#I read a ton of fanfic this morning

[scrimblyscrorblo]

Fem Sanegiyuu after work <33

[sweet-as-kiwis]

welp. Todays sure off to a Start

[tales-from-elysivm]

★。／can i be a hero too?＼。★

ask: "I have a really cute request, Bakugou from Bnha with a little sibling reader. They weren't able to get a babysitter and Bakugou bring his little sibling to school, the reader is the complete opposite of him though"

pairing: bakugo x gn!sibling!reader

fandom: boku no hero academia

word count: 1,196

tw: none! purely some platonic, wholesome fluff. of course, a bit of cussing from bakugo but that comes with the territory

notes: thanks for being one of my first requests anon! it was really fun to get back into writing fanfic, and bnha is one of my favourite animes so writing this was a lot of fun - i just hope i did it well and you enjoy reading! i used primarily they/them pronouns for the sibling just in case ;)

! this is a repost from my other blog !

‘Can’t we just hire that old fucking neighbour?!’

Mitsuki doesn’t even bother smacking her son this time, too busy fixing up the bento box she has already begun making in the kitchen. Rice and egg and soft pretzels which [Y/N] always insisted on. The same thing everyday, which Katsuki found increasingly frustrating. Their name is painted on the lid, which sits on the sink.

It’s one of the only memories that Mitsuki repeatedly brags about to her mom friends. How her son eagerly decorated a bento box for his anticipated sibling, and how he ended up despising them when born. That’s what it looked like anyway

‘She’s too old for [Y/N], you know this.’ Mitsuki snaps, snapping on the box lid. ‘They’ll get bored if they have to sit in her living room all day.’

‘The place smells like shit too.’

‘Katsuki!’ This time she does hit him.

‘It’s just one day. All you have to do is keep them busy for a while, and they’ll find a way to occupy themselves for the rest of your classes.’

Mitsuki packs the bento box and several colouring books and pencil sets into a tiny school bag that’s been sitting open on the dining room table. Just as [Y/N] comes skipping into the room in an All-Might tracksuit that they demanded they ‘had to have’ when they saw it at a convention a while ago.

‘Aren’t you so pretty, hun?’ Mitsuki coos at - arguably - her favourite child. ‘Guess what?’

[Y/N] mumbles something around a mouthful of a soft pretzel. Where’d they even get it from?

‘You’re going to school with Katsuki today!’

Oh shit their face got a fuck ton more bright when he looked down again. Even the mention of U.A on any given day made them bounce around while babbling about how they’d love to be a hero when they got their quirk. 

‘Really?’ [Y/N] attaches themself to his leg, bouncing up and down to make sure they’ve heard Mitsuki just right.

She glares at him when [Y/N] looks away.

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’

No one’s expecting anything entirely different when Aizawa starts class that morning. The only thing that seems slightly out of the ordinary is Bakugo being late. Kirishima is counting through the minutes and soon enough a whole half hour passes without him being there to yell at anyone. Even Midoriya is having a particularly stress-free morning!

However, no one was expecting for him to parade into the class an hour later with a six year old sitting on his shoulders, because (as he said) “they didn’t want to use their damn legs”. 

‘Bakubro,’ Kaminari is already laughing his ass off in the back corner. ‘Ya got a hitchhiker there.’

Bakugo is almost fuming by the time he drops off the child at his desk, standing by Aizawa to demand - or ask - that he ignore the situation. Number one, [Y/N] got a day off school because of a downtown villain attack, and Mitsuki couldn’t find a babysitter after their current one caught the flu. With no other options and both of his parents going to work early that morning, he had no choice but to drag them along as long as, and quote:

‘You don’t make a damn noise, and no questions, and no playing around, you sit down and shut up.’

Did [Y/N] listen? Nope. Not really. 

Halfway through the first lesson of the morning, and little [Y/N] is sitting in the lap of half of his classmates, messing with Hagakure’s invisible hair in utter curiosity, and playing heroes with Midoriya and Kirishima. At which point they all stand on their desks and put their fists in the air yelling ‘Detroit Smash’!

Katsuki just stands and watches as [Y/N] jumps from person to person, playing with quirks and planning out their future hero name. Kaminari is the most excited to stand on his desk and create a fake hero mask out of tape and paper, and theorise all the new quirks that could be made for [Y/N].

‘[Y/N] sit down for God’s sake!’ he growls at them, and they do so as they nestle themselves into a corner of his desk. Katsuki squeezes on with her. ‘No more talking to these... damn extras during class, ok?’

Mitsuki would skin him alive if he even thought about swearing properly in the same room as her “precious angel”.

‘But why?’

‘’Cause it’s annoying.’

[Y/N]’s eyes widen a bit, but then they beam at him and nod again, picking up a pencil as if they actually are a student and begin doodling a picture while others begin homework. Aizawa doesn’t collapse into his sleeping bag this time, instead keeping an eye to ensure he isn’t sued later for the death of an unrelated child. Midoriya and Iida are the first ones to finish of course, followed by Katsuki, who has to steal his pages when [Y/N] isn’t looking, handing it across the teacher’s desk with glitter flowers and stars in the margins. 

The bell goes to signal the beginning of their hero training, and [Y/N] clutches Katsuki’s hand as they shyly approach the scary-looking racoon man to hand him a (“professionally signed”) artwork by [Y/N] Bakugo. A misshapen house with a cat and a very dead looking racoon. 

(Aizawa does frame it later, like a dad of course.)

(Katsuki does call his teacher roadkill exactly three times after that.)

For hero training All-Might stands with his hands on his hips with [Y/N] at his side to help conduct the lesson. Together they order drills and [Y/N] gets to practise their hero voice and pose. The class ends with the whole group playing games and kicking a soccer ball around so they can pretend that [Y/N] has to save it from various situations. Which they do so successfully - “a top-rate hero” in All-Might’s words.

For Katsuki, he’s glad to get home and die in bed when 8:30 rolls around. It’s been non-stop questions and poking and prodding even though he told [Y/N] not to, but they wouldn’t listen! And when they got home Mitsuki hounded him to make sure they hadn’t done anything stupid while at school. 

But 9 rolls around and [Y/N]’s socks cast shadows over the door frame, and the door handle jiggles. Katsuki waits and doesn’t move to help them with it. They come padding in with a stuffed Midnight plush, and crawls onto his pillow. 

‘Kat, can I come to school with you everyday?’

And god-fucking-dammit, they look so damn excited to go to school with their big brother that all he can do is turn off his lamp and pull the covers up and pat their hair. He can feel his chest swell with pride, because his sibling wants to come and watch him become a hero.

He can’t help but wonder what kind of hero [Y/N] will be. What would their quirk be? 

Oh, Mitsuki would kick his ass if he even thought about surpassing his own sibling.

He smirks at the thought. His sibling would be the best hero at U.A, not like those fucking extras. 

‘Yeah, whatever.’

i really enjoyed writing this!

let me know if you want to request anything, and i'll try my best to get to them as quickly as possible.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for not having time to read my mutual's writing?

Met a mutual on here, bonded through fanfic, have been tight with them for a few years with pretty much no bumps in the relationship, just overall had a really good time hanging around them when I could. We both write a lot and share our writing, and occasionally we talk about that writing/workshop it in passing.

In the past few years I've gone through a ton of life changes. Most notably I went from a multi-person household to a single-person one, and I've been living alone in a prohibitively costly city for a while now working 40 hour weeks and barely scraping by. As soon as the transition started I spent the last of my free income on a shitty little laptop so I could still write, putting down words on my bus/train commutes in the morning and quite literally writing on my breaks at work because I feel insane when I can't create. I bring this up to really stress that I don't have the time for the hobby, I force myself to make the time and even then it never feels like enough.

The only thing I can really stand to do with my 3 hours of free time at night is hang out with my moots online. I'm an extrovert so being around people recharges me. If I don't have designated social time I get super depressed and can pretty much feel my soul withering away. I also feel like I should probably mention that I kinda have a slew of mental issues, personality disorders and PTSD and AuDHD and the works. Point being, shit is rough my dude, but I am a person who likes to work hard and face challenges head on and even though we strugglin, we doing it with a positive outlook.

But! I am an incredibly solution-oriented person and I have found what I personally believe to be a good balance. No one should have to live like this, but I do, and I have found a way to be happy. My writing and my social time is all load-bearing. It is not something I just choose to do on a whim, it's all planned and scheduled and I adhere to those routines very strictly because, I cannot stress this enough, I will go fucking bonkers if I don't.

I'm mutuals with a lot of writers obv, and I sadly don't have time to read their work anymore, unless I get some extra time on my days off or something gets cancelled or like, I end up taking a vacation. I carry a great amount of guilt for this, though, even though I logically know it's reasonable. I try to support them where I can, cheer them on when I see them writing and tell them how cool their ideas sound, hype them up even when I can't actually read & review.

One of the things I do is sometimes I leave a kudos on fic I haven't read. I'm not trying to be ingenuine, and if they asked me I'd tell them like 'Oh I didn't read it yet, just wanted to show support!' but to me it's kinda like ripping a paper tab off a poster so that other's feel inclined to do the same. Plus my pals get a little email and a hit of serotonin.

Except one of my acquaintances, the one I mentioned at the start here, saw that I left kudos on a couple pieces another mutual of mine wrote this year. They more or less blew up my DMs with a ton of accusatory (like, literally presented like a 'GOTCHA!') stuff about how I was selective in who's fic I read, more or less implying that I secretly held some sort of grudge or negative feeling toward them and was making the conscious decision not to read or interact with their writing because of. Something, I don't actually know what they were trying to say. They also told me they vented to their friends about this MULTIPLE times, but they never once approached me to let me know they were feeling paranoid or neglected, they literally just took the most bad faith reading of it possible and then presented that to me like it was something I intentionally did, while the whole time I was unaware.

I tried to explain to them the kudos thing, that I didn't do it to every story, just ones I caught/noticed in my busy schedule. And I laid all this out and asked, multiple times, what free time am I supposed to read with? They didn't answer, and doubled down, kept trying to show me 'proof' that I was shorting them and no one else. Once they started to realize how wrong they were they backed down, but they didn't really apologize, or admit they were wrong, and they tried to end our relationship and left every single server we were in together. Because of some other unrelated stuff going on in my life, I didn't really consider them to be a close friend, but they were someone I really held dear and would've walked through hell for if they'd asked.

I still feel like there is something I'm missing here, and that's why I wanted to ask if I'm TA. I'm a pretty good communicator but one of the things I told myself when talking down my disordered thoughts (guilt about this prior) was "no one in their right mind would use reading fanfic as a metric for friendship." Now that I've had that exact thing happen, I'm starting to think maybe those thoughts weren't so disordered. Maybe this IS a big deal, and I should think about it more, but I don't even know what the solution to that would be. I just. Don't have time to read something lovingly crafted and appreciate it for what it is. All the hours in my week are used up, I'd have to lose sleep for this and with my mental health the way it is that is not an option.

Feel free to be a brutal, my skin is thick. Thanks!

What are these acronyms?

[angels-fantasy]

Top Secret Fiction Ch. 6

The Confrontation

Katsuki Bakugou x Reader

Description: After meeting the one and only pro hero Dynamight on a dating app, you two begin to see each other. Because of the dangers that come with his hero work, you both promise to be completely honest with each other from the beginning; though you can't help but keep one big secret from him.

You write fan fiction, mostly about him.

Chapter Details: deku makes an appearance here heheh. bakugou lowkey might like fanfics? but only if they're about him. scary confrontation 😟 reader is a bit sad and confused :(

Word Count: 1.4k

previous chapter

As soon as Bakugou got home, he opened his computer and looked up 'Bakugou x Reader'. What came up was a ton of links to different websites, one of the top ones being HeroFiction.Com.

Clicking on it, he scrolled through the sight and found many other original stories about different pro heroes.

While doing this, he learned that this was called fan fiction, which he'd heard about before, but he never paid attention to it because he didn't care.

Keeping the website open, he leaned back and wondered, were you writing fan fiction about him? You must've been, based on your notes. Did you write for other pro heroes, or just him?

A small part of him hoped you only wrote for him.

He sighed and rubbed his hands down his face, trying to think about what the hell he was going to do about this. Clearly, this was something you didn't want to tell him, meaning you kept it a secret.

And he hates secrets, but for some reason, this didn't feel too bad. He was almost... flattered, in a way. He was also curious and he just wanted to know more. But how would he even bring this up to you?

Deciding he'd need help with understanding this website, he called someone he trusted.

"Hey Deku. You know what fan fiction is, right?"

Blushing, Izuku replied with "Why are you asking me that Kacchan?!"

"Because I know you used to write that shit back in high school!" He explained, "Just tell me what you know about this site called 'HeroFiction.com.'"

A lightbulb went off in Izuku's head, "Oh yeah I recognize that name! It's basically a website for pro hero fanfiction. I've seen a few good ones actually-"

"Yeah okay, thanks." Katsuki said, cutting off his friend.

It was time for him to do more of his own research, specifically on this website.

...

When you woke up the next morning, you found yourself in your bed wondering how you got there.

Did I fall asleep? You wondered.

You cringed at the thought of Bakugou seeing you asleep and hoped you didn't do anything embarrassing.

Rubbing your eyes, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand and saw a text from Bakugou letting you know he had left after putting you in your bed.

You smiled at his thoughtfulness and texted him back a thank you, and an apology for falling asleep while he was over.

After tossing your phone down onto the bed next to you, you stretched and blinked away any leftover sleep.

As you were stretching your legs you felt your foot hit something softly. Wondering what it was, you sat up and looked at the foot of your bed, eyes widening when you realized it was your notebook.

But this wasn't just any notebook- this one had all of your notes for fics you were planning on writing.

You thought about how Bakugou brought you into your bedroom, and your heart sank to your stomach when you realized he probably saw your notebook.

"Noooo!" You cried and placed your hands over your eyes. "Kill me now..."

You prayed to any higher power out there that he didn't read anything.

...

Your prayers clearly didn't reach anyone because a few hours after waking up, you got a text from Bakugou that said, "Can we talk? ASAP."

Biting your nail nervously, you texted back "Sure" and asked when and where he'd want to meet up.

Quickly texting back, he told you he'd meet you at a cafe near your neighborhood in a few hours.

A little while later as you got ready to meet up with him you felt like you were going to cough up your stomach and die from your nerves.

You didn't want to accept it, but deep down you knew he figured out your secret. It was already terrifying trying to keep what you did in your free time a secret, but now that the person you wrote about knew, was even more terrifying!

It seemed as though your frantic thoughts made time go by even faster than usual, and it was now time for you to leave so you could make it to the cafe on time.

Taking a deep breath and patting your face, you stepped out of your apartment and began to head to the cafe.

...

As Bakugou sat at the cafe in the outdoor dining area, he tapped his foot anxiously as he awaited your arrival.

After his phone call with Deku and doing his own research (which just consisted of reading other fan fictions he came across), he came to the conclusion that he would accept this hobby of yours, if you were honest about it when he confronted you.

Since he had browsed the website a bit, he came across some stories that were actually decent (but also others that were very, very questionable and he really hoped you didn't write anything like that. ESPECIALLY not a story with him and that damn Deku).

He'd never admit it, but it boosted his ego a bit to know that you wrote about him, and he definitely wanted to read some of your stuff. He wanted to know if it was as good as some of the other ones he has read.

Suddenly, he saw your figure walking towards him and he was snapped out of his thoughts. He sat up straighter and placed his elbows against the table, leaning forward.

You sat down across from him silently with a shy look on your face. "So..." You said softly, "You wanted to talk?"

He cleared his throat, "Yeah. I'll just get to the point..." He said, before hesitating to say, "That night I was at your place, I saw your notebook-"

You grimaced, knowing exactly what he was talking about, and placed your hands over your face in embarrassment. "I'm sorry." You said.

Letting out a deep breath, you uncovered your face and continued to speak while looking down at your lap. "I knew this would come up eventually, I just didn't think it'd be so soon..."

Bakugou scoffed, "So when were you gonna tell me? Never?"

You frowned at his tone, "No! It's just not an easy topic to talk about Bakugou. It's embarrassing and I wasn't just going to say 'Hey Bakugou, did you know I've been writing fan fiction about you for three years?'"

He blinked. He could understand where you were coming from. In fact, he'd probably be more weirded out if you had told him that easily. But, even though you were honest now, it still doesn't shake his uneasiness about you keeping a secret from him.

Sure, it wasn't a huge, life threatening secret, but it was still something you kept from him. He liked honesty, especially in a relationship and it's something he valued heavily. A part of him felt like he should've known about this sooner, since it was about him for gods sake!

He sighed. "Before you go assuming things, I'm not mad at ya, okay?" He said, "I just... I think I need time to think about this alright? A few days at most."

You furrowed your eyebrows subconsciously, making your eyes look big and puppy like. Well damn, how was he supposed to stay away from you when you gave him that look?

"Okay." You spoke sadly, "I understand. I shouldn't have kept that from you, so again, I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "'S fine."

You rubbed your sweaty palms on your legs and stood up. "I'll give you time now, alright? Just, call or text me whenever you're ready." You said and gave him a small wave before walking back in the direction you came from.

As you made your way back, you thought about your talk with Bakugou.

If you wanted to keep seeing him, maybe you would have to stop writing. You were starting to really like Bakugou, and you didn't want a silly hobby to get in the way of a potentially serious relationship with him.

You felt your eyes tear up. It was hard to think about giving up writing. You had made friends through your writing, your own little community online. It was great! But realistically, could you keep this up forever?

That same night, you posted on your page.

Hi everyone. I've decided to take a break from writing for a while. I'm not sure how long it will be, but I will still leave everything here for you to read.

Thank you, xo.

authors note

HIII omg im so sorry i haven't updated this fic in a while 🥹 this chapter was actually really fun to write and omg writing readers thoughts at the end lowkey made me sad!! how do you feel about it? pls lmk!!

love ya!

tag list: @doumadono @54fangirl @andysdrafts @dagger-dragger @lovra974 @l4rsun1vrrse @emmab3mma @littlkittenfan @tatiquichi @cloudxluv @seonne @shonen-brainrot @the2ndl @gold24fish @cxp1d @rv19 @gina329

(those in pink couldn't be tagged)

[heyitschartic]

I've seen a lot of people complain on tumblr about how Worm fanfic is nothing but altpower Taylors. It's not a complaint without merit, I've been hearing it since 2017. Hell, it's something I complain about a lot too. It's true, the fandom is filled with crappy altpowers that really add nothing. But to an extent, I always feel I should push back a little against it.

Even if I do advocate for just writing your own thing, there's a really good reason so few people do. There are a good amount of Worm fanfics out there that use original characters, niche characters, or do a wild take on the premise. Not a ton, not the majority, but a good amount.

But nobody reads them.

Rank is probably one of the best stories in the fandom. Long, filled with original charscter's, and with an interesting focus on a PRT officer working in San Fransisco. It's got an amazing scope, working from when Leviathan attacked Kyushu all the way to Gold Morning and has so many brilliant setpieces and bits of world building. It's earned its spot as one of the best, if not the best, story in the fandom.

It pulled in a paltry amount of comments and likes over the years it was being posted.

I remember when I first entered the fandom, there were already people warning new writers that, while it would be cooler if you wrote about someone other than Taylor, that you'd be getting a fraction of the views. And it sucks yeah, but it's the truth. I've seen a lot of writers over the years get discouraged because stories they love and put a lot of time into just get ten likes and maybe one comment an update. A good friend of mine will only pre-write her OC stories because the absolute lack of interest is so disheartening its caused her to just give up in the past.

And it's not like people who critique Worm Fanfics for being filled with shitty altpowers even really read this stuff. Say what you will about the Cauldron discord, but it's one of the few places I've seen people push HARD for others to read this niche weird stories, and even then there's pusback or luke warm reception. It's sad to see people talk shit about altpowers, but just not really check anything else out but that in the first place. It's just as bad as if you were only reading them.

Check out stories trying something original! Luz Mala, Rank, Agent of Cauldron, City of Bones and Teeth, Diary of a Professional Knock-off, Fault, Lend Me Your Ears, Mouse Trap, Sunspot, Nightcrawler, Raccoon Knight; and those are just the ones I can name off the top of my head! There are a lot out there waiting for you to find!!!!

And how to fix it? Well, I'm not sure if there is a fix. If anything is going to work though, at least be the change. If you aren't someone whose actively reading and commenting on new fics about OC's or similar, well, what incentive is there for people to write them? Sure, a love of just creating something might push you to post, but if you feels like you're just shouting into a void, it might feel better to just not shout at all.

If you want people to write good stories, give them a reason to actually do it.

[midnightscramble]

Hello, I was wondering if I could request a part two to the recent Portia x female reader. It's put together wonderfully. I've been looking for fanfics like this 😭✊

Sugar, Sugar Part 2 (Portia Featherington x fem!Reader)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

The Masterlist

Author’s Note: thanks you so much, I appreciate your kindness and am glad to be of service! I took a lot of liberties with this so if it is not what you want feel free to request something else (don’t be shy!). Happy readings to you.

Summary: Portia negotiates with Y/n, who is much more intuitive than she thought. A deal is struck between the baker and the Lady. Penelope follows her mother into town, and debates the contents of her next column.

Warnings: Anxiety, brief nail/skin picking, discussion of being widowed, no Beta read

Mornings at the Featherington estate were not to be described as anything but dreadful. Foul moods persisted in all the women and the men knew to take their breakfast separately. Portia sat with her daughters around a small table and they sipped their tea quietly. With squinted eyes they peered at each other over the rims of their cups.

Flatly, Portia began, "I will be going into town on business today. Penelope, Mrs. Varley will accompany you to the Cowper's garden party."

"I am not in need of a chaperone, and besides I am certain that I will not be welcome there, so I will not be attending."

Portia sighed and put her tea cup in it's dish, "Now is not the time to turn down invitations. Since Cousin Jack, or whomever he was, took off, the Ton has been especially gracious in not associating our good family name with his poor behavior. Let us not make light of their tolerance. You will go to the Cowper's party, that is final."

Penelope inhaled sharply, "Fine. If you would excuse me, I am going to take the rest of my breakfast in my room.” Portia scoffed and waved her hand towards the door, inviting Penelope to leave.

