#new year new.. font size lol

[jichanxo]

sunday six :D

taking the initiative for a change.... so i'm going to boop @four-white-trees @passthroughtime @skysquid22 @overdevelopedglasses

chipping away at sensei fic this week! here's kitakata and yagami making out lol excuse my bluntness... don't feel obligated to read if you're not into that o7

Yagami reached for Kitakata’s arm, found his hand, and guided it to his hip. Yagami pulled away from the kiss.

“Touch me, would you?”

Kitakata’s breath was warm on his lips. “Where would you like it?”

“Figure it out yourself.” He said and kissed him again. Kitakata didn’t seem to complain. His fingers slipped under the hem of Yagami’s shirt, meeting skin. He touched along the base of his spine, and Yagami couldn’t suppress the slight shiver that went through him. He could only imagine how gratifying this was for Kitakata. Hell, just seeing Yagami checking him out probably made his whole week, now this. He’d never be able to stop him from flirting now.

Yagami leaned into Kitakata’s hold, into his mouth, against that eager tongue. He was about to make Kitakata’s whole damn year.

[the-winter-spider]

What I Have | B. Barnes

Word Count: 2.5k

Warning: Probably the fluffiest piece ive written lol

A/N: I was listening to What I Have by Kelsea Ballerini and well here we are lol

—-

The year was 2024, over one hundred years since you were born—105, to be exact. Your life hadn’t turned out at all like you had dreamed or hoped it would.

You were supposed to marry the boy next door once the war was done. You’d picked out your wedding dress while window shopping with your best friend, even before he proposed. You made a scrapbook, meticulously curating hairstyles and makeup looks, debating over the choices as if they were the most pressing decisions in the world.

You sketched out your dream house, selecting the colors, the flowers for the front garden, and the vegetables you would surely grow in the back. You even chose the font for your new last name on the mailbox.

You had each of your children’s names picked out—three, to be exact. Two boys and one girl, you had hoped. Everything was a dream, but it seemed so close, so possible, as if it should have been a reality. You should be dead by now, having lived a full life, with your children who should have been walking the earth with their children, your grandchildren.

But everything went wrong. Literally, everything possible went wrong.

Bucky fell off a train and died. He actually fell off a train, and they declared him dead. In reality, he had lost his arm, survived the fall because Hydra had already experimented on him. They brainwashed him, like something out of a twisted fairy tale, turning him into a deadly assassin. Your beautiful, blue-eyed Bucky, your sweet Bucky, became a killer. A Bucky you would never see again, because even though he was still here, and you were so thankful for that, he would never be your Bucky again.

And then there was Steve. Of course, Steve found him, because of course! And let’s not forget that your best friend, Steve, who was once smaller than you, was injected with a serum that not only tripled his size but turned him into a superhero because, yes, apparently those needed to exist. Of course, he went off to war, driven by a need for revenge for his best friend, your fiancé Bucky. And of course, he had to be noble, going down for the cause, leading everyone to believe he was dead. But of course, he wasn’t. They found him, frozen but alive, because he was Captain America, and that’s just what happens.

And then there was you, consumed by grief, first losing the love of your life and then your best friend. You begged, on your knees, begged Howard Stark to use you as his test subject for cryogenic testing. You couldn’t bear to be here without your boys. He hesitated because he loved Steve, and he knew Steve wouldn’t want this for you. But when you threatened that if he didn’t, you would take your own life, he relented. So, of course, it worked because it was Howard, and he was a Stark. But decades passed, and the year he was supposed to wake you up, The Winter Soldier murdered him. So, as usual, you stayed frozen, but alive, until Howard’s son, Tony, found you in his father’s hidden lab.

You woke up to a world that was not your own, a century too late for the life you were supposed to live. The world had moved on, but you hadn’t. Your friends were legends now, mythologized beyond recognition. And you, well, you were the ghost of what could have been.

The years that followed were a blur of new faces, new battles, and new griefs. You tried to adapt, to find a place in this future that had no room for you. But every corner of this brave new world reminded you of the past, of the life that slipped through your fingers.

And then one day, while sifting through old boxes in Tony’s lab, you found something. It was an old, faded book, as soon as you saw the brown cover you heart dropped you knew what it was, it waa your scrapbook. The cover had an old faded photo of you, Bucky, and Steve, taken on a sunny day before the world went mad. You barely recognized the girl in the photo, with her bright smile and unbroken heart. But there she was, a relic of a time that now felt like a dream.

You realised then that maybe you didn’t belong in this world. Maybe you never did. But as long as you were here, you could try—try to make sense of the pieces left behind, to find some small measure of peace in the chaos.

And that’s exactly what you did. Even though you didn’t have the life you had once dreamed of, you still had them. And in what world does all that trauma happen, and you still end up alive with your boys?

You picked up the dusty book, holding it close to your heart, as you navigated through the compound, following the sound of laughter coming from the living room. You paused just outside the doorway, soaking in the warmth of his laugh—a sound you feared you might never hear again after Bucky began recovering from his trauma. But here it was, filling the room, and even though it wasn’t the same Bucky you knew decades ago, his laugh was unchanged, and it made your heart swell.

Rounding the corner, you saw Steve clutching his chest in joy, playfully shoving Sam, who was grinning widely.

Bucky’s eyes immediately found yours; he could always find you in any room. “Hi, doll,” he said, getting up to kiss your cheek and taking your hand to lead you to the couch.

“Hi, Buck. Hi, Stevie, Sammy,” you greeted them, settling in beside Bucky.

Sam rolled his eyes at the nickname. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Bucky glanced down at the book in your arms. “What’s that?”

Steve’s smile faded into something more serious as he noticed the book, instantly recognizing it. “Is that what I think it is?”

You nodded, feeling tears well up in your eyes. “Stark… he kept it. I haven’t opened it yet. I thought… I thought we could do it together.”

“What is it?” Sam asked, his curiosity piqued.

“It’s my life,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “There are a few pages of what I thought it would turn out to be… but after everything happened…” You paused, taking a steadying breath. The memories of losing Bucky and Steve were still fresh, no matter how much time had passed. “I never planned or dreamed of anything else. It just felt silly without you boys. So, I just filled it with photographs.”

“Photographs of who?” Sam asked, leaning forward.

“Everyone,” you replied softly, glancing between Bucky and Steve. “Peggy and Mrs. Rogers,” you said, meeting Steve’s gaze. You saw the emotion in his eyes at the mention of his mother. “Becca and Winnie, Mr. Barnes,” you continued, feeling Bucky tense slightly at the mention of his mother and sister, their faces now distant memories. “I even have Howard and the Commandos.” You smiled a little. “But mostly, it’s us—all of us.”

Bucky reached out, gently taking the book from your hands. His fingers brushed the worn cover, the room fell silent as the weight of the past settled around you all.

“Let’s open it together,” Steve suggested, his voice thick with emotion. He moved closer, his presence a steady anchor as you all gathered around the book. Sam stayed distant, letting the three of you have your moment but still staying there.

Bucky opened the cover, and the first page revealed a photograph of you, Bucky, and Steve, taken in a simpler time. The three of you looked so young, so hopeful. You felt Bucky’s hand tighten around yours as he stared at the image, memories rushing back. It was a photo from your 16th birthday, the day he had gifted you the book.

“I gave this to you,” Bucky said quietly, the realization settling over him.

