#first time i used my actual name in a self-insert fanfic

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

the babbit masterpost

HELLO welcome to the Babbit's Blog masterpost!!! On this post you'll find some fun facts about yours allegedly (me <33), some ref's for my different 'sona's, and a couple links to my fics and whatnot! Are you ready? No?? Excellent neither am i let's do this

Meet the Babbits!: the self-inserts/personas

the first ref is for my general/most commonly used persona, Babbit! They aren't really an anthro/furry as much as they are a humanoid with the head of a rabbit. I like to think of this one as the 'me' that's in my head- the purest form of my thoughts and feelings, but not the solid real-life me. The second ref is my self-insert persona, Rabbit, the one i picture using most often when i'm reading a fic or imagining a self-insert scenario lol. This one is like the me that people see and meet and speak to in real actual life, if that makes sense. It's the way I come across to people and all of the things I wish I could iron out of my crumpled up real-self <3 The third is a much more specific 'sona, Hazel, who started off as a FNaF:SB animatronic self-insert. She does have a backstory and lore now, which i think makes her more of an OC than a self-insert, but a lot of her is still me and a lot of what she experiences in her backstory is from my life/instills the same feelings that were taken away from things that happened to me, so I think she kinda counts enough to put a ref for her here sdkjfsdhfj (Why the different names?: makes things a little easier, and they hold meaning to me symbolically, I guess!)

Content!: Here's a short list of my various fics that will get updated as I create more! (it was, in reality, not fine.): FNaF Sun/Moon x Reader fanfic, gender neutral, for general audiences, fluff-fest, idiots to lovers "You're the new tech/repairman at the Fazbear Mega Pizzaplex, unfortunately. Your first task? To make the Daycare Attendant into two separate animatronics. It's an amazing opportunity, really, and there is nothing you love more than getting a chance to really work with such tech! The only bad part is that you don't know how to tell anyone that you just might be in over your head. (You are extremely in over your head.)" After Everything Was Fixed (but you were still broken): AU FNaF Sun/Moon x (Animatronic) Reader, gender neutral, read with caution, angst, harm to sentient robots, traumatized main character, hurt/comfort slow burn, romance slow burn "The virus was gone. Everyone was fixed. You had been put back together. It's a time for a new beginning, to do things right this time, to wash away the past and paint a better future. Their memories of the infection had- mercifully- been taken away from them. Yours had not. He doesn't understand why you try to avoid him. Even if you could tell him, you're not sure you would. You want to be his friend, but it's difficult; every time you see him, you remember the hundreds of times he killed you." A fic where you are a repairman-themed STAFFbot, taking place post-virus. In the past, Moon, infected by the virus, took delight in attacking and dismantling the reader during the night. Now, in the present, you find yourself burdened by the memories of the past while everyone around you has no recollection of the events. It gets more complicated as Sun and Moon, both now cleared of the virus, grow curious of you. This fic will follow a series of arcs, presently on arc one. For anyone curious, feel free to send an ask about the arcs in 'After Everything Was Fixed'! The Sun, the Moon, and the Blazing Comet (title subject to change): AU FNaF Sun/Moon/Eclipse x Reader, gender neutral, teen and up audiences, travel/journey, betrayal, hurt/comfort slowburn, reconciling, themes of breaking the mold, found family (TBA) Hold My Broken Hands (title subject to change): AU FNaF Sun/Moon x Reader, gender neutral, mature audiences, dark romance, dark comedy, severe bodily harm, mutilation, murder, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, lovesick (TBA)

My AU's!: i'm going to make a Babbit-AUs-Masterpost and then put the link here i swear, i just have so many im sorry jdfhsjdfhs (like more than twenty)

Fandoms!: I enjoy, have been in, made or make content for: Pokemon Undertale FNaF Creepypasta (YEAH I KNOW LET ME LIVE OKAY) My Little Pony (I KNOW OKAY LEAVE ME ALONE) Steven Universe Star Trek Warrior Cats i'm sure theres more but i just forgot everything i have ever liked wheeeeeze

Whomst the hell?: HI I'm Rabbit! Or Bones! Or Babbit! Or Avarice/Ava, if you want to go for a more legitimate-sounding name. I'm 24 years old, prefer to use they/them pronouns, and so, so incredibly ace. I've been drawing as long as I've had the ability to hold a pen, writing since I was in grade school, and being a plague to the ones around me since the beginning of time! If you've seen my art, its probably from the absolute mountain of fluffy-wuffy love-dovey (y/n) x Sundrop/Moondrop/Eclipse doodles I've been sharing for several years now sdfjhsdj. If you've heard of my fics, it was probably the one I made just for fun that's now turned into an actual fanfiction that I enjoy writing, the silly-lovey-fluff incarnate (it was, in reality, not fine.) !

Likes n Dislikes!: I'm a sucker for sap, fluff, and lots and lots of love-dovey bullshit! I also like stories about finding oneself and monsters being befriended or loved. I like space, aliens, robots, the odd and strange, injecting humanity into things not human, monsters, creatures, animals, the fae, concepts of spirits and karma and the afterlife, and more! I dislike 'fanservice', most anime tbh LOL it's not personal I just don't enjoy it im srry, FLY BABIES i know they have an actual name but i hate that word too pls just dont i will scream, sexually aggressive/forceful content/characters, being made to feel small, dumb, or trapped,

Other!: I have a pretty high gross-out tolerance! I also have a pretty high 'wow that's messed up huh' tolerance, in that sometimes I will just say stuff that's super grim or dark or messed up and not realize it lmao. I am full of random facts and anecdotes, especially weird or gross ones! sometimes i get on tangents that can go for actual hours so pls forgive that lol

WARNINGS: THIS BLOG MAY FEATURE CONTENT BASED ON/RELATED TO THEMES OF GUILT, CHILDHOOD LOSS, GRIEF, SELF HATRED, DISCONNECTION FROM REALITY/SELF, TRAUMA, AND SEVERE DEPRESSION/ANXIETY. YES I AM GETTING HELP. YES I AM OKAY. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE AND UNDERSTANDING.

bonus persona: crybaby

[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.

[imfromthemiddlekingdom]

Felony saying that everyone in the universe can access the force if they tried hard enough makes me want to deck him in his fugly face

He’s ruining all established canon in real time. Speed running the absolute destruction of continuity of the SW universe and people are still rooting for him and his blorbo self inserts like there’s no tomorrow. Literally the whole reason I no longer engage in Ashoka content is because he massacred my girl and made her so one dimensional that my Mary Sue self insert fanfics OCs I wrote when I was 14 looks well developed compared to the absolute bland “girlboss kick ass take names” personality Ashoka has right now.

There were so many opportunities for him to explore the absolute potential of angst and conflict within Ashoka in this new series, to give her character a believable story of grief loss and growth yet he threw it all away because he wanted his OC to be the specialist girl that ever lived. This series could’ve been used to explore Ashokas conflicting feelings regarding the Anakin that taught her and was a mentor to her whilst trying to connect it to the monster that killed her family and hunted her culture into almost extinction and tried to kill her, a person he confessed to love as a sister, on Malachor. It could’ve been a good send off to a great character, to have her face that the Skyguy she put on a pedestal in her mind was in actuality the worst sort of scum and have her try to come to terms that just because she can forgive him for being the genocidal maniac he was and still hold love in her heart for who he used to be and also understand why the Jedi, her family, wasn’t the reason for their own downfall.

But alas. We got another series of “the Jedi caused their own downfall!!! Anakin did nothing wrong ever and him killing all my family and everyone I’ve ever known is so not his fault!!! It’s definitely the fault of the unbending stuck in the past council!!!”. Instead of a series that could’ve made Ashoka’s “departure” (literally never going to happen with felony at the helm, he’s going to find a way to make her immortal and then show up 200 years in the future to be the protagonist of another light v dark fight since she’s his special SI) from the series tie in nicely thematically and canonically with every other Star Wars media we have, he decided that the best way to have this series go down is 1) everyone is force sensitive if they tried hard enough ig and 2) the Jedi were bad!!! Their protocols don’t work! They were mean to my little meow meow Anakin Skywalker the greatest Jedi of all times™️ therefore he got to kill them all!!!!

Got a bit off topic but I’m still so mad that he had this chance to make Ashoka truly experience growth like the first 5 seasons of TCW yet he decided maintaining the badass rebel without a cause aesthetics for her was more important then good story telling.

Honestly though, my main problem with this series is that he decided that apparently everyone in the universe can be force sensitive if they “just tried hard enough”. Like your Midichlorian Count no longer matters since even if you were Force-Null you can still be special!!!!

This takes away any and all urgency in the Jedi Fallen Order games. It makes Cals journey absolutely redundant. It throws away all the tragedy contained in having inquisitors being force sensitive kids kidnapped from their parents and tortured till they give into the dark side. If all beings are able to use the force in his universe then there are no consequences to the inquisitors not finding the Holocron that holds the names to all force sensitive children in the universe. There would be no need to them to chase Cal and the Mantis Crew throughout the universe to obtain what they have. They could’ve just went down to any random level in Coruscant and take homeless Force-Null kids and train them.