…

Once Portia’s carriage took off, Penelope began her covert exit. She had absolutely no intention of attending the Cowper's garden party. It served no purpose to her, as anyone that Cressida invited would surly be aware the unpleasantness between the two, and thus be tight lipped or quick to quip around her. She would rather spend her afternoon in town, lurking in shop corners and listening to other's converse.

...

Arriving at the bakery, Portia felt a chill run down her spine once the aroma hit her nose. Her stomach sank in anticipation, she could not let the comforting environment fool her, Miss Y/l/n was a business woman, and if she had made it this far then she was obviously cunning. Portia never liked cunning women, they saw through her too easily, identifying her as one of their own.

Y/n's head popped out from behind a shelf at the sound of the shop bell, "Ah, Lady Featherington, wonderful to see you again, how did you enjoy the sweets?" She smiled at the redheaded woman, whose sharp edges and dark dress looked completely out of place among the pastel deserts that surrounded her.

"I'm afraid my daughters and their husbands had gotten to them before I had a chance," She should have lied, said some sort of pleasant remark about the pastries, to butter the woman up. However, it seemed as though regardless of how many times she ran through the interaction in her head, she was unequipped in the moment. She took a deep breath and turned to examine a shelf of bagged goodies with faux interest.

The baker's smile faltered, feeling an odd dissatisfaction at Portia's statement. She pursed her lips to contain her feelings, "Well did your daughter's enjoy them?"

Portia turned back around, "Yes, they have sent me with a list of what they would like to order for the foreseeable future."

"Wonderful, let me go get my ledger and then we can discuss. Why don't you take a seat and I'll be back in a minute." Before the Lady could respond, Y/n had already moved to the backroom kitchen, leaving Portia on her own in the front of the shop. She took a seat at one of the tables and drummed her fingers on the surface. She looked out the windows, surveying the mostly empty part of town.

She was unable to inspect the view thoroughly, as Y/n came back out, with her ledger tucked under her arm, holding a tea cup in each hand, and balancing a plate with pastries on her forearm. If the baker had not interrupted her window gazing, she would have caught a glimpse of familiar red hair, dodging into an alley way to not be seen by her mother.

Placing the cups down, Y/n explained, "My apologies for the wait, I figured some hot chocolate would be appropriate. It's a French recipe I've been tampering with, do tell me if its too bitter?"

Portia smiled politely and took a sip. Surprised, she hummed in delight, "That is quite good, not bitter at all..." The baker smiled widely, and felt her cheeks warm at the genuine compliment. Portia put her cup down and moved her hands beneath the table, picking at the skin around her nails as she prepared herself to breach the next topic of conversation. Y/n pushed the plate of pastries between them, and grabbed one for herself to encourage the other woman to follow suit. Portia didn't take the bait.

Irked, Y/n was about to offer verbally, but Portia beat her to speaking, "Shall we discuss the payments for your fine sweets?"

She tossed her hands into the air in frustration, "How do you know my sweets are of fine quality if you have not tried them?" The other woman widened her eyes, this was not going the way she had anticipated, and the baker seemed to care little for conversational etiquette.

"I am not some pet. I cannot eat on command," Portia scoffed, "but if you must know I am not keen on sweets." Y/n narrowed her eyes, everyone was keen on sweets, and the lie was far too blatant given the way she eyed the pastries. Sucking on her teeth, she figured that this must be part of Portia's negotiation strategy. Y/n had never had a stingy client, hesitant one's sure, but never frugal. They did not negotiate, in fact, they threw extra money at her to express their satisfaction once they realized her talent for baking. In this regard, Portia was unlike other members of the Ton.

"Well that is because you have not tried mine." The baker smiled cockily, her eyes holding an intensity that made Portia stutter her response, "I- That is quite the claim, Miss Y/n."

Y/n leaned back in her chair with raised eyebrows. Portia's cagey behavior somewhat reminded her of herself after her husband had passed, a time where she could barely make ends meet. It clicked with her in an instance, the Featheringtons must be experiencing financial troubles.

She hummed, "Well, then allow me to make a proposition." Y/n leaned forward and put her elbows on the table and clasped her hands together, "Every evening you shall meet here with me for an hour and I will tempt you with desserts. For as long as you can withstand, you will not have to pay for your orders."

Portia pressed her lips together, trying not to seem too eager for the deal, "That sounds fair, are those the only conditions?"

Without breaking their gaze, Y/n moved her head to the side in suspicion, "If I hear that while at some social gathering you partook in dessert, then the agreement is off."

"Deal." The baker inhaled and her eyes darkened slightly, something deep inside of her, something nasty and possessive, was all too pleased with this turn of events. Portia was her client, and her client alone. Only her sweets would grace those plump ruby lips- She sat back to try and clear her head.

"Now, what would you like to include in your order?"

...

Penelope watched the interaction of the two women, noting her mother's odd behavior. Portia seemed to teeter between being relaxed by the other woman's presence to flummoxed by it. In her pocket sized notebook, she made note of the strangeness.

...

Evening struck, and as agreed upon, Portia made her way back into town. She made a flimsy excuse to her children about turning in early and made a swift departure. Unconvinced, Penelope followed after her.

Although she knew this was purely business related, she could not stop the way her heart pounded in her chest. It was scandalous to be out this late, on her own, still dressed in dinner attire. However she was undeniably excited to see the baker. She had prepared topics of conversation ahead of time, knowing that a lapse in silence would goad her into eating.

Illuminated by candles strewn here and there, the bakery's ambiance felt particularly hypnotic, lulling Portia into the safety of it's warmth. A table in the center of the seating area was dressed with cutlery and a platter in the middle, covered by a silver cloche. Coming from the kitchen with two cups in hand, Y/n smiled at Portia. She knew that there was not a treat in the world that would tempt Portia on the first night of their deal, so she elected for baking a simple passion fruit cake, decorated with whipped cream and drizzled jam atop.

"Take a seat Lady Featherington," She placed, what Portia noticed to be, two cups of coffee on the table. An odd choice given the drinks well known abilities of appetite suppression.

The woman sat across from each other and Y/n uncovered the dessert. Portia narrowed her eyes and sniffed, "While it does have a delicious appearance, it does not tempt me."

Y/n hid her smirk behind her cup before taking a long sip, "I will keep that in mind when planning for tomorrow's temptation."

Portia nodded and began her scripted questioning, "How did you learn to bake?"

The two women engaged in conversation easily, sharing light hearted details of their upbringings and current lives. Portia had to abandon her planned topics, as Y/n seemed more interested in hearing her talk, asking her questions. The intense attention of the baker made her flush. In all her life, no one had listened to her speak with such devotion to detail and scrutiny of exaggerations. Upon multiple instances, Portia found herself having to change routes as Y/n identified her lies and gave her a pointed look, alerting her that she had been caught.

The hour expired and Portia gathered herself as Y/n bid her a goodnight, "I will see you tomorrow."

"You shall."

...

Portia was smiling as she got ready for bed, remembering the way Y/n threw her head back when she laughed. The memory proved contagious as she found herself chuckling softly.

A knock sounded at the door and Portia's smiled dropped as she was brought back to reality, "Come in."

Phillipa entered her room slowly, smiling brightly, "MaMa, I think I have done it..."

Portia lost her breath for a moment, "Do you mean to tell me- its quite early, how can you be sure?"

"A woman knows when she's with child," Phillipa airily responded while shrugging her shoulders. She rushed forward to hug her daughter.

"Oh, Phillipa, I am so proud of you," She cradled her face in her palms and gazed at her hopefully. "You must get plenty of rest, and pray for a boy." Phillipa skipped out of the room and started giggly, leaving Portia to assume that Mister Finch had been waiting outside the room for her.

As she tucked herself into bed she realized that she no longer needed the services of the baker. In truth, she did not want their meetings to cease. She began to reason with herself; it would be good to keep the house filled with sweets, in case guests arrived at calling hour, she did have one single daughter after all.

Settled, she allowed herself to fall asleep, thinking of tomorrow's meeting.

...

When said meeting arrived, Portia had elected for a simpler gown, feeling like she did not have to put on a show for her new friend. It was a deep purple piece that had loose sleeves, the material heavy enough to keep her warm and light enough to not constrict her movements.

The tables had moved since their last meeting, with chairs stacked upon all but one, an obvious sign of the store having been closed. Adorned with a table cloth and two sets of plates, the baker had set up a table by the window. Y/n emerged from the back, handing Portia her tea cup directly, and motioning for her to follow to the table. The red head followed quickly, smiling at the familiarity. It was only the closest of confidants who could greet her wordlessly.

"I present to you..." Y/n picked up the cloche, "chocolate chip cookies." She could tell the Lady was underwhelmed and was incredibly pleased with the outcome.

The two women sat across from each other, both playing their own game, with the same goal of extending their meetings.

"They do not tempt me, I suppose we shall just have to fill the rest of the hour with conversation." Portia pursed her lips innocently.

"Wonderful, I had a topic in mind," Portia tilted her head curiously, "What was your husband like?"

Portia stuttered, "I well, I got married my first year out, the Featherington family was quite respectable. He was charming enough and titled, there was not much more I could ask for."

Y/n hummed and sipped her tea, "Did you not care much for a love match?"

Taking a moment to think about it, Portia let her eyes wonder around the room, "I was raised without the expectation of one. It seemed to be an extra expense that only fools could afford," she took a breath, "did you love your husband?" For an unidentifiable reason, Portia felt her chest pinch while she waited for the response.

The baker looked down at the table, allowing a small smile to grace her lips, "In a way, I did. He was my dearest friend, but we discovered our incompatibility as husband and wife after we had gotten married."

Confused, Portia pressed, "Incompatibility? As in you argued frequently?"

Scrunching her nose, Y/n shook her head and hesitated to respond, "Incompatible in regards to how a man and woman couple..."

Picking up on the implication, she nodded in agreement, "I completely understand. My husband and I were similar, although it did result in the births of my three daughters, and I would suffer it again in a heartbeat to obtain them. Do you have children?"

"No, there was a singular attempt on the wedding night and then we ceased trying, we came to an agreement of sorts."

Portia could not withhold her gasp, "You only tried once?"

The baker laughed, "With him, yes." Portia blanched and let a laugh escape her out of surprise. It seemed her baker never ceased to scandalize her.

"Do not be confused though. It was a part of our agreement, to free each other, and have relations independent of our marriage. My husband was very compassionate and tolerant, I was very lucky to have found him." With a sudden change of thought, Y/n cocked her head at Portia, "Did you ever take on a partner aside from your husband?"

The red head laughed, "No, there was one man who almost charmed me. He used my desperation for respect and security against me, it was a very confusing, vulnerable time for my family. My affection for him turned out to be nothing more than chasing the feelings he imparted on me, not for the man himself." Cousin Jack had been an ugly reminder of her inability to connect with men.

Y/n nodded deeply, "When I first met my husband, his attention felt like basking in the sun. I learned quickly that same feeling could be found in anyone showing me attention, it just so happened that he had been the first."

"Perhaps someone should write a book, to help guide young ladies through courtship," Portia offered and they both laughed.

"I'm sure if we put our minds together, we could cover it all," Y/n joked.

They spent the rest of the evening laughing back and forth, discussing hypothetical chapters of their romantic guide.

"And I can write the final chapter," Y/n put her hands in the air and slowly spread them as if the title would appear "how to find a lover you actually like," Portia laughed indecently at that and felt he cheeks turn red at the thought. She wondered distantly who the baker invited into her bed, but could not bring herself to imagine Y/n being touched by a man.

Portia wanted to know more, desperately so, however the distant sound of the towns bell tower reminded the women that the hour had ceased. Her questions would have to wait until tomorrow.

...

Penelope watched from a distance as her mother stood from the table. She signaled her carriage to come to her, as to arrive home before her Portia did.

The young woman would continue to track her mother's evening movements until she could identify the reason for them. If this were a simple friendship, the baker could surely visit the Featherington estate during calling hour, and thus its complicated nature was revealed.

She knew it was high time to include her family in the Lady Whistledown column again, it was the only way to avoid suspicion from the Queen. With her sisters behaving themselves, relatively, the burden of being the subject of gossip would have to fall to her mother. However, Lady Whistledown had a reputation for correctness, delivering the truth with accuracy and totality. Penelope would not be able to publish until she discovered exactly why her mother was making nightly visits to the town's favorite baker.

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ steven, unbeknownst to him, meets the love of his life at one of its lowest points. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader word count ☾ 15.7k a/n ☽ [gif credit] ⤏ aka my personal love letter to one steven grant (and myself, because I want to be loved like I love just once).⤏ i am going to be completely honest on this one, guys: this is a borderline self-insert fic that is 100% self-indulgent on my part bc i have felt like shit the last two months and want to treat myself. ⤏ i kept it as a reader-insert because a) some people (including myself) enjoy experiencing different ‘pov’s of reader-inserts, per se; b) it’s easier to be kinder to and romanticize myself when it’s ‘not me’; and c) i feel that it’s still vague/inclusive enough to be counted as a general reader-insert versus labeling it strictly as a self-insert/original character. i really only describe personality traits and the reader being petite, really (bc nothing comforts my 5’0” ass more than knowing i would actually be able to kiss the boys without craning my neck all the way back tbh). i use a few southern colloquialisms, too, just fyi. :) ⤏ typical moon knight fanfic disclaimer: I don’t claim to know very much about did beyond what I’ve gleaned from both the show, the various meta posts I’ve read on tumblr, and from other fanfics themselves, so please forgive and correct me on any glaring discrepancies/issues I may have presented here (or link me any posts that discuss more accurate representations of did, perhaps—that’d be greatly appreciated). some of the terminology/technicalities escape me. I tried my best to get their voices and characterizations just right, and I sincerely hope I succeeded bc they’re very special to me. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER ☽

The first time Steven met you, it was strictly by happenstance.

He had always considered himself a man with many friends. Although his routine was relatively simple compared to other Londoners who thrived in social settings and spent all of their free time anywhere but home to mingle and chase tail, he had familiar faces he saw frequently. He committed their names to memory when they’d give them off-handedly, he made a point to speak to them in passing even if he or they were otherwise occupied, and he kept a mental list composed of all the details he was able to glean strictly from observation when they didn’t readily volunteer the information.

Perhaps it was a little silly. All lot of them had trouble remembering him, sure, but he couldn’t hold it against them—tons of people had trouble keeping track of faces and people. Sure, JB never quite got his name right even after Steven had worked at the museum for a couple of months by now, but he was a busy man monitoring the security cameras all day long and stayed distracted (with his infatuation with otters, no less—as endearing of a trait as any for someone with a secret soft side). Donna stayed in a tizzy, always worked up over something beyond her control (Steven couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be dealing with the higher-ups trying to meet goals and attempting to exceed them). He didn’t really dislike them for it, even if it had grown rather grating as of late. (Even if it would only take them both a moment to look at his conveniently given and placed nametag.)

Crowley didn’t talk much, all part of the gig, so Steven didn’t hold their one-sided conversations against him, either. The gentleman with the broom cart (whose name Steven never had managed to catch, as gruff as he was) seemed only to ever respond with grunts. The security guards, the tour guides, the usual suspects on the morning and night bus rides…Steven interacted with them all, and they had enough good graces to acknowledge it most of the time.

Over time, however, as his dreams (or perhaps more aptly named nightmares) grew more vivid and more bizarre, as he seemed to lose track of time more and more (how exactly does one manage to miss an entire weekend when one isn’t a blackout drunk?), and as Steven’s anxiety led him into taking more and more precautions to make sure his self-diagnosed sleepwalking disorder didn’t strand him on the other side of London (again), it became more readily apparent that those people with whom he took such care to converse did not seem particularly inclined to return the favor. Sure, he’d accidentally nodded off a few times leaning on the other passengers in the morning bus, ran a little late at times getting to the museum (much to Donna’s ever-increasing ire), and maybe got a little carried away with his nattering when he got invested in something he was excited to share information about, but…would it really kill someone just to respond long enough to reassure him that he wasn’t virtually invisible?

It was one such morning after he overslept, convinced he was late, and worked himself into a right and proper state trying to get to the museum on time that he realized that it was, in fact, Sunday, not Saturday. Much to his bewilderment but proven by his phone, the museum stood barren and closed, doors locked and lights off. He stood at the entrance staring at his dumbfounded expression in the glass for a good five minutes, thoughts racing as he tried to recall anything about the previous day. There was no way he slept an entire day, right? He hadn’t been staying up too late trying to manage his disorder, even if he had been running a little tired lately.

His distress was punctuated by a fat, chilly droplet landing right on his nose. The early spring weather was unseasonably cold this year, leading to an abnormally wet season (as if rain could ever be abnormal in London, but the meteorologists remained convinced), and within seconds of Steven turning and trotting down the steps the skies parted and released their torrential downpour as if just to spite him specifically. Everyone else in the immediate vicinity, if they weren’t holed up in their cars or the myriad establishments bordering the museum district, already had their umbrellas up to shield themselves from the frigid onslaught, ambling along and circumnavigating the puddles lingering from the storm the night before..

Steven shrank into his coat, tugging the collar up and over his head as best he could as he crossed the street and aimed for the first building he saw with its neon, ivory OPEN sign glowing against the gloom—on the corner directly across from the museum entrance. The door was heavy, the handle cold enough he was surprised his palm didn’t stick to it, but he managed to pry it open and tumble inside.

A few people glanced up from their tables to give him a range of skeptical to humored looks before going about their business. Steven hedged to the side of the door in case someone else came in, dripping onto the old hardwood with no small amount of regret.

It was a coffee shop. Comfortingly warm against his numb face, he basked in the scents of espresso and sweets permeating the place. His attention was caught by the bookshelves on the wall to his right, and he was entranced—all until a barista slipped out from the kitchen and addressed him with a croon. “Oh, goodness, look like the weather caught you!”

Steven almost accidentally ignored you thinking that you were talking to someone else (for so rarely did someone speak to him in a tone that wasn’t irritated or dismissive). After his cursory glance in your direction, he did a double-take, realizing you were looking right at him.

“Yeah, I—looked at the forecast wrong, methinks!” he responded sheepishly (and he had—he’d been expecting Saturday’s overcast mist, not Sunday’s shower). “I’m makin’ a right mess, aren’t I? I should probably go before I warp the stain—”

“No! No, just wait a second.” You raised a placating palm before dipping below sight behind the counter. You emerged and rounded the corner next to the display case holding a towel, walking right up to him and offering it to him with a sympathetic smile. “I can’t count the number of times I thought I could beat Mother Nature,” you joked. “It sucks that it’s been so cold on top of it. I’m surprised I haven’t gotten sick.”

Steven accepted it graciously, muttering his earnest thanks as he went about mopping up his sopping curls. Once he’d wiped all the rain he could off of him, he handed it back to you. “Hope I don’t get one, neither,” he responded. “It just wouldn’t do to catch cold in the middle of all this, would it? No.”

You chuckled a bit, eyes glittering with mirth. “Maybe it’ll help if I get you something hot to drink?”

Steven glanced at the menu hanging on the wall behind the counter, eyes rounding a little at the prices. He’d overspent on books again after payday, so he was having to be a bit more frugal this week than usual. “Oh, no, don’t go to the trouble, I’ll just call a cab and get a ride home before it gets too bad.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” you assured him, wringing the towel between your hands. You hesitated only a heartbeat before you leaned in a little closer, smile turning a bit bashful. “I’ll make it on the house, how’s that sound?”

Steven normally considered himself one to give where charity was concerned, but he had to admit that the sound of something warm on his urgently empty stomach was divine at the moment. He cleared his throat, glancing towards the other customers still wrapped up in their own little worlds. “No, I couldn’t—wouldn’t want anyone jealous that they’re not gettin’ the special treatment, you know.”

“It can be our little secret,” you offered quietly, winking conspiratorially at him.

He blinked, heat creeping up into his face. “Oh, well. If you insist, then…just this once?”

“All right.” Your smile lit up your entire face, and you headed back behind the counter to deposit the towel in an unseen hamper.

Steven followed, training his eyes on the menu—the standard fare was reasonable, with alternative options for dietary restrictions. A lot of the custom concoctions did seem lovely, and he was a tad surprised to discover that they served breakfast and lunch, also—with vegan options, most notably. “Wow, I never even knew this place existed. I must’ve been walkin’ right by it this whole time.”

“Do you work at the museum?” you inquired, folding your arms over the counter and propping your chin up in your palm.

“I do, actually,” he beamed, though it was dashed a tad with his next confession. “I want to be a tour guide one day—you know, I’ve been studyin’ up for it and all—but they’ve got me in the gift shop. For now! They said they’d move me up with a new position becomes available.” They said that they would consider him for the role, but Steven clung to his hope that they’d soon realize how bloody good he’d be at it, as hard as he’d been working for it for so long.

“You always have to start somewhere,” you replied warmly. You gestured to the shop around you. “This is just to hold me over ‘til I’m finished up.”

“Are you a transfer student?” Steven asked.

Your brow rose slightly, but your smile didn’t waver. “How observant. Most people ask me how I got lost on this side of the pond.”

“It isn’t often I see Americans anywhere but in the more touristy spots,” he agreed, “but the university is quite prestigious. You must be very academically successful if you landed a transfer scholarship like that.”

“It took a lot of work,” you admitted, “but it’s been worth it. I never thought I’d do anything like this, and I would’ve laughed at you a couple of years ago if you’d told me I’d move this far away from home. I’ve never really been the traveling type, but I’m so grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to do so.”

“What are you studyin’?” Steven inquired. An English major, perhaps—you struck him as the literary type with your articulation, despite your soft, southern drawl.

“Oh.” Your face darkened and you fiddled with the hem of your sweatshirt—dark gray, warm flannel, with a silver astronomical design embroidered into the front. “Well. I went to a university back home and got a degree in writing—” Nailed it! “—but I was notified at graduation that I qualified for this so I thought why not? It’s a bit self-indulgent, really, as I’ve always been a history nut, but I’m, um…” You reached up and scratched the nape of your neck, glancing away as though embarrassed. “...focusing on Egyptology?”

Steven’s brows shot halfway up his forehead. “No kiddin’!”