You nodded. “For my birthday. You wrote…” You trailed off, pointing to the top left corner of the front of the book.

He read the words aloud, his voice filled with emotion. “Happy 16th birthday to my best girl. I hope you fill these pages with your hopes and dreams. I can only hope that somewhere in amongst them, I’ll be a part of it. With all the love, Bucky.”

Sam smiled, leaning back in his seat. “Who knew you were such a romantic, Buck?”

You watched as Bucky’s cheeks flushed a light shade of red at the comment, and you gave his knee a gentle squeeze, feeling the warmth of the old affection between you.

“For y/n, he was crazy,” Steve chimed in, grinning. “You should have seen him—head over heels is an understatement. Try obses—”

Before Steve could finish, Bucky reached behind you and gave him a playful shove. “Can it, Rogers,” he muttered, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Steve just laughed, catching himself before he toppled over. “You know it’s true.”

You chuckled, resting your head against Bucky’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

Bucky’s hand found yours again, his thumb tracing circles on your skin. “Neither would I.”

As you all shared a quiet moment, the weight of the years seemed to lift, replaced by the warmth of old memories and the comfort of the present. Bucky turned the page, revealing more photographs—snapshots of moments that had once seemed so ordinary but now felt like treasures.

The pages turned slowly, revealing a life that could have been—a wedding dress sketched out, a house with a picket fence, names of children that never came to be. And then, the photographs—snapshots of moments frozen in time. Peggy’s bright smile, Mrs. Rogers’ kind eyes, the mischievous grins of Becca and Winnie, Howard’s confident stance, the Commandos’ camaraderie. But the most frequent faces were your own, Bucky’s, and Steve’s, from a time when the world was both simpler and infinitely more complex.

Each image told a story. There was one of you and Steve dancing at a neighbourhood block party, both of you laughing so hard you could barely stand. Another showed Bucky in his military uniform, giving you a wink as he prepared to head off to basic training. Then there were pictures of Steve and Bucky goofing around, each trying to outdo the other in some silly stunt, and you caught in the middle, rolling your eyes but smiling all the same.

There were pictures of Bucky and you around the campfire on the night before everything changed—before he fell off the train. Bucky paused on that photo, his eyes lingering on it. “That was the night before…” he said softly.

You nodded, squeezing his hand, understanding the weight of those words.

“Night before what?” Sam asked, his voice gentle.

“Before I fell,” Bucky replied, those three words carrying a lifetime of pain and loss. The room grew still, the significance of that moment hanging heavy in the air. Sam didn’t say anything more, sensing the depth of emotion in Bucky’s words.

Bucky’s gaze remained fixed on the photo, his voice quiet as he continued. “It was the last time I felt so much joy… I feel it now, but it was different then.”

Steve nodded in agreement, his expression solemn. “I get it, Buck.”

“Me too,” you added, your voice trembling slightly. “I keep thinking about what was supposed to be, what should have been.” You paused, wiping a tear from your eye. “I don’t understand why it all happened the way it did—why I didn’t get the life I thought I was going to.”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky whispered, his hand gently reaching out to wipe away your tears, his touch as tender as it had always been.

The room fell into a reverent silence, each of you lost in your own thoughts, the weight of your shared history settling over you like a heavy blanket. Finally, Sam spoke, his voice soft and full of understanding. “You’ve lived a hell of a life.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you wiped away a stray tear. “It wasn’t what I planned,” you admitted, your voice thick with emotion. “But I wouldn’t trade it. Not if it meant losing this—losing you… both of you.”

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “We didn’t get the life we dreamed of, but we got each other. And that’s enough.”

Steve leaned back, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “We’ve been through so much, but we’re still here. Together.”

Sam smiled, the warmth in his expression offering a quiet reassurance. “That’s what matters in the end. Not what you lost, but what you’ve kept.”

“Till the end of the line,” Steve spoke, the words heavy with emotion and depth.

“Till the end of the line,” Bucky echoed, pulling you closer to his side.

You glanced around the room at the faces of the people who had become your family—the ones who had stood by you through the darkest of times.

As the pages of the scrapbook turned, the photographs shifted from black-and-white to colour, reflecting the passage of time. The images grew fewer as the years became harder, but each one was more precious because of it.

Finally, you reached the last page, where an empty space awaited a new photograph. You looked up at Bucky and Steve, both of them gazing at the book with a mix of nostalgia and gratitude.

“You should take a new photo,” Sam suggested, his voice soft but certain. “One to mark this moment.”

Bucky nodded, his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that melted away the years. “Yeah, we should.”

Steve grinned. “I’ll get the camera.”

As Steve stood to retrieve a camera, you leaned into Bucky, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your hand. This was the life you had, and it was more than enough. The empty space in the book was no longer a reminder of what was lost, but a promise of what was yet to come—a new chapter, filled with love, laughter, and the people who mattered most.

Sam took the camera from Steve, ready to take the picture. But just as he was about to snap the shot, you paused. “Wait!”

“What? You don’t have food in your teeth, but your hair…” Sam teased with a smirk.

“Well, I was going to say I want you in the picture too, but…” You trailed off

“No, no! I’m sorry, you’re beautiful… perfect—”

“Sam, watch it, that’s my girl,” Bucky warned, a protective edge to his voice.

Sam rolled his eyes, chuckling. “The whole world knows that, Buck.” He placed the camera on the tripod and took a seat beside Steve. “You sure you want me in this?”

“Of course, Sammy! You’re one of us now,” you insisted, smiling warmly at him.

Sam’s expression softened, and he nodded, touched by your words. As the camera clicked, capturing the four of you together, you knew that this was the memory that would fill that final page—the proof that even after everything, you still had your boys, old and new, and they still had you.

The book might never hold the life you once dreamed of, but it would hold the life you had lived—the one you had fought for, the one you had loved.

And that was more than enough.

[astermath]

hiya! i’m a really big fan of your stranger things work and I was wondering, if youre comfortable of course, a steve x reader period imagine where reader tried to hide their period from Steve, but he finds out and is super fluffy and sweet about it? thank you!

HAHAH wow i have let this ask stew in my inbox since last year thats CRAZY im so sorry my dear,, i was going through old asks and i rlly like this prompt actually so here u go, i hope u enjoy!!!!

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

tags: established relationship, obv mentions of periods / menstruation, reader is referred to as female, steve being dense at first lol, regular sized font below!

wc: 1.4K

notes: while the reader in this fic is female, i am well aware not everyone who has a period is a girl, and not everyone who's a girl has a period!

Steve is one attentive boyfriend.

It’s the early stages of your relationship, the golden era, the honeymoon phase. And while you’re a still a bit nervous about it all, you couldn’t be happier, because he does it all right.

He knows your favourite snacks, what music you like, what makes you laugh, what makes you cry. He’s starting to figure out your ins and outs, and it’s almost crazy how quickly he’s catching on. You have no reason to feel judged by him at any point, he truly is comfort poured into the shape of a person.

So then why are you staring at your phone right now, struggling to dial his number and just tell him why you can’t make it to your date?

It’s not usually this bad, at least it hadn’t been for a while, so why now, of all moments, must you be forsaken to be terrorised by your period?

You bite your lip, laying flat onto your bed, hand over your lower stomach. It's right where the pain is just gnawing at you, just like the guilt is. But you know you’d feel even guiltier if you just stood him up, he doesn’t deserve that. You sit up, a tad slowly to save yourself from another cramp, and swallow your nerves for now.