Even better! It makes the entirety of the KOTOR games redundant!!!! Oh and I guess the hidden path is also redundant since everyone can be force sensitive and no one truly needs more saving from the empire over others :/ totally not like these kids that were saved by the path would’ve been taken and tortured into inquisitors, definitely not since EVERYONE is force sensitive nowadays or is it just the ones Ashoka trains herself because she’s the “living embodiment of the daughter uwu she’s so special and unique look how well she can train a non force sensitive to be force sensitive!!!”

Everyone in the Star Wars universe has Midichlorian’s in their blood. That is a fact. It is also an established fact that the amount each person has is different and is not determined nor dependent on lineage. Force-Nulls typically range in the 1000-3000 count and you need 7000 to be force sensitive and higher to be accepted into the order. (The order isn’t the end all be all of force cultures, Rouge One shows that Jedha’s force culture isn’t restricted to only force sensitives as the Guardian’s were never specified to be only a religious order of force sensitives. And high canon doesn’t depict many other force cultures but we know that there are many force cultures in the universe that co-exist with the Jedi with which the Jedi weren’t in opposition towards; literally not even the witches of Dathomir were oppositions anywhere outside of the battle fields.) You don’t need to be force sensitive to be part of a force culture (Jedha literally has pilgrims who come far and wide to make a pilgrimage to the holy site and not all of them were force sensitive), Sabine could’ve very easily been taught the tenets of the Jedi without retconning her to be force sensitive or making everyone in the universe force sensitive.

No where in either the EU or High Canon did anyone ever say that you have to be force sensitive to be a badass or to make a difference. Hera did not hold the title of the best pilot in the universe just for some rat of a man to come and say that Anakin was the best because *muh force sensitivity!!!!* Some of the most heroic and most influential (good or bad) people in the franchise are Force-Null! And that’s great! It means that the force doesn’t make anyone better than anyone else! It’s a quirk of the universe! To retcon that everyone can and is force sensitive if they tried hard enough is literally cheapening everything the franchise stands for. Andor did not literally give us an entire story about how Force-Nulls in the Galaxy makes just as much of a difference as force sensitives for felony to come out and say that “you know what??? Midichlorian’s are a scam! You get a force sensitivity! You get a force sensitivity! Everyone gets a force sensitivity!!!!”

Sabine was great as she was in rebels, why cheapen it with “oh she’s actually force sensitive all this time!!!” When we could’ve stuck with badass Force-Null Mandalorian can kick your ass five ways to Sunday with her paint bombs and blasters you force wielding asshole!!! Like why even do that felony. Do you want people to hate her??? Nvm ofc you do, you need Ashoka to be the best in every way possible even if it means ruining every other beloved character in this franchise👍

[diamondcitydarlin]

Alright real talk now without sassiness bc the whole anti thing against beetlebabes has me thinking about self-indulgent fantasy as a literary/storytelling device and it's something I've been thinking about with different medias lately, so this is topical ig for my current hyperfixation. Specifically I've been thinking about fantasy disavowal and the role that plays in self-indulgent/self-insert type fantasy stories, whether canon or extrapolated within fanfic. I first really learned about this concept in name from this video from contrapoints, so I have to give her credit for discussing this and explaining to me how it works in a way that blew my mind apart at the time, and I think it's the sort of thing that puts a lot of what goes on in self-indulgent fantasy stories into a different perspective, particularly when we're trying to evaluate said stories under an IRL moral microscope (and is why that approach pretty much never works or applies within this kind of story)

(Semi-long post under the cut where I mention Harry Potter as an example of a literary device- as I say within the writeup, I do not condone or support JKR or her beliefs and this is not an endorsement of her but rather a well-known example I think most people will recognize. Be aware if it's triggering for you. I also mention Twilight lol, incase that's an issue. It takes me a minute to get to Beetlejuice/Beetlebabes but I promise this is all relevant to my point, your honors)

Recently I saw a discussion within a Twilight fan group I'm in (yes I'm a Twilight fan and a rattie iykyk) about how toxic certain characters behavior would be IRL, particularly in the way several of them have a habit of making choices for Bella against her will, gifting her with things she's said she didn't want and insisting she use/wear them, etc etc. As a former Twilight hater (cuz I used to be that too many years ago!!!) I knew where they were coming from in being critical of these characters and calling them toxic, because in any other setting that would absolutely be true. Within fantasy disavowal, however, these 'toxic' behaviors are actually a way for the reader/writer (who is living vicariously through the main character) to have the main character get what they think she should have and want her to have without compromising her character or the integrity of the fantasy. Bella Swan, for example, is meant to be modest, selfless, 'not like other girls' and usually uncomfortable with bringing too much attention to herself (which makes her relatable to those who would live vicariously through her story), but of course many of those reading WANT her to have a big wedding and traditional dress anyway so that's where, for example, Alice's insistence she have those things comes into play. Yes, IRL that would be controlling, obsessive, weird, and a complete disregard of someone's wishes and boundaries but in a self-insert fantasy that tactic serves an important role to the purpose and point of the setting. WELL if you INSIST, Alice, I guess I'll just take your very generous and expensive gifts and deal with it, sigh, oh WELL!!! /s In that sense it's less demeaning and more empowering, if you're viewing it from the pov of someone wanting to immerse themselves in the fantasy.

Another example of where this is kinda used in self-insert fantasy is Harry Potter (and many others like it, and this isn't to condone JKR's terfism, this is just the example I think most people will recognize), wherein the children reading are meant to want to live vicariously through Harry and his friends and their adventures. For those children reading (and I know bc I was one once lol) the idea of being in a dangerous environment that the adults don't really shield them from entirely is very cool, it gives them a sense of independence and self-sufficiency and a sense of 'trust' from the fictional adults in their abilities to take care of themselves. From an adult's perspective now, particularly one with a child of first-year age, it's seemingly horrific how neglectful and reckless the adults in that series are with the wellbeing of the children they're responsible for (like, idk, sending a bunch of 11 year olds into the known death forest for their first detention sentence, at night, while knowing some beast is eating unicorns in said forest). But of course, within the story this constant, casual endangerment of children is never really brought up as an issue or as a reflection of some kind of immortality in the adults responsible for them as it would IRL, because it serves the purpose of self-indulgent fantasy for the children reading. It's not MEANT to be seen as a moral failing or child endangerment AT ALL so much as just the adults characters getting the fuck out of the way so the kids can have fun- unless it's like Umbridge doing it, who is established as an villain and immoral even in that setting from the jump. (And again this isn't a defend JKR post, just an explanation/example of what I'm talking about) IDK if this qualifies as fantasy disavowal perse, but it's a similar phenomenon of how behaviors -particularly those of supporting characters- can seem immoral/toxic under a real world lens but within the story serves a purpose to the reader living through the fantasy.

The way this relates to Beetlebabes for me is mostly fanon focused, but I think there are elements of disavowal in the canon as well. A lot of us who ship beetlebabes feel a kinship to Lydia in some way or another, especially those of us who watched the first film and cartoon as we ourselves were coming of age (and also probably weirdo goth kids too at the same time, I definitely was lol) and while it obviously isn't a fantasy for everyone, for a lot of us the idea of a 600-year old demon choosing and becoming obsessed with our weirdo asses BECAUSE of our weirdness is really cool actually lmao. To others, Beej pursuing Lydia so ardently against her outspoken disavowal can only be seen as intentionally toxic because they're not part of the fantasy, nor do they want to be, so seeing the merits (and empowerment) of his pursuit within this setting is beyond them. And of course, there's something to be said for the inherent nature of gothic romance as a setting, as well as the fact that movieverse Beetlejuice isn't really meant to be the pinnacle of moral direction in real life, it's meant to be a creepy, kooky dark comedy that pushes the boundaries of societal norms (not unlike what we do in the shadows). As others have said, this also isn't unlike the film Labyrinth much at all, though I RARELY see anyone coming after the Jareth/Sarah ship despite Sarah being a child in the film and Jareth being, yknow, also an ancient spirit of some kind. Perhaps because most people better understand how Labyrinth functions as a self-insert fantasy, that Jareth's obsession with Sarah is meant to be an empowering thing within that context for the young people like Sarah watching it, not an endorsement of IRL predatory behavior (ofc, Jareth being mostly a creation of Sarah's might aid with the sense of her power over the situation).

Honestly, I think it's also true for a lot of people against Beetlebabes that they identify with Lydia too, but in a way that doesn't include wanting a 600-year old demon to be obsessed with them (you do you boo, more of him to go around ig lmaooo), but instead of seeing and accepting the merits of Beej's obsession in this other kind of fantasy, they instead choose to apply real-world morals onto not only the story but the people who enjoy this story as well as their personal discomfort demands. For as much as they want to accuse others of 'not having media literacy' for shipping it, they sure jump right over the point of this literary/storytelling device. And to that end, I can't wholly blame them, because it was only within the last few years that I really realized and accepted how this works too- but I'm doing my best to explain it now, for whomever is interested.