“Nope,” you confessed, a bit sheepish. “I picked up a book with pictures of King Tutankhamun’s treasures when I was three and I’ve been in love with it since. Maybe it’s a little niche, but it makes me happy—I’m taking other history classes, too, so I’ll end up with an Ancient History major with a minor in Egyptology—that’s just my main focus since I always wanted to be an Egyptologist when I was little. I don’t know that I could ever stand the heat, though, so I’m happy with writing in the comfort of my own home.”

“No, that’s great!” he raved, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m a bit of a history buff meself! The museum has a huge Egyptology exhibit coming up next month, so I’ve been brushin’ up on it all. You know, in case I get to audition.”

“Oh, yeah?” you tried, emerging from your shell just a bit. “Do you have a favorite period?”

“New Kingdom, definitely,” he said immediately. His heart was thrumming, and he was trying (in vain) to contain at least the majority of his enthusiasm. “There’s just so much material to go through. All the texts recovered from Deir el-Medina fascinate me to no end!”

“Yeah, Paneb was a right bastard,” you joked. “He had the whole town stirred up all the time. But we’re not going to talk about Ea-Nasir.”

“Oh, yeah—imagine keepin’ all your hate mail for posterity,” he returned, strumming his fingers against the inside of his sleeves. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m an Old Kingdom gal,” you said with a chuckle. “Pepi II’s letter about the pygmy won me over. Not to mention all the drama with Teti’s assassination. The workmen’s village at Giza? Oh, how could I pick one thing?”

Finally! Finally, it felt like Steven was talking to someone that spoke his language!

“It’s really hard to, isn’t it?” His stomach was starting to grumble. He cleared his throat, tamping down his anticipation just enough to concentrate on the matter at hand. He glanced up at the menu again, a little remiss with some of the unfamiliar choices—most of those displayed were coffee, but he’d been trying to curb himself off of it in favor of cutting out caffeine altogether for a better sleep schedule. “I, um…sorry, got a little sidetracked there. What would you recommend that’s decaf?”

“Oh, I love chai,” you told him. “Most of the teas we carry are decaf, though we do have decaf coffee, too. We’ve got all the usuals like chamomile, mint, Earl Grey…” You tilted your head slightly. “I’ve been avoiding caffeine since I was a teenager—it makes me antsy.”

“How do you normally take your chai?” he queried, curious.

“As an iced latte,” you said. “Cold foam, cinnamon, whole milk. I like it warm, too, especially this time of year, but there’s something about it iced that I can’t seem to part from—maybe that’s the southern upbringing in me.” You gestured to the equipment behind you. “Would you like to try it?”

“Yeah, sure! But with oat milk, please?”

“You’ve got it, darlin’,” you beamed, and set to work immediately. “I usually drink a small since it’s a bit sweet, that okay?”

“Certainly.”

Never would Steven have thought that he’d find such a deeply kindred soul a stone’s throw away from his workplace he’d never even noticed before today. He had to confess that he was charmed by you almost instantly. It had been a while since he’d met someone so engaging and open—not to mention generous and drop-dead gorgeous to boot! Ironic, really, that the foreigner was treating him more kindly than his native kinsmen. What did the Americans say about southern hospitality?

“Thank you so much,” he said when you returned with the cup and set it in front of him. “It looks great!”

“Go ahead and try it,” you suggested, “and if you don’t like it, I’ll replace it for you with something else.”

Steven had absolutely no intention of telling you to your face that he disliked your favorite beverage, even if he did decide it wasn’t to his taste—much less make you go out of your way to make him another free drink. But as he sipped the heady, sweet mixture the spices melted over his tongue. Despite being served cold, the flavors warmed his mouth and settled cozily into his belly.

“Oh,” he suspired, licking the foam from his lips, “that’s lovely. You’ve won a convert.”

Your smile was nearly blinding with delight. “I’m glad! It’s not for everyone, certainly, but those who do like it always seem to love it. No in between, I guess.”

Steven resisted the urge to suck the entire thing down, folding it between his hands instead as he committed more details of your appearance to memory. Your black apron was a bit big for your frame, dwarfing you a bit, but your sweatshirt did, too—your jeans were well-fitted but not snug. You were wearing very little makeup, just a touch around the eyes, but it emphasized your lashes like a fawn’s. While comfortable, if a bit plain, your ensemble made you seem like the epitome of homey.

“How long have you lived in London?” he asked after another delightful sip.

“Since the start of spring semester,” you said. “It was a big adjustment to show up at the tail end of winter, but I think I’ve gotten the hang of it now for the most part. I still get lost occasionally, but that’s why Google Maps was invented. I’d be up a creek without a paddle without it.” You leaned against the counter again, bracing yourself on the stained surface and gazing up at him as if there existed no other person in the world. “I live right next to the campus, but I work here to get away even though my scholarships carry most of my bills and fees. Ironic, though, ‘cause I don’t exactly consider myself a socialite.”

“You’ve fooled me,” he said with a chuckle. “Bit odd bein’ an ambivert, yeah?”

“I really only talk a lot when I get excited or when I’m with people I’m comfortable being around,” you confessed shyly. “I’ve been told I talk too much about stuff nobody really cares about, so I try not to bother anyone.”

“Now who on earth would have gone and told you that?” he pressed, heart aching all the while. How many times had he been told the very same thing, sometimes with less polite wording?

“Oh, not exactly like that,” you rectified in a hurry, “it’s just…you can tell, you know? When someone isn’t really paying attention to anything you’re saying. I usually get interrupted anyway, so sometimes I find it easier just to keep quiet.” Your skin darkened again, and cleared your throat as you dipped your face to conceal it with a hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I went into all that. See? Rambling too much—words got away from me.”

It was like looking into a mirror—so much so that Steven almost felt a bit of deja-vu.

“No, don’t be sorry,” he said softly. “I understand completely—really, I do. Better than you might think.”

You raised your gaze back up to him, and he understood at once why the philosophers and poets both waxed so romantic on the concept of windows to the soul. He could see your tenderness, your diffidence, your sincerity all there in your jewel-like eyes.

“People talkin’ over you all the time,” he continued with a low murmur, looking down at the cup when the intensity of your stare grew too much—just like looking directly into the sun, “actin’ like you’re invisible or somethin’. Gets frustratin’, yeah? Couldn’t even bother to act like you’re there, could they? No. Seems like too much to ask.”

“Yeah,” you said somberly, but when Steven dared a glance up at you, your expression was one of complete understanding. Never before had he felt so seen. “It doesn’t help when you’re really not a people person to begin with.”

And now that Steven considered it more deeply, he realized that you were right—why did he prefer to stay home rather than go out? Keeping company with a goldfish certainly wasn’t an extrovert’s definition of a good time. Hell, the only reason he really went out of his way to engage with those on the fringes of his daily routine was because he felt it was rude not to because of constant exposure, not because he was itching to have the conversations themselves. He worried constantly that he’d overshare or annoy people, when most wouldn’t even think of it.

He let out a soft laugh, pressing a palm across his forehead.

You quirked a brow, your expression perking up just a bit at the sound. “What?”

“I just realized I’m not really a people person, either,” he said, shaking his head. “Thought all this time everyone else was just awkward at social interaction.”

“Oh,” you chuckled, and there was that ephemeral sparkle of mirth back in your eyes. “Well. Better late than never, right?”

“Right.” He paused, then set the drink on the counter to fish around in his pocket for his wallet. “Here, since you’ve been an absolute angel—”

“Oh, no, please,” you said, waving your palms at him in an attempt to dissuade him, “it was my pleasure. Finding someone else as big of a nerd about Ancient Egypt was tip enough, thank you. You’ve made my whole day.”

And even though his morning thus far had been an utter disaster, Steven believed that you had made his entire day, too.

“Well, all right.” He pointed a finger at you with a wry, toothy grin. “But next time you won’t be able to talk me out of it.”

“Next time?” you echoed, and the unadulterated hope in your eyes made his heart clench.

“Yeah,” he said, “where else will I be able to order the ambrosia of the gods? And nerd out about ancient civilizations? Not all baristas carry a double-edged sword like you do.”

You bit your lip, rolled the hem of your sleeve between your fingertips, and looked down and away. “Oh, stop it. It’s really just a hobby.” You gave him another cheeky smile. “But, if it would make a difference to you, since you seem the type…” You leaned in across the counter, and Steven found himself copying the action as though you had magnetized him. “...there’s a bookstore upstairs, too.”

Oh, bloody Nora, as if you weren’t already perfect enough.

It wasn’t until Steven returned home, soaked to the bone and shivering from the cold that seeped into his bones after running from the cab into the apartment building, that he realized he hadn’t thought to ask you for your name. And he was normally so reliable about it, too! He kicked himself for it the rest of the day. He hadn’t even looked to see if you’d been wearing a name tag (pretty sure you weren’t, because he would have noticed it, surely), but he had been so disarmed by you in general that every other thought had flown from his brain.

After that, with the scribbled ingredients on the cup immortalized forever via a picture saved on his phone, he developed a fast habit of stopping by there at least three times a week. He had to rearrange his budget just a tad to ensure it did not turn into blatant overspending, but all the teas were excellent and the food was even better. Oftentimes he’d grab at least one meal from there one the days he did decide to go, which varied depending on how terribly he’d slept the night before. Most of the time he opted for lunch since he was afforded only a half-hour break and it was the closest spot to the museum. (The vending machines didn’t have much in the way of variety, vegan options notwithstanding.)

He learned your name the next time he saw you, which had taken a couple of separate attempts—evidently you’d been filling in for someone else for extra hours that dreary morning, as you usually came in for the closing shift during the week due to your morning classes, and typically were station in the bookstore upstairs, at that. You’d confessed that a lot of the part-timers were still inexperienced, and the staff oscillated so much that you had to juggle multiple positions throughout the week in order for the business to keep up efficiency.

Steven decided, at some indeterminate point a couple of weeks later, that you must be sunshine incarnate. Even if there was barely any daylight seeping through the brumous mantle looming over the sleepy city,  you lit up the place with your warm smile, easy laughter, and gentle soul. He could spend countless hours talking to you, although he was usually only limited to the time allotted between him ordering and someone else coming in to do the same. After he got off work late after inventory (again), on the rare occasion that he’d missed lunch and needed supper, you gave him some of the free handouts the employees were allowed to take home and let him sit and talk while you locked the place up.

It was just so easy. Where he’d struggled to even introduce himself properly without making himself out to be a bumbling fool with everyone else with whom he’d interacted, fighting against an invisible current of perceived disapproval and rejection, engaging with you was as natural as breathing. You shared so many adjacent passions with him, the both of you had never once run out of topics to peruse. When either you or he would bring up something with which the other was unfamiliar, all ears would be given in total enrapturement. You got him. You understood him. It was such a relief to have finally found someone with whom he felt comfortable enough to natter on about the Edwin Smith papyrus for a solid thirty minutes without ever losing interest. Neither still had he stopped to imagine what it would be like to be so caught up in what someone else had to say, because you sure knew a hell of a lot about mythology, too—listening to your humored yet romanticized renditions of the tales delighted him to no end.

Your book recommendations were always impeccable, likewise—although you did primarily focus on fiction unless conducting research for your own books, your taste in storytelling relied upon well-developed, detailed, and impactful characters that carried the plot rather than the other way around. (You seemed to genuinely enjoy all of his recommendations, too, despite your general avoidance of nonfiction other than history, much to his relief.) You had a soft spot for romance, whether it was found in modern, historical fiction, fantasy, or sci-fi settings, and Steven took careful note of your mentioned favorite stories, scenes, and characters when he read them himself. You’d both even started annotating and trading books to exchange reviews, and your infectious adoration of certain authors and series decidedly did not help his book collecting problem—although you confessed that you shared the same issue (only to your bank account, though). The used section of the bookstore upstairs was his dream, really—he never thought he’d manage it, naively, but he was actually starting to run out of bookshelves in his flat.

You were fiercely intelligent, hilariously witty, and unbelievably kind—a breath of fresh air where London normally left him suffocated. You were the one ray of sunlight that could pierce the gloom that would encroach on the fringes of his mood no matter how badly he felt. Visiting you was the one routine that kept him grounded, even when he only seemed to lose track of more and more time as he went along—it kept him sane, seeing the way your whole face would light up like a supernova whenever he’d slip through the door. It made him feel normal.

So when a full month had flown by since your first meeting (a happenstance for which Steven would be eternally grateful), he found himself relying on your anchoring presence more and more. The occasions that he was waking up from sleepwalking in completely random places around London were increasing at a worrying rate. No matter how many additional precautions he added to his flat in feeble attempts to keep track of and prevent the episodes (each one perhaps sillier than the last), he never could seem to determine any rhyme or reason for them. His dreams (and sometimes they edged into the territory of nightmares) were growing more frighteningly vivid and visceral by the night, even if he was following every technique suggested by Google to help mitigate his condition.

The evidence was stacking up more rapidly against everything that he’d thought he knew than Steven could neither comprehend nor keep up with—despite thinking that nothing about him could ever be anything but ordinary, a small part of him was truly starting to wonder whether he’d somehow dodged a psychiatric diagnosis all of his life. He felt like he was going mad, watching the lines between what he’d thought were conjurations of his sleep-deprived mind and what he’d been convinced was reality inexplicably blurring beyond any conceivable recognition. ( Was he mad? Had he always been mad?)

Dreaming that he had woken up in the Alps with a frankly ludicrous series of events following shortly thereafter was one thing—the angry booming voice in his head notwithstanding. Discovering that Gus had been mysteriously replaced overnight was another (because there was no way he had regrown a fin—he’d double-checked every pet site reputable enough). Finding out that he had lost track of an entire weekend, accidentally standing up a date he didn’t even recall initiating in the process, almost pushed him over the edge—it had certainly dragged him to it, nevertheless.

Then the secret compartment in his flat, the burner phone and mysterious key, the countless missed calls from a stranger named Layla, who had sounded so deathly worried about whoever in the bloody hell Marc was…Steven didn’t even want to think about the second new voice in his, grave and severe and sounding a little too much like his own to be of any significant comfort, or the mummified apparition of a plague doctor, or Lovecraftian eldritch horror, or previously undocumented cryptid that suddenly decided to start haunting him, for that matter.

But Harrow was real. His odd little cane with the creepy, glowy eyes was real. The magic scales tattoo on his arm that moved without him flexing his arm and changed colors on its own was real. His followers were very, very real. That jackal, with the frothing, rabid, snapping teeth and the milky, glassy eyes and the malnourished, gangly limbs and the wicked, scrabbling claws and the deathly, musty stench was, somehow, terrifyingly real, despite having been invisible to the security cameras.

The security cameras that had captured Steven’s own grim scowl, resolute brow, and defiant, dark eyes—but it wasn't Steven, because he didn’t look like that, even though he shared the same face with the stranger on the footage.

Marc. His name was Marc.

Why is he stuck in my bloody head?

Marc’s property damage, somehow having managed to kill the ghastly creature, if the lack of physical remains and other evidence indicated, and save his life ( ...their lives?) in the process—and at the very least, Marc had kept his word on that front—ultimately cost Steven his job. Several thousand pounds’ worth of property damage, in fact, which somehow Steven was going to have to be able to afford paying off (in increments, at least) to avoid legal prosecution—while also being suddenly and unexpectedly unemployed.

Bloody hell. The not-so-patient request to turn in his bloody nametag had somehow stung more than the pamphlet handed to him boasting the most excellent psychiatric care in the city.

(...He was mad, wasn’t he…? How had he not known? How had he missed all the signs?)

Left remiss with very few ears into which to confide, he spoke in Crowley, always the listening sort. He expelled his tizzied thoughts until he was able to regather them into some vague semblance of order, and decided his next course of action: to chase the one lead he had to hopefully deduce whoever Marc was. It seemed simple enough, although daunting. A simple image search would take him to the location associated with the logo attached to the keychain, perhaps the only source of answers to all the questions brimming in his harried head.

He wanted to know. (But should he?) He had to know. (...Did he really?)

Reeling with inconsolable stress, insurmountable anxiety, precarious emotions, and now the tumultuous internal debate of whether to delve into the affairs which Marc had warned him very explicitly not to, Steven turned to the only other person whose word he valued and trusted above all others in his immediate vicinity (save, perhaps, his mum).

It was mid-afternoon by the time he crept into the coffee shop, and fortunately it was vacant as a couple of university students breezed past him with paper sacks laden with books tucked into their arms and laughing raucously as they headed back out into the sunny spring day. Another barista was slumped behind the counter scrolling on her phone, so Steven knew you were stationed upstairs instead.

He picked his way gingerly up the winding wooden staircase, wincing every time his weight caused a plank to creak in protest. He avoided looking at the narrow windows for fear of seeing any more reflected shapes in them that he couldn’t control, eyes trained resolutely on his feet as he focused on regulating his harsh breathing in an attempt to manage his racing heart.

It was in this way that he ran right into you upon stepping into the bookstore proper. You carried a stack of new prints taller than your head and nearly dropped them all upon impact. Steven’s arms latched out to steady them and you, apologies already spilling from his lips before he could even think of a comprehensible reaction. “Oh, bullocks, sorry—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve been watchin’ where I was going— bloody hell, where’s my mind?”

“Steven,” you laughed breathlessly, recognizing his subdued voice and fluttering hands without even seeing him, “it’s okay! No harm done, see? Not a one dropped.” You lugged them over to the display table and set them down on the vacant surface with a soft grunt, swiping your sleeve over your shining forehead. “Whew! Updating all the new publications is a pain. My back’s killing me. I’ll definitely regret all this tomorrow.” You turned back to him, all sunshine and smiles with your terracotta sweater and the gold hoop earrings (clip-ons, he knew, because you’d never had them pierced) dangling amongst the loosened locks framing your face. “It seems a little early for your lunch break, Steven. Are you off today or have I just managed to lose track of time again?”

Your innocuous, innocently humored phrasing should not have sent him spiraling again, but…after the last week of hell that he’d endured, who in their right mind (because he surely wasn’t in his) could blame him for the already tenuous grip on reality he’d been clinging to with only whitened knuckles and sheer force of will?

Your expression fell instantly as tears welled more quickly in his eyes than he could reign them back in, slipping over his cheeks.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry,” he blurted, face burning as he reached up to swipe away the undeniable evidence of his breakdown—in front of you, of all people, Christ alive, he really was losing it—with the edge of his sleeve…to no avail. More tears followed immediately thereafter, blurring his vision, dripping from his chin as he ducked his head and buried his face behind his covered hands. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what’s come over me, I—”

There was a split second of silence on your end, though he scarcely noticed it but for his pulse raging in his ears and the deafening roar of his thoughts deafening him to any other sound. He barely registered your urgent call over your shoulder further into the bookstore, muffled by the harsh rasp of air dragging in and out of his lungs faster than he could dictate. He was shaking all over, adrenaline coursing through him a kilometer a minute, and his knees were on the verge of giving out from beneath him.

The warmth of your fingers curling gently—always so gentle, you were—around his wrists provided just enough of a distraction to open his eyes again, almost afraid of what he might see. But as you tugged his hands away from his dampened face, standing so close that your clothes were brushing against his and your breath fanned over his face, your eyes drew him in and dragged his thundering thoughts to a murky but much more manageable muddle.

Your brow was wrinkled with worry, mouth set in one of the few frowns he’d ever seen on your otherwise sunny disposition (even when harassed to no end by customers of the ruder variety, although your customer service smile was, decidedly, much colder and not nearly as welcoming). Your eyes were brimming with questions, but you uttered none of them, only, “Come on, there’s a quiet corner in the back.”

Steven allowed you to lead him by the hand like a child through the winding, ceiling-length bookcases into a musty reading niche set up with a lounge chair and ottoman next to a window spilling golden light onto the floor and highlighting every mote of dust that floated through its brilliant stream. You guided him to sink into the chair with a light hand on his shoulder, adjusting the ottoman back to give you enough room to sit directly in front of him. Your knees pressed into his, and when he shakily extended his trembling, open palms with a desperate snivel most people would have found repelling, you only laced your fingers with his and squeezed his hands tight enough to let him know that he could do the same.

“What’s wrong, Steven?” you murmured, beseeching him with your fractaled irises—the sunlight was illuminating every last shade and striation of color in them, more brilliant a palette than the shade ever granted justice. It gilded the edges of your features and the sweep of your fawn-like lashes in gold leaf. “Did something happen?”

Boy, didn’t everything happen—all during one weekend, no less?

The broken, wet laugh that leapt from his lips didn’t startle you, but it did make him jump. He lowered his gaze to focus on your hands clasped firmly in his, studying the creases in your palms, the whorls and arches of your fingerprints on your fingertips, and the light, faded smattering of scars in between—all to avoid the magnetic intensity of your gaze. “What hasn’t happened?” he croaked, throat burning with the effort it took to speak without loosing the gut-wrenching sob clawing ferociously at the pit of his belly. “I can’t sleep, I ruined my date, I lost my goldfish, I managed to get fired from the most pathetic excuse of a job anyone could get for something I didn’t even do, and I think I’m quite literally going mad.” He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting, feeling more tears slip out and trickle down his flushed cheeks. “Nothin’ seems real anymore. I can’t keep track of time. I’m seein’ things that would make an asylum patient have nightmares, but then it’s all comin’ back and tryin’ to eat me, and—” He clamped his mouth shut with a whimper, dropping his chin to his sternum to shut out the intrusive thoughts digging into the back of his mind. He unconsciously ripped his hands free from yours and knotted his fingers in his curls just to feel the ache. “—oh, God, I can’t—it’s too much, I—”

“ Steven, ” you said softly, hands threading through his arms to cradle his face and to thumb away his tears as you leaned in and nestled your forehead against his hairline, lips brushing his brow as you continued to murmur in a low, soothing tone that pierced through the noise like Apollo’s arrow, “it’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you—nothing’s coming after you in here, okay? Just our quiet, little safe place. I want you to breathe with me, okay? Just a little, I know it’s hard to concentrate, but just try for me, okay? You can breathe between if you need to. Want to try? Okay. In…one, two, three, four…out…one, two, three, four. And again. That’s it. You’re doing so good, darlin’, just focus on me. Feel my hands? And my knees? The chair, your feet on the ground, my forehead. Smell the books, the candle, your cologne, my perfume? Hear the traffic outside, the music in the other room, my voice? Okay. Good. Look at me, Steven. Please?”

