifle your surprised laugh when the cultist waves back to Steven.

"Hullo," Steven says, brow furrowed. "Hiya."

Oh, Steven, you think, grinning. You've heard plenty of stories from Jake, and you met him in the gift shop, but watching his sweet and confused mannerisms makes you want to haul down there and throw your arms around him in a hug. No wonder the other two are so protective of him. He's simply… kind. Polite, too, in a way that seems utterly foreign in a body you have seen ravage destruction and death for years.

"What are you doing?" The second cultist's snarl yanks your attention up from Steven, just in time for you to see the gun aimed down at him.

Steven panics, far below, but you're utterly infuriated at the sight of those guns aimed at your husband's body. Marc may be down for the count and Jake seems to be under the surface consciousness, but you're still here, and you refuse to watch Steven get hurt. Not even your lingering vertigo can distract you from that simple, unrelenting purpose.

You launch yourself at them from your adjacent window, catching the sail of the valley winds, and you tap the emblem on your chest just in time to form tangibility and connect your heel to the square of the second cultist's chest. He falls back with a stifled cry of surprise, and you pull your fist back to punch him across the jaw, silencing him into a deadweight blackout.

DON'T JUST STAND THERE! RUN!

"You're one of them," the other cultist gasps from behind you. He raises his gun, leveling the assault rifle's barrel to your forehead, and you swirl into nothingness just as he pulls the trigger. The drawback kicks his aim up just enough to avoid killing the cultist you knocked unconscious, and you take advantage of his surprise at your disappearance to leap past him and plunge several stories down to the grass below. You flinch when your feet hit the ground, but in your sand-form, the impact is nothing more than the faintest pressure on the soles of your shoes.

You don't linger on the fact that you are unbelievably lucky you aren't dead. There are limits to your power, and you rarely tread so closely to the cliff's edge of its boundaries. Steven being here changes things, particularly your wariness and ritual of lingering to the edges of confrontation, but there's the uncomfortable acknowledgment that you may go to touch your emblem only to find yourself unable to change forms.

Is it worse to be intangible to all other life, nothing but sand?

Or should you be more worried of being unable to change into untouchable dust when there's a gun aimed for your chest and murder in a cultist's eyes?

Fuck. You need Marc or Jake to surge back into control and get the hell out of here before the scarab is taken back into Harrow's clutches. You are nothing more than the death specialist, a harbinger ferryman of the dead and the dying, a woefully under-skilled strategist in the grand scheme of your scarab heist. Marc could navigate his way out of a coffin sunken to the bottom of the ocean, just as Jake could struggle and drag himself out of a tomb buried under miles of dirt with nothing but his bare hands and sheer determination.

Steven… well. He's running directly to the center of a town that is intent on following the lawless word of a disgraced Avatar, carrying the one artifact you need to keep from their clutches.

You send up a silent prayer to Anubis, though his tangible presence is nothing more than a muted shadow to your existence at the moment. He can be more helpful than Khonshu, at least from your brief past experiences, but you aren't aspiring to tempt the boundaries of his ability in this plane of existence just yet.

Get the scarab, keep the body of your husband alive, and perhaps avoid losing your attachment to your psychical body altogether. It should be manageable. How much trouble could a museum gift shopist cause in a town of murderous cultists?

You are so used to working with Jake or Marc that, when Arthur Harrow commands his brainwashed audience to kneel, you follow suit without thinking about how Steven is woefully out of the loop.

It is an instinct for you to blend in, even if your sand-shrouded figure is indecipherable to the untrained eye, and your blood runs cold as ice when you hear his startled little gasp before he realizes what he has failed to do.

"Oh, bullocks," he mutters, and his aborted attempt to kneel in order to avoid the attention makes you grimace in silent sympathy. This is not going to be a clean and fairly-matched encounter. Steven has done his best to navigate the labyrinth of village streets in search of an escape route, with you tracing his every move as a dust-streaked shadow, but you know that he is not like you. Marc and Jake keep him stifled beneath the veil of normalcy because they think the violence will break him.

You think, grimly, that violence upon Steven will end up breaking Marc and Jake far more.

"You. I know you," Harrow rasps, and the hungry wildness in his eyes betrays his feeble posture and modest robes as nothing but a farce. You know the danger this man is capable of.

You tap your emblem and silently swirl into physical being. The cultists huddled next to you gasp softly and shuffle away, but you only have eyes for the way Harrow stares down Steven with ravenous curiosity. Like a cat catching a mouse.

"Me?" Steven squeaks out. He stiffens, pointing to himself, and slowly rises to his feet like a deer caught in headlights. "Hiya."

You rise with him, no more than a meter apart, but from this angle he cannot see you flanking his back. Harrow can, though, and his gaze narrows in on you with that same insatiable urge to hunt you down.

"Mercenary," he says. The tone of his voice rouses the cultists around you, prompting them to rise, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to wield your jackal-headed staff and clear an escape. If you had the proper time to curse out Marc for his stupid impulse to fling himself out of a window and get knocked out, you would. Again.