I guess what I'm ultimately trying to say is that self-insert/self-indulgent type fantasy stories are, by design, not meant to be viewed through a real-world moral lens. The entire point of them is to transport a reader/viewer into a world where real-life doesn't apply, where someone like them is loved and obsessed over for the things that they are often disparaged for IRL and within a context where they (and the main character) still hold the reigns of control, as Lydia does over Beetlejuice time and time again (despite being a powerful 600 year old demon Beej sure lets his wife kick him around a lot, doesn't he???). It's not meant to be an endorsement or romanticization or even a depiction of IRL immorality either, as that would ruin the effect of the fantasy.

So yeah, I feel like trying to evaluate most of these stories in a real-world moral context is a fundamental misunderstanding of how this kind of storytelling works- that's not to say one can't evaluate them that way if they want, and sometimes (like other things used within the HP series) it's due, but I think it definitely becomes an issue when this 'moral evaluation' turns into one of the people who enjoy the fantasy too. The fictional flights of fancy that people like to immerse themselves into are just that; fantasy. And what's more, different people like living vicariously through different kinds of fantasies, different people are going to find different things empowering in said stories and just because one thing feels empowering for one person but demeaning to another should not mean the former person is immoral and gross in real life or would even want these things to happen in real way.

I keep trying to wrap this post up and failing, but that's basically it. I'm posting this because I know others will probably have way more intellectual insight and feedback to add about this kind of storytelling and I just think it's really fascinating to talk about. What do yall think?

[mamasplat]

ooooooooo ive been keeping up with the huge thread.. <3333

is the fic smth you actually want to do? id read it 👍

have you got a timeline in mind?

also hows the run going?

im still in the middle of playing y, im almost at the snowy city, check out my squad 💪💪💪💪💪🐺

The true Calem run is coming along great, I only have one spot to fill in my team and I just got through the power plant!

Now regarding actually writing the Kalos vs amour story, I want to, I’d LOVE TO. It’s something younger me wanted so badly to do- however I am not exactly confident in my writing.

I’ve dabbled under a few sites with a lot of different “pen names” if you will, and I’ve never been too fond of my own work. I struggle with coming off as redundant when I use one word too much without realizing till after the fact, but in my defense! I’m entirely self taught with reading and writing so It’s surprising I’m even a little bit literate.

I can’t say I have the confidence to get a beta reader either as that would mean letting someone read my messy work which- yeah that kinda makes my skin crawl. So it could be a great exercise for me! But it would be a big step. I haven’t publicly written anything since 2019 and it was all small fandom stuff.

But I do have a rough list of story beats? Kinda? Ideas really.

Serena leaves for her journey on a whim to see ash, but in the process she neglected to tell anyone other than her mother. Which means Calem would have no clue where she went until he went to Grace. The dialogue “I was starting to worry until I saw you on pokevision” definitely dings around my skull a bit.

He was a member of the summer camp team with Shauna Trevor and Tierno, he was just too shy to talk to Serena again after she up and left without warning, especially seeing her proximity to a guy who is wearing HIS EXACT JACKET

Yeah no I’m making that a thing, the fact him and Ash dress nearly identically is going to freak him out in some way.

When I envision this as animated scenes, I can see him as a faceless character watching from the sidelines. Obscured but noticeable, coming to a head at the end of the episode where there’s a scene between him a Shauna. In a cabin kitchen at camp, It reveals him and Shauna specifically are traveling together. His face still unseen she’d pry at him for information on why he was so distant and why he hid from Serena. He’d dodge the question with an ever brooding “I don’t know” and the silence would linger as whatever midnight snack is being prepared. A camera angle change and turning to face Shauna for the first time during the conversation it ends with a single line. “Who was that guy she was with anyways?”

We would then see him again officially in a later episode with the appearance of Shauna, he and Serena finally reconnect over an awkward apology for her sudden absence. He’s familiar with Serena, his behavior is starkly different around her to anyone else- even Shauna. And while it might not peek anyone else’s concern it would get Bonnie’s gears turning, the kid is perceptive and comes to the conclusion Calem likes Serena, but that also turns into distrust thanks to Calem’s inherent standoffish nature. She would recognize him as “no good”

Also insert plot of Ash being super hyped like “oh yeah! New rival! Let’s go!” And Calem being violently uncomfortable around this hyper short stack who is dressed just like him and traveling with his run away neighbor-

If you couldn’t tell, I’d have no clue how to pov this. A third person pov makes the most sense but with a shift in focus from our main cast to Calem and Shauna- idk-

I’ve put more thought into this as actual anime episodes rather than written pages, so it’s all art stuff in my head and might translate weird to a fanfic

[spnfanficpond]

New Member Spotlight - March 2024

The Pond is always growing and we want to make our new members feel welcome! Here’s a list of recent additions to our fishy family, along with a little info about them!

Guppies, Jellies, and Mutuals, oh, my!

@samanddean76 -

Other SM names? - Same name on AO3 and Discord

OTP? - Wincest and/or J2.

Looking for in the Pond? - To be around other open-minded and creative people so that I can see how far I can be inspired to go with this writing thing.

Pairings you read? - All of it. I love Wincest, Wincestiel, Sabriel, Destiel, Jammy, and J2.

Genres you read? - Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Smut, True Mates, Soul Mates, Unrequited Love, and A/B/O is my favorite way to combine all of the above.

Favorite writer(s)? - nyxocity. She started on LiveJournal with the first episodes to air and transfered a lot to Ao3. Her work in both SPN and SPN RPF is some of the best I've ever read.

What do you like to write? - A/B/O, AU's, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, True Mates, Soul Mates, Revenge, and All The Feels

Masterlist!

Most underappreciated fic? - Joyous Memories Amongst The Sorrow

Something you haven't written but would like to try? Why not? How can we help? - A full on, hard-core revenge story where nothing is softened, the focus doesn't shift away, and there is no doubt as to what was done. Haven't tried it yet as I'm not sure I'm ready to embrace the darkness required to write it. Also, I don't want to scare off my readers. How you can help? Encourage me to finally tackle that next seemingly impossible challenge.

@kayleighwinchester -

Other SM names? - KayleighWinchester (AO3)

OTP? - Awful as it sounds, Dean and my OC! Beyond that, absolutely Destiel.

Other fandoms? - I'm pretty active in the band Ghost's TikTok fandom! I used to be *huge* into Harry Potter, but that's definitely faded in the last few years. As it stands, Supernatural has definitely become the main obsession.

Looking for in the Pond? - I'm mostly here for the community! My fanfic writing has mostly been just for me and shared with a few close friends in the last few years - publishing it anywhere, especially in the really rough state it's in at present, is super daunting! I'm always looking for more people to bounce ideas off of, chat with, and generally obsess over the show with, as well as finding new stuff to read!

Pairings you read? - I'm especially fond of reader inserts, and they were my first big step into fanfic! When it comes to ships, I tend to stick specifically to Destiel, since it's my OTP, but I'm always willing to branch out!

Genres you read? - I love angst! Writing was, for a long time, my free version of therapy, so reading and writing angst was always a huge thing for me. I also love smut and fluff. ...Essentially, everything. Depends on the mood!

Favorite writer(s)? - I always have to boost TinkerbellBleu on Ao3, even though she isn't active anymore. She wrote an amazing DeanxOC fic, essentially turning episodes 1, 2, and part of 3 into full-length novels. I adore her writing and hope she comes back soon!

What do you like to write? - Most are CharacterxOC, and I have absolutely no self-control, so they are almost always ridiculously long. As it stands, I've been incapable of not just writing a fic that is supposed to span the entire show, because there's just *so many* good moments, good scenes, good storylines, etc. There's never one specific 'theme'; I write everything! I do enjoy writing angst, though.

Something you haven't written but would like to try? Why not? How can we help? - Smut! I've made an *attempt*, but never one that I actually kept. Generally, it comes down to a lack of confidence; I'd love some critiques if I ever get around to it!

@whiskeyjuniper -

Other SM names? - Whiskeyjuniper (AO3)

OTP? - DeanCas, Midam, crackship DeanChuck

Looking for in the Pond? - Sprint buddies!

Pairings you read? - DeanCas, Midam, crackship DeanChuck

Genres you read? - Horror

What do you like to write? - Horror, Weird

Masterlist!

Most underappreciated fic? - a happy place to dream about

@bloodydeanwinchester -

Other SM names? - Same name on Discord, alovelyhorror (AO3)

OTP? - Destiel

Looking for in the Pond? - Looking for a place to talk to other writers and participate in sprints.