He raised his head, trembling still but not nearly as close to convulsions as he’d been mere minutes prior, and you interlocked your fingers with his once more to hold them between you as you drew back just enough to peer unflinching into his eyes.

“Good. There you are, darlin’.” Your gentle smile was as precious as molten gold. “You see the books, too?”

He nodded once, unable to tear his eyes away from you. Had you always looked so divine or was he still experiencing delusions?

…No. No, he couldn’t be, because there was nothing about you that wasn’t so blissfully, sincerely, relievingly real. You were just that ethereal. How had he never noticed it before?

“Okay.” You squeezed his fingers lightly. “Can you tell me one thing that you can taste?”

“My…my tea, from this morning. Ran out of oat milk so I had to drink it straight.”

“There we go.” Your expression tightened just slightly at the edges, scanning his own carefully. “Better? Just a little?”

“A bit, yeah.” He sniffled again, swallowing roughly and finally managing to look away. “Sorry about that. You know. For…breakin’ apart in the middle of your shop like that. You…you didn’t have to stop what you were doin’ just to give me a pep talk.”

Your brow furrowed. “Steven, you were having a panic attack. I wasn’t about to go back to sorting the BookTok smut table while you looked on the verge of collapse.” You shook your head slightly, as if in disbelief. “You wouldn’t have come to me for no reason, so I can take ten minutes to help you calm down. I’ve been running around like a headless chicken all morning and I haven’t had enough time to stop. I’ll be fine.” You squeezed his hands again. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I’d fix it if I could.”

Oh, how he wished that you could. He’d let you do anything you wanted if he could just feel normal again.

“Do you want to talk more about it?” you tried gently, tilting your face down to gaze up at him through those utterly enchanting lashes. “It’s okay if you don’t. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, for whatever you need, whether it’s to listen or just to sit with you.”

He swallowed, nodding jerkily. “Yeah, it’s—just complicated, yeah? A lot to take in. I really don’t mean to be a bother, I just needed—”

“Steven Grant, you are not a bother to me.” You single-handedly stole the breath you’d helped him regain not minutes prior. “You can tell me anything, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I…okay.” He drew in a deep, shaky breath, held it, and released it in a hiss from between his chattering teeth. “I’m…investigatin’ somethin’. It might be dangerous, I don’t know. But I’ve got too many questions to avoid it anymore and I…I’m scared. Terrified, really. Everything seems like it’s fallin’ apart and I’m losing grips on it the tighter I try to hold on.” He blinked away another fresh onslaught of tears filming over his eyes with no small amount of frustration. “I feel like it’s my only option, to move forward, you know? I just…wanted to make sure I’m not hallucinatin’ everything around me first.” And that was the reason he’d come here, wasn’t it? Because you never failed to make him feel safe and secure and human, no matter the storm.

You studied him for a long moment, considering. But instead of accusing him of being a loon, you only tipped your chin to seek out his gaze once more—and he, like a moth to flame, was inexorably drawn to it. “Do you want me to go with you?”

The offer took him by surprise, but he knew immediately that it shouldn’t have. You had a protective streak a mile wide—he’d observed it in your fierce defense of your coworkers against irate and lecherous customers alike, as well as the thinly contained fury you’d only had enough strength to withhold in all but your tone when he’d finally vented to you about Donna for the first time. As much as he’d like to see you rip out her cheaply applied extensions one by one until she cried, he had made you promise never to start a fight with her. That you would offer first to accompany him to a destination he’d unthinkingly labeled ‘dangerous’ before anything else, regardless of currently sitting in your workplace that demanded more of you than it ever should any single person, reassured him—but he couldn’t ask you to get involved. He wouldn’t, because it was dangerous—whatever was going on inside his head (and outside of it) was something he was increasingly suspecting was beyond the scope of his present comprehension. The last thing Steven wanted was to get you hurt, too, just by proximity.

“No,” he said firmly, and your brows rose slightly. “No, I don’t—thanks for the offer, I really appreciate it, but you shouldn’t…I don’t want you at risk.”

“I don’t want you at risk, either,” you pointed out softly.

“I…” Well, shit. “...I know. But I’ll be okay. I think. I know! I’m just going to take it real careful and just see, yeah? It’ll…it’ll turn out all right. Right? Yeah.”

Your grip tightened, and your gaze turned sharper than he’d ever seen it, even at your most agitated. Deadly serious, with no room for avoidance—as if he’d ever want to avoid you. “Steven.”

He stiffened. “Y-yeah?”

“If anything happens,” you told him slowly, “I want you to call me, okay?” He opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted him for the first time in the two months he’d known you. “I mean it. I’m not going to push my way into your business, but if you ever feel like you need help, do not hesitate to tell me. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he suspired. Why was his mouth dry all of a sudden? When had he started sweating? Was his blush as obvious as it felt?

You regarded him for another moment, scrutinizing his expression—perhaps for any traces of falsehood—before nodding and releasing his hands. You reached into your pocket and drew out your phone. “What’s your number?”

Steven recited it to you nervously, fiddling with the hems of his sleeves. You typed it in, saved it, then sent him a message that buzzed in his back pocket. (He never thought that he’d get your number in a context quite like this .)

The lapse of silence continued, stifling in its weight, until your expression softened once more into something far less grave. “...Do you trust me, Steven?”

The answer came without hesitation. “Of course,” he breathed.

Your eyes were so damned deep, he’d drown in them willingly. “All right. Just know…whatever you need, okay? I’m just a phone call away.” You swallowed, then glanced away for the first time since he’d walked into you. “I don’t like seeing you scared. It scares me. ”

He was about to apologize on reflex, but the words died on his tongue. He noticed that you, too, had started to fidget with your fingers, rolling a wrinkle in your jeans. He reached out and laid his hand over yours, drawing your attention back to him. “Where’d you learn that trick? You know, the one about the five senses?”

“I had really bad anxiety when I was a teenager. Had an acute spell for about six months straight that made me hate sleeping because the thought of waking back up to deal with it all over again the next day kept me up all night. I lost a lot of weight because my stomach stayed upset and I didn’t have an appetite at all—it took a long time to go back to eating normal afterwards because my stomach had shrunk.” You looked so vulnerable, uncomfortable with baring yourself just a little bit more to his sympathetic gaze, but doing it anyway—all for his undeserving benefit. He squeezed your hand, this time. “I did a lot of research at the time to find ways to mitigate it. Figuring out the biological basis of it helped me to rationalize my triggers and responses so I could understand how to manage it better. It’s fight, flight, or freeze at its most dire state—so once I learned that, I was able to talk myself down by convincing myself I was safe.” You traced the roughness of his palm, and a flicker of something passed over your face before he could register it. “That trick isolates stimuli so you can focus.”

“That…that makes sense. I’ll have to remember that one.” He cleared his throat quietly. He hadn’t known—you hadn’t told him any of that before, never had indicated that you’d had such a rough time of your anxiety that you so often made light of in passing. “I’m so sorry you went through that. It sounds horrible.”

“It was. But it taught me to be more aware of how my mind and body work, if nothing else. And despite all the hardships, I never looked for a way out, just…a way through. And I did get through it.” You sat up a little straighter, cleared your throat, and glanced through the bookshelves before you returned your attention to him. “Are you sure you don’t need me to…?”

“I’m not going to ask you to play hookey for me,” he told you, smiling and using what was hopefully a playful tone. It seemed to work, because the tension in your shoulders eased a bit. “I will let you know if I need you.”

“Promise?” you prompted, extending the pinky of your free hand.

“Pinky promise,” he assured, linking his with yours and marveling at how petite you really were, dwarfed by the breadth of him. He’d never really noticed that, before, either. (How had he not?) “I’ll let you know what I find out, yeah? Once I get it all straight in my noggin’.”

You nodded as you both stood and started to weave your way through the labyrinth back to the main area of the bookstore. “I’m holding you to that, Steven Grant. If I don’t hear from you I’ll be putting out a search warrant.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” he fibbed—just a little, because he hated seeing you worry like this. He’d evidently never really given you good reason to worry about him before, and he felt immeasurably guilty despite the comfort you’d brought him. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” You flashed him a small smile, less enthusiastic than usual. “Now that you’re not working, we could actually eat together since my lunch break’s always later.”

Tentative, as though you didn’t want to send him over the edge again. He appreciated it more than you’d ever know.

“I’ll be here. Just give me about a fifteen minute heads-up so I can make it on time?”

“Will do.” As he approached the exit, you reached out and brushed your fingertips along the blade of his hand, arresting him on the spot. “Steven. Please be careful.” You glanced over at the other clerk with his back turned towards the pair of you, organizing the table you’d abandoned in favor of bringing Steven down from the brink. “I care a lot about you,” you confessed softly. “I don’t ever want to see you get hurt.”

Steven sucked in a sharp, shaky breath, folding his hands over his stomach on reflex. His body sagged and his heart puddled into the pit of his belly. “I care a lot about you, too, love. But you don’t have to worry about me gettin’ hurt—just think about the other guy! I’ll just give them the ol’ Grant one-two!” He shadow boxed to punctuate, and your quiet chuckle soothed his fluttering nerves. He stilled, then, and dropped his arms to his sides awkwardly. “...And thank you. Really. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t…you know. Likely would’ve gone right bonkers, yeah?”

“You’re always welcome, Steven.” You hesitated, fists tightening, before you reached out to grasp his arm lightly, only enough for balance, and Steven’s rattled mind struggled to keep up with your hurried motion and didn’t catch up until after the fact—you leaned into him, all sweet perfume and warm softness, to press a chaste kiss to the dried, tacky tear tracks that would surely leave salt on your lips. You were back down flat on your feet and a full pace away from him by the time his mouth dropped open, and your embarrassment was glaringly obvious. “Take care. For me?”

“Of course, love,” he said softly, watching perplexedly as you nodded, mouth thinning, before you darted around behind a bookcase and out of sight.

Oh. You were shy.

Steven pressed his fingertips to his tingling cheek all the way down the stairs, stumbling a couple of times before he convinced himself to get a grip before he did break his promise and accidentally kill himself not two minutes after the fact. He floated through the coffee shop back onto the street, sinking his back against the wall, and closed his eyes to reclaim his breath.

The first genuine smile of unfettered delight he’d had in what felt like eons wormed onto his face, and Steven let out a dreamy sigh. He shifted, caught a whiff of your perfume, and realized that some of it still lingered on his coat collar. He resisted the sudden urge to bury his nose and to revel in it, clearing his throat and fishing his phone out of his pocket instead to start off his investigation by determining which storage company Marc’s key belonged to.

Your text waited for him, poised under his thumb. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Steven. Laters, gators! :)’

His cheeks ached with the widest smile he’d had in his life.

When the plane from Cairo landed at its destination in London’s biggest airport close at nine-thirty, well past dark, approximately two weeks later, Steven finds that he has never felt so tired in his (admittedly limited waking) life—even during the time of depriving himself of sleep in an effort to control his supposed ‘sleeping’ disorder. He’d…dozed, he supposed was the only way he could describe it, while Marc had fronted during the flight. Leaving Layla in Cairo had been hard on him (both of them, really), so Marc had needed some quiet time to himself.

Steven couldn’t quite find it in himself to blame him in the slightest.

 Marc and Layla had finally squared things away after Khonshu had finally released them—both Harrow and…their relationship. While Layla finally understood Marc’s motivations for all his blunders (and him personally, more clearly than she ever had in their married life, sad as it was to say), they both agreed that it would be for the best to go ahead and part ways. Too much damage had been done, the foundations of their relationship fractured by all the secrets and half-truths Marc had kept, and he had shattered her trust with his noncommunication.

She did make it explicitly clear that the entire ordeal in no way stopped her from caring about him (and now Steven, she made sure to add), however—Marc’s relief had been palpable, even while Steven had kept quiet and to himself listening to them discuss everything in the dingy motel room they’d shared the previous night before he’d departed. They mutually agreed to keep in touch, because while Marc had freed himself (and therefore Steven) of Khonshu’s servitude, Layla was still working with Tawaret as her Red Scarab. Hurt though he was (with mostly himself to blame, he’d admitted), Marc was protective more than anything—and though Tawaret had wormed her way past his initial suspicions with her sincere desire and success in helping them crawl their way out of the Duat, historically he didn’t exactly have a healthy relationship with Ancient Egyptian deities.

He hadn’t spoken much to Steven since then, but Steven was okay with that. Marc was a man of few words, he’d learned, and Steven suspected that it was best to give him space—regardless of when (or if) he ever decided to talk about it. Steven would be there for him either way (figuratively and literally). He’d need to make sure to remind him of that fact when they were both a bit better rested and recovered from the world-ending battle that they had managed to win by the skin of their teeth.

Steven hadn’t had the pleasure of knowing  Layla very long—and while perhaps some of his initial attraction to her could have been attributed to him inheriting at least some of Marc’s own memories, feelings, and familiarity via sharing the body, Steven was grateful that they could remain friends, at least—it spoke lengths of how close she and Marc truly had been, for her to still be willing to stay in contact despite everything that had happened. She’d made sure to send them both off with a tight, rocking hug for each of them, pressing a tender kiss to either cheek as they had seamlessly traded places per her request without so much as a shudder.

“Take care of him, okay, Steven? And you stay safe, too,” she’d murmured into his ear, her mirth belied by her melancholy. She’d paused, then reached up to adjust the lapels of Marc’s jacket lying crooked across his clavicle. “I trust you to do what I couldn’t.”

“I’ll certainly try my best,” he’d returned with a timid smile as she’d drawn away with sparkling eyes not only from fondness. He’d tried to ignore the stinging in his as he’d cleared his throat of the quiver that had threatened to creep into the back of his throat. “He’s a bit of a git when it comes to lookin’ after himself, yeah? But I’m kind of stuck with him, so…good to try to make the best of it, you know.”

“Thank you.” She’d seemed earnest in her gratitude, then, easing back another half-step. “For helping us. I owe you more than I fear I could ever fully repay.”

“You don’t owe me a thing,” he’d returned easily. He liked Layla—perhaps, in another life, he could have loved her, too, if things had turned out different, or if Marc had given him the opportunity. Marc’s envious accusations at the dig sight hadn’t hit quite so close to home as to ever confirm such feelings in himself—she was still virtually a stranger, in spite of him fearing for her life and trusting her with his without hesitation—so while he ached to see things between her and Marc end like they had, all he could focus on was that he was thankful they’d had the opportunity to meet. “You take care of yourself, too, all right? Don’t get into too much trouble kickin’ tail and takin’ names.”

She’d let out a wet laugh at that, not-so-subtly swiping at her eyes. “I will, Steven,” she’d said, and then Marc had taken over.

Until now, anyway.

Steven understood completely why Marc needed some time to himself after all that—perhaps better than anyone. It was why he was extremely grateful that, once all the process of checking out and fetching luggage was done, Marc receded in silence to the back of their shared headspace and left Steven standing at the front entrance of the airport with a flagged cab waiting expectantly for him on the drive below.

He hefted Marc’s duffel a little higher on his shoulder, curling his hands around the strap, and descended the steps quickly. He settled into the back seat, wrinkling his nose a bit at the faint but pungent scents of sweat, alcohol, and puke lingering there.

“Where to, mate?” asked the cab driver, sounding as bored as Steven would admittedly be if he had to drive people dead on their feet home in such dreary weather as this—it had stopped raining, thankfully, but mist still hung in the air and puddles littered the ground, causing any nearby lights to glisten and glitter off the wet surfaces.

Steven hesitated.

He…hadn’t really thought this far ahead, admittedly. He realized with a start that he hadn’t been home since Harrow’s cop friends…lackies… whatever had snatched him under the guise of a real investigation and arrest. It was probably a mess after they had ransacked it. It would be a miracle if not-Gus was still alive. He’d be lucky if none of his nosy neighbors had broken in to pilfer his things.

Steven fiddled with the strap pensively, evidently taking too long for the cabbie’s thinning patience. “Hear me, mate? Where do you need to go?”

It was almost instinct, the way that the coffee shop’s address spilled from his lips with some embarrassment—embedded into his memory since he’d ordered rides there on his days off. The cabbie flicked on the meter and took off once he’d entered it into his phone, and Steven tried to suppress his flustered response at agitating the man because what harm had he caused by waiting a moment longer than what was considered punchy? Nothing. It wasn’t Steven’s fault that the man was irritable. (What cabbie worth his salt relied on Google Maps, anyway? But then again, what cabbie worth his salt couldn’t be bothered to order a deep enough clean after toting about what must have been the cataclysmic aftermath of one hell of a stag party?)

Seeing and doing everything he had in Egypt had given Steven a slightly different outlook both about people in general as well as himself. People were, mostly, harmless—unless they were trying to resurrect and put into power an entombed goddess of destruction, anyway—so what difference did it make that Steven existed in the same place and time as them? It didn’t give them the excuse to be rude or dismissive or critical. Plus…while they’d given up that fancy healing armor (and that rather snazzy suit, unfortunately), Steven could still defend himself if need be. He had access to Marc’s muscle memory now that no more barriers stood between their psyches—he’d held his own against Arthur bleedin’ Harrow quite well, if he did say so himself, thank you very much. He’d still have to get used to the motions, sure, but…never before had he felt more capable and assured in his own abilities. He had Marc to thank for that.

Even still, as he steadied his breathing and calmed his heart, Steven frowned and directed his gaze out of the window to focus on the streets rolling by outside. The coffee shop didn’t close until ten, and you usually didn’t make it out while locking up until ten-fifteen. But because Marc had left Steven’s phone in London (in his storage locker while getting supplies, Steven suspected), Steven had been unable to contact you at all. Given the domino's effects following him leaving the coffee shop in pursuit of Marc’s unit, he hadn’t had time enough to memorize your number (and believe him, under any other circumstances, he would have done so as soon as he would have had the chance). He’d promised you lunch the next day, as well as to check in to let you know he was all right, but by the time Steven had woken back up post-jackal boxing extravaganza, he’d had to deal with Marc’s…less than ideal interrogation techniques.

Things only had…devolved from there. Steven really and truly didn’t care to give any of it much more thought—not until later, when he could see clearly without his eyelids drifting shut.

Steven wrung the hem of the jacket’s sleeves between his fingers, worrying the inside of his cheek while he did so. Even throughout…all of that…Steven had found his thoughts straying inevitably—gravitized, perhaps—back to you, over and over, no matter how hard he’d tried to concentrate on…well, you know, saving the world. Even when he’d been distracted, and terrified, and fighting for his life, he’d recalled snippets of memory so visceral he’d glanced over his shoulder more than once to make sure he was just imagining things.

Your features drenched in sunlight like a goddess in your own right. Your eyes glittering as you tittered in genuine mirth at once his silly little jokes he cringed over every time he departed from your reassuring company. Your smile warming him inside as much as your meticulously brewed teas did going down. Your lilted, soothing drawl, the shape your mouth formed as you’d snowball into a lecture on how ridiculous all the internet conspiracies about aliens building the pyramids because the Egyptians were too primitive to accomplish such feats but the Romans were esteemed geniuses of their time with all their architectural novelties, the unfettered passion that brought such vivacity to your normally demure, soft-spoken demeanor.

He had missed you. Terribly so. More than he would’ve expected, but he was unsurprised.

You’d no doubt have loved to have seen Egypt with your own eyes—you’d confessed your daydreams about it to Steven on a couple of different occasions, had told him how long you’d wanted to take a vacation there to visit all the sights and witness them for yourself. You’d shared, mortified and only after some gentle prodding on his part, that you’d even constructed an itinerary, once, complete with hypothetical flight times, prices, and locations, hotel reservations and rates, eateries recommended by locals, starting from the delta and traversing all the way up to Abu Simbel, as well as every notable tomb, temple, and archaeological site or tourist spot in between. “Maybe one day,” you’d said, so wistfully yet despondently that he’d wanted for nothing more in that moment than to sweep you up and take you there himself.

At the time, he had pictured your reactions to Cairo, Giza, and Alexander the Great’s no-longer-lost tomb with perfect clarity—your excitement would have known no bounds. You would have stopped to inspect and decipher each artifact and inscription if you’d had time enough to do so, ecstatic at the chance to lay your hands on such marvels (respectfully, of that Steven had no doubts). Steven would never have wanted you involved in such close and constant proximity to danger, but he’d still imagined it for his own sanity. You’d been his lifeline, in a way—even with his fleeting, misplaced infatuation with Layla—the thought of not making it back to London, back to you, was what had kept him going at the most harrowing of points.

As partial as you were to the mythology, you’d have been beside yourself to discover that the deities so long thought fabled—for better or for worse—were as real as anything else in this odd little home humanity called Earth. He’d sooner throw himself back into the ravenous sands of the Duat than have you anywhere near that bloodthirsty pigeon, but then again Tawaret had been an angel by comparison, so…maybe you interacting with her wouldn’t have been too bad.

You were his first recurring thought whenever he’d wake (whether he had emerged to the front or from slumber), and you’d been his last thought when Harrow had shot Marc—panicked, screaming, terrified knowing he’d failed to keep his word. When Khonshu had forced the breath back into their lungs, Steven had nevermore felt such relief at proving himself wrong.

He’d convinced Marc to loan him a little spending money, after all was said and done, and had visited a secluded marketplace to browse the vendors’ wares. He’d found a little statuette of Djehuty hand-carved from lapis lazuli, about as long and as wide as his index finger, and while the merchant’s asking price had been outrageous (and because Steven had no talent for haggling, try as he might), Marc hadn’t scolded him too badly for shelling out the questionable stack of bills. It wouldn’t go far in the way of a peace offering, perhaps, but he could use it as some sort of proof if things didn’t go over well.

You weren’t naturally a skeptical person, though, he reminded himself. You had taken him at his word during his mental breakdown without even batting an eye. You valued honesty and communication above all else, prided yourself on your integrity, and Steven knew that you would at least hear him out and consider his (rather implausible) story before you rejected it.

Maybe he could still salvage this. Maybe he wouldn’t have to give Marc one more reason to blame himself for something he’d claim that he ruined. You were a reasonable woman, driven by logic and intuition rather than emotion and feelings. Steven had always admired you for that, for your tendency to avoid taking sides, to play devil’s advocate, to balance and weigh all options, thoughts, facts, and opinions before daring to formulate your own.