“I’ll just… Tell him I’m sick. Yeah… Yeah I can do that.” You think to yourself.

The combination of his number had started to feel natural to your fingers now, unlike how anxiously you pressed the buttons the first time, triple checking before finally pressing call. You're triple checking again now, more so because you're not sure you can handle hearing the defeat in his voice when you tell him you can't make it.

The phone barely gets a moment to ring before he picks it up, and his all too familiar sweet voice comes through the device.

"Hey babe, everything okay over there?"

You pause a moment before replying. "How did you know it was me calling?"

"Lover's intuition." He chuckles, and it makes your heart flutter. It's not fair how easy it is for him to do that to you, but you enjoy it nonetheless. "So, what's going on?"

"I, uh..." God, getting the words out is like pulling teeth. But you'd rather die than let him think you just got cold feet about your movie date. "I'm really not feeling too well right now, Steve... I'm-- I'm so sorry, I'm gonna have to cancel for tonight." Your eyes are welling up with tears before he even gets a chance to reply, just imagining his pretty face losing its bright expression when hearing your unfortunate news.

"Oh," damnit, he does sound sad, "that's okay, uhm... Is there anything I can do? What kinda sick is it?"

Shit, he's gonna make you say it, isn't he? You know Steve is a mature guy, he knows about periods, knows how they work, but you've been told to suck it up and get on with it before... A part of you is still disappointed that you just can't.

"U-Uhm... It's more like, a stomach thing, I guess?" It's the best way you can put it for now, hoping it'll put his worries to rest.

"Okay, I see..." You can nearly hear him thinking, the subtle noise of bags being moved and a fridge being opened coming through the phone. "Uh, how aboouuut... I come over to yours, and we just watch a movie at home? I still got a couple of tapes we haven't gotten to, and I can bring some light snacks that won't upset your stomach too much."

The thought of Steve caring for you while you're sick sends a warm feeling through your entire body. God, how does he just keep getting better? But you can't lie to him, right? It's not like you're really sick, unless you count the curse of menstruation as a symptom.

Before you get a chance to explain, he's talking again, and by the ruckus in the background you can only guess he's rushing to grab all his stuff. "I'll be heading out in a bit, I'll stop by the corner store too, stay put for me alright? See ya in a bit!"

You're sure he didn't realize he wasn't letting you talk, but frankly, you probably couldn't even come up with a response on time anyways. Right now, you just have to worry about looking somewhat presentable, and maybe figure out a way to tell him you're not actually sick.

By the time you've brushed your hair and brushed some mascara onto your lashes, you're already hearing the doorbell. You just manage to pull a fresh shirt over your head, before stumbling down the stairs and stopping in front of the door. With a deep, loaded, sigh you open it, to reveal your boyfriend.

Hair messed up, plastic bag in hand, jacket haphazardly thrown on. He clearly rushed to be here, still panting a little, but in your eyes, he's the image of your guardian angel, your saviour in need.

Before either of you know it, you're crying again, your freshly applied mascara now leaving thin black streaks over your cheeks. Your hands go up to cover your face, embarrassed, not even sure why you're sobbing all of a sudden. The feelings just hit you like a freight train, rocking you before you even have a time to rationalize.

Steve's expression falters, the bag he had in hand dropping to the floor in an instant, stepping in closer so he can carefully wrap his arms around you and pull you to his chest. Not too tight, he doesn't want to startle you. He's a bit distraught; he's really only seen you cry at a sad movie scene before, so he's a bit unsure as to what's caught you to be so upset right now.

"I-I'm sorry..." you manage to mutter through your incoherent sobs and sniffs, effectively ruining the front of his shirt in the process.

"Hey, hey..." His big hands go up to your face, gently cupping your wettened cheeks as he looks into your teary eyes. Hell, the image of you is almost enough to make him break too. "What're you sorry for? You can't help it that you're sick, right?"

The reminder of your lie makes you want to break eye contact in shame, but it's hard to force yourself to lose sight of that soft, caring gaze of his.

"I," sniff, "I lied, I'm so sorry Steve, I-- I'm not sick, I just... I have..."

He watches you expectedly, not upset, just curious. You'd surely have your reasons if whatever caused you to cancel is making you this upset.

"I'm... I'm just on my period and it-- it hurts really bad, it's not even usually this bad, and I felt like I was overreacting and I feel so bad and--" Your ramble gets cut short by his chuckle, the same one that nearly caused you to melt over the phone earlier.

"W-Wha... Why are you laughing?" You're not sure if you should be happy or worried, you're already experiencing so much at once, it's hard to pick one emotion to feel.

"Nothing, it's just, well," he picks up the bag he dropped, opening it slightly to show the bars of chocolate, candy and your favorite chips inside. "I had a feeling."

The sight of it makes you snap out of your state of distress, and you can’t help but crack a smile through your tears. “Seriously? How?”

He shrugs, a sheepish smile adorning his face. “I told you, lover’s intuition.” He pulls you back to him and kisses your head. “There’s another bag in the car with chicken soup in case I was wrong.”

You both laugh, just hugging on your doorstep for a moment. You have to let it sink in, that maybe Steve just is that sweet and considerate of a guy.

“D’you wanna go inside, or does standing outside help with cramps?” He pulls back a little, and you fight the urge to poke him in the ribs for his sarcasm. You love it either way.

“Yeah, let’s go inside. We can watch When Harry Met Sally and I can cry my eyes out again. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.”

-

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-

-

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[ltbarnes]

Back to December (1/2)

Summary: Your new job as an assistant for the CEO of a big, shiny company was supposed to be a good thing. Instead your ex from uni who completely ghosted you out of nowhere several years ago happens to be one of your superiors. It doesn’t help that he’s only gotten more handsome over the years. But you hate him for leaving without an explanation, and he seems to hate you too. Everything is just fucking great.

Pairing: ex!Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader

Word count: 6.9k

Warnings: OFFICE AU (Ghost is not ceo but he’s up there in the company somewhere), exes to enemies to lovers, harassment, past emotional violence/threats, ghost was a rugby player in uni lol, blood

A/N: I’m finally dipping my toe into another fandom 🫣 I’ve been obsessed with the cod men for months now so I suppose it’s time. this is the first part of two, maybe three. we’ll see where my imagination takes me!!

Part 2

Masterlist

So many years spent wondering what the hell happened that night, and there he is on the opposite side of the meeting room table gathering his papers into a neat pile. Simon always was organized, you remember.

He hasn't seen you yet. Or maybe he doesn't recognize you. You don't think you have changed that much, but you never know. More as a person than your appearance, you guess.

Maybe that's why you haven't fell down to the floor crying yet—you would have just a few years ago. Seeing your ex-boyfriend for the first time since you were 20 might do that to you.

But you just feel anger. Anger over the fact that Simon has the audacity to have grown into his looks that way, and that he's successful and has this great scruff on his face and that he just left and never said a word to you again. How dare he have a good life when he just abandoned you and your relationship that night all those years ago without giving you a reason for it.

Your new boss clears his throat, sitting down at one of the ridiculously expensive chairs right next to you. You didn't notice him come in, and you certainly haven't gotten used to his intimidating presence yet.