Pairings you read? - Almost exclusively Destiel

Genres you read? - Angst with a happy ending is my favorite but I also love some good horror. my favorite trope is probably time travel.

Favorite writer(s)? - sobsicles and komodobits on ao3

What do you like to write? - mostly into writing longer destiel canon/canon divergent fics (although i do have an idea or two for aus)

Masterlist!

Most underappreciated fic? - When the Night Is Over

Something you haven't written but would like to try? Why not? How can we help? - The thing I'm most focused on wanting to do now is to finish the longer fic that I’m currently working on. I'm struggling with keeping up motivation now that I'm right in the middle of the fic!

@notanotherthembo -

Other SM names? - Same name on Discord

OTP? - Dean/Cassie

Other fandoms? - TWD, TOWL

Looking for in the Pond? - Beta readers, homies, amazing writers to talk shop with

Pairings you read? - Sam/Femme!Reader, DeanCassie, Sam/Dean/Femme!Reader, Wincest

Genres you read? - Smut, Rivals or Enemies to Lovers,

Favorite writer(s)? - @uncouth-the-fifth is the GOAT

What do you like to write? - Crossovers, specifically ones that feature Black femme characters as the romantic lead

Masterlist!

Most underappreciated fic? - Clap Your Hands If You Believe

Something you haven't written but would like to try? Why not? How can we help? - Reader inserts! I'm working on one right now that I need a beta reader for. I'm also considering finishing up/rewriting an old Spn/True Blood crossover series that I haven't touched in years.

@bigmouthlass -

Other SM names? - darali_starscream (AO3) & Darali (Discord)

OTP? - I write Dean/You, and Dean/Donna should've lived happily ever after.

Looking for in the Pond? - Get a better handle on fandom stuff, meet some other like-minded obsessives.

Pairings you read? - Dean/anyone. He fascinates me.

Genres you read? - Smut to start, anything interesting and well-written.

Favorite writer(s)? - @thoughtslikeaminefield, @sam-is-my-safe-word , @talltalesandbedtimestories, Edge_of_Clairvoyance (AO3), and @rizlowwritessortof

What do you like to write? - They start as smut, and insist on growing plots.

Masterlist!

Most underappreciated fic? - Stairwell Drums

Something you haven't written but would like to try? Why not? How can we help? - I'm trying to get comfortable writing Sam; he's harder for me to feel at ease with. Also slash generally, it doesn't come naturally to me.

That's all for this month, folks! (If we're missing anyone, let us know and we'll add them to next month's list!) Make sure to say hi to the newbies and make them feel welcome! Thanks to all from @manawhaat, @mrswhozeewhatsis, @mariekoukie6661, @thoughtslikeaminefield, @spencereliotwinchester and @heavenssexiestangel!

[incognitajones]

Answer the Questions and Tag 5 Fanfic Authors

@mosylufanfic tagged me!

1. How did you get into writing fanfiction?

When we were teens, my two best friends and I co-wrote a self-insert epic based on a terrible 80s fantasy series. Much later, being a part of online fan communities (first for Buffy and then for the LOTR movies) gave me the confidence boost to start writing again.

2. How many fandoms have you written in?

This is tough to answer because (like @mosylufanfic) I've posted on many, many defunct archives & blogging sites and have lost track of a lot of fic over the years. On AO3 alone, if you include my other pseud which mainly writes tiny, obscure and/or old fandoms for Yuletide, it's over 40.

3. How many years have you been writing fanfiction?

I started posting it online in 2000, so 24 years.

4. Do you read or write more fanfiction?

I'm a fast reader and a slow writer, so I definitely read more.

5. What is one way you’ve improved as a writer?

My plotting has improved, in the sense that now my stories sometimes have an actual (if very basic) plot.

6. What’s the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

Not that weird, but I did a lot of fascinating research for Tolkien fic, from pre-industrial weaving to Anglo-Saxon riddles and wedding rites.

7. What’s your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

Other than "absolutely any"? I love it when people comment that they're re-reading! A lot of fic is pretty ephemeral (not a diss, it's just the nature of the genre), so it's really thrilling to hear a story stuck with someone enough that they came back.

8. What’s the most fringe trope/topic you write about?

It's anonymous for a reason 😉

9. What is the hardest type of story for you to write?

Long stories. As in "I have yet to write anything longer than 30k, so I honestly don't even know if I can."

10. What is the easiest type?

Character studies via smut, aka PWP. I enjoy writing them and they don't require a lot of research (just endless editing to make sure I haven't given anyone three hands).

11. Where do you do your writing? What platform? When?

At the moment, my writing practice consists of 20-minute bursts during my morning bus ride to work or on the weekend in between chores. I feel inadequate because I can't sit down and write for a solid hour but I'm trying to convince myself that it's okay - even short spells of time add up to a decent amount of work as long as they're consistent.

Google is evil, but I still use Gdocs because I need to write online & offline on multiple devices including my phone and not worry about manually saving/collating drafts. When I'm brainstorming or writing a first draft, though, I often write by hand in a notebook.

12. What is something you’ve been too nervous/intimidated to write, but would love to write one day?

An AU mystery that would require not only complicated plotting but historical research, and the drawerfic sequel to a BNF's story.

13. What made you choose your username?

It was a brand new pseud for a fandom I'd never written in before, so I was literally a "no name fan."

I tag: @glorious-spoon @unstable-reality @mnemehoshiko @luciechat and @englishable!

[incorrect-tmnt2012-quotes]

Pspspsp Mod give random Leo hcs [Angst, Fluff, randomness] I feel like thinking about the blue boy

Okay!! This is specifically 2012 Leo, cause my blog is for the 2012 series ;D

Leo used to have a beautiful singing voice, but after his fight with Shredder in the S2 finale that resulted in damaging his throat, Leo could no longer sing. If he tries to, it hurts.

He's a closeted bisexual. His first male crush was Captain Ryan and he's in constant denial that he's into both boys and girls.

Leo really enjoys gardening, but being underground in the sewers he never has a chance to really grow anything due to lack of sunlight and clean water. He does have an admiration for flowers, his favorite is the lotus blossom.

He's the only brother who is fluent in speaking Japanese and he can also read lips. 

Despite being named after the great artist Leonardo Da Vinci, Leo is a terrible artist and can't draw if his life depended on it.

Leo writes Spaceheroes fanfics (Character X Readers, self inserts, etc.) and they are really popular in the fandom.

Leo actually really enjoys literature and writing. His favorite book is the Three Musketeers and he keeps a personal journal (his brothers call it his diary) where he writes his personal thoughts and secrets he doesn't feel comfortable telling his family and friends. One time Mikey was being a snoop and decided to look through his diary journal to see if he can come up with any new prank ideas, but found out that Leo writes in Japanese so his brothers can't read it.

[xshimaeraxx]

I've seen many posts about people missing how common asks used to be so I have been trying to send about an ask a week. Now I send this ask first anytime I follow someone as I really don't want to bother anyone, so I'd love to know if you enjoy receiving asks and if so what kind of asks. Not having energy for asks or being comfortable with them is perfectly okay.

The categories I have in my ask notebook that I file under are in colour. Please feel free to make your response as long as you want or private (the asker cannot directly respond to private responses).

Self, Job/Work: please let me know what you are comfortable with from eh idk just ask it to nothing personal at all.

Baggishield/Tolkien, Dragon Age, Johnlock/Sherlock, ineffable spouses, other fandom: Please let me know what fandoms. I think my main fandoms and ships are Bagginshield/The Hobbit, Sherlock/Johnlock, Dragon Age Inquisition, {Pippin/Faramir Merry/Eowyn}/The Lord of the Rings and I dip my toes in a few that I currently can't remember but ships I don't engage with the canon of at all are: Good Omens but only for Crowley/Azirapheal, Stranger Things but only for Steve/Eddie , The Witcher but only for Geralt/Jaskier, and Ladybug and Cat Noir but only for Adrinette .

OC's, art/drawing, their writing, blog specific only

Story snippets ideas and prompts: Do you like receiving them?

Pets: I'd love to know all about them

Garden and Hobbies: What type of gardening and/or hobbies?

Like being tagged in things: If so what kinds of things?