A keen little set of scales you were, weren’t you? Yeah. If only you’d have been there, somehow, to help sort out his and Marc’s mess—it likely would have gone a lot smoother and faster. (Maybe they would have actually managed to balance before it had almost been too late.)

“Most everything down this way is closed for the night—you sure you want me to let you off here? Or would you rather me take you someplace else?” groused the cabbie as he eased to a stop on the street corner (because of course—why would any cabbie worth his salt take a man to his requested destination only to offer a longer drive if but to rack up a higher meter?)

Despite Steven’s increasing indignation (he was firmly placing the blame on his and Marc’s shared jet lag because he was just so tired and he would never normally get so irate by a man doing his job, no matter how lazily), he hesitated. Only the security lights were visible through the sheer blinds drawn over the windows to conceal the interior, and he couldn’t make out your shape at the till or anywhere else, for that matter.

Perhaps it had been wishful thinking to hope you’d still be there, or even on the shift for tonight at all. You’d probably worried yourself to death fretting about his sudden silence—no, scratch that, you definitely had fretted. Was he going to have to call the nearest police station to have them take down a missing persons report? Had you even filed one like you’d threatened to? Or had he inadvertently hurt you by what could in any other conceivable circumstance be taken as ghosting to the point that you no longer cared for his well-being?

The thought made his heart clench. It ached more than he might have been readily willing to admit. Oh, he had gone and messed things up royally, hadn’t he? The one person who’d actually treated him like a person (outside of Marc and Layla, of course) could very well hate his guts now. It sickened him, almost made him want to lock himself away in his flat and curl up under his duvet and hide for the rest of eternity.

But he couldn’t. Not on the off-chance you had recalled his concerns, had believed his worries, and still thought him innocent in the matter. Not if you were still waiting for him.

“What’ll it be, mate?” drolled the cabbie, muffled by a gargantuan yawn he didn’t bother to stifle. “I’d rather not sit here all night, you know.”

“N-no—I’ll stop here, thanks.” Steven patted through Marc’s pockets until he found his wallet, then rifled through the neatly organized mixture of bills until he found English currency as opposed to Egyptian—with enough for a decent tip, because Steven always tried not to be a knob. “You seem like you’re workin’ on fumes, mate, you ought to go home and get some sleep.”

“Sleeping’s for the dead,” he deadpanned, and Steven let out a breathless little chuckle as he shuffled out of the cab onto the curb and watched it round the corner and out of sight.

If only he knew.

The air was warmer than before Steven had been carted off to another continent, a bit muggy as the humidity settled like cobwebs in his lungs. He grimaced and unzipped the jacket, edging closer to the windows to squint inside properly.

Still no signs of life. Steven rested his fingertips on the dribbled glass, dropping his head. Marc still had the storage key in the bag, somewhere—he supposed that he could try going and getting his phone, but that would run the risk of the business not being open at all hours and require that much more time to charge the blasted thing back from the brink. Perhaps he’d be better off to wait until the next morning to try to sort his life back out—he wouldn’t be able to stand staying on his feet for much longer.

“ ...Steven? ”

He stiffened, straightened in an instant, and turned to see you standing at the corner, keys still dangling from your fingers after locking up and coming around the back. An impulsive glance at Marc’s watch told him that you’d finished up early—it was ten on the dot. Your expression, bleached by the cold ivory streetlamp looming over your head, was slack in disbelief.

Steven—despite having rehearsed over the last two weeks what he could possibly say to explain himself, to apologize for his abrupt absence and radio silence, to entreat you to at least hear him plead his case, to beg for your forgiveness and to seek it by any means necessary just so he could talk to you again—fell terribly short of his expectations as the moment came…and went.

His greatest shortcoming, that: his seemingly endless supply of words failing him when he needed them most dire.

“...Hiya,” he said meekly, raising his hand in a shameful little wave—then groaned internally and resisted the overwhelming urge to bury his face in his hands and pull at his hair in frustration.

Real chuffed she’ll be with a response like that, ol’ chap. Bollocks. I’m an utter pillock, aren’t I?

“S-sorry,” he floundered, face burning as you continued to stare at him with rounded eyes and a gaping mouth. You looked caught between fight or flight but trapped in freeze mode, every muscle in your body rigid as though the sight of him reviled you. His heart twisted, but he couldn’t find it in himself to blame you. He’d be right pissed at himself, too. “It’s…been a bit much, the time I’ve had. I’m proper exhausted after that trip. Not that, uh…not that it’s any excuse, yeah? I’m just having a bit of a hard time not fallin’ asleep on my fee— oof! ”

You’d moved before he could even track the motion. Had he looked away or dropped his head and closed his eyes out of humiliation? Had he almost blacked out again even though Marc made no sign of himself known? Or was he just that tired and you were that fast on your feet? (Of course you were nimble, juggling books and drinks all day long at a breakneck pace. Why would he ever have thought otherwise?)

He supposed it didn’t matter in the end, really, because your arms were coiled around his neck to drag him down closer to your height, your face was buried into his (no doubt grimy) neck, and your hands were trembling as they gripped his nape and threaded into his matted, oily curls as though your life depended upon it. Your breaths were muffled and warm against his throat, as were the tears that smeared against his thundering pulse, and it took Steven an embarrassingly long time to come to his senses and return your vice-like embrace with his own shaking arms.

“You scared the shit out of me, Steven,” you sniffled into his collar like a secret, voice tight and hushed with the ferocity of your feeling. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Steven swallowed roughly, throat tightening and eyes filming over with the familiar hot sting he’d been doing his damnedest to hold down until he’d returned to the safety of his home—but he supposed that he already had, so what was the point in resisting anymore?

“I thought I’d lost me, too, love,” he whispered raggedly, his tenuous resolve crumbling like sandstone as he buried his face in your hair and crushed you against his chest as tightly as your clothes allowed. His tears finally slipped free of his eyes as he squeezed them closed in an effort to shut out the world around him. He could feel your heart hammering against his chest even through all his layers, your earthy perfume saturating his lungs, your inherent warmth seeping into him so like the sunshine you epitomized in his mind. You didn’t give any inclination of letting him go anytime soon, and he had no such intention, either. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you murmured, voice cracking with the strain of keeping yourself in check, pulling your head back just enough to peer up at him with a warbling smile. The hand on his neck slipped around to cup his cheek in your palm, thumbing away the wet streaks trailing towards his chin. Your eyes darted over his features, scrutinizing, as though you were committing the sight to memory—as though assuring yourself that he was really real, really there, really corporeal and not an apparition. “God, darlin’, don’t be sorry, I’m just—I’m just glad you’re okay. Are you safe? Are you hurt? Are you still in danger?” You mirrored your own touch with your free hand, cradling his head as though you held the entire world between your fingers, stroking the corners of his mouth in reverent reassurance. “Where have you been? I tried looking, asking around the museum, but nobody knew where you’d disappeared, and I—I thought—” You let out a sob from between gritted teeth, quivering despite his desperate grip on your upper and lower back. “—I feared the worst, after what you said the last time I saw you, and I tried talking to the police, but they thought I was crazy, and…I’ve nearly worried myself to death wondering where you’d gone.”

Nailed it. Unfortunately. Steven let out a watery laugh, biting his lip briefly before tugging you back under his chin so you wouldn’t see the conflicted emotions fighting for prominence on the limited canvas space of his face. “Oh, love, I’ve been to hell and back,” he joked quietly (one you wouldn’t get, not yet, and one he didn’t particularly care to explain), rocking you from side to side and anchoring himself with the weight of your body against his. “But I never stopped thinking about—about coming back. To you. Not once.”

Your arms slipped under his to squeeze him tight, slowly but surely soaking his shirt with your relief. Steven was uncertain how long the pair of you stood like that, getting progressively more damp from the mist and more chilled from the cooling breeze, and finally he withdrew enough to tenderly pat your cheeks dry with the hem of his sleeve. You laughed a little at that, a frail but joyous little sound, and Steven could hardly contain himself—but you beat him to it.

“You look exhausted, darlin’,” you said softly, face pinching a little as you took in his drawn features. He was sure Marc had sat up through the whole flight, as antsy as he was—the body hadn’t gotten sufficient enough rest in so long Steven was surprised neither of them had yet to collapse. The deep purple semicircles marring the heavy undersides of his eyes were sure to be sights to behold. You traced his brow, temple, and cheekbone with a featherlight touch of your fingertips. “You said you just got back?”

“Yeah,” he responded, eyes fluttering shut at your gentleness with a long sigh. “I wanted…I needed to see you. To let you know I made it back, and that I didn’t mean to shut you out, and…to tell you what happened.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” you pressed carefully. “You’ve obviously been stressed about it. You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable talking about.”

“I want you to know. It’s…it’s important. To me.” He cracked his eye back open, taking in the minutiae of your features, too—you seemed just as bad off as he was. “But I don’t want to be a bother.”

You gave him a sharp look, and your last reaction to a similar statement he’d made rang clear in the back of his mind without you even having to echo your response.

“You just seem tired, too, is all,” he said. “Didn’t want to keep you up any later.”

“I’ll stay up all night if you asked me to,” you told him firmly. “Whatever you need. I meant what I said.”

‘I’m here for you.’

“I…could I ask one teensy favor?” he started, hating how small his voice sounded. “Just this once?”

You quirked an inquisitive brow.

“I…don’t really want to sleep by myself tonight,” he admitted sheepishly. “My place got broken into and…I’m not sure what it’ll look like when I go back there. I…I don’t want to be alone. Could I…?”

“Of course,” you said immediately, already reaching down and grasping his wrist. “You look like you could use a good meal, too—I’ve got some leftover minestrone that I could heat up for you. It doesn’t have any animal products in it.”

Oh, he could kiss you.

“I don’t mean to impose,” he prefaced, “but…that honestly sounds heavenly.”

“You’re not imposing. Come on. The bus will be making its stop soon—don’t want to miss it in case the rain starts up again.”

Steven allowed you to lead him along the street, perfectly content to allow you to guide him. The longer he went, the more difficult it was to stay focused. The late bus, one he’d usually been forced to catch when Donna had thrust him into inventory duty, was virtually empty save a couple of other night workers having finished up their shifts. You settled Steven near the back, setting him against the window and perching yourself in the aisle seat with a watchful eye directed towards the other passengers.

Steven found himself nodding off, forehead pressed heavily into the window, when your fingers tugged his wrist lightly. “Hey. Here, lean on me—I don’t want you to get a crick in your neck.”

Hardly conscious of it, Steven allowed you to direct with a cupped hand his temple to rest on your shoulder, sinking listlessly into your side. The press of your warm palm on his cheek remained as you murmured something he didn’t quite catch, too drowsy to recall anything afterwards besides the sweet scent of chai on your breath.

You roused him at the correct stop, and he managed to keep his wits about himself long enough to take in the new, unfamiliar surroundings. The university campus loomed on the other side of the highway, impressive in its splendor, and your flat was located in a nice but affordable gated complex that he suspected you’d chosen for convenience and security rather than luxury. Multiple other residences lined this side of the road, likely housing the majority of students.

“I’m on the top floor, but luckily they have elevators,” you murmured to him as you used your key card to buzz through the gate and unlock the side door to the main corridor. You led him through the place, let him lean against you while the mechanisms’ hum lulled him, and the first thing you did upon letting him into your apartment was have him sit on the loveseat. “Give me your feet.”

“Oh, don’t—you don’t have to do that,” he protested, even as you kneeled on the carpet and pulled one dusty boot up onto your knee to untie the laces. “Please, I couldn’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking, I’m doing,” you responded mildly. “Steven, you’re a blink too long away from going comatose—just let me take care of you, okay?” Your lips thinned for a moment, conflicted, before you dropped your gaze to your fingerwork before tugging the heavy shoe free and setting it to the side and reaching for his other foot. “I missed you. Let me do this, please.”

He had precious little will to argue, lesser so to refuse any sort of doting you might decide to bestow upon him. Steven Grant was many things, and a weak man was one of them. “I…all right,” he said softly.

“Good boy.” You patted the side of his leg with a wry little smirk that did funny things to his blood pressure, removing the other shoe, and leaving it with its twin. You stood, knees cracking, and made a placating gesture. “Wait here, I’ll be back in five.”

“All right,” he repeated sleepily because he couldn’t help it—his eyes were already falling shut again. He became dimly aware of an added weight draped over him, but it wasn’t until you came back and sank into the cushion next to him that he jerked back awake and realized you’d pulled the heavy knit blanket off the back of the couch over him.

“Here,” you said, pressing a large mug into his hands. “I know microwaved leftovers aren't as good, but I’ll be lucky to get you to down anything before you pass out on me. Again.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, drawing up a spoonful and blowing the steam off it. It smelled divine, and his stomach pinched and growled as though it, too, had wrenched itself awake.

“Stop apologizing,” you said, eyes twinkling. “It’s kind of cute.”

“Only kind of?” he tried, slipping the spoon into his mouth. A salty medley of flavors bloomed over his tongue and Steven was convinced he’d been sent to Aaru after all. “Oh…you never told me you were a king’s cook,” he mumbled.

“I am a bit proud of my cooking,” you chuckled. “I had…tweaked that recipe, to see if you’d like it, actually. I just so happened to have made it last night.” You glanced off to the side, briefly, towards the floor-to-ceiling window that lined the far wall and displayed the heart of London in all its twinkling glory. “Good timing, I guess.”

Steven ate as much as his waning patience could stand before propping the mug between his knees and tentatively resting a hand on yours draped over your thigh. You looked back to him immediately, the only light in the room spilling off to the side from the kitchen and casting all but the curve of your face in shadow. “There’s too much to explain in one night,” he began with a sigh, “and, honestly, it’ll probably take me a bit to work up to some of the…worse stuff. But I did want to tell you what I figured out about my sleeping disorder.”

“All right.” You shifted and contorted to face him completely, folding your legs crossed under you and lacing your fingers with his. “Did you get an official diagnosis, or…?”

He tried to ignore that in favor of staying undistracted. (It didn’t work very well, and he squeezed your hand back.) “Well. Sort of.” He recalled the certainty with which had (sparingly) detailed their ‘insanity’, the clarity with which the Duat had conformed to Marc’s self-perception as an institutionalized patient in an asylum. “It’s not a sleeping disorder.”

“Okay,” you responded encouragingly, expression neutral.

“I have…well. We have…” He sighed, ducked his head, and scratched at his hairline. “...Have you ever heard of Dissociative Identity Disorder?”

“I took a psychology class back home, yeah.” You frowned slightly. “What, like…Multiple Personality Disorder?”

“Yes.” Steven’s eyes were drawn to your hand, and he turned it over to inspect the lines of your palm with his blunt, callused fingertips (no longer a mystery why they stayed in such rough shape, he mused). “I’m, uh…well…it’s harder to…to say out loud, I guess.” He faltered, then, eyes flashing up to beseech your understanding. “I want you to know that we’ve worked things out as much as we could, so it’s a lot better than it was, but we’ve still got a ways to go, I think. Just—just know that we’re sound of mind, and neither of us would ever, ever hurt you.”

“Steven,” you said gently, realization slowly dawning in your softening gaze, “I never once had doubts about that.”

“I…good. That’s good.” He swallowed. He’d seen the stereotypes in popular media just like everyone else ever had, and while Marc had indeed hurt people, his remorse told Steven just how little he’d enjoyed it (that being none). “Okay. So…there’s this little American man that…lives inside my head, I guess. Marc Spector. Bit of a twit when you first meet him, but he’s not a half-bad bloke once you get to know him.”

Steven paused, waiting for a biting remark from the nearest reflective surface—but your offlined television remained passive. He let out a breath of relief.

Your expectant, patient silence spurred him on. “That’s what I thought, anyway—that he lived inside my head, that is. Just started poppin’ up out of nowhere, tryin’ to scare me off of figurin’ everythin’ out. Didn’t realize ‘til later that he was just tryin’ to protect me and being a real sorry arse about it.” Steven pressed the flat of his thumb into the crease of your palm, feeling your steady, calmed pulse thudding against his skin. “Turns out…I’m the one living inside his head.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, but you didn’t interrupt him.

“He had a rough childhood,” Steven continued, voice carrying over into a rush, “lost his li’l brother. His mum blamed him for it…did some things she shouldn’t have. Marc…developed an alter based on a fictional character from his favorite movie.” He let out a shaky sigh, dropping his chin to his sternum. “Doctor Steven Grant, debonair, world-traveled archaeologist extraordinaire.” He cleared his throat, voice lowering. “I think I may have fallen a bit short of his expectations.”

He had only learned the terminology in the snippets of time Marc let him front while he and Layla were still organizing things in Cairo, looking up articles to learn more about their shared mindscape.

“I…remember our childhood,” he said, much more quietly, “but not any of the bad parts. He let me keep all the good memories. I never remembered Mum except on the good days. Learning all this…was really hard. I never thought…I knew I had gaps in my memory, but I didn’t think…I never figured it out until the wall between us got broken down.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “When…when Mum died. I didn’t know. Marc couldn’t control it anymore, and…things happened. He moved to London, got me all set up with the flat and the job at the museum, and he was finishing things up so he could…I don’t know, fall to the wayside and not come out anymore? I’m not really sure how that works…if it would even work, like that.”

He didn’t dare look up at your expression. You’d fallen completely still and eerily quiet.

“So…yeah.” He was whispering by now. “I guess that makes me the fake identity.”

“Steven Grant,” you interjected, voice low and calm, “there is nothing about you that’s fake. I don’t ever want to hear you say something like that again.”

He gulped, peeking up at your resolute expression. “Yes, ma’am,” he croaked.

“You’re the most vibrant, thoughtful, selfless person I’ve ever met,” you said, gripping his hand so tightly he felt your pulse in each of your fingertips—he wouldn’t be surprised if your prints melded with his. “You have filled my life with more joy than I’ve felt in years. I give thanks almost every day that I had the privilege to have met you at a time when I needed you most.” You leaned in closer, eyes sparkling like the stars faintly visible on the horizon beyond your balcony. “For whatever reason that Marc Spector may have created you, he did a damn good job of it. You embody every positive trait anyone could ever hope to have. You are undoubtedly one of the best men I’ve proudly called my friend. And whatever you went through, with him or without, I have no doubt in my mind that you are integral to him, a part of him he idealizes. Even if you’re an alter, not the original owner of this body,” with this, you tapped his shoulder with your free hand, “you are just as important and just as precious to me for it.”

Steven thought he had cried enough, but his eyes betrayed him yet again. Only a couple of tears slipped free before you were smearing them away, steadfast in your presence, knees pressed into the outside of his thigh. He sank into your touch, shutting his eyes in relief.

“You can tell me as much or as little about the rest of it as you want,” you murmured. “And I apologize in advance for anything that I may accidentally say or do out of ignorance—but I promise you, Steven Grant, I will stay by your side as long as you’ll have me. No matter what.”

“Even though I’ve turned out a little crazier than you may have expected?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood with such a feeble attempt at a joke—but the words came out a little bleaker than he had intended.

“You’re not crazy,” you stated, “you’re a survivor. Both of you. And I am so very grateful that you survived.”

Steven did not remember falling asleep after that. He did not remember you taking the mug back to the kitchen and turning the lights out. He did not remember you leveraging him longwise across your loveseat, a couple feet two short for him had he not already been curled up, piling multiple blankets over his lanky form and carefully slipping a pillow from your bed under his head. He did not remember you tenderly combing his unkempt curls off his forehead, gazing at him with love brimming in your eyes, and laying a lingering kiss between his brows.

He did, however, remember in perfect detail the sight of you slumped over in your recliner, facing him, wreathed in the most beautiful golden sunrise he’d ever seen in his life.

[themotherofhorses]

paloma: first meeting

— simon "ghost" riley x oc!silentdove reyes.

summary: he's not annoyed, per se, but ghost is just not really in the mood to chit-chat with the american airman scurrying around the base. at best, he tolerates them.

(or the first exchange between ghost and his montanan woman.)

warnings: none, aside from explicit language.

note: okay, so despite this being an obvious OC-insert series, i invite anyone and everyone to read it :D this is actually my first time tackling an OC-insert fanfic (as well as writing ghost) so im still trying to get the rhythm of things.

dividers by: @saradika

paloma (masterlist) | main masterlist

[2021] 

Simon Riley won’t ever admit it — never aloud, anyway — but every time he steps foot on American soil, he feels more akin to a wolf draped in sheep’s clothing. 

In his mind, he sticks out like a sore thumb. He is not a hero, really; unlike the lot teetering around the military base he is currently stationed at for the next five or so weeks, he is less flesh and blood, and more a phantom. Or something along those lines. Actually, that could explain why there is such little traffic aimed his way. But he doesn’t particularly care. His schedule lacks the room to voice any complaints. 

Right now, his main concern is doing his job, and doing it right. 

Two weeks back, Price had him fishing out his passport tucked away inside his bedside table. “Fancy a two month getaway to the States?” Great Falls, Montana, to be exact. High west, nearing the border of Canada, and surrounded by land he’s only ever seen in those silly ass spaghetti western movies. 

The view is nice, he’ll admit. Beautiful, even. Exhilarating. He now understands why they refer to Montana as “Big Sky Country.” 

Malmstrom is much smaller than he imagined, and homier too. The Air Force base is nestled within the city’s east side, offering its own museum and park. He’s quite grateful for the latter; the trails allow for his nighttime walks when the nightmares prove too shitty to sleep. 

Great Falls is pretty as well. Price would like it, maybe Garrick too. He knows the two are big on history, and almost every inch of the city is drenched with some memory belonging to the old frontier days. 

Upon arriving, the yanks provided him with his own private office, housed in the back of the 341st logistics readiness squadron. It’s nothin’ fancy, really, just a wee room furnished with a dark mahogany desk, two windows, a steel cabinet, the Montana flag to his left, and the American to his right. 

Again, he’s not one to complain. Something’s something. 

Earlier, one of the higher-up airmen, a Staff Sergeant Benson (he believes is the name), had handed him a folder jam-packed with a shit ton of mission statements — logistics, strategic planning, reports of previous global concerns, and reviews of the base’s Minuteman III intercontinental ballistic missile. All the documents are dated in a time range varying between two months ago to 0800 this morning. 

In the back of his mind, he can already hear Price chuckling.

“Have fun, Simon.”

Bloody bastard. 