"Garcia, you have about...fifteen minutes to go through your presentation. I have another meeting with Hill soon." Mr. Price pauses to look down at his wrist watch for two seconds in the middle of his sentence, before nodding towards the beautiful redhead standing with a small remote in her hand.

For some reason this company seems to be where models who get tired of their careers come to work. You didn't exactly get that memo. It's only your second day here, and you feel intimidated by everyone. Maybe that's the way an assistant should feel.

"Y/l/n, you keeping notes for me?" Your head tilts up dangerously fast at the mention of your name, taking a few seconds too long to process his request, before nodding obediently.

"Yes, sir."

Your fingers click too loudly against the keys as you frantically try to draw up a document with the correct font and size. It's too quiet in here. You haven't done anything wrong, yet it feels like everyone is waiting for you to misstep. Your anxiety is a bitch.

"Riley. Riley, what the hell?" you hear someone whisper angrily. It's not until you hear a pen clatter to the floor that you dare to look up his way.

Honey brown eyes stare right into your goddamn soul. Your breath hitches, speeding up the pace of your anxiety-ridden heart even further. More than what's acceptable for sitting still in a work meeting. But your momentary weakness over catching his attention soon disappears, to be replaced by your anger again.

You look away with a clenched jaw, focusing on the keyboard right beneath you. Simon is still staring at you. You can feel it. Feels like it always used to do, but this time you don't want it. In your ideal world Simon Riley would not sit opposite you, would not stand up to join the beautiful, model redhead to hold a presentation where he keeps stumbling on his words all the time because of your presence. At least you think it's your presence, but you're not sure if it's in a good or bad way. For you it's bad.

But it does make you feel good that he keeps having these space outs—tripping over his words, forgetting them all together. It is not a good presentation on his part, and Ms. Garcia is getting increasingly more irritated at him for his lack of delivery. You hope she scolds him for it afterward. God knows you would like to throw every curse word you know at the man.

Should you be this angry after all these years? Should you have let it go a long time ago? Should you have stopped acting as if being with another man after him is betrayal? Probably. The last question is probably the answer to why you haven't really moved on from your hurt.

It just makes you so mad—for a year he was your entire world. Simon hugged you from behind each time he encountered you out in public and played with your hair as you fell asleep in his arms and woke you up with his fingers tracing patters on your hip. He fucked you until your bed broke and made love to you so gently you might as well have been made of glass to him. Two weeks from your anniversary he stopped talking to you. Not one thing of his was left in your dorm the next morning, and you didn't see him on campus even once during the term he had left of school. The few friends you had in common didn't talk to you anymore.

It broke your heart, to be abandoned like that. That night was already shit, and Simon just decided to make it ten times worse. You were in shock and all you wanted was his comfort. To find out he had left? You barely made it through that next semester.

For years you have pondered over what part of you was so unlovable that Simon couldn't even bear to say another word to you. Maybe his inability to function properly during this meeting wasn't due to shock, but instead disgust over having to be in the same room as you. Fuck, you are mad, and yet so scared that you have to meet him every single week from now on. You're not strong enough for that.

"That was...something. I expect you to be better prepared next time I see you, Riley," Mr. Price says, clicking his pen while pointing it towards Simon. "Don't know what the fuck that was," he mutters under his breath while rising from his chair.

You follow swiftly. The chair is too loud as it's pushed back. You cringe. Gathering your laptop and your papers is ungraciously done. Price still waits for you though, for some reason, but he sighs and puffs while doing so. Everyone else is quiet, besides the slap to his arm Simon receives from Ms. Garcia. They're probably dating. Two perfect, good looking people having perfect sex in their perfect apartments. You hate them both.

You try not to look at him as you walk out behind Mr. Price. But you still say a 'have a good day' that is too quiet to the room, answered with a few nods and some 'you too' back.

A small squeak of surprise escapes your lips when your boss comes to an abrupt halt in front of you. A millisecond is all it would take for you to have crushed into him, and that squeak leaves heat travelling to your face. He turns around, facing the room once again, with his usual glare.

"Don't bloody stare at my new assistant. I don't want another HR-situation with this one. Especially talking to you, Riley."

Price pins his glare on Simon, who gives him an equally harsh glare back. You are just about ready for the floor to break so you can fall through to the bottom level and run out of here. But you're frozen in your place, clutching your belongings to your chest tightly enough to make a computer-sized dent in your skin.

Without another word, your boss turns around and heads out of the room. You couldn't have moved any faster if you wanted to—already tight on his heels while your heart rate desperately tries to calm down. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. What the hell are you going to do? Ignore Simon and hope that you manage to avoid him for however long you'll work here? It feels kind of impossible, but the last thing you want is to talk to him. You couldn't.

You've just put down your things on your desk right outside of Price's office when he speaks again. His voice always manages to make you jump in your place, head flying up to meet his gaze.

"If Riley, or anyone else, gives you any trouble—you tell me," he says, unflinching and stoic.

You gulp, frozen in your position. "Oh—I, okay. Thank you." The words come out quieter than you wanted to.

"You seem like a good kid. Don't want these fucking fools to chase away 'nother one of my assistants."

The door to his office is closed the next second. You just stand there, dumbfounded and a little confused, but still flattered in some way. A good kid—you'll take that.

Popcorn crunches underneath your sneakers as you push yourself past the people going up and down the stairs, trickling out of the stadium with happy smiles on their faces and lively conversations exchanged now that the game is over. They won. The players are still out on the field, celebrating their victory with slaps to each other's backs, jumping up and down, impromptu attack hugs. You are giggling too, watching them.

Simon has torn his shirt off, sweaty, blond hair a mess as he shakes his head. Johnny just poured water all over him—the guy always gets so overexcited. And goddamn, your man looks good as he has that rare smile on his face.

The game was a really good one on his part. Everyone in the team calls him 'Ghost' because of how quickly and seamlessly he moves despite his size. And the big tattoo of a man wearing a skull mask on his arm. But once  he's out on the field, the players never expects his speed. At least one player during each game runs right into him, as if he was invisible. A ghost.

He hasn't noticed you yet, where you stand leaning against the railing. It's freezing out. The first really cold September day, and you didn't think to bring a proper jacket. But you don't really care, because seeing Simon and your friends this happy has plastered a permanent grin on your face.

"Riley, your girl!"

Someone shouts and points at you, alerting your boyfriend of your presence. His head whips in your direction, brown eyes pinpointing you in your place before a 6'2'' man starts barreling towards you. Simon throws the water bottle in his hand away carelessly as you giggle furiously over his excitement.

"Fuck, love," he says as he reaches his hands out, lifting you over the railing within a second. You yelp in surprise.

"Wha—Simon! Put me down!"

Simon just holds onto you tighter, pressing you close to him with your feet still in the air. How is he this strong? "Not a chance, Princess. We fucking won. I'm celebrating with my girl."

You chuckle, holding onto his shoulders while looking down at his sweaty face. "I know. I'm so proud of you."

A shy grin grows on his face, slowly setting you down onto the fake grass. "Really?"

"Really. It's the best you've ever played. Wanted to shout to everyone that it was my boyfriend doing all the best throws out there," you tell him, now looking up at him instead. God, he's tall.

Simon's mouth comes crashing down onto yours, giving you a sloppy kiss that makes you laugh.

"I lov—I loved having you here." Simon pauses in the middle of the sentence, as if he was supposed to say something else. "You're my fucking lucky charm, you know that?"

"I'm not so sure about that. You have lost quite a few games with me here as well," you tell him, ruffling his messy hair with your hand.

"Don't matter. I feel lucky anyway." A boyish grin adorns his face as he leans down to press a kiss to your head. "Now, tell me why in the hell my little lady is out here freezing her arse off 'cause she didn't bring a jacket? Like I told her to do?"

You groan, giving him a glare. "Stop. I should have listened to you, you were right, and all that. I know."

"Well, better for me, 'cause I get to rub my sweaty arms all over you now to warm you up."

"Go shower, you idiot." You push at his chest gently, rolling your eyes. He pretends to stumble backwards, holding his hands up.

"I will. Just wait a few seconds here, will you?"

Simon keeps walking backwards, waiting for your nod of confirmation, before breaking out into a jog towards the locker rooms.

You embrace your torso with your arms, rubbing up and down with your hands to warm your skin. There's so many players left on the field, still messing with each other like rugby teams usually do. Some you recognize—like Johnny and Gaz. They're your friends too. Others you have seen in passing at parties, in class. Some you only know because Simon complains about them to you. The fly-half never was his favorite. Graves, something? They're constantly at each other's throats.

Simon comes running out onto the field once more, this time with his jacket in hand. You sigh, scratching the skin above your eyebrow with a small smile.

"Si—you didn't have to. I'm fine," you say as soon as he's within earshot.

"Shut up. I'm being a bloody gentleman, just like my mum taught me."

The jacket is laid gently around your shoulders. You tug it tighter around you, because despite your words it is cold. And you love his jacket.

"Look at you. So fucking adorable."

You smile up at him, scrunching your nose. You love this fool. You love Simon Riley, have done so for many, many months. Haven't told him yet though. But it can wait—you have all the time in the world.

Simon is avoiding you. A week of not seeing him even once, despite the fact that you work on the same floor. You haven't attended any more meetings since your second day, but you still would have expected to run into him in the break room, or in the hallway. Hell, you've even delivered paper copies to his office and still haven't seen him.

You don't know what you feel about that. You are mad at him and you definitely don't want to be forced into an awkward encounter with your ex-boyfriend, but still not knowing why he left has chipped away at every ounce of confidence you had in yourself. Even now at your grown age. It's been several years since. It's pathetic. Maybe Simon realized that on a Friday night in December during his senior year of college—you are pathetic.

God, why are you still that 20-year old girl? Why are you sitting at your desk, 3:30 PM on a Wednesday, obsessing over every flaw you can come up with all because of a stupid man?

The anger you held towards him last Tuesday has morphed into deep self-hate. You begin to understand his perspective. He doesn't want to interact with the silly little girl he broke up with ages ago in her silly little assistant job. Simon is a senior executive in this company, for god's sake. He doesn't even have to send a second glance your way.

"Y/l/n! Coffee!" your boss yells from within his office. But the yelling and cold tone still doesn't offend you like it would any other person—it's just the way he is. Price has actually been pretty nice to you. You like him as your boss, despite his less than chipper attitude.

"Yes, sir," you shout back, rising from your seat.

You smooth down your dress, fiddle with your hair in the reflection of your laptop, before taking a deep breath. It's just a short trip to the break room. No big deal. Nobody actually cares that you are the new girl.

It's practically empty as you arrive, besides a man reading his newspaper in the corner while seemingly on an important call. Seems a little arrogant, but you know he's high up in the company. At least you think he is. Price doesn't like him. He told you so the first day.

A sigh of relief escapes your lungs as you walk to the expensive, Italian coffee machine. You press the double espresso button. No sugar, no milk. Just straight, black coffee for your boss. Kind of reflects his personality. It buzzes loudly as coffee drips into the cup, you standing there waiting patiently. It has started raining outside. You'll probably be soaking wet tonight once you come back to your apartment.

Someone comes standing beside you, taking a mug off the highest shelf. You catch a glimpse of his expensive suit before glancing upwards. Your lips part, almost just as shocked as you were last Tuesday. You can't catch a fucking break, can you?

"Johnny?"

The now bearded man, with a full head of hair as well, which he definitely didn't have when you last saw him, turns around towards you with a stoic expression. It doesn't change once he gets a good look at who said his name.

"You work here too?" you ask before gulping.

"Y/n," he says, a frown growing in between his eyebrows. "I work here, yes." The Scottish accent that you used to like listening to is now impossibly deeper.

"Uh, I—how you doing? It's been...a while." You glance away, cowering under his gaze. Soap always used to be so kind to you, treated you as if you were one of the boys. Insisted you call him Soap, something only his friends were allowed to call him. Now there is a hidden undertone of distaste in the way he looks at you. "See you've gotten rid of the Mohawk."

"I'm alright. Good to see ya', Y/n, but I gotta go back," he tells you. For some reason you feel like he's actually not all that happy to see you.

"Oh. Okay." The disappointment in your voice is clear. "We'll probably see each other again soon, I guess."

Johnny has already started walking away when the words leave your mouth. You hear him mumble a halfhearted 'Take care, lassie" before leaving you there dumbfounded and upright hurt with your boss's coffee cup. What was that?

You always knew Johnny was as loyal of a friend you could be, but...you didn't know he hated you that much. Especially when you didn't actually do anything against him. Not that you did anything against Simon either. That you know of. But, you know.

The short interaction leaves you jarred for the rest of your work day. You still get things done, but the look on Johnny's face is in the back of your mind the entire time. What did you do that was so bad that John goddamn MacTavish hates you for it?

It wasn't enough to work with the man who broke your heart, but your ex-friend as well. His best friend. You will never be welcomed here if half of the company leaders consist of people who have a grudge against you spanning years.

When the clock strikes 6, Price sends you home. He will probably stay for another few hours, you think, because there has been empty takeout containers in his office the morning after every day this week. You tell him to have a good night, he answers with a grunt, and then you and your bag take off through the hallways.

Your heels click against the floor as you walk through the mostly empty office space. Some rooms still have their lights on, casting shadows over the mahogany desks and the important people sitting behind them.

You halt your steps as you hear two voices wrapped into a conversation with each other. Someone must have left their door open. You don't want to eavesdrop, but it gets hard to resist when you recognize Johnny's voice from earlier.

"You can't avoid her forever," he says.

"Well, don't you think I fucking know that?"

You freeze as you instantly recognize the deep, rumbling timber of Simon's voice answering Soap. Fucking hell—they're talking about you. You can't not eavesdrop now.

"It's just—it's fucking hard, you know? She just walks in here all..."

"Met her in the break room earlier. Making coffee for Price."

"Yeah? She said somethin'?" Simon's voice sounds curious, eager almost.

"Asked how I was doing, the usual. Didn't know I worked here, it seemed like." A sigh sounds from the room, and you press yourself even closer to the wall. Please, for the love of god, don't let anyone walk by. "I couldn't just act like normal. I can't be fuckin'...nice to someone like that. When I know your past."

"What—you were fucking rude, or what? Just ignored her?"

"No, for fuck's sake. Left pretty quick, though. I just don't have any respect for things like that. You know that."

"Yeah." Simon lets out a bitter chuckle. If you could see him, he'd probably be shaking his head now. "I'm still fucking angry, you know? Can barely stand to be in the same room."

You bite down on your lip, shaking your head to yourself. You can't listen to the two of them talk about how much they hate you. How they don't have respect for 'things' like you. It's nauseating. Your limbs shake with poorly contained anger, but still the urge to cry is even stronger.

But there's no other way out than past his office. So you brave it—practically sprint by with your hand covering the side of your face in hope that they won't see who it is. You don't think they do. The blinds were down.

A single, pathetic tear slips down your face as soon as you exit the building. Cars fly past you, lights blaring everywhere, noise unending. You just want to go home. But you know the overthinking won't stop there.

As the obnoxiously loud alarm disturbs your sleep that finally came about three hours before, you groan into your pillow and wish for it to be anything else but Thursday. You want the weekend. You want to sleep in and wallow in the fact that you probably won't have this job for very long after what you heard Simon and Johnny say about you yesterday.

You don't even bother putting on heels this morning. An old pair of ballerina shoes and a thick, fuzzy sweater over your dress is what you drag yourself to the office in. It's cold and you're exhausted and sad. You can't stand people not liking you—it takes over every part of your being. And when it's Simon...

There's a meeting going on. Price gave you a list of everyone's coffee orders and made you run over to the shop across the street. You see Simon's name taunting you at the top of the list. A cortado, extra sugar. Fuck, he's still the same.

It takes twenty minutes of queuing before you manage to get to the counter. Another ten to have everyone's order ready. The bag is ridiculously heavy as you carry it out of the coffee shop. The meeting will probably be over by the time you arrive, and then Price will curse you out and you will cry, because today you cannot handle even the smallest criticism.

You're a little sweaty by the time you reach the fourteenth floor of the building, which is fine, but the panting doesn't exactly add to your charisma that somehow seems to repent your coworkers from your person. For a minute you stand outside the meeting room, gathering yourself enough to be somewhere near presentable. Not entirely, but as close as you will get.

The door is shouldered open with a little force. More than you thought it would take. Nobody really gives a thought to your presence—they continue the meeting as if you weren't there at all, and you like it that way. You try to match each coffee to the right person on the list. But there's thirteen of them, and you have yet to learn everyone's name.

You feel Simon's eyes on you the entire time you spend in that room. He's anything but subtle, staring right at you without shame. He doesn't even answer as someone calls him by name. And it's pure spite leaving him for last. His order is the only one you know by heart, but keeping him waiting for a few extra minutes is deserved, you think. Maybe it just gives him more fuel to hate you, but if he's going to hate you, you might as well give it right back.

His ring-clad fingers clasp around the paper mug, slowly bringing it up to his lips as if taunting you with the existence of them. God, they are so full and pink and—no. Don't even go down that route. It'll all make it so much harder to live like this if you keep thinking about how fucking attractive Simon has become with his still blond hair slightly unkept from running his hand through it during the day and how his shirt strains against his muscles and the fact that he is still so, so tall.

"This is cold."

The room falls silent, at least you think it does, as Simon's harsh voice echoes throughout the confines of the four walls. The coffee belonging to the person sitting beside him is steaming. You know he's lying. He sets down the mug on the table, glaring up at you with such distaste in his eyes. You never thought that look would be reserved for you.

"Can't even get a bloody coffee order right, can you?" Simon's chuckle is deprecating, shaking his head to himself as if his irritation almost amuses him.

But you just flinch. He doesn't see it, but you think the rest of the room does. His tone fucking hurts. And that he would publicly humiliate you like this?

"Oh, uh..." You want so badly to have a good comeback, something that will make him shrink in his chair, but all you can get out is a stupid 'oh'. Standing there all small and speechless makes you feel dumb. "I'll get a new one."

Your response seems to catch his attention. His gaze flickers up, back to you, and the cruelty falters for a few seconds to be replaced by something likened to...regret? Probably not.

"Riley can drink his cold goddamn coffee. He'll survive," Price chimes in, waving with his pen as a signal for whoever was speaking before to continue.

You nod, clenching your jaw to stop the trembling, before escaping out of the room as quickly as possible without it seeming suspicious.

A shaky, deep breath is inhaled and exhaled as soon as you get out. It was already a bad day, yes, but nearly crying because Simon told you his coffee was cold? That's just childish. You need to pull yourself together if you're going to keep this job. Price clearly doesn't like weakness.

The rest of the day is calm. Mostly you're reviewing Price's schedule, emailing people back and forth about changing meetings and setting them up. He even gives you an extra break, which is so well needed and probably out of pity, but you'll take it.

You realize that you are so fucking petty when your final task of the day, once again, is to deliver some kind of contract to Simon's office. You know he's out on a meeting with a client—you heard him walking past earlier, talking to that client on the phone. You gather your belongings, say goodbye to Price, before heading towards Simon's on your way down.

Stepping inside feels like walking right into his arms. His cologne hangs heavy in the air. Fuck him for still using the same scent.

The entirety of his office is neatly organized, everything in its place. So you move things. A sharpener gets to change its designated spot from desk to shelf. Files labeled under 'F' gets shoved in between 'S' and 'T'. You even go as far as taking out some of the files from one folder, placing it in another. The printer gets unplugged.

Doing something to his old copy of The Fellowship of the Ring that stands proudly on display in his bookcase crosses your mind, but you do want to stay alive long enough to see the end of the week, at least. You remember one time when he slept with it as if it was a stuffed animal. You're being petty, not suicidal.

Your final masterpiece in your rampage is the unscrewing of a wheel on his desk chair. Just the thought of Simon pushing his chair back only for it to suddenly tilt makes you giggle. God, you really are a child.

Any sane person wouldn't even notice half the things you've done in here. But Simon is not sane. This can throw off his entire day, week even. You know from firsthand experience.

Yeah, Simon goddamn Riley broke your fucking heart and now has the audacity to punish you for it. You won't take that.

Simon has been in such a bad mood the entire day. You heard him cursing all the way from his office. Some poor intern got yelled at in the hallway (you really are sorry for that), and you overheard a few of your colleagues mention that he didn't speak to anyone during the entire morning meeting. Price apparently cursed him out for it in front of everyone. That's a little funny, at least.

On one hand you feel proud of your ability to still piss him off without him knowing. On the other hand, you're not too happy yourself. Your situation hasn't exactly changed—half the office still hasn't talked to you, and the ones that do keep strictly work related conversations. You're lonely.

Despite it being Friday, you get off when the sun has already set. It's pouring rain outside and you don't have an umbrella. You really don't have the energy to deal with that as you gaze warily out of the window from your desk. You could take the subway instead of walk all the way home, but you would still get soaking wet during the trek to the station.

"Goodbye, Mr. Price. Have a good weekend," you say, popping your head into his office with a sweet smile on your lips.

"Call me John," he answers without even looking up from whatever report he's reviewing. Still that monotone voice as if he's always tired of hearing people talk.

"Oh. Uh—okay, John," you stutter out. What? He never lets anyone call him by first name.

"Get home safe," Price tells you. Has he grown soft? What's happening? "Have a fuck load of reports needing organization on Monday." There it is.

You smile to yourself, shaking your head lightly, before mumbling another 'bye' to your boss. He lifts his head in a subtle nod as answer. Actually, you might have a chance to stay here if he likes you. He is the CEO after all.

The hallways are dark except the few offices still lit up like every night. These people barely have a life outside of work, it seems like. It's kind of sad. Then again, you don't either, if what counts as a life is having friends and significant others and people who care about you. But at least you have time for doughing in your couch and taking a walk around the neighborhood.

But your daydreaming and overthinking of course leads you into trouble. Rounding the corner forces you right into another person, making you stumble backwards a few steps before a clammy hand grabs your arm to stop you from falling.

"I'm so, so sorry," you say, looking up at the man standing in front of you. It's that executive-something Price doesn't like. Shepherd? An American.

"Don't worry that pretty little head of yours, darling," he says, without backing away from you. He keeps that close distance, letting you feel his dank breath properly.

You gulp, before attempting to release your arm from his grip. He doesn't budge. Your heart rate speeds up instantly.

"Haven't talked to you properly before, sweetheart. Just seen you strutting 'round these hallways in your dresses." He looks down at your wide eyes, before they slowly rake over the rest of your body. Your chest starts to heave up and down as if you've just come back from a run. It's clear he wants something more than just a simple conversation with the new assistant.

"I'm—I'm sorry. I have to go. Train," you stutter out, attempting to tear yourself away from his harsh grip around your arm. You can't.

"Don't be like that, darlin'. I just wanna have a talk, that's all," he tells you, his warm breaths hitting your face.

"Please, sir, I really have to go. We can talk on Monday."

Shepherd raised an eyebrow, gaze flickering down to your chest again as if you can't see it clearly, before tapping your cheek condescendingly with the palm of his hand.

"Alright, sweetheart. Come into my office on Monday. Appreciate it if you'd wear one of those pretty dresses. Makes my day much better, having somethin' sweet to look at."

A wet kiss is pressed to the back of your hand—something that he might think is gentlemanly, but sends shivers down your entire spine out of disgust. You're frozen still as he squeezes your hip before he leaves, leaving you to hear his dress shoes clink against the floor.

The further away he gets, the harder it gets for you to breathe. Panic grows in your chest, tears already threatening to fall as you finally get yourself to move, rushing towards the elevator and pressing the button too many times.

He was so close. And the way his grip tightened as you tried to step away, the squeeze of your hip. It's too much like last time. Too much like that fucking December night all those years ago.

Clear pictures of Philip and his friends flashes past the forefront of your mind as you rush from the elevator, already heaving from your tears. It's empty, thank god, since the guards are posted outside of the main entrance. Philip morphs into the man from just a minute ago. Pushing you against the wall at that party, grinning right in your face as you tell them to stop.

The backdoor leading into the alleyway beside the building is where your feet leads you towards without consulting you. It's better, maybe. You don't want anyone to see you like this.

But those goddamn revolving doors acting as the main entrance starts to move, you hear that, and soon enough someone steps inside with haste in their walk.

"Y/l/n!" someone shouts angrily. You know exactly who it is. "Why the fuck did you move all my stuff? I swear to god—"

Your back is facing away from him, but maybe he still sees the way your shoulders shake from behind. Maybe that's why he falters in his steps. Maybe that's why he decides to cut the first real sentences he's said to you directly since you started working here short.

The last crumb of composure turns to dust, and your hand flies up to your mouth to muffle the first real sob from your lips. You escape through the door, out into the cold, rainy alleyway as your cries turn too forceful to stop.

It's wet and dirty and crawling with grovel as your knees hit the ground harshly. You manage to turn yourself around to lean your back against the cold brick wall instead. It'll all bring you grief later, but right now your legs can't carry your weight.

With a bang, the door flies wide open once more. Long legs bend down, big hands on your arms.

"Y/n. Y/n, c'mon. Why are you crying?"

Simon's voice is drowning in urgency, his shakes of your shoulders almost forceful. But you can't stop crying. And you're still so fucking angry with him.

"Don't touch me," you sob, pushing his hands away from you. The rain grows heavier the same second, soaking the entirety of you as you sit there on the dirty ground.

"Alright, alright. I won't," he breathes out, holding his hands up beside him. Those big, veiny fucking hands that you have missed every day since he last put them on you. "But you gotta tell me what's wrong."

"Why?" you almost yell, tilting your head up, away from the palms of your hands previously hiding your face. You get raindrops right in your eyes. "You hate me, don't you? Can't even stand to be in the same room as me!"

"Y/n," he growls, as if he's scolding you with the simple mention of your name. "You know bloody fucking well I don't hate you. Now tell me what the hell's making you sob like this. You're sitting on the ground, for fuck's sake."

You dry away your tears, despite it being so futile in this rain, while letting out a bitter chuckle. "All due respect, you're the last person I wanna talk to."

Simon lets out a shaky breath, one filled with frustration. "So fucking stubborn..."

He shakes his head. "Just—just let me drive you home, at least, okay? The trains from this station are cancelled. Blowing up to a storm."

The words you were about to force out through your tears disappear completely. Instead you just stare at the man now looking down at you with something likened to concern. Still has that frown in between his eyebrows.

"I'm not going to get in a car with you, Riley," you mumble out. If you had your way it would sound angrier, more assertive, but your voice fails you.

"Riley, huh? That's where it's at?" Simon scoffs, as if he didn't call you by your last name a few minutes earlier. "Just get up, c'mon."

"No." You shake your head, looking down in your lap. In reality you're not just apprehensive because of your anger towards him—he's a man at the end of the day, and you are his ex-girlfriend who he dislikes very strongly.

"Are you—for god's sake." He shakes his head again. "I'm not going to hurt you, Y/n. I would never harm you. Not any woman," he tells you. How can he still read you this well?

You don't answer. Just take your wet sleeve to dry away even more tears. How to stop crying in front of your ex seems to be an art you haven't mastered yet.

"Okay, I'll make you a deal. You let me get you a taxi home, after you get out of this fucking rain and step inside. That alright with you?"

You nod with a sniffle, reaching for your bag beside you.

"C'mon."

Simon nods towards the door, reaching his hand out. You take it, because there's no chance you would manage to get up all by yourself. But that's the only reason.

He holds the door open for you, letting you slip inside again. Exactly how much the rain soaked you hits you as you step inside, instantly freezing cold and uncomfortable. And goddamn your right knee hurts. Falling down to the ground did come with consequences, it seems.

"Fucking hell," Simon mutters under his breath as soon as he gets inside, dripping water down onto the shiny floor. His suit is entirely soaked too.

You see a glance of yourself in a mirror as you take off your heels. There's mascara underneath your eyes. You try to remove it furiously with your fingers.

"Don't have to do that. Nothing that I haven't seen before," Simon speaks up from behind you, looking at you as well through the mirror.

You glance up at him, just for half a second, before lowering your arms slowly. And then you rummage through your bag with trembling hands, finding a napkin you kept from a restaurant. You dry away the mascara with that instead.

Simon looks at you, really looks at you, as you stand there dripping water onto the floor and makeup ruined and your clothes dirty. You feel so vulnerable underneath his gaze. What is he trying to find?

"Bloody hell, Y/n. You're bleeding for fuck's sake. That's a fucking gash."

He points at your knee. You look down, seeing the outpouring of blood running down your leg from the open wound right below your knee. It does look very, very bad. Like, you're slowly becoming nauseous by looking at it. How didn't you notice it earlier?

"Oh."

"I'm driving you wether you like it or not." Simon stalks up to you, grabbing a hold of your arm to put it around his shoulder. His arm sneaks its way around your waist. Fuck.

"Do I get a say in this?" you ask. You know what the answer is, but you also don't understand. What is this? Why is he doing this for you? A few days ago he was talking shit about you with Soap and humiliated you purposely in front of your co-workers. Now he's getting worried about you crying and driving you home from work?

"No."

Part 2

[snek-panini]

Got a bit of a different bookbinding post today. @renegadeguild got an ask from a new binder saying they were intimidated by everyone's gorgeous binds (me too, actually, some of you guys are scary good), and so they've asked people to share their first binds. And I realized I'd never even taken photos of my first one, so here it is, warts and all:

This is E.M. Forster's The Machine Stops, a public domain scifi short story that you can read for free at the link. The first reason I chose it was that it's an interesting story, and I'd bought a print-on-demand copy a few years previously that was just terrible. Baffling cover choices, basic errors in the typeset (like quotes that face the wrong way), weird size that didn't fit on my shelf; just not a good product. I couldn't do it with more indifference than the PoD people. The second reason was that I was too intimidated by the thought of asking a fic writer if I could bind their story and then producing something with a thousand sloppy beginner mistakes, and then they'd want to see photos and I'd have to show them this and it would have been mortifying, but Forster has been dead since 1970 so I could not disappoint him. It was very freeing. I bound it in 2021 as an experiment, to see if I liked this hobby enough to stick to it. The cover is green cardstock and faux leather scrapbook paper that I bought at... probably Hobby Lobby. I added the title later, as a practice project when I first got my Cricut; for the first two years of its existence it had a blank cover.

There are more photos under the cut!

In this photo we can see:

--Too much glue when attaching the leather-print paper, so it oozed out onto the cover.

--Cricut font too thin and too much heat/too long of a press, so the letters have gaps and the glue also oozed out here. It's a continuing theme with this bind.

--I tried to use a bone folder to give it a sharper hinge crease and accidentally pressed too hard and tore a hole in the paper; you can see this in the little white vertical line near the top of the hinge

The fore edge is not square. I actually don't remember why this happened. I may have eyeballed the board position when I made the case, or the paper may have slipped while the glue was wet, or I cut it crooked and didn't notice till later. Either way it's bad enough that the book doesn't stand on its own. There was a crooked man/who walked a crooked mile/and found a crooked sixpence/against a crooked stile./He bought a crooked cat/which caught a crooked mouse/and they all loved together in a little crooked house, and I bet they read this little crooked book from their little crooked library.

Top view, you can see that the case is too big and the text block doesn't sit straight in it. It has no endbands or bookmark, and it's hard to see in this photo but there's glue on the top of it, at the spine. This still happens to me but I know how to trim books now so this bit gets cut off. You can also see that the scrapbook paper has some cracks where its white core is visible. This is why I do cloth or actual faux leather on the spines now. Endpaper shows uneven trim (did I not use a ruler for this??), too much glue causing major seepage, and it doesn't sit evenly in the case. I'm not sure if this is because of the case itself being crooked, a badly-trimmed endpaper, or if the text block is also crooked. Or it may be a combination of all these factors. Unclear.

Typeset photos! Here we see:

--Title page has a page number on it. This is a pet peeve of mine and I fixed it after this book.

--There is no half title, summary, or metadata. All my later binds have these things.

--It's typeset in Times New Roman. Unlike many I don't actually hate this font but reading it reminds me of being in high school so this is the only book I used it for. Baskerville is my beloved now. The font is also much bigger than it should be. It's not huge but it's like a large print book so it feels weird for me to read it.

--Lol what are margins

--Lol what are page headers

--Actually I think I left the headers out so it wouldn't have a header on the first page of each chapter, because I knew about page breaks but not section breaks at this time.

--It's on regular-ass lightweight printer paper. There's nothing wrong with this but I switched to heavier weight paper shortly after to help with bleed-through and the light stuff feels so flimsy now.

--I didn't understand how Word's book fold worked at this time, so when I had to set the sheets per booklet and it had an option for 4, I chose that thinking it would give me 4 sheets of paper (16 numbered pages) per sig. It did not do this. It gave me 4 numbered pages per sig. So every signature is 1 sheet of paper. Every page is its own signature. I am still mad about this but it sure drove home how the setting works and also how to make kettle stitches since you make one after every sig. A book of 48 pages has 12 signatures which is just ludicrous.

--There's no photo of this but it has a piece of printer paper on the spine because I didn't have mull. I did use PVA though. Lots and lots of PVA.

--It's stitched with regular sewing thread, which means it doesn't have much swell for a book with that many sigs, but it's less sturdy and more likely to tear the paper.

And that's that! It probably sounds a bit like I was tearing it to shreds but I actually love this book quite a lot. I learned so many things that I applied to my next binds, it was an invaluable experience. It let me fall in love with the hobby so I could make the awesome things I make now. I've got those all posted on my main blog under the tag #snek makes books, or you can see them all on my side blog @papersnakepress. For a first book it's functional and readable, and still better than the PoD copy I had before. I've been thinking of doing a rebind as a sort of progress gauge, actually. Maybe next year.

[taralen]

Why I draw Spamton the way I do and in defense of the "Tumblr sexyman" Spamton G. Spamton. An ESSAY.

EDIT 2/3/24 - Fixed some grammatical errors, changed font colors to make them easier to read against a white background, and reframed some of my arguments, especially regarding the "Yaoi style" portion, as it came across as ignorant and spiteful.

I follow the #spamton tag here, and I hate to say it, but it's full of artists jabbing at other artists who so happen to draw Spamton handsome. I see comments like, "No, he's a middle-aged sleazeball who is grungy and dirty." Often, these depictions show him with graying hair, ratty clothes, and covered in filth and grime. While there is nothing inherently wrong about drawing him this way, I find it disingenuous that the same people who draw him this way criticize people who draw him more handsome and or clean-cut because this depiction is even less based on his canon appearance than someone simply drawing him more realistically proportioned and with a pleasing visage (the definition of what this is varies by artist, but they're all often reduced to just "tumblr sexyman.") I see similar comments by people who draw him in what they may describe as "disgusting" or a "dirty scammer."

If Toby intended for Spamton to look dirty and gross, he would have simply gone with a similar design route to this character as an NPC in Undertale.

Toby or other official arts never depict him with the following, even though I see it in fan art all the time:

Ball-jointed hands. Some artists draw them properly and make them look super cool. Simple lines aren't how they look in reality, but I get why people do that. Either way, it's not canon.

Dirty with tattered clothes. Spamton is only ever shown with a black blazer. It's debatable if he wears pants, but Toby has also drawn him with a collared shirt and tie.

Graying hair. Should be obvious. He's only ever seen with jet-black hair.

Overweight/Fat. While some fan depictions of this are cute, it's not canon. Spamton is always drawn thin but not necessarily in shape.

Buff. Same as the above. It looks really good in some fanart but is also not canon.

Tail. It can look really, really cute, but not canon for him or any of the Addisons.

Feathers. Only Swatch and the Swatchlings are depicted with feathers in Cyber World.

"40+ years old" - There is zero evidence of this in-game or in official merchandise or media. This assumption apparently comes from people assuming that his birthday would be the same as the first "spam email," which (at the time of this writing) was 46 years ago. This is a false equivalency since there is no indication that Spamton has any associations with our real-world history of spam emails. It should also be noted that this was not a true spam email. The only thing closest