*Asks are sent for fun, no pressure to answer.

hello!!! yeah, i love receiving asks, lmao, & as for ur questions:

self, job/work: hmmm. im not rly comfy w any major questions ab my irl life (like stuff along the lines of “where specifically t do you live” (like im a brit, but if somewhere were to ask js where i live in the uk, i wldnt answer, as is common sense (imo) when it comes to the internet), “how old are you” “what is (are) your irl name(s)” etc. etc. - identifying stuff, basically), tho anythin’ else is pretty much on the table rn.

fandoms: oh, fandoms my beloved. my main fandoms atm (for both reading & writing, tho some r only reading while some r only writing, etc. etc.) are cuphead (i have way too much worldbuilding for this one au of mine that branches off into so many aus of the au, its genuinely gettin a lil crazy /pos /lh; i write fic for this one, aswell- in fact, its kinda my main writing-for fandom atm ^^), the hobbit (bagginshield my beloved i love you shjshsjehejs - i also dable vaguely in lotr (mainly gimli/legolas + parentshield tbh lmao) but its mostly js the hobbit for me), good omens (i love the ineffables i love s1 & s2 & HSJSHSJSHSJ i js love it like. all around. fuck gaimon tho, death of the author tyvmm), my hero academia/boku no hero academia (i dont engage w fandom much other then a few fanfic writers’ blogs here on tumblr & ao3 fanfic lmao XD; love the anime tho), harry potter (FUCK jkr, speaking as a brit myself none of us claim her, the transphobes can have her, we dont want her /lh - love the (good parts of) fanbase tho. ive actually made some rly good fic-writer friends thru it over on discord lmao), & ofc rise of the guardians!!! (fuckin love that thing, so sad there was never a second move :sadblob: love playin around w fanon/fandom lore tho, & i LOVE jackrabbit (bunnymund/jack) its my main ship in the fandom, tho im a multishipper so im also kinda partial to some other ones ofc)

ocs, art/drawing, writing, blog specific: not entirely sure what this one’s asking/if its actually a question, but imma answer it any lolol XD. anygays - ocs: i have a few cuphead ocs, but none of ‘em r self-inserts & all only rly exist bc of/for/to enhance/move forward the plot of my (main) cuphead au, tho ofc theyre still ocs - love ‘em like my children even if i dont love ‘em as much as i do the canon characters, snirk. art/drawing: i do draw, tho i rarely post any of my art, and one or two times i have its usually bc im js proud enough of it to want to share it, ehehe. writing: i write. so much fanfic. none of its posted, but i have so many wips i frankly dont know when any one of ‘em will be, sooo… shrug. blog specific: my blog isnt rly “specific”; its more js a place for me to enage w cool art & fics & such & reblog stuff i like on here as well as probably self-promo my own fics & such, as well as js a place to put my random ramblings in XD.

story snippets & prompts: oh, i love ‘em!! always nice 2 get a new burst of writing motivation ::D

pets: ohhh, cats. i love cats. had one for a while for around a good two years or so but after he injured his paw & we had 2 keep him inside for 3 weeks straight, the flightly lil bugger’s runaway. he (might’ve; still don’t know for sure whether it rly was him or not, but he apparently responded to his name from my mother’s accounts, so :shrug:) came back in the middle of the night a week or so ago now, but idtk whether he’s dead, alive, or js been taken in by some other family who thinks he’s a stray. :sigh:

gardening & hobbies: i don’t garden, and as for hobbies… not much, rly. i like writing fic, i like reading, i like going on (short, i have shite stamina) walks every other day or so, i like talkin w my few friends. like i said, not much. ::)

like being tagged in things: yes, i do! and as for what… anything, rly! tag games, fic wip games, askbox/ask games, im good w ‘em all! ::D

thx for the ask; have a good day/night/timezone!! ::>

[brrrkdslek]

not a post i just need to vent a bit.

i remember when i just started middle school, i was super nervous and felt like absolute shit. i didn't know anyone since i transferred from a different primary school so i was absolutely fucked. but i met a few friends and one of them, judy.

judy was a sweet girl and she was a bit awkward and weird, nevertheless it made me grow more fond of her. we spent the entire year together growing closer and doing more things together, i even went to an anicon in cosplay with her, we even became each other's best friend.

but a year later, her change started to show. she said she didn't like the name judy and changed it to eryn, of course i brushed it off and said it's cool. she also cut her hair and looked a bit more different from judy. from then on, judy and eryn became two people.

we were in class when she suddenly told me about getting a binder. at first, i thought she meant a binder as in folder for her notes and worksheets and i was confused. she clarified and said it was a binder for her chest, like the bandage. i didn't make any comments and just took it in. i wasn't disgusted, or happy to be frank. i was just fairly confused, but of course i supported her the entire way.

a while after that she told me about wanting to transition, we were 13-14 at the time so it was really shocking news for me, especially since the place we resided in is not fond of trans people, it made me worried. i told her how it's a tad bit too early for her to make that decision and the journey towards it would be hard. she told me it's fine and she could do it, adding that she felt more comfortable that way.

sometime after, she dropped the news of transferring to a new school. i was shocked and my other friends were too. she said that the workload was too much and she didn't care if she was in a bad school, as long as she was happy. i was a bit reluctant but still supported her, giving her a small smile.

after she changed schools, we talked less but she'd come visit us sometimes after school. a while after i heard from a friends that she changed her name again to quinn, something about being male and female? we met a while after and she told me how she could wear pants for the uniform instead of the skirt like the other girls. i told her it was cool but she said she went back to the shop to but the pants secretly after her parents bought her the skirt uniform.

i was a bit appalled since her mother and i were also close and i knew she was having a hard time with money. she works 5(?) jobs to provide for her and her little brother and also her dog, which she got as an emotional support from her therapy suggestions. i then learnt she wasn't taking her adhd meds and i honestly didn't know what to say, so i didn't.

at that point, me and friends slowly started to distance ourselves from her since she was acting so weird. she was always excited to talk about how the people in her school would ask if she's a girl or boy and she'd act mysterious and not answer. maybe it's just me but i felt that she was using this 'transgender' thing to her entertainment. like she wanted people to question her gender and identity and she was having fun with it.

my friends agreed with me saying it wasn't fair to other transgender people that actually go through so much shit just to he comfortable in their own bodies. she was just playing around and making fun out of being 'transgender' to which i should add is not even true.

quinn then developed feelings for another friend in our group, M, and wrote self-insert fanfics of them. it made M uncomfortable and weirded out so all of us just stopped communicating with her as much as we could.

i was on a cruise one night with my family to celebrate my mom's coworker or something i didn't even know. i had a few too many drinks then and dialled her number. we chatted a bit and i was still drinking, then i suddenly blurted out that i was in love with her, which is not true. i just said it in the heat of the moment and blacked out.

i heard from another friend that i wasn't supposed to know she was in love with M since she didn't want to hurt my feelings. i was a bit angered that moment cause i thought she was being narcissistic, to which it had been two months after the incident. maybe i was being a huge bitch and i was the real narcissist but i was really mad she felt the need to 'care' for my feelings.

she went out with another friend, C, a while later and they had a good chat. quinn asked what she thought about trans people and C replied saying most of them are cool, except for the really weird ones. weird as in toxic and the cringe ones you see on tiktok. quinn got offended and yelled at C telling her trans people are also people and that she was being transphobic. C was incredibly upset and cried to us afterwards.

it was around christmas last year when quinn called me crying, telling me she was sorry for being a bitch and making me and the others hate her. i told her we didn't hate her and we just don't support the things she's doing and saying now.

i created a separate group chat with all the friends including quinn and she apologised to everyone. i thought it would've been resolved but my friends started to hate me and said i was a traitor for telling quinn all the things we said about her, which wasn't true. but they distanced themselves from me and i heavily blamed quinn for it, even thought it wasn't her fault.

some time after new years, quinn's school had a casual wear day and she was telling me how excited she was for it. i scrolled on instagram on that day after school and cringed when i saw her wear a maid dress to school. again, maybe it's just something wrong with me but i couldn't help but feel the second-hand embarrassment, and the fact that she doesn't really have any real friends there makes it more awkward.

i screenshotted the picture and posted it in my close friends, not to make fun of her, but to just let out the cringing feeling i was feeling right then. my other friend, A, saw this and told quinn. they met one day after school and they were talking about how me and quinn were growing more distant from each other and that's when A showed her the picture. A told quinn to talk things out with me and communicate with each other.

i was a bit taken aback when i found a long text paragraph from quinn in my whatsapp just a day later, telling me i'm rude and bitchy for doing that to her and that she didn't want to be my friend anymore. i know calling her cringe was very mean and bitchy on my part and i wish i never did that.

we argued and i told her all my thoughts on her actions up until that point and she just kept calling me transphobic and a traitor. i got angry and told her that if she didn't want to fix things then she could just cut me off, she told me i was a bitch and only lived in my head.

it's been a year or so since this happened but i can never forget about her, not because of what she said but because of how i handled the situation. i was the person who taught her to be herself and do what she wanted but then i stab her in the back and tell people she's cringe and whatnot. i won't make excuses for myself but i really did cherish her and the friendship we had.

maybe this was also her fault, or maybe entirely mine but who knows? i just feel really sorry i made her feel that way, when i was the one she considered best friend. i hate myself for this, for ruining us. but i'm too much of a coward to apologise, when i know in my gut she was wrong on some parts.

maybe this is how it is, we meet and say goodbye. we teach each other things the other had never known. and when the time comes, we part, one way or another.

[all-pacas]

anyway here's the first little bit of my durge fanfic (where i'm actually trying to make tav. a character. and not. self insert. but also play with the blank slate thing. anyway it's fun.)