So now, Ghost sits hunched over the desk, feeling a little too damn big for it. All the paperwork is strewn about messily around him, with sticky notes, a pen, and some other random shit of his. No one has yet to visit him; until that happens, he feels little need to remain organized. 

His boot taps against the floor. “—Initial efforts to clean polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) from launch facilities at Malmstrom AFB are ongoing but seeing success…” Ghost reads under his breath. PCBs? That’s nice to hear.

“...after PCBs were detected on surfaces in launch facilities at all three of the command’s missile wings.” 

PCBs. Polychlorinated biphenyls — man-made and highly toxic, consisting of carbon, hydrogen, and chlorine atoms. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he flips onto the next page.

“We know they’re present on what appears to be otherwise pristine surfaces, due to the survey—” 

—a sudden knock interrupts his reading. 

With a curse on his tongue, Ghost sets down the report. He quicks a sneaking glance at his watch. 1342 hours. He’s due in a meeting at 1700. 

“Come in.” His voice sounds low and raspy, the two words sounding more like a growl than a greeting. He’s not annoyed, per se, but Ghost is just not really in the mood to chit-chat with the American airmen scurrying around the base. At best, he tolerates them.

(In his mind, they’re all little Graves, ready to stir up a headache.) 

The door slowly cracks open.

“Lieutenant Riley?” A female voice calls out — soft and cautious; Ghost’s chin drops against his knuckles. “Apologies for the disruption, sir, but I have some additional paperwork I need to drop off with you, at the request of my superior.” He grunts, and the airman then steps into his office, quickly shutting the door behind her before meeting his eyes. 

It is entirely unlike him, Ghost knows, but his brain almost short-circuits right then and there. Two dark brown eyes, framed by thick lashes, peering up at him. Shit. He’d always thought brown was such a pretty eye color on a woman, but hers stretched further across common compliments. 

Both of  ‘em — they held no animosity, no uneasiness or fear, nothing. 

That, itself, is quite fucking bizarre. He’s not used to that.

Ghost is .... well, Ghost. He knows the mask he is always donning on his face isn't exactly a sign of welcomeness. Just his mere presence is enough to startle the living shit out of rookies, baby recruits, wide-eyed sergeants, and the like. There is something inherently unnerving when you are unable to get a good reading of the person you're standing across from.

She’s brave, he thinks. Or merely oblivious to who he is. 

“Here you go, sir,” the airman says while placing the packet of new documents down on his desk. Her lips are shaped prettily, plump and shining with a fresh layer of gloss, and across her nose is a splatter of faint freckles. Under a different circumstance, maybe he would’ve taken the time to try and count them all.

Ghost swallows hard, incapable (for what feels like the first time in his life) of mustering up an appropriate reply. “Ah, thank you, ma’am.” 

The airman's brow lifts.

“Reyes,” she then corrects him with a kind smile, gesturing to the name badge sitting above her right chest pocket. Sure enough, in bold military lettering, reads Reyes. “My name is Senior Airman SilentDove Reyes. I am actually a cryptologic linguist analyst here on base; but sometimes I run errands for others, when not needed for a translation, of course.”

There is a slight chirp in her voice that Ghost picks up, along with the way she casually rocks back and forth on her feet. She seems awfully young, no older than 22, possibly 23, but even that's cutting it; a kid, compared to him. Maybe 5'7, with dark hair pulled back into two tight braids that fall at her belted waistline.

A stark contrast compared to him.

He's oddly curious now — about her age and first name and those long braids and why she stands before him, calm, collected, and sure — but he knows damn well this is not the time nor place for any questions. Both of them are on the clock, and it is likely she’ll need to report back to her supervisor soon. 

He offers her a curt nod. “Well, thank you again, Reyes,” he states, keeping his voice flat. 

“You are welcome, sir.” She turns to leave, but when her hand latches onto the doorknob, Reyes glances over her shoulder at him, “—oh, and Lieutenant? If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

–

The successful cleaning came after a bioenvironmental team at Malmstrom AFB …. Malmstrom AFB .. consulted with engineers and ….. and medical experts on the cleaning …. cleaning processes and– 

–and agents most likely to effectively remove the chemicals…. 

He knows his mind is wandering off, in desperate search of that pretty senior airman from fifteen minutes ago. “Bloody fucking hell,” Ghost grumbles, leaning back in his chair. His head lolls back as he blinks upward, studying the ceiling overhead. The texture is popcorn, a creamy color, with a simple fan jutting down. One light bulb, probably a recent replacement. 

Fuck. He doesn’t need this shit. Not one bit. 

Five more weeks and he’ll be gone from here. 

Ghost rechecks his watch, feeling a bit peeved at the time. 1411. He has several more hours until he can leave all this work shit behind for the evening, and maybe catch a short walk before hunkering down for the night. He doesn’t like sitting down for too long; it causes him to become restless. Agitated. Overthinking.

He doesn’t want distractions. He doesn’t need ‘em. Distractions ruin work ethic; clouding up the mind while fucking up all sense of responsibility. Price will have his ass if he – somehow – becomes compromised. And he'll never hear the end of it from Johnny. 

Settling back into the paperwork, he decides that he won’t allow himself another second thinking about all that – the American airman and her pretty brown eyes and high cheekbones and first name. 

Something tells him that’s easier said than done. 

[flightfoot]

Miraculous Ladybug Fanfic Recs for 2022

As a lot of you know, I read metric butt-ton of Miraculous fanfics, so I wanted to share with you 19 multi-chap fics, and 16 Miraculous one-shots (I just went through all the ones I really wanted to rec people instead of trying to fit a particular number) that I think y’all should take a look at. I tagged people’s tumblr blogs when I knew them, but I may well have missed some, especially if their username was different between AO3 and tumblr. Feel free to tag authors who I missed. Note that I’m only counting fics that were completed in 2022, so no ongoing fics. Enjoy!

Multi-chap fics:

When The Morning Comes by @into-september:

Gabriel Agreste has been unmasked as Hawkmoth, and the girl who was fighting him all these years turns out to be Tom Dupain's daughter. And standing between them is Adrien Agreste with his life in shatters that Tom Dupain has no way of piecing together.

But baking is at least a place to start.

I love how this not only digs into Adrien’s character, but Tom’s as well, especially how both of them have been estranged from their fathers. I haven’t seen that come up much.

---

Walking That Mile by @nomolosk

Nino and Alya wake up in the wrong bodies. Several things result from this, including, but not limited to, identity reveals and a better understanding of what their respective best friends are going through.

Never knew I needed Nino!Plagg and Alya!Tikki in my life, but there you go XD. It’s not all fun and games though, this is a Hawkmoth Takedown fic as well, and dealing with the effects of that.

---

The Sidekick Conspiracy by @bring-the-storm:

It's common knowledge among the heroes of Paris that their sidekick, the civilian Marinette Dupain-Cheng, is actually secretly their leader, pretending to be a normal girl who just ‘happens’ to show up at battles. Common knowledge to everyone except Marinette. What do you do when you're in the center of a conspiracy that doesn’t actually exist? In which Marinette is confused, Chat has no idea what's going on, Master Fu just wants Marinette to be safe, and everyone is misinterpreting the situation.

This one is just fun! Marinette has no idea she keeps on being given jewelry all of a sudden, and Fu’s frustrated that she won’t actually USE the damn Miraculous already.

---

As the dust settles by @pengirl91:

After Ladybug lost everything and yet her partner stood by her, she realized what she had been trying to lie to herself about for months. She is undoubtedly in love with him. The only problem is that she's terrified of what that could lead to and there's a monumental task ahead of them before it might be safe to act on her feelings for him... more than she already has.

Post Strike Back with my hopes, wishes, and predictions for season 5 as I wait with great impatience. Now complete.

The meat of this story is mostly a SentiAdrien fic. Adrien discovers that Gabriel is Hawkmoth, so Gabriel orders him to stay silent about what he found out, as well as giving orders to help him with plans to obtain the Miraculous he needs. Luckily, he doesn’t know that Adrien is Chat Noir...

---

A Little Fall Of Rain by @funnydoesntlookdruish:

Unable to transform in time, Marinette sacrifices her life to save Adrien from an assassin. With the help of the Kwamis, Adrien is able to bring her back to life, but it comes at a price. One that Adrien alone must pay. Now, Adrien is forced to keep even more secrets. The fact that Marinette is alive and that she has been his Lady all long. More than ever, they must defeat Hawkmoth. Only then can Marinette return to her life.

This one’s pretty angsty, arguably even more on Adrien’s end than Marinette’s. As part of their cover, Adrien has to be injured pretty badly, in ways that couldn’t be reversed if not for magic.

---

Strangely Familiar by @sunfoxfic

Alya Césaire’s life is perfect. Indeed, between the success of the Ladyblog, how well she’s doing in school, and the fact that she’s a superhero who has never bore the weight of a crisis of epic proportions, her life almost couldn’t be better. Almost.

But Alya has always been a go-getter, and so she’ll chase after that perfect life if it kills her. Which is how she ends up rushing to move out of her father’s apartment and in with Marinette, Adrien, and a complete stranger: Nino Lahiffe. And in fact, her life does seem perfect — she and Nino are fast friends. They spend a lot of time together and get to know each other really well.

But in the end, fortunate situations will bear unfortunate truths, and she learns things about herself that aren’t quite comfortable. Like I said, though: Alya has always been a go-getter, and she won’t let new feelings deter her from chasing after her perfect life.

This is the single longest DJWifi-centric fic on AO3 (which is a travesty) and it is GLORIOUS. Alya and Nino are both well fleshed-out here, with their own problems and baggage they’re dealing with, but it’s easier together.

---

final girl by @picayunearts:

Marinette has ninety-nine problems, and the superhero trio of Paris counts for a hundred.

[AU where Marinette follows through on giving up her earrings after Stoneheart, but becomes the Guardian to protect her replacement.]

This is just great. Marinette thinks she failed, but the other heroes wouldn’t agree. And eventually, she gains some confidence in herself as well.

---

Over and Over by @stcrsquad:

Marinette Dupain-Cheng has had the worst day possible. She's failed to confess to Adrien (again), made an embarrassment of herself, and got into a fight with Chat Noir.

Adrien Agreste has had the worst day possible. He is tired of being pushed aside by everyone, including his crime-fighting partner Ladybug.

Luckily, fate (and Bunnyx) works in mysterious ways because they wake up again on the same day. A do-over. Except it keeps happening. Can the two figure out what they need to fix to break the loop, or will they be stuck forever?

Look these two will sit down and has things out even if it takes being stuck in a time loop together to make that happen.

---

When Bunnyx Brings A Baby by @funnydoesntlookdruish:

Marinette thought she was up to any challenge. She was Ladybug after all! But when Bunnyx arrives with a baby in her arms asking her to babysit, Marinette quickly learns that Akuma battles are easy compared to taking care of a baby. A baby that seems to know her and for some strange reason... Adrien?

Anentry in the “Lovesquare has to babysit their future children” genre! This is just adorable. Has an ongoing sequel too.

---

The Call of the Running Tide by @nemaliwrites: 

To escape an arranged marriage, Adrien runs away from home, leaving behind all that he has ever known. In search of easy transportation, he sneaks aboard a ship at the docks. Everything seems like it is going according to plan — until he finds out that the ship belongs to the fierce pirate captain Ladybug.

I’m amazed this isn’t more popular. I mean, Lovesquare pirates!AU, with the Miracuclass as Ladybug’s crew? Come on! 

It mostly has Adrien trying to fit in with the crew, find his way, that sort of thing. Though there is a confrontation with his father at the end.

---

metamorphosis by @peachcitt:

“I was thinking about that time you hated me.” “Why?” "I don’t know." “I didn’t.” “I know.”

or

three years after hawkmoth's defeat, marinette is still trying to figure out her version of normal. there's also sleepovers.

This has been a very popular fic so most people probably at least know of it, even if they haven’t read it themselves, but in case someone out there hasn’t: basically, Chat runs off with the Butterfly and Peacock Miraculouses after Hawkmoth’s defeat and never shows up again, worrying Ladybug sick and making her fear that he died. But then a mysterious new Butterfly Holder starts attacking Paris, only he seems a lot nicer than the last one, more of an Anti-villain than anything...

A Major Test of Strength by @nemaliwrites:

There is only one thing in Paris hated as much as the akumas: Ladybug herself. In an effort to help the Savior of Paris, Adrien winds up on the wrong end of an akuma attack — only to find himself stuck reliving the same day.

With enough time, anyone can be a hero, and as he continues dying over and over, he is forced to confront the idea that these loops may be just as much of a blessing as they are a curse.

This is loosely inspired by “All You Need Is Kill”, but no knowledge of that manga is needed to understand the story. There’s a bit of a mystery element going on as Adrien tries to figure out why he keeps dying even when he takes steps to prevent it, how he keeps coming back, and what the deal is with Ladybug, anyway. 

---

Cataclysm by Lucid:

When Chat Noir uses Cataclysm on an akumatized ring that ends up being his amok, Marinette is left alone to solve the mystery of Hawkmoth's motives and bring back her missing partner.

This Sentiadrien fic does something I haven’t seen really explored before: it delves into what might happen if Adrien had to be recreated after having been destroyed, and the problems that might arise from that attempt. I love when we get to see Adrien’s perspective especially.

---

in case you don’t know me tomorrow by @thelibraryloser:

“We live in a crazy world where pieces of our lives can be erased like they never even happened. I just wanted to memorize this moment so… so I could keep it, if that makes sense.”

Adrien's heart gave a little flutter. She wanted to keep this moment, meeting him. She wanted to keep… him.

“I understand exactly what you mean."

In a world that has created a way to selectively delete memories, no moment is truly safe. So how do you hold on to something when the memory of it is gone? And how do you keep fighting for someone when you're the only one who remembers?

This is a SEVERELY underrated fic. It’s got some shades of “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” in the world, though the plot is very different - the memory erasure ain’t willing. 

Basically, the first few chapters are establishing Adrien’s and Marinette’s romance, and then the rest of the fic is dealing with Gabriel being an absolute DICK and using any means at his disposal to break them apart. It’s fantastic and I highly recommend reading it!

---

Shelltering Others by @rosie-b:

When Ladybug wakes Nino up in the middle of the night to scold him for revealing his identity, he thinks his career as a Miraculous holder is over. But instead, Ladybug gives him the opportunity to prove himself by becoming Chat Noir's confidant and learning his secret identity through a scavenger hunt of sorts. Will Nino pass Ladybug and Chat Noir's test, or will he fail to put the pieces together in time?

Quick disclaimer here: the first chapter looks kinda salty towards Nino, with Ladybug laying into him for revealing his and Alya’s secret identities to Adrien and Marinette. She’s mostly just trying to scare him into taking them seriously, though, since she herself has just proposed that Nino become Chat’s secret-keeper, and he can’t afford to be lackadaisical with that identity. I highly recommend getting through at least chapter 2 of the fic when giving it a shot, because this had some great character development and introspection for Nino, on Chat Noir, Adrien, Ladybug, and himself. 

---

run boy run by tinuviel_tinuviel

Nino was sprawled on the floor of his room with Alya when his phone chimed, in the quiet of a premature autumnal sunset. It was one of those lazy evenings that had become rare lately. Contrary to popular belief, he and Alya could get studying done when in the same room, and he was elbows-deep in late assignments, which meant his phone was on Do Not Disturb, which meant the notification could only have come from one person.

ADRIEN 🐈: cmoe ove rnow ADRIEN 🐈: like riggt now ADRIEN 🐈: plag NINO: that is literally incomprehensible NINO: wait is that you plagg ADRIEN 🐈: mov faster

So this is a “Adrien finds out that his father is Hawkmoth and consults with Nino about what to do” fic, with Nino throwing Hawkmoth off Adrien’s track, though inadvertently at his own expense. Love Nino’s perspective here, and I always enjoy a good Hawkmoth-takedown fic!

---

Restorative Justice by @kasienda:

Chloé has never been a fan of Ms. Bustier’s community building activities. In fact, she detests them. She doesn’t want to learn about the drab boring lives of her peers. And she absolutely can’t stand it when their confessions make her feel things. Feelings that she doesn’t even have names for. But when Adrien unknowingly shares his struggles with his double life, Chloé vows she will do anything to get Ladybug to set things right. Even if it means pissing off the heroine. Chloé was already mad at her anyway.

I ADORE people talking out about what hurt them, with everyone growing to understand each other, and focusing on making recompense rather than just punishment, so this was fantastic. This isn’t all about Chloe either, Marinette, Adrien, Alya, and Nino all get to hash things out with each other as well in a group session, and it’s just really, really nice to read.

---

48 Hours To Make You Love Me by @mysticraven20:

“When did you stop?”

“Stop what, M’Lady?”

“Stop loving me?”

When two heroes miss the minibus for their winter get away with the gang they have no other choice but to make their way to the resort by themselves.

After avoiding their feelings for years, a freak snow storm makes them reconsider more than just whether to carry on driving.

Luckily, they find a quaint little bed and breakfast where suddenly they’re thrown into a situation where their feelings can no longer be held back; but, is it too late?

The interference of an elderly couple after an eavesdropping accident helps both Adrien and Marinette come to terms with their feelings and their actions.

Through movies, hot chocolates and snuggling to keep warm, Marinette wonders if it’s possible to make Adrien love her again, and more so can she do it by the time they need to leave their little sanctuary?

This just has a lot of adorable Adrienette shenanigans, with a fun time travel twist that had me inwardly squealing XD. If you want some Lovesquare fluff, this is a good one.

---

team is a four letter word by @ladyofthenoodle:

Alya didn’t want to come between Ladybug and Chat Noir. But she didn’t want to stop being Rena Rouge either. And if Chat Noir didn’t want to talk to her, then she’d need to find a different way to prove all three of them could be a team.

Her plan unintentionally brings a few secrets to light, which leads to even more secrets coming to light, which leads to... well, Alya is sure it'll all work out eventually.

This is a season 4 fic, with a heavy emphasis on repairing the relationships that were damaged, or could have been damaged, during that season. I love how everyone gets to really feel and react, be hurt and then gain understanding, with a happy ending to cap it off!

One-shots:

hella enchanted by @xiueryn:

Years ago, Marinette's father died and she was left with her awful stepmother. With magic forcing her to obey every command, she lived as a servant and gave up hope. When a man appears, searching for the very fairy that blessed her, Marinette decides to give life one more try. AU.

(a different ella enchanted au.)

Even though it’s a one-shot this one is pretty long, clocking in at over 30k words. Absolutely worth a shot, though. The first third is basically Marinette dealing with being pushed around because of her “blessing”, and the other two-thirds is just some adorable fluff of her and Adrien touring the country together. 

------

Is it cool that you’re in my head? by @bring-the-storm: 

Alya stared at the picture plastered across the homepage of every single tabloid and news site, whispering every curse she could think of under her breath. SHOCKING SECRET ROMANCE BETWEEN LADYBLOGGER AND PARISIAN SUPERVILLAIN REVEALED!!! the headline announced, casually shouting the words she had been dreading for all of Paris to read.

--- Alya had always assumed that someday Paris would discover that she had secretly been kissing their most wanted vigilante, but she had never thought it would happen so soon. As the domino effects of her relationship with Ladybug go spiraling through her life, Alya turns her sights towards the one responsible: the elusive superhero Hawkmoth.

AKA Someone outs Alya and her girlfriend so she retaliates by deciding to take down Hawkmoth

I recommend this to anyone who either A. Loves Alya and wants to see more of her in a starring role, or B., wants to see an AU where Parisians could feasibly believe that Hawkmoth is the good guy, and that Ladybug and Chat Noir are, if not villains, at least reckless. 

----

We’re breaking free (there’s not a star in heaven we can’t reach) by @pauliestorylover:

Wing binding was a symbol of prestige in high society, but Adrien would much rather be born a pauper than be forced to bind his wings for another day. Becoming Chat Noir might be the chance he had been waiting for to break free and gain a taste of the heavens.

Meanwhile, Nino and Marinette were quickly learning the joys of the pastime called ‘hating rich old white men who moonlighted as supervillains’.

Excellent Wingfic here! It’s got some excellent worldbuilding in it. I especially like how it’s customary to exchange feathers with people you’re close to, and put them in particular places on your wings to symbolize what they mean to you, whether they’re friends, family, or lovers. That particular piece of lore is used to great effect in the story.

---

How Could I Not? by SorryJustAnotherPerson

In fairy tale books, Princesses were saved by nights from ferocious dragons. Those books were not their story, but Rose was happy to flip over a new page with her Juleka every single day.

Many years ago, she was put to this tower by her parents and her kingdom, along with a fire breathing dragon, so she could find her prince charming one day. How foolish for them to not calculate her falling in love with the dragon. I mean seriously.

How could she not?

I love fairy tale type stories, especially fractured fairy tales. And Juleka being a dragon is awesome. This is just a fun and adorable story.

---

Once Upon A Time by kao_rei:

"Humans fear wolves. I mean, we're horrible, sickening creatures, aren't we?" Adrien laughed.

"I don't think so," Marinette muttered. "Well, not anymore when I met you."

Marinette's days are all the same—she puts on her red cape, makes deliveries for her parents' bakery, and goes home to rest before another busy day. Adrien is a wolf-boy who watches her from afar, awaiting the day they finally meet to change their stories.

While falling in love may bring about some challenges, they're willing to fight through them together because they'd never settle for a "the end". They want a "happily ever after", too.

(In which Marinette is Little Red Riding Hood, Adrien is the Wolf, and they fall in love somewhere between deliveries, flower fields, and shiny red apples).

Did I mention I love fairy tale stories? Because I do.

---

(pockets full of) stones by felledstar:

Even though he wants to be “normal” and go to a “normal school” and have friends just like everyone else, Adrien’s discovered that he’s… not very good at it. It isn’t that he’s a superhero in his nonexistent spare time, or that he’s got a job modelling for his father, or that he’s got so many activities that it takes a whole other person to keep track of his schedule. It’s that… he’s always tripping over things that everyone else seems to know that he… just doesn’t know.

First day of school and we already have two lovebirds.

But there are some things that he does know, no matter what anyone else—Nino, Plagg, the entire population of Paris—thinks.

How he feels is one.

Whatever. She’s just a friend. A friend.

He loves Ladybug. Marinette is his friend.