As it is, though, the cultists that initially retreated to give you space are edging closer, lured by the ire that Harrow directs at you.

"Mercenary," Steven is saying, but it's more like his anxiety bubbling up and resorting to straight blabbering, really, because he's looking about as if he expects a camera crew to expose themselves as a T.V. stunt rather than a real life or death situation. He gives a nervous little laugh. "No, no, I'm not a mercenary. No, I'm a gift shopist. Uh, I work at a gift shop. Um. My name's Steven Grant."

Harrow shuffles a half-step closer to Steven, eyeing him, and you step forward, too, tensing in preparation.

Steven is still talking.

"Uh, I'm trying to get back home. Back to London." He gives a desperate look to the unmoved crowd of cultists around him, but he still doesn't turn around enough to see you right behind him, prepared to leap into the fray. Even he can sense that the greatest danger of them all is directly in front of him, and he can't quite look away. "London? Don't know why I'm saying it like that."

"Well, Steven Grant of the gift shop," Harrow affirms, flat-out amused, and now he's walking towards Steven with a clear intent. Every movement like a man possessed with desire. You have what I want, and I will pry it from your hands.

"Yeah?" Steven acknowledges, and there's a tremor of fear in his voice that plucks at your very heartstrings. This will not be an easy fight, and suddenly you really wish you could properly curse out Marc for being such a fucking idiot. Who the hell is stupid enough to leap out of a window from that high up?

Jake, maybe.

"Will you return the scarab?" Harrow asks Steven, and you know he can recognize the wavering confusion as an easier target compared to you. Unfortunately for him, you don't intend to let the scarab go so easily. Especially now that you have an inkling that Jake may not be so far under the surface as you initially assumed.

"The what?" Steven stammers, just as you speak up.

"No."

Steven jolts as if he's been struck by lightning, turning to meet you face-to-face. The frightened dart of his eyes and anxious downturn of his mouth is so unlike the usual expressions you see on that handsome face. Anger, yes, and solemnity even more, but never such raw, confused terror. His brows stitch together when he recognizes you.

"Gift shop," he blurts you. He points at you accusingly. "You were there. This morning."

You offer him a sympathetic wince. You don't have the heart, nor the time, to argue with him about the time differences of traveling from London to here. "Yes. Sort of."

"What's this, then?" He says, and there's that flare of indignation you know all too well. He fumbles for his pockets, and the scarab's gold carapace gleams in the sunlight as he offers it to you. You don't take it, but it's less to do with the responsibility of keeping it safe and more to do with the fact that the crowd around you dissipates at the sight of the artifact, and Harrow takes three steps closer.

"It's a compass shaped like a scarab," you say, and your voice is far more calmer than you feel at the moment. "Don't give it to him, Steven. Please."

To his credit, he notices the crowd of cultists shuffling away, too. He eyes the growing gap between the both of you and them with wariness. Like a caged animal. You just wish you knew him well enough to know how he will react to being caught at the edge. He seems inclined to listen to you, at least, because he thrusts his hand towards you pleadingly.

"I don't want it," he tells you. You nod, and just as you reach out to take it from him, a man with beady dark eyes and a shaved head reaches for your elbow, tugging you back a half-step. You stiffen in his grip, prepared for a fight, but he releases you with nothing more than a thinly-veiled look of discouragement. It's only a warning.

YOU WILL GIVE HIM NOTHING, Khonshu rumbles, lurking along the edge of the crowd, and Steven can't conceal the startled little flinch he gives, nor the panicked little glance around in search of the god. His eyes pass over Khonshu's form without notice, and you don't have to wonder why Khonshu only registers to your senses and not his.

"It's okay," you say, your tone soft enough to placate Steven, but it's the annoyed glare you cut to Khonshu that translates your words with more of an edge. Let me handle this.

"I strongly encourage you to return that," Harrow says, and Steven jumps at the sound of his voice as if he forgot that Harrow was there at all. Before you can interject, he holds out his hand for Harrow, the scarab gleaming maddeningly bright for him to take.

"Steven," you start, tensing, only half-aware of the cultist lingering at your side prepared to step in if you make the wrong move, and the fear for yourself melts away into despair as Harrow reaches back to take it.

Only for Steven's fingers to curl into a fist, tight enough to bare his knuckles stark-pale. Harrow stares with utter incredulity as Steven fumbles to unlock his grip, prying desperately at his fingers, stammering on and on about the altitude, and you can't help but smile. Even Khonshu, lingering at the shadow of your peripheral, tilts his head like a predator catching a scent.

The body betrays him; Steven unfurls his fingers only for his arm to wrench itself back, out of reach.

"I will not ask again," Harrow narrows his gaze.

"I didn't do that on purpose," Steven tries. "I don't know what's happening."

"We're not here for a fight, Harrow," you add. His eyes land on you like the weight of the world. The shimmer-faint edges of his expired Avatarship to Khonshu catch in the midday sun, the only highlight of the desolate, gnawing shadow of his soul. Like an eclipse, the festering darkness blots out all the rest. Corruption of spirit.