-

She wakes up to the bracing familiarity of pain. First clue: she.

Stumbling from her knees, ichor and bile in her mouth. Her hands are mottled with blood and bruises, fingernails jagged short. Arms: grayish blue. Purple with bruises. Face: wet, her palms black and red when she pulls them away.

She. Clothes: a shirt that may have once been bone white or ash gray. Trousers, dark. Boots, red soled and worn. Pouch at her hip: wet. Sticky. Red. Her stomach twists. She feels satisfied. She wants to taste it. To lick her fingers, suck marrow from her own bones.

Satisfied?

Something twists behind her eye. Sharp-bright in her head. You must move.

She does.

-

The evening after the crash, the five of them make camp in the woods, amidst arguments on where to go. But it’s dark, and they don’t know where they’re headed, and the air is filled with ash and putrefaction from the rotting ship.

Their parasites hum. Names are exchanged. Wizard, male, human. Abnormally pale high elf; a magistrate in the city. Cleric with a disinterest in small talk. Githyanki warrior with even less. Gale does his best. Shadowheart is at least polite in her dismissals; Astarion pithy. Everyone’s gaze is watchful.

Their last is silent. Gale asks her something simple, something innocuous. She looks up from the fire, eyes wide and startled. “I don’t know,” she says.

“Memory loss isn’t as uncommon as you might think,” Shadowheart tells her. The knowledge of the other woman’s amnesia has somehow softened her. “It could be the parasite, certainly. But that doesn’t appear to be the case with the rest of us…” her mouth almost, nearly twitches. “I don’t suppose you remember if your memory was better before the crash?”

“At least a name,” Astarion hums across the fire. “A name as delicate and beautiful as you are?”

She looks at him and imagines him in the flames between them, screaming and twisting and crackling to ash. Choking on his own boiling blood, his tongue —

Astarion sees her shudder of disgust. He feels a twinge of anxiety and suppresses it.

“What do you know of yourself?” Gale asks. It is interesting in itself, of course: a mystery to solve, a puzzle to poke at. It is hardly casual dinner conversation, and yet beggars and choosers: Goddess knows the small talk isn’t exactly forthcoming.

The woman is a long time answering such a simple question. “I am… female.” She looks down at her bare forearms. Under the blood and bruises, her skin steel silver, knife white, ice blue. “I believe I am most likely Drow. Perhaps half.”

“Full blood, I’d wager,” Gale says: he sees what she can not. Her hair has been hacked and cropped, but is silvery under the dried blood. Her eyes a pale white: there is no color at all to her besides the bruises and stains. But her ears are too sharp to be part-human, her features too strong.

She nods. Relieved to have more to add to her list.

Lae’zel watches with little interest: she can barely understand the myriad distinctions those of the mortal plane use to classify herself. All four of these people look alike to her: fleshy and bulbous and unnatural shades of pink and gray. She pities the woman for her lack of knowledge and heritage.

But she remembers, too, the Mindflayer ship. Leaping upon the woman to strike first, and watching her dart back, her hands bloody to the elbows and strange, pale eyes void of all intent. Remembers watching her hold an imp down with her boot as she tore the thing’s wings from its back.

It is not the savagery that strikes Lae’zel. It is no more than the creatures deserved. It is her eyes, the emptiness in her expression. Her strange, round pupils had been pinpricks in a sea of ice. It is at odds with this humanoid now. Her fingers digging into her knees.

“Tav,” the woman says suddenly. “I think… that sounds right. I think… I might have been called Tav.”

She was not.

-

They push inland at the first strike of dawn, having rested fitfully or not at all. Gale takes lead but finds it immediately tiring: to need consider others and communicate his plans, rather than strike off alone. But the others are even less inclined. “We must find people,” he decides for them all. “They will perhaps have a healer among them, a shrine to some useful goddess - or better knowledge of the area, at least.” He says this to pacify Lae’zel, who scowls.

“A crèche remains our only option, but you are not incorrect that the locals around here might point us in the correct direction.”

Gale forces a smile. This is exactly what he just said, he refrains from pointing out. Did she really need to rephrase it for the sake of her ego? Beggers, he reminds himself. Choosers.

Shadowheart and Tav do not object to this plan, the former for whatever reasons of her own and the latter because Gale suspects she barely has agency, let alone a name.

They find a dirt track soon enough, helpfully laden with cart tracks. Unfortunately, they are city folk to the last, and none of them have any real idea how to determine which way to follow: Lae’zel confidentially proclaims north, Gale throws in with her for the appearance of unity, and the rest go along.

Astarion is chatty in the morning sunlight, trying out lines on the women and complaining genially about mud and dirt on his boots. He is the first to make a crucial discovery, as they all suddenly feel a flash of incredulity and disbelief, pain and flushed cheeks.

“You have a sunburn, I think,” Shadowheart says dryly.

Astarion blinks. His cheeks red and striking. “I confess, I do not spend much time... traipsing about the countryside.”

“Did anyone else feel that?” Tav asks, suddenly excited: to feel, for the surprise of pain and heat and confusion. It is almost like a memory.

“It appears our little friends are still sharing information between them,” Gale surmises, familiar enough with the concept.

Within an hour, Astarion has figured out how to do it on purpose, sending every little ache and blister to the rest of them until, exasperated, Shadowheart suggests a break.

[ramennoodlezzzao3]

nobody asked me to answer, but I’m gonna anyways 😝

🎱 ⇢ post your AO3 total stats 

Idk how to do that lol

🍓 ⇢ how did you get into writing fanfiction?

I couldn’t find any fics that I wanted bc I’m too specific, so I started writing. It was purely for fun and I wasn’t fully thinking about the fact that people might actually read it AND enjoy it lol

  🌵 ⇢ share the link to a playlist you love

me and some of my moots from TikTok created this playlist lol (it’s, like, 14 hours long)

🕯️ ⇢ on a scale from 1 to 10, how much do you enjoy editing? why is that? Idk what that means but ima go off of what I’m thinking and that is just editing while proof reading and I enjoy it! 10/10

🛼 ⇢ describe your latest wip with five emojis

🙏👉😁🔥💀 (no, it’s not abt the burning church 💀🙏)

🥑 ⇢ you accidentally killed somebody, which mutual(s) do you text for help?

I’m new here, I have no EXTREMELY close moots so idk. But @paul-ster seems pretty chill so probably them (

🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love

I HAVE SO MANY I LOVE! But if I had to choose rn Soracha for the author and “Ron Weasley and His First Year at Hogwarts” by snoopy_owl. Two of my favs!

💌 ⇢ how many unread emails do you have right now? 

none, believe it or not. I constantly check it for ao3 updates. But I also have three separate yt accounts so I get regular emails abt comments and updates and I normally check them everyday. The only exception is one email I use for spam sites like grammarly, that email has 408 unread emails.

🌻 ⇢ tag someone you appreciate but don't talk to on a regular basis

@fictionalcharactergraveyard

🐇 ⇢ do you prefer writing original characters, reader inserts, or a mix of both? 

ooo, neither tbh. Unless its a one-shot or a mini fic where I add a S/O or like my unpublished Uber fic where I had to add several OG characters, I don’t like adding new ones bc I think it disrupts the story a lot and I normally don’t read fics when people do that. And personally, unless it’s the ones that are supposed to be halrious and satire, I think self-inserts are kinda cringey bc most people who write them over-sexulize the characters and add weird stuff in that makes me cringe (key word: MOST not ALL) but also I just cant imagine myself dating someone let alone my comfort characters.

🧃 ⇢ share some personal lore you never posted about before

I don’t think I have any

🎲 ⇢ what stops you from writing more in your free time?

I just can’t get into the writing mood. But when I start it’s really hard to stop

  🍄 ⇢ share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings

PURLY! I love to think Curly calls pony “Mi Amor” or like calls him pet names in Spanish. I think it’s really cute

🧸 ⇢ what's the fastest way to become your mutual?

literally don’t be fake as hell. Don’t be all shy and sweet like, if you are comeback or Yapping king/queen then tell me bc we can yap together. Like, If I can call you Pookie within the first four interactions, we are besties, considered us married at that point

🪐 ⇢ name three good things going on in your life right now

I’m redecorating my room, I got a new puppy, and- wait, bitch, who gives a fuck, let’s be honest 💀🙏

📚 ⇢ what's the last thing you wrote down in your notes app?

can’t say bc it’s an unpublished chapter of a on going fic 😝

  🍬 ⇢ post an unpopular opinion about a popular fandom character

Harry Potter is kinda an ass

🔪 ⇢ what's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

I don’t write anything too bizarre so I can’t think of anything

🦷 ⇢ share some personal wisdom or a life hack you swear on

strive to accomplish what you set as a goal, not what society set as a standard or a must

❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best?