Why doesn’t anyone believe him?

This is an aroace!Adrien story, that digs into the effects of amatonormativity on people. Especially with how the class all assumes that Adrien would be romantically interested in Marinette, and tries to matchmake him and Marinette in order to make both of them happy, much to his frustration. Based on what the class did in Guiltrip, I could see this happening. They love and care about their classmates and want to help them as much as they can, but that doesn’t mean they always know how best to do that.

---

Lady... bird? by @graaythekwami:

“Marinette!” Tikki called, flying towards the small room of water. “Marinette there’s an akuma– we need to transform!”

The parrot’s head popped up, recognizing these words. They were always said when the report came on TV– a routine he had come to know well. Akuma report, we need to transform, and finally–

“Tikki!” The bird cawed happily. “Spots on!”

This story is just hilarious. Tikki ain’t happy afterwards XD

---

I Won’t Let You by @generalluxun

After Gabriel's defeat, two individuals not party to the celebration run into each other, and find each other.

The summary doesn’t give much of an idea of what the fic’s about. Post-Hawkmoth Defeat, Chloe and Felix run into each other at the celebration of Gabriel’s downfall, and vent about their problems. Neither of them think the other one has it too bad - Chloe’s worried about disappearing, since her worth was entirely tied to her family’s prestige and wealth, and being seen as friends to a terrorist is gonna cripple both of those, while Felix is on edge about Ladybug having the Peacock Miraculous, since she has the ability to kill him at a moment’s notice (yes this is a Sentifelix fic). 

They both make each other understand the turmoil the other is going through in extremely visceral ways, showing the other what it’s like to be them, in the circumstances they’re in. I don’t want to spoil what, exactly, they do, but needless to say, it’s worth a read.

---

don’t you worry child by kopycat_101

Marc and Nathaniel have a good life, married and living together in a cottage in the woods. But they consider having children at some point.

Marc in particular really wants to start a family with his husband. He knows the fey are real, so he goes searching in the woods to find one to strike a deal.

He may get a bit more than he bargained for in the process.

This is based on a tumblr post that’s been going around, which I think a lot of people will recognize as they continue going through the story. That post is credited at the end of the fic, so as not to spoil the plot.

---

Chat Walker’s Trial by @pearl484-blog

Instead of Catwalker showing up to serve as her new Chat Noir, Ladybug is stunned to find that Chat Noir has returned to her, having "improved" himself by repressing his emotions, memories, and willfulness. Deciding that this will not stand, she organizes her teammates to convince Chat Noir that giving those traits up and becoming the perfect partner was not the right move, but how can she argue against perfection?

Adrien Augreste 2022 entry for the day 23-24 prompt: Swap

This is a really intriguing fic. Instead of becoming Cat Walker in Kuro Neko, Adrien instead runs across a mage who helpfully provides some spells to make him into the “perfect” partner for Ladybug, magically suppressing his emotions and urge to rebel, as well as his memories of being Chat Noir, in order to make sure he doesn’t love her anymore. Ladybug, naturally, is distraught about this, but since Chat did all of this of his own free will, she needs to actually persuade him it was a bad move, which isn’t as easy as it sounds. It’s exquisitely painful at times with the amount of self-hatred Chat has for his previous self, and how the Miracuteam is divided on how bad these changes actually are, since he does seem more focused now - though the holdouts are a lot less on board when they think of someone who’s closer to them going through this process.

---

disconnected by @just-an-ordinary-fan

Lady Wifi believes she might be the only one who does not want to obey Hawkmoth's orders.

When she sees another akuma hesitate in the battle, she finds she might not be entirely alone.

I actually wrote my own fic, Nullius in Verba, based off of this one. It’s short but has an intriguing premise, with all the akumas being transported to this warehouse after the fight’s over, having been basically forced to do Hawkmoth’s bidding. The akumas also don’t seem to remember who they were before, or even that they WERE ordinary people before, which is an interesting twist.

---

Shadow of the Chat by @pearl484-blog

Chat Noir discovers that he has a living Shadow. Unfortunately for him, it is not fond of Ladybug.

Inspired by the prompt: 5 times Character A and B thought they didn’t have anything in common and 1 time they realized how similar they are.

I wrote a fic based on this one and @wackus-bonkus-maximus fic “One Does Not Love Breathing”, basically importing Shadow into odnlb in order to help take down Monarch. It’s called “One Does Not Love Shadows”, btw.

Anyway, I love how this one-shot uses some of Carl Jung’s ideas about everyone having “shadows”; parts of ourselves that we consciously reject or suppress, and using that to get Chat some help. If you’ve ever played a Persona game, this will be familiar to you, as those games are based off of Jung’s ideas as well.

---

Day 7: Book by @andromeda612

During one of his works, Marc comes across a rather interesting book.

MarcNath AU fic here! Basically Marc is a super powerful warlock, and is brought in to help with the case of a lying witch who apparently caused a lot of problems for people, using her magic to help fool everyone. She’s actually dead by the time the story starts, and everyone’s trying to go back through and figure out what she’s done and why memories surrounding her seem to be foggy. Meanwhile there’s a book she left behind which appears to be sentient, and which Marc’s taken a liking too...

---

Find the Sentimonster by @taketwoinink:

Nino has a lot of conspiracies. He watched one too many mystery movies and now fancies himself a detective. It's not often that he gets the entire class together for an interrogation, but it's never fun. Chloe makes everyone's life miserable and Marinette and Lila never get along.

And this time? Secret sentimonsters in their class? The fate of Paris hanging in the balance?

Mylene doesn't need this stress in her life.

This is based off of an episode of Glitch Techs, so if you’ve seen the show, it might be familiar. I just really enjoyed watching the class trying to puzzle out who the sentimonster spy might be, with all the wild accusations and theories being hurled around, especially knowing the actual truth.

Come Take My Hand by @carelisswriting:

Luka heard his soulmate for the first time when he was ten. All he knows about her is that she likes fencing. It's just a coincidence that Kagami likes fencing, right?

(Lukagami Soulmate AU, written for the Miraculous Ladybug Secret Santa Exchange!)

I’m a sucker for soulmate fics, and this had an interesting take on it, with your soulmate able to hear you thinking only about the thing you’re most passionate about. Loved Kagami’s way of showing Luka she’s his soulmate especially!

---

When Feelings Are Too Big For Words by ClockworkCaptain:

When Luka takes a gig playing for a drag show he's falls hard and fast for the drag queen Buttercup who uses her performances to work through her own emotions. Meanwhile Adrien's been using drag to work through his own emotions and thinks maybe Luka coming back into his life and showing interest might mean a second chance.

Made for @mlsecretsanta 2022

Published on New Year’s Eve, this just barely makes it to the deadline for this list. I’m glad I don’t need to wait a year to talk about it though! One of the issues I tend to have with Luka shipfics, and with Lukadrien especially (though I think Lukanette actually has this problem worse) is how Luka tends to disappear within the fic and the pairing, feeling more like “The Love Interest” than his own person. Not so here! While most of the intrigue surrounds Adrien, I still got the sense of Luka being his own person, not just existing in the fic for Adrien.

 I adored Adrien getting to display an aspect of himself through persona and performance - that does align well with how he approaches Chat Noir -  and overall I just had a lot of fun with this fic!

[weallhaveadestiny]

OK SO

I started to think, that's never a good thing, but I can't get Butcher out of my fucking head and I read a shit ton of ff about him, and after many many years, it seemed I found inspiration again to dabble in fanfic on my own lol.

So behold, what my mind created, feedback is very much welcome for real HELP ME BE BETTER

I don't know if I'll do a follow up, who knows?

I didn't want to go to this party. For fuck sakes, why am I here?

I'm here because of one person, Frenchie. We met at a flee market, I was hussling with a seller in French and this dude fucking appeared out of nowhere. Apparently he doesn't have any friends who speak our language. So ye, I guess he needed that. He is a weird guy, but we hang out sometimes. He calls me mostly late at night when he can't sleep and talks rubbish about his "missions" like he is some type of agent I don't fucking know he seems high 24/7.

Anyway he was bugging me so much about this party, it's not even his, but he wanted me to come. Because "mon amie amuse toi un peu" aka I don't get out enough for a woman in her 20s and it's a crime. So here I am, left alone by mister Frenchie with a glass in my hand, thinking if I escape now he wouldn't notice. Sounds cliche I know but I genieunly don't feel good surrounded by people I don't know. Call it social anxiety, I call it "I don't like people syndrom".

OK lemme find an exit, where is the door in this fucking mansion?

I was looking everywhere until I saw this guy. Brunette, arms crossed, looking at me super intensely across the room. What the fuck is this guy's deal? Jesus I don't have time to deal with men. So now I'm just crossing this room, having to pass in front of him to get the hell out of this place.

"OI leaving already?" The fuck ? I kept walking

"Frenchies girlfriend, I'm talking to you."

I looked at him, not saying anything. I should just keep walking.

"I guess Frenchie likes them quiet ain't he?" this time I fully turned to him, fuming.

"What did you just say to me?"

The dude was actually smirking, who does that?

"she talks!" Frenchie got to us. Fuck...

"Ava mon amie, monsieur le Charcutier. You already met?"

" Pas du tout. Frenchie j'allais justement partir, excuse moi mais vraiment It's not my crowd."

"Come on Ava you can't leave already"

"You know how I am around people I don't know, and you know so many people here, one less is nothing."

"Come one now love, live a little" says monsieur Charcutier? , still smirking, his body tilting in my direction. I was so done with him already.

"Charcutier dude..."

"Actually it's Butcher but you can call me Billy." he winked, he fucking winked.

"I'm not talking to you." I turned towards Frenchie

"Frenchie, I'll call you in the morning to check on you" I got closer to him to do our usual 2 kisses.

"Don't be a cunt and stay. Afraid you might enjoy yourself?" Butcher just doesn't ever shut up. I turned to him and pointed my finger in his direction. I could actually hear Frenchie chuckling.

"Listen here, butcher boy, I don't owe you shit, you don't know me, so don't act like you do"

"Frenchie tell your friend to get that stick off her fuckin' ass and have a drink with us." he said, never breaking eye contact with me

"Ava mon cœur... Come on, just an hour... For me?" He gave me those puppy eyes. Who was I kidding?

"You have one hour, ONE HOUR and I get out of here okay?"

"je t'aime" Frenchie said, hugging me like a mad man

"yeah yeah je t'aime aussi" pushing him off me

"And where's my hug?" Says Butcher

"Go fuck yourself."

[gallawitchxx]

weekly tag wednesday!

i was tagged by my honeys @mybrainismelted @energievie @sgtmickeyslaughter @catgrassplantdad & @mmmichyyy <3 i love you all, thank you for inviting me to play!

- - - - -

name:  beeba (but only ray baby can call me that hehehe)

location:  la la land

age:  thirty-two

you have an unexpected extra day off work or school!  what are you going to do? ooooooh i'm going to take a leisurely walk with my pup, read a book (or watch a movie) that makes me blush or cry, smooch my wife, maybe swim in our pool, take a nap, go out to dinner... the possibilities are endless!

what is your favorite way to spend a summer day?  alright, here's where the pool really gets to shine! this summer, we've been having summer sundays, where our pals come over with tequila & taco fixings & we grill & chill & float all afternoon... it's really been heavenly!

what is your favorite way to spend a winter day?  being cozy Cozy COZYYYYY in front of a fire, with a cup of hot cocoa & again, a good book or movie. OR i'll venture outside to hang with my pals at a museum or special event or even just a bar for 8+ hours alskfjal

what do you do to unwind at the end of the day?  smoke a joint, snuggle my pup & watch something mindless on the couch!

do you play any sports?  i have in the past -- i played basketball & did taekwondo -- but nowadays nothing! i am newly recovered from a freak health issue that lasted from august of last year to about april of this year, so i'm still figuring out what this bod needs when it comes to movement & physical activity. maybe i should join a bowling league... LOL

other than fanfic, what is your favorite genre to read?  literary fiction & romance, or witchy non-fiction books!

what is your comfort movie/tv show?  10 things i hate about you. it's perfect, i will not be accepting other opinions ever!!!!!!

do you write or draw?  both! both! both!

what other arts or crafts do you do?  i can crochet & got really into cross-stitching a few years back when we were all doing that gallacrafts zine one lolol. i also have been known to paint very badly.

describe your perfect breakfast:  okay, so i love breakfast foods, but i don't love eating in the morning. i'm a coffee until lunch girlie. that being said, i love a waffle with butter & syrup with a side of bacon and fried potatoes with tons of ketchup! or an eggs benedict!

- - - - -

tagging some sweet sweet loves @heymrspatel @whatthebodygraspsnot @whatwouldmickeydo @gardenerian @howlinchickhowl

@crossmydna @thisdivorce @rereadanon @francesrose3 @blue-disco-lights & anyone else who wants to play! if not, this is me smooching you (with consent) through the screen! xx

[x-liv25-jamieswife]

could you do hcs or just some specific scenarios, wtvr that means, about Avery and Jameson with Xander. I love this trio

avery, jameson, and xander head canons

of course! these three literally solo everyone else. not proof read, like always. this one might be shittier than my others cause my period is fucking killing me (and its making me unable to think properly), but i hope you like them<3.

jameson is always teasing them about how he's a year older and wiser.

xander makes them try the weirdest scone flavors ever for experimental purposes. they once ended up with food poisoning.

their interviews are chaotic. an interview once ended with the interviewer suspended from the ceiling doing aerobics. xander swears he had nothing to do with it (he started it all)

xander and avery plant fake spiders in jamie's room bc he's terrified of them. when he sees them he'll start screaming like a girl and jumping

xander and avery call jameson pookie for no reason

avery goes shopping for them because they literally don't own anything remotely fancy that is actually wearable (jamie's shirts are all ripped, and xander doesn't have the time to go shopping)

they hype the fuck out of avery. whenever she gets dressed up for an event, they will start whistling, jumping, and (sarcastically) begging on their knees for her to love them (she already loves jamie tho).

once a week, they watch movies and gossip. the maids and bodyguards at the mansion have a fuck ton of drama going on and xander knows all of it bc of the recording devices and shit around the house.

xander will flirt with avery to piss jameson off and it works (jamie knows xander's just her bhff, though, but he still gets annoyed)

in another post, i said jamie and xander will sometimes go live and it's always chaotic. avery will sometimes join too as damage control (alisa makes her)

when nash and libby have their first kid, the three of them are always competing for the child's attention. they're always trying to prove to the others that they're the favorite aunt/uncle

i said this in another post, but xander wakes them up by reading smut to them.

some weirder fans write fanfic about them and xander either sends it to avery and jameson or reads it to them in the morning to wake them up.

xander has an averyjameson fan account that he posts shitty edits on and uses to spam their accounts.

they were grayson's wing men/woman when lyra (ig) came along

they try to surprise attack/surprise max to get her to swear fr.

xander will buy gifts for avery and jameson and pretend that they're actually gifts from jamie to avery (or avery to jamie). they always get confused when they receive a gift from their 'partner' and its like a pair of boxers with the rock's face on them ("avery" actually gave jamie this once) (idk if this one makes sense)

when barbie's 'i'm just ken' came out, jamie and xander could not stop singing it around avery, begging for her love (which they already have and they know that)

they are so defensive of their opinions. they once started fighting over what toilet paper brand they prefer, and it ended with xander crying over his mommy issues.

when xander is feeling down or isn't acting like himself, they'll bake him scones and send them to him using one of his robots (xander feels really loved when people actually use his inventions)

i don't really know how to explain this one but they play games like 'at least i didn't try to kill myself once' and the other goes 'yeah, at least i didn't almost get bombed once'

xander and jamie are avery's biggest defenders. all of her haters get bashed, blocked, and reported.

they have hoodies with each other's faces on them

xander calls avery "mommy" and jamie "daddy" bc he's always thrid wheeling

they cannot take meetings seriously. they have a groupchat and send each other the most dirty, inappropriate shit you can think of. one of them always ends up laughing or falling off of their chair and alisa gets pissed.

they slap each other's asses. it doesn't matter if they're in public

xander gets really nervous when avery and jamie fight bc they both go to him for advice, and he gets stuck in the middle of everything.

they all have matching tattoos on one of their fingers

they have an obsession with beating guinness world records.

xander and jamie have asked avery multiple times who twerks better.

xander sends the stupidest memes on their gc (like my pain is chronic but my ass is iconic)

they will go around guessing if people are tops, bottoms or switches (avery barely participates but they still drag her along bc when she does contribute to the conversation, its hilarious)

[writing-with-rania]

I have a really cute request, Bakugou from Bnha with a little sibling reader. They weren't able to get a babysitter and Bakugou bring his little sibling to school, the reader is the complete opposite of him though.

pairing: bakugo x gn!sibling!reader

fandom: boku no hero academia

word count: 1,196

tw: none! completely platonic and wholesome fluff. some swearing from bakugo a few times but that comes with the territory lol

notes: thanks for being one of my first requests anon! it was really fun to get back into writing fanfic, and bnha is one of my favourite animes so writing this was a lot of fun - i just hope i did it well and you enjoy reading! i used primarily they/them pronouns for the sibling just in case ;)

‘Can’t we just hire that old fucking neighbour?!’

Mitsuki doesn’t even bother smacking her son this time, too busy fixing up the bento box she has already begun making in the kitchen. Rice and egg and soft pretzels which [Y/N] always insisted on. The same thing everyday, which Katsuki found increasingly frustrating. Their name is painted on the lid, which sits on the sink.

It’s one of the only memories that Mitsuki repeatedly brags about to her mom friends. How her son eagerly decorated a bento box for his anticipated sibling, and how he ended up despising them when born. That’s what it looked like anyway

‘She’s too old for [Y/N], you know this.’ Mitsuki snaps, snapping on the box lid. ‘They’ll get bored if they have to sit in her living room all day.’

‘The place smells like shit too.’

‘Katsuki!’ This time she does hit him.

‘It’s just one day. All you have to do is keep them busy for a while, and they’ll find a way to occupy themselves for the rest of your classes.’

Mitsuki packs the bento box and several colouring books and pencil sets into a tiny school bag that’s been sitting open on the dining room table. Just as [Y/N] comes skipping into the room in an All-Might tracksuit that they demanded they ‘had to have’ when they saw it at a convention a while ago.

‘Aren’t you so pretty, hun?’ Mitsuki coos at - arguably - her favourite child. ‘Guess what?’

[Y/N] mumbles something around a mouthful of a soft pretzel. Where’d they even get it from?

‘You’re going to school with Katsuki today!’

Oh shit their face got a fuck ton more bright when he looked down again. Even the mention of U.A on any given day made them bounce around while babbling about how they’d love to be a hero when they got their quirk. 

‘Really?’ [Y/N] attaches themself to his leg, bouncing up and down to make sure they’ve heard Mitsuki just right.

She glares at him when [Y/N] looks away.

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’

* *

No one’s expecting anything entirely different when Aizawa starts class that morning. The only thing that seems slightly out of the ordinary is Bakugo being late. Kirishima is counting through the minutes and soon enough a whole half hour passes without him being there to yell at anyone. Even Midoriya is having a particularly stress-free morning!

However, no one was expecting for him to parade into the class an hour later with a six year old sitting on his shoulders, because (as he said) “they didn’t want to use their damn legs”. 

‘Bakubro,’ Kaminari is already laughing his ass off in the back corner. ‘Ya got a hitchhiker there.’

Bakugo is almost fuming by the time he drops off the child at his desk, standing by Aizawa to demand - or ask - that he ignore the situation. Number one, [Y/N] got a day off school because of a downtown villain attack, and Mitsuki couldn’t find a babysitter after their current one caught the flu. With no other options and both of his parents going to work early that morning, he had no choice but to drag them along as long as, and quote:

‘You don’t make a damn noise, and no questions, and no playing around, you sit down and shut up.’

Did [Y/N] listen? Nope. Not really. 

Halfway through the first lesson of the morning, and little [Y/N] is sitting in the lap of half of his classmates, messing with Hagakure’s invisible hair in utter curiosity, and playing heroes with Midoriya and Kirishima. At which point they all stand on their desks and put their fists in the air yelling ‘Detroit Smash’!

Katsuki just stands and watches as [Y/N] jumps from person to person, playing with quirks and planning out their future hero name. Kaminari is the most excited to stand on his desk and create a fake hero mask out of tape and paper, and theorise all the new quirks that could be made for [Y/N].

‘[Y/N] sit down for God’s sake!’ he growls at them, and they do so as they nestle themselves into a corner of his desk. Katsuki squeezes on with her. ‘No more talking to these... damn extras during class, ok?’

Mitsuki would skin him alive if he even thought about swearing properly in the same room as her “precious angel”.

‘But why?’

‘’Cause it’s annoying.’

[Y/N]’s eyes widen a bit, but then they beam at him and nod again, picking up a pencil as if they actually are a student and begin doodling a picture while others begin homework. Aizawa doesn’t collapse into his sleeping bag this time, instead keeping an eye to ensure he isn’t sued later for the death of an unrelated child. Midoriya and Iida are the first ones to finish of course, followed by Katsuki, who has to steal his pages when [Y/N] isn’t looking, handing it across the teacher’s desk with glitter flowers and stars in the margins. 

The bell goes to signal the beginning of their hero training, and [Y/N] clutches Katsuki’s hand as they shyly approach the scary-looking racoon man to hand him a (“professionally signed”) artwork by [Y/N] Bakugo. A misshapen house with a cat and a very dead looking racoon. 

(Aizawa does frame it later, like a dad of course.)

(Katsuki does call his teacher roadkill exactly three times after that.)

For hero training All-Might stands with his hands on his hips with [Y/N] at his side to help conduct the lesson. Together they order drills and [Y/N] gets to practise their hero voice and pose. The class ends with the whole group playing games and kicking a soccer ball around so they can pretend that [Y/N] has to save it from various situations. Which they do so successfully - “a top-rate hero” in All-Might’s words.

* *

For Katsuki, he’s glad to get home and die in bed when 8:30 rolls around. It’s been non-stop questions and poking and prodding even though he told [Y/N] not to, but they wouldn’t listen! And when they got home Mitsuki hounded him to make sure they hadn’t done anything stupid while at school. 