You are not Moon Knight. You don't carry an arsenal to enact justice on behalf of the travelers of the night. But you are a faithful Avatar of Anubis, and you know your place is to act as a protector of the dead. As Harrow stands here, now, you can see the smears of putrefaction steeping into the very marrow of his soul, straight into his beating, unbalanced heart. Spirits cling to his shoulders and down his back in a cacophony, rending through his flesh without teeth.

The dead do not lie. He is a haunted, manipulative man.

"I last saw you in Cairo," Harrow muses. He taps his cane against the cobblestone once, twice, each rap of the tip echoing through the silent crowd like a gunshot. Steven flinches at each beat, and you can only stare at Harrow with pulsing anger. "You have a child to return to. Don't make a mistake you will regret, Mrs. Lockley."

"Oi, don't do that," Steven blurts out, and nearly withers at the way Harrow stares him down. The body is still wound tight, arm outstretched behind him in defiance, but Steven wiggles himself awkwardly around to offer the scarab to Harrow. "There we go, just take it. Take it, take it, take it."

Harrow looks none too pleased at the display, but he reaches out all the same. At the same moment, you summon your staff, fingers trembling with the exertion, and the cultists around you swarm closer with hungry violence. The body purposefully marches Steven out of Harrow's reach, and you only find your voice enough to shout out a warning before they seize him into a stifling hold.

"Don't hurt him!" You shout to Harrow, and the step you take to help is immediately pushed back by the crowd gathering around you, separating you, isolating Steven into Harrow's grasp. You swing out with your staff in a fit of frustration, hoping to bid back the tide, but one of the men knocks away your blow before it makes contact. Another cultist snatches your other arm, wrenching it behind your back hard enough to make you yelp in pain. You lash out with your foot and manage to catch someone in the knee, but any pride in hearing their cry of pain is stifled by the growing swarm.

You can't see him, but you can hear Steven pleading for them to stop, his voice high-pitched with fear, and the wave of desperation that comes over you sours like bile in the back of your mouth. No, it can't end like this. You flail out to hit someone, anyone, your pulse rushing in your ears like a tempest, Harrow's placating tone fueling the pyre in your chest.

"It's all right," Harrow tells his flock of cultists, even as you struggle against the grip of your captors, helpless to resist as they raise you up and drag you towards a storefront. The building is nondescript, painted a sunshine-pale yellow with white trim, but the windows are covered with brown kraft paper to block out both light and the eyes of curious passerby. If they bring you in there, you don't think you will be able to make it back out.

That's the thought that makes you sick enough to scream.

It cuts off with a sharp note when one of them hits you, exploding starlight behind your eyes and tilting the world into vertigo, pain streaking across your face in a supernova. An answering wail of pain rises up from too-far away, accompanied by a sickening crunch of bone, and a spectral voice sighs out above your head. It's a world-weary and impatient sound, just as impatient as Eliana's.

FINALLY. YOU TOOK YOUR TIME, WORM.

"Shut up," Jake grates out from behind you, and the sound of his voice fills you with such relief that tears prick at the back of your eyes. The cultists carrying you slacken their hold, and you even manage to loosen their grip on your arm long enough to pull free and slug a fist across one man's jaw. The others are quickly downed by Jake, and through the haze of adrenaline-laced panic you can sense his hand brushing over your cheek in a gentle, searching caress.

"Okay," you mutter out, but your eyes flutter shut in a traitorous display of fondness to his touch. Warmth drips down the side of your face, and you can feel the rough pad of his thumb wiping back the stray tear. "I'm okay, I'm okay."

His hand retreats just as quickly as it came, and you open your eyes to see Steven blinking back at you, looking ashen at the sight of the bodies around you. Just like that, the fear evaporates in the light of fury. You can see Harrow watching you both with suspicion from just over Steven's shoulder, and the crowd at his back edge closer with growing discontent.

NO, Khonshu laments. THE IDIOT'S BACK.

"Run," you tell Steven. You swipe a hand over your cheeks to clear away the remaining tears that escape, grimacing down at the blood now on your hand, and Steven eyes his own bloodied hands with growing horror. His gaze darts from the blood to your face to your own bloody hand, silently calculating, and you hate that this is one of his first impressions of you. It's eerily similar to your first encounter with Jake but instead of the unveiled glee in the violence, Steven only looks sick.

"Steven," you snap. He shakes off the blank veil of fear and finally seems to notice the danger edging in around you. His eyes widen. "Run!"

"Bullocks," he gasps. He stumbles a step back, realizes that you're both slowly being surrounded, and looks to you with growing desperation. Then his eyes land on something right over your shoulder, and you follow his gaze to a bright pink delivery van. "Right, let's just, uh, go this way?"

DON'T YOU DARE DROP THE SCARAB.

"All right, all right!" Steven cries up at the sky, but you're already moving, reaching out to curl your fingers over his wrist and drag him along. He keeps pace with you surprisingly well, even if you can feel his pulse jumping unsteadily underneath your touch, and you barely make it to the cupcake van before all hell breaks loose.