My comfort character gets ignored hard core, makes new friends, get into shenanigans, and then a lot of angst ensues. Who would write it best? Mmm…Fictionalcharacter graveyard or Soracha

🌿 ⇢ give some advice on writer's block and low creativity

if you have a scene you want to write for a fic, start writing it but ONLY WRITE THE DIALOGUE. You can add who said it but I do it all the time and it gives me new ideas and gradually helps me continue a fic. It’s also easier to add detail in between when you are focused on that instead of getting to the next dialogue scene.

🥐 ⇢ name one internet reference that will always make you laugh 

Nick Sturniolos iconic “Then he will taste the rainbow while he goes out”

🏜️ ⇢ what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

“I LOVE THIS, I CAN’T WAIT FOR ANOTHER CHAPTER!” Then they go on an entire yap session about how they think the fic will turn out or parts they’re excited for. It always makes me happy to see someone enjoy my hobby as much as I do even though we have different perspectives 🤭

🍦 ⇢ name three good things about a character you hate

Alr, ik im gonna get backlash but i cant stand Cherry Valence. 1. I will give it to her, she’s a downright badass.

2. her hair is really pretty

3. She was nice to pony at the drive in, I’ll give her some points (still don’t like her too much tho)

🥝 ⇢ do you lie a lot? what's the most recent lie you told?

Not much. Okay, this is gonna sound so fricking clique but that last lie I told was “Yeah, I’m fine, just tired” even though I know damn well I’m probably depressed asf

🦋 ⇢ share something that has been on your heart and mind lately

I have only older siblings and every time one moves out, I stop talking to them so I don’t become the annoying youngest sister, so I’m afraid their gonna forget about me, and they probably will. I only have two siblings that still live with me so that’s only two more people left to forget me before I’m totally alone lol. (Depressed, see?)

  🦴 ⇢ is there a piece of media that inspires your writing? 

book writers that can describe really well.

🍅 ⇢ give yourself some constructive criticism on your own writing

I think I’m too impatient and give myself an unrealistic deadline for stuff

🐚 ⇢ do you like or dislike surprises?

I like them a lot!

🪲 ⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here

I’ll add that later lol

☁️ ⇢ what made you choose your username?

it was a name my family wouldn’t be able to find. I’m embarrassed to write bc my family LOVES to pick out your insecurities and hobbies and never let you live them down.

🐝 ⇢ tag your biggest supporter(s) and say one nice thing about them

again, I’m new here, so nobody here is my “supporter” but @shae-pine has liked all of my posts so ig them? I got to say, that “The Youngest (The Favorite)” fic I really liked! Ur also just the sweetest person ever! 😭🫶🏻

🌸 ⇢ do you have any pets? if you do, post some pictures of them

I have 7 (I had 8 but my cat passed away yesterday, RIP in the comments for Sophie 🩵)

I won’t post pics because that’s a large file 😭🙏

🎨 ⇢ link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it

I DONT HAVE THE LINK BUT I LOVE THIS

🧩 ⇢ what will make you click away from a fanfiction immediately?

self insert, too much OOC scenes, pairings I don’t like, oc’s/characters unless it’s the character I’m reading abt, pure smut or p*rn, over sexulization or romanticizing R*pe, over detailed non-con, specific characters are dead, and the fic doesn’t focus on a character that I wanna read about.

[jariktig]

What happens on AO3 (stays on AO3)...

So, I have finally hit the end condition for my TF pairings sample - I’d estimated I’d have to go through about 100 pages of AO3 search (or around 4% of the total) to get to the point of finding 10 pages with no new pairings.  It actually took 357, or around 15% of the total, or around a year’s worth of fics to search and some days of my free time, so I am going to get some use out of it if it kills me!  Accordingly, while I’m waiting for Tumblr to give me polls so that I can run the Rare Pairs Battle Royale that was the original intent of the thing, I present  some silly analysis, below the cut because it’s a bit long.

First, some caveats:

1.  This is based entirely on fanfics as presented on AO3; no FFN, no Wattpad, no LJ etc and no canonicity except insofar as the patterns on AO3 match those in canon (which is very firmly left as an exercise for the reader);

2.  It’s a sample survey, taken at a single point in time (around early Feb 2023; could look more exactly if anyone’s desperate to know).  That means there will be some pairings that have appeared since (@quetzapapalotl’s Optimus Prime/Primus frex) and some that I’ve not yet picked up (a couple that I remember because I liked the relevant fics are Megatron/The Nemesis and Laserbeak/Swoop).  That said, the big conclusions should be pretty robust at this stage and the list of rare pairs also won’t be greatly off.  As an extra check I can put up a link to the latter and ask people to suggest additions;

3.  I’ve excluded relationships including OCs (because I’d included foreign language fics and so reading through all the individual ones to try to disambiguate OCs was beyond me; also I didn’t want to read through a large number of Prowl/OC fics and the like), and relationships including generic types of TFs such as Vehicon or Seeker (on the premise that those are effectively OCs with backstory).  I’ve also excluded TF/human relationships including reader self-insert for similar reasons.  Non-OC TFs are defined as those findable on TFWiki.

Right, on with the actual findings:

1.  There are at least 639 individual pairings in TF fandom as represented on AO3; of those, around 12% (at least 146) are one-fic wonders whose supporters I can only salute.  The median number of fics per pairing is 7, which is surprisingly low.  (I’d been thinking of my favourite Megatron/Jazz as “rare”, but it’s only just outside the top quartile in reality).   At the other end of the scale, there are 55 pairings with over 100 fics and 4 with over 1000.  All of this is not nearly so impressive as the combinatorics someone did in the great TF/Homestuck discussion, but I expect that is my own fault for excluding OCs, vehicons and the like.  Also, if someone wants to repeat this trick for Homestuck I’ll gladly compare results, but I know my limits.

2.  The most popular pairing (somewhat to my surprise) is Jazz/Prowl, with 2632 fics.  Megatron/Optimus Prime (including Megatron/Orion Pax etc and correcting for overlaps) comes to 2407, Megatron/Starscream 1783, and Drift (Deadlock)/Ratchet 1386.

3.  At a faction level, Autobots have more fun, even if corrected for the fact that the population of named Autobots is higher than the same for Decepticons: using lists of named G1 characters as a rough proxy for population likely to appear on AO3, Autobots get 2.4 relationships per capita and Decepticons 2.3.  Which is not that different, but Autobots also get 126 fics per capita, as opposed to the Decepticons’ 104.  Decepticon advocates (including me) point out here that how much sex you have is not necessarily related to how much fun you have in the process, but still.  Neutrals are harder to do pop stats for, but on the face of it underrepresented, and the Variable category for people who canonically shift factions during the war or whose name is shared with other TFs from the opposite faction is definitely overrepresented.  That last one is entirely a function of Drift (Deadlock).

4.  Still at a faction level (and again correcting for population), inter-faction relationships are definitely more popular than intra-faction ones, with 0.35% of the theoretically possible inter-faction pairings actually appearing on AO3 and only 0.26% of the intra-faction ones.  Must be the lure of the forbidden, or something.  Also clearly a lot of untapped potential out there.

5.  More on this to come when I’ve done the arithmetic properly, but at a glance the most obviously underrepresented group is beastformers.

6.  At an individual level, I have a few awards to give out:

The Little Black Dress Award for the TF who goes with absolutely anything (credit to @cleverthylacine for the name) goes to Megatron, by some distance and on either of the obvious metrics; he has 53 pairings and 6484 fics (correcting for overlaps again).  He can presumably store the trophy with the Best Wife one...  Vying for second place, Optimus Prime and Starscream with 35 pairings each; Starscream has 4843 fics and Optimus 4736 so it’s Starscream by an Insecticon’s whisker.  And also close for fourth and fifth, Prowl (29 pairings, 3583 fics) and Ratchet (25 pairings, 3439 fics).  Slightly stunned that Rodimus isn’t in the top 5, but there it is.

The Serial Monogamy Award for the TF with the highest ratio of fics to pairings goes to Chromedome (676 fics across 2 pairings, with Rewind and Prowl).  I’m pretty sure this surprises exactly nobody.  Second is Breakdown, with 969 fics across 4 pairings - Knockout and Starscream are the big ones, but Motormaster and Drag Strip also feature.  And third is Tailgate, with 735 fics across 4 pairings (Cyclonus, Whirl, Arcee, Glyph).  Nobody else anywhere near, once you correct for the fact that Orion Pax is also Optimus Prime.  Soundwave: a sufficiently superior husband to be paired up with 23 other TFs, which reduces the ratio somewhat.

The Lifetime Monogamy Award for the TF with the most fics given that they have only a single pairing goes jointly to Anode and Lug, who have 76 fics together and no pairings with anyone else on either side. Second is Chase, with 56 fics in Chase/Heatwave (not shared with Heatwave, who has quite a few other pairings; I hope that’s a properly negotiated deal).  Third a three-way tie between Airazor/Tigatron (28 fics, no other pairings for either) and Devcon (28 fics with Smokescreen, who has quite a few other pairings).

The Jack Harkness Fragging with Added Space-Time Award goes to Megatron, Optimus Prime, Brainstorm and Tarn, all of whom feature as their own partners in more than one fic.

And that’s all I’ve got for the moment.  Next steps: do ntuples for N>2, add mech/femme and frametype/group/combiner to the set so that I can cut by those, try to work out a quicker way of repeating the exercise for pairs including humans, and wait for tumblr to give me polls.  Drop me a line if you’ve questions or suggestions for future analysis.

[foodie-husker]

2, 7, 13, 14, 34, 35 for the writing ask game please?

Oh wow! Thats a lot of numbers 😯

2, talk about a notable time a narrative or character has looked you dead in the eyes and said “fuck your plan, here’s what we’re actually doing.” none recently, but a story I wrote in high school went this way. A side character stepped up and shifted the whole dynamic becoming the main character

7, tell us about the plot of the first fanfic you ever wrote. Aha 😅😅 um..ahem... officially it's a short reader insert smut fic about a puritan and a witch. Buuuuut we don't have to talk about that.

13, talk about a writing experience that has pleasantly surprised you. Actually making a friend from it! @dammit-karev liked and commented their way right into my heart

14, what’s your worst writing habit? straight up forgetting to edit sometimes 😅 and just setting it loose

34, how do you name characters and places? I have a few methods, either looking at lists for a setting I have in mind or horribly flying by the seat of my pants and making up a name that sounds like a fart that I have to change later (Sorry Ashe, if you know their previous name, no you don't.)

35, tell us about a character who’s very different than you who you love a whole lot. I usually gravitate to characters that are similar to me. But I guess...Niffty. she loves many of the things I hate (cleaning, bugs, being heterosexual), but I just love her unhinged energy and unabashed sense of self.

Thanks for the ask! 🩷

[foralleternityidiot]

SHIPPER TAG GAME

tagged by @negrowhat

1. What ship were you completely obsessed with when you were a teenager, but now you don't care anymore?

Hmmmm. I wasn’t the biggest shipper as a teenager and all the ships I did obsess over still own my fucking soul. I ship for life.

2. Which ship would you consider your first one?

That’s a toss up between Monica x Chandler (Friends), Mulder x Scully (The X Files), Cory x Topanga (Boy Meets World), and Rick x Evie (The Mummy) I can’t remember which came first because they all were pretty simultaneous.

3. Your first fanfic belonged to which couple?

Romione. Although I remember dabbling in writing fan fiction in a spiral bound notebook at the age of 14, it was always sort of self-insert non-romantic LOTR character building. My first actual fanfiction (reading and/or writing) was Ron x Hermione when I was 19.

4. Do you remember the first couple you saw a fanart over?

100% LOTR… but I don’t remember which pairing. Probably like Frodo x Sam or Legolas x Gimli, but I didn’t get into MM shipping until I was a full blown adult about to finish college.

5. Did you ever get into ship discourse?

Somewhat when I was in the Glee fandom but that fandom was a clusterfuck of ship discourse. I pretty much lived on the corner of fuck off and leave me alone.

6. Did you used to have any no-otp or have it currently?

Maybe? But I didn’t really care too much about looking at anything outside my own ship OR I was a multi-shipper. So I don’t really remember a specific notp. I’m sure there were some though. There was so much trash in the glee fandom, I’m sure I hated something.

7. Who were the couple in the last fanfic you read?

I haven’t touched a fan fic in over 10 years so (I should get a chip!) the last one I read was likely Klaine. Holy shit wtf time has flown.

8. Currently, do you have any OTPs?

Approximately 1.9 billion. Oh you want names? Well Hualian (TGCF), Wangxian (MDZS) and most recently Ranning (2ha) are the top three out of the 1.9 billion. Remember, I collect ships and keep them in my heart for all eternity.

9. Is there any couple that, to this day, you are extremely mad about not getting together?

Sam x Jack (Stargate SG1). It’s somewhat implied but my god I still yearn.

10. Is there any ship you used to dislike but now you think they are kind of interesting?

I didn’t dislike Cory x Shawn but I didn’t really get it back in the Girl Meets World hay day and it wasn’t even on my radar at all during Boy Meets World. (Remember, I’m old and the internet was not what it is now during my youth so I didn’t even know about the Cory x Shawn ship for literally decades). Sometime after GMW ended and tiktok became popular there was a resurgence of BMW popularity and a lot of CxS analysis that opened my eyes. I enjoy the ship now but I’m still Cory x Topanga 4eva.

11. Do you have any ship that, in the past, was considered normal but now you would be cancelled over?

Tbh not really. I used to be pretty boring. I definitely have some in the present that would though. 🤐

12. What was your favorite crack ship?

There were so many in the Glee fandom but I gotta go with Sebastian x Cooper just because it brought two of my friends together in a RP group and they ended up actually getting married. Ah… memories. I’m gonna tag @believesinponds in this post for the nostalgia.

13. Who is the couple you read more fanfics of?

None. But if I did it would absolutely be wangxian or hualian. Don’t fucking tempt me.

14. What most of your ships usually have in common?

In the past: Canonical.

Now: Canonical and Queer.

15. What do you absolutely hate in a ship?

Im gonna keep was Eboni wrote because it’s spot on: “Miscommunication and the noble idiocy trope.”

I'll tag @believesinponds @linameka @ommited-miscellaneously @ipromisedthesunset @kennyomegasweave @youdontnohme

[ofmermaidstories]

merm...bkg hunger games au....

okay so here are my initial thoughts:

1) im actually probably way too into the hunger games to be having this discussion lmfaoooo. im too into it, it’s too perfect, i love it too much. it is basically the pinnacle of all YA and i will fight literally everyone on that.

2) so with the first point in consideration, are we talking like a strict 1:1 AU? Setting it in New America/Panem? Districts with distinct specialities? Commentary about reality TV and modern entertainment entwined with like, the trauma that comes with war and trying to break free of generational curses and etc etc etc? RE: reality TV, I do think we could probably modernise that just a teeny weeny little, to include like, idk, some bullshit about how we’re always under constant surveillance and how we no longer have the time/option to be unavailable (because we’re so connected!). and since we’re like, apart of an actual fandom, maybe we could throw in some stuff about how our more privileged/sheltered audience members would engage in like, stan culture about all these dying kids, LOL. Shipping wars that ends bitterly because one half of the pairing like, idk, clubs the other to death LMAO. Real People Fanfic and the culture war that would come from that (people having a problem with RPF of the tributes bc they’re real people, but like also conveniently like… forgetting they’re real people who are being forced into a death match). would we throw in a line about Reader and/or Bakugou discovering self-insert Gamefic? lmao no wait i made myself snort, we’re absolutely keeping that LMAO. anyways im gonna cut myself off here bc otherwise i will ramble on, but that brings us to point numero-threeo—

3) i recently rewatched Battle Royale (a “random” class entered wins a yearly lottery then dumped on a remote island where they have three days to murder each other—all in the name of keep the status-quo, etc etc, also this is somehow a solution to sky-high unemployment rates etc etc etc.). if we kept the Quirks then like, you could spin it as a dystopian AU where people are fearful of quirks being too powerful, so then ya death-match children are pulled from hero classes and we make Reader end up in there accidentally or something, and oh no! they’re also quirkless (and defenceless hehe).

4) idk. i know i was like hehe i like war! but like, i don’t know how to emphasise how much i love the hunger games LMAO. and how that love sort of translates into the same fierceness i feel about BNHA, when it comes to fanfic—that the canon characters have certain inevitabilities you have to honour. just like no matter the universe, we are always going to need a Bakugou who’s centered around his friends (Deku, always, in any capacity. Kirishima, the first equal he had. Shouto, his frustrating Bestie <3), to me the hunger games works as well as it does because it’s war through the lens of relationships. Gale as the danger of unhealed anger, Peeta as choosing peace—like… that’s the magic of THG to me, and i just…… like…… what are we gonna do with the relationships, with a BNHA cast? 🥺 What would Bakugou be? Do we start with a Bakugou who’s still in Bastard Mode? Has he gone through his canon growth by the time he and Reader meet? If he has, then how was that facilitated in our new world? Did he and Deku end up in the same game? Survive together somehow? How many of their peers and friends do they lose, or does that come later on? How do we fit Reader into that dynamic naturally? the romance in THG happens through like, a need to play the game, play it up for the cameras, but it’s born out of Peeta’s very real feelings for Katniss, that started when they’re kids, and I’m not a childhood friends-to-lovers person (writing wise). The “romance” (if u can call it that) in Battle Royale is probably more culpable to what i do (vague awareness of each other/one-sided crush, grows as they prop each other up) but… idk!!! idk!!!! we could just write up Bakugou and Reader sharing a cave and making out over a festering wound but like…. idk!!! i believe in earning our kisses. 😌 show me the build up in the war-torn society first, and then maybe we can have a kiss later on, lmfaoooo.