But 9 rolls around and [Y/N]’s socks cast shadows over the door frame, and the door handle jiggles. Katsuki waits and doesn’t move to help them with it. They come padding in with a stuffed Midnight plush, and crawls onto his pillow. 

‘Kat, can I come to school with you everyday?’

And god-fucking-dammit, they look so damn excited to go to school with their big brother that all he can do is turn off his lamp and pull the covers up and pat their hair. He can feel his chest swell with pride, because his sibling wants to come and watch him become a hero.

He can’t help but wonder what kind of hero [Y/N] will be. What would their quirk be? 

Oh, Mitsuki would kick his ass if he even thought about surpassing his own sibling.

He smirks at the thought. His sibling would be the best hero at U.A, not like those fucking extras. 

‘Yeah, whatever.’

i really enjoyed writing this!

let me know if you want to request anything, and i'll try my best to get to them as quickly as possible.

[jessi4fanfics]

TROLLS HOLIDAY OF HAVOC- A VALENTINES FANFIC: Part 1 (warning, rlly long)

only read this story if you are like REALLY bored and have nothing to do for the next bajillion minutes cuz ITS LONG

Its a mix of Broppy with a bit of Cliva!

I wrote this on Wattpad if you would rather read it there. 😘

"UGHHHHHHH," John Dory groaned as he and the rest of the BroZone brothers fell onto the couch the morning after one of their shows.

They were in Branch's bunker living room, where all of them except for Bruce lived now, though Bruce did live there when he was planning on staying in Pop Village for a while for shows, like this last week.

And there was only one way to describe what the brothers felt now: EXHAUSTED.

"I can't believe we did six shows in five days last week!" Clay groaned.

"I don't think I've slept since Monday," Branch sighed.

"At least we were all together," Floyd suggested. "It's better than when we were all apart, right?"

They all stared at him. It was obvious from their faces that they didn't really agree.

"I miss Brandy," Bruce sighed sadly, taking a picture of his wife and kids out of his hair.

"You always miss Brandy," John said, annoyed. "Why don't you enjoy hanging around us for a little while at least?"

"Because you guys never tell me how much you love me," Bruce shot back.

Floyd touched his shoulder. "Bruce, we love you a ton."

Bruce stared at him, then shrugged Floyd's hand off of his should. "Ehh, it's not the same."

"I'd be concerned if it was." Branch stood up. "Guys, we're all acting weird and mopey. You know why?"

"Because you didn't make us pancakes for breakfast like we asked?" John asked.

Branch frowned. "What? No. I told you; I don't have all the ingredients!"

"Well, I offered to go to the store for you, but nooooo you said--"

"It's because we all need a break!" Branch interrupted. "We've been working our butts off ever since we got back together, which is good, but we deserve a break sometime. Which is why--" He turned and grabbed the BroZone Planner book from off of the breakfast table, "--I completely emptied all of our activities this week." He placed it in front of Clay.

"What?! No way!" Clay opened the planner to the week that it was. It was true. The whole week had nothing written anywhere on it.

The brothers stared at it for a while. 

"Omigosh, yes!! This is what I've been secretly wanting for the past two months!" John gave a sigh of relief.

"That means we can do whatever we want all week!" Floyd smiled. "This is gonna be so much fun!"

"Guys, we should totally go bowling!" Bruce suggested.

John gave Bruce a funny look. "Why?"

"Cuz I haven't been bowling in forever! Last time I went bowling with Brandy, I broke my left pinkie toe!" He lifted his foot to show his toe, which was hanging in a weird way.

"Eww, that is disgusting, put that down!" Branch shrieked, covering his eyes.

"Dude, it's just the way of nature. Things break. Including toes," Bruce explained.

"That doesn't mean we want to see it!" Floyd gagged.

"Okay, okay!! If you put that foot down, we'll go bowling!" John compromised. 

"Okie!" Bruce put down his foot and gasped. "We can call it-- browling!!"

"Haha!! Yes! I love it!" John laughed, nudging him.

Clay had been quiet. His eyes were so wide they looked like saucers. Then he gave a relieved sigh. "Oh my gosh, it is so satisfying to open this planner to this week and see nothing in it."

"There's not nothing in it," Literal John pointed out. "It says 'Valentines Day' right there."

Clay gave him the bro, are you kidding me?  look. "Thanks."

"You're welcome! 🤗" John answered.

"Ahhh, Valentines Day," Bruce gave another sigh, this time full of relaxation and enjoyment, as he sat back. "You know, Brandy and I met on Valentines Day."

His brother turned to him, annoyed. 

"Yah, we know," John grunted. "You tell us every Saturd--"

"It was exactly ten years ago," Bruce began suddenly.

The rest of BroZone groaned. 

"I was new to Vacay Island and the Islanders, and watched them party in the evening of Valentines Day, all partying like they were never gonna stop. I watched sadly, wishing that I had my own Valentine to party with."

"And then that's when you saw her," Branch predicted.

"By the snack stand," Clay continued.

"All alone," Floyd reminded.

"Looking kind of depressed," John finished. "Maybe a bit like us right no--"

"And then!" Bruce didn't wait for JD to finish. "I decided now was my chance. So I walked up to that beauty. Her eyes were shining like bits of heaven itself. Her skin as yellow as a really ripe banana. Her hair as stringy as the cheese in a cheese and spinach ravioli."

"Why do you always describe her like that?" Clay asked. "It absolutely disgust--"

Bruce ignored him. "And I walked up to her and said, 'Hey, you must be today's special cuz you're making me hungry!"

All the brothers winced, just as they always did whenever Bruce got to that part.

"I'm really surprised she didn't punch you after saying that," Branch remarked.

"Oh, she did," Bruce chuckled.

"Wait, what?!!" Clay gasped.

"Dude, how come you've never told us the one interesting part in this lame story?!!" John gaped.

"I don't know. It didn't really matter," Bruce shrugged.

"What is wrong with you?" Clay asked.

Floyd laughed.

"Well, anyways. After I said that, she--"

They all groaned again.

"BROOOOOZOOONNNEEEE!!!" came a high but sweet voice from the hallway.  

Queen Poppy burst into the living room, her face full of excitement and joy. She waved a pink envelope in the air before twirling excitedly in the room. "I'm sorry that I just popped out of nowhere, but I had to tell you--!!"

She stopped, noticing Bruce's mouth open, mid-story. "Oop, am I interrupting something?"

"Nope, you just saved us," Clay said gratefully. 

"Yes, please continue. Even your news may beat Bruce's story," John pleaded. 

Branch smiled and rolled his eyes. He was completely grateful to Poppy for interrupting though. Hearing the same story every week wasn't very fun.

"What'd you want to tell us?" He asked, walking toward her.

"Well, you know how Valentines Day is in two days?" She sang in a happy voice.

"Ugh, don't start Bruce all over again!" John said, alarmed.

Bruce crossed his arms. "I don't get why you guys don't enjoy it. It's absolutely lovely."

"Sure, Bruce. If you say so." Floyd patted his shoulder.

"We were just talking about it," Branch informed Poppy, who looked a bit confuzzled.

"Oh. Well, good!" She grabbed his left arm. "I wanted to invite you all to--"

"Wait, invite us to?" Branch stopped her. "Poppy, I thought I told you, we were taking a break from parties and everything else all week!"

Poppy looked at him, remembered, then blushed. "Oh. Well, uhhh--" she scratched the back of her head. "It's not really a... party."

Branch sighed and took the pink envelope and opened it. Inside the card said:

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO POP VILLAGE'S FIRST ANNUAL VALENTINE'S DAY DANCE!!

Formal Dress Required. Snacks Provided! 6pm to 9pm.  

"Popppyyy," he gave long groan.

"I'm sorry, I didn't-- I forgot, you don't have to go!" Poppy's face flushed even more. 

"Another party?!" John moaned, leaning back on the couch.

"But I was hoping to go back home that day!" Bruce said. He sighed. "Well, I guess..."

Clay also gave a sad sigh. "There goes our empty week." He grabbed a pencil and tried to bring himself to write in the planner Valentine Dance.

"For the second time, it's not empty! It already says 'Valentines Day', right there!" John pointed out again. 

"DUDE HOW LITERAL CAN YOU BE?!!" Clay shrieked.

"Guys!" Poppy yelled.

They all turned to her.

She turned back to Branch. "Look. You're right. You told me not to invite you to a party. I thought the ball would be alright since it wasn't really a party, but I shouldn't have taken you so literally, and I'm sorry. You all don't have to go, no pressure." She gave him a kind smile and turned around and left.

They all stared after her.

"That was really sweet of her," Floyd said.

"Wow. Branch. She practically got on her knees, begging for forgiveness, and you just stand there like a doofus!" John said.

"Yeah, Brandy never would never have done that for me," Bruce said, impressed.

"Mostly because she doesn't have knees," Clay smarted.

The Clay and John snickered.

"I don't find that funny!" Bruce shouted.

Branch sat down next to Floyd. 

"Penny for your thoughts," Floyd said gently.

"I think I'm gonna go to the dance," Branch said shortly.

"What?!" John turned to him. "What happened to browling?!!"

"We have all week to do that, it's just one day, guys." Branch shrugged. "Besides, I kinda want to make this Valentines Day perfect for Poppy. The past few haven't gone-- well, very well."

"What do you mean?" Floyd asked.

~~~ THREE YEARS AGO~~~

"Happy Valentines Day, Branch!!!" Poppy held out a Valentine's Day card to a grumpy Branch.

He took it with a plastered smile then stomped on it angrily.

"😱😱!!!" Everyone gasped. 

~~~ TWO YEARS AGO~~~

"Happy Valentines Day, Branch!!" Poppy held out another Valentine's Day card for a grumpy Branch.

He took it and stomped on it.

"😱😱!!!" Everyone gasped.

~~~ONE YEAR AGO (Branch has his true colors now, y'all)~~~

"Happy Valentines Day, Branch!!" Poppy held out her annual Valentine's Day card to a now happy Branch, sure he wasn't going to stomp on it.

Glitter sprayed in his face.

"EEEWW, I GOT GLITTER IN MY MOUTH!!" Branch shrieked. "I THINK IMMA PUKE-" runs away gagging dangerously.

 "😱😱!!!" Everyone gasped.

~~~BACK TO PRESENT TIME~~~

"Oof, yah, you do owe her a good Valentines Day," Floyd completely agreed. 

"And maybe this is my way of doing it," Branch said. He got up. "I'm going to go tell Poppy. But none of you guys have to go."

"Oh, don't worry, we've got that in mind," John said, annoyed. 

"Poppy!" Branch ran out of the living room smack into--

"Hiii!!" Poppy gave him a giddy smile.

"Poppy, were you standing there the whole time?" Branch asked, lifting an eyebrow.

She shifted uncomfortably. "Mayyybeee."

He couldn't help smiling.

"I was hoping you'd say you would still come! And you did!!" Poppy gave an excited squeal and jumped onto him, giving him a big hug.

"Okay, okay, but I don't think the rest of them are coming," Branch gently pushed her off of him.

"That's okay." She waved her hand carelessly. "As long as you're there."

He grinned.

"Viva and I are so excited, we're planning on decorating it all by ourselves and we're ordering the biggest cake you've ever seen and--" she gave an excited gasp. "Branch!! You'll have to come over tomorrow! I have so many ideas for your tuxedo!"

"Well, I-- uhh." Branch wasn't sure if he wanted to wear another tuxedo in his life. He had worn that all week so far.

"How about around 11am tomorrow?! Okay, good!" She kissed his cheek, not waiting for an answer. "I'll see you then!!!" And she danced toward the elevator.

Branch gave an exasperated sigh. 

~~~ The Next Day~~~

"I'm off to Poppy's to see about tuxedos, guys," Branch said. 

"Ouch, good luck with that." John lay on his back on the couch, covering the whole thing.

Branch rolled his eyes.

"Branch, do you have a mailbox?" Bruce asked from the breakfast nook. "I haven't had mail in forever!"

"Pfft, who'd send mail to you?" John asked. "You aren't a thrilling teenager anymore, Bruce."

"As a matter of fact, I get tons of fanmail, Mister I'm-Jealous-Cuz-I've-Never-Gotten-One-Fan-Letter-In-My-Entire-Life. But I was talking more about my family," Bruce said defensively.

"Mmm." John had no comeback.

"As an answer to your question," Branch finally managed to cut in, "No, Bruce, I do not. Poppy's working on that. I can go get your mail at the post office if you want."

"Ooh, and while you're there," Clay handed him a letter to mail.

"What's this?" Branch asked.

"Well, it's--" Clay began in his I'm-about-to-blab-about-serious-boring-and-important-stuff-for-about-fifteen-minutes voice.

"Ya know what, doesn't matter, I'll take it." Branch was not about to stand here for fifteen minutes. Not when he could be talking to Poppy. "Anything else?"

"Oh! I have a grocery list!" John got up and handed him a five-foot-long list. 

"John, I'm going to Poppy's pod. I'm not going anywhere near the grocery store."

"Well, you asked 'anything else' and I told you!" John went back to the couch. "You're welcome."

Branch rolled his eyes. 

"Here, Branch. I'll go do that stuff." Floyd got up from the breakfast table. "You can go on ahead to Poppy's pod."

"Oh. Thanks, Floyd." Branch gave him a smile. 

"We're off!" Floyd announced.

"Hmm."

"They don't care, let's just go before they order us to go pick up something somewhere else," Branch whispered.

"Good idea," Floyd agreed.

They started off toward the direction of Poppy's pod (the post office was on the way).

"Soooo...." Floyd said in a singsong voice.

"Soooo?" Branch asked.

"What's your gameplan?"

"For what?"

Floyd laughed. "Asking Poppy to the dance!"

"What?" Branch gave him a funny look. "I have to ask her? She's not just gonna assume we're going together because we're dating?"

"Well, of course she does. But it's more fun for the girls when they get asked." Floyd grinned. "You know, you'd think you've never been in a famous boyband."

"Yeah, well, girls weren't always my first priority, you know."

"I can see that." Floyd's grin turned into a gentle smile. "Branch, I want you to do how proud I am of you."

Branch shifted uncomfortably. "For what?"

"Getting along. Without us. Even before you had your true colors back. You dealth with Grandma..." Floyd gulped. "Well, you dealt with that all alone. And you still went on."

"Barely." Branch shrugged. "If it wasn't for Poppy, I don't know where I'd be right now."

"Well, it wasn't just Poppy." Floyd looked straight into Branch's blue eyes. "Poppy isn't in control of you changing, Branch. That's almost all you. She may have changed you, but you let her. And that's why you're here now, dating the Queen of the Pop Trolls."

Branch flushed. 

Floyd chuckled. "I remember the day you were born. Clay made ten lame jokes about you right away, laughing at them by himself, Bruce seemed to be grumpy because you had blue eyes when he had always wanted them, and John looked like he wanted to die because he now had four brothers instead of three. But I knew right away, you were something special, Branch."

"I'm not that special," Branch said. But he couldn't stop smiling. "Oh, there's Poppy and Viva!"

They were in front of Poppy's pod, doing backflips in the grass, giggling like crazy.

"Oh, man, they're gonna break their necks!" Branch rushed to them. "Poppy, wait, don't--!!"

Floyd laughed, watching. Then he looked at Viva. She was laughing at Branch as well, giving him a teasing push, and he turned on her and tweaked a blonde curl, grinning, something he had grown to do lately as he as now as close to her as his brothers.

Branch knew a lot about Viva already because he hung around Poppy so much. Floyd wondered if he was close enough to her to be able to jokingly tweak a curl. 

No, definitely not. But it would be fun to have a friend like that. And he hadn't had very many since he went to Mount Rageous. 

Suddenly, an idea popped in his head. It sounded alright. Would Viva think so?

He smiled and walked toward her calmly, on a mission.

...

[trans-queen-administrator]

Worm Fanfic Recs

No rankings at play here, just my favorite fics that I think other are really good. There are fics I like that aren't listed because I have a bad memory, but everything here is something I really really enjoyed. I have biases obviously, this isn't objective.

The Fics

Our Private Crises - A nailbiting murder mystery with unique and well done POVs from a different character each chapter. The mystery and reveal at the end were stellar, and it got me attached to characters I never thought I'd care for. 29k words. Complete.

It's Cold Out There Every Day - Missy is trapped in a time loop on her birthday. Genuinely stellar characterization, it has the best Missy and Aisha I've ever read and its such a creative and well executed premise. 41k words. Complete.

Tilt - Unpowered homeless girl Taylor fakes a thinker power to get in the Wards and secure housing. She's even more self destructive and self deprecating than in canon. 10/10 characterization for a slew of POV characters including Taylor, every ward but especially Sophia, Rachel, Lisa, and a ton of other characters. Despite not going through all of what canon Taylor went through, this fic nails her character better than pretty much any others. 220k words at time of posting. Updating consistently.

Tear Apart, Stitch Together - Taylor triggers with Shatterbird's power and kills thousands. Short and sweet, everything that's there is great and it wraps up well I think. 13k words. Complete

Memories of a Simurgh Victim - The Simurgh attacks Brockton Bay. Has two storylines, one following Taylor and one following Amy and Vicky. Among the most fucked up things this fandom has to offer, a terrifying showcase of the Simurgh and her power. 62k words. Taylor's story is incomplete but the Amy and Victoria story is done.

Desperate Times Call For Desperate Pleasures - Cherish altpower Taylor tries to consensually fix Amy's incest fetish. A trainwreck I can't look away from, the worlds first psychological horror romcom. It's so fucked up and so amazingly funny, and has good well written characters. I don't like Pillbug and I'm not a big fan of altpowers, but this fic is still one of my favorites because it's so damn compelling so definitely check it out if you actually like either of those things. 211k words at time of posting. Updating consistently.

Roots - The Slaughterhouse Nine attack a small town with a roster of OC capes, but something is very off about the place. POV shifts every chapter, and the OCs are interesting and unique. The S9 are also wonderfully characterized here, I've never had a fic make me sad for Crawler of all people. 67k words at time of posting. Ongoing. Criminally underrated.

Roma Fade - Ciara and Fortuna both try to grow past who they were as capes and find themselves as people in a small town post Gold Morning, having found common ground posing as moms to a recovering Taylor. I'm sure fake dating would never end in real attraction, that would be absurd. Incredibly gay, incredible characterization for everyone, the best post-GM fic around in my opinion. 87k words at time of posting. Ongoing but currently on hiatus.

Case - Lisa and the Simurgh start a detective agency. It's just great humor and a lovely story and wonderful despite being short and deceased. 14k words. Dead.

Silence is not Consent - Taylor intervenes and saves Victoria from Amy and gives her a place to stay, Victoria massively struggles dealing with what happened. Amazing characterization, Victoria's POV is unique and incredibly well done, and her seeing Taylor from an outside perspective is interesting. Be warned that this is a very heavy fic emotionally, but it's really fucking good. 212k words at time of posting. Updating consistently.

A Word - Altpower Taylor is obsessed with writing a story. I don''t know how to describe this fic honestly it's hard to do justice, but it has perhaps the best conclusion to Gold Morning I've seen in a fanfic. 11k words. Complete.

Scarab - A fantasy AU where powers are thought to be magic, and the Faerie Queen takes an interest in Taylor. Filled to the brim with creativity and passion, this fic is teeming with fresh ideas and interesting depictions of canon characters. The worldbuilding is great as well, no other fic on this list has a map, so this is clearly a cut above the rest. 139k words at time of posting. Updating consistently.

Swallowtail - Ok I lied this one has a map too. Taylor with an incredibly interesting stranger power joins Faultline's crew. There is a truly astounding amount of AU elements and alternate powers for canon characters, it feels like a new world while still being recognizable and distinctly Worm. Has a large amount of alternate POVs and the first arc can be rough, but it's creative and amazing. 360k words. Ongoing but currently on haitus.

Soliloquy - Ex-Slaughterhouse 9 Taylor is in prison, bitter at the world and herself and especially her clone who saved the multiverse. A heavy fic about someone slowly recovering and becoming a better person when they're convinced it can't be done. Made me cry. 71k words. Complete.

TWNY - Post-GM Taylor finds herself in the world of RWBY with a pair of moth antennae. Multiple POVs, all very interesting despite me knowing nothing of RWBY. Probably the best characterization of Taylor in any post-GM crossover fic, she's heartbreaking in the recent arc, and it feels like the fic has barely scratched the surface of what it'll eventually cover. Also it's very gay. 136k words. Ongoing.

The Great Escape - Eidolon is struggling after his reputation is destroyed and Cauldron is revealed, and then the Birdcage opens. Amazing use of seldom seen characters, great POV with Eidolon, well done and interesting fights, has String Theory. 107k words. Ongoing but currently on haitus.

Happiness Is Inevitable - NSFW. The only damn erotic mind control Simurgh smut in the fandom somehow. Besides the porn (which is a lot of the fic, who woulda thunk it) the story itself is actually pretty interesting and has a lot of creative parts, and it has better characterization than most fics. 29k words. Ongoing?

Oneshots

Break me so that I can be whole - This accursed fandom is tragically bereft of QA / Taylor fics, but this one shot is great, love an eldritch take on shards. Probably fucked up but I'm not actually a good judge of that so be warned. 1.8k words.

Book Worm - Dragon helps teach Taylor how to read and speak and understand language post-GM. Bittersweet and lovely. 2.5k words.

Defiant Didn't Dox Saint For Nothing! - Taylor goes back in time and the first thing she does is kill Saint because he sucks. Cracky but I like it, fun little oneshot. 1.6k words.

Ruling Ash - Glory Girl flees Brockton Bay during the Slaughterhouse Nine and ends up living with Damsel of Distress. Cute, and Starsong before Ward is very interesting. 2.8k words.

My Sunshine - Leviathan goes worse and Brockton Bay is destroyed. Taylor and Victoria survive. Very somber, but well executed. 3.4k words.

Cherry on Top - A character study of Cherie Vasil, showing how she went from running away from Heartbreaker to joining the Nine. Extremely well written, absolutely incredible depiction of her character. It depicts abuse and actions typical of Heartbreaker and Cherie, so be careful reading. It's a lot emotionally. 12.7k words.

Devil in a New Dress - NSFW. Shatterbird / Reader, I'm not explaining myself on this one. Neat Shatterbird characterization, hot, pretty fucked up so be warned. 1.7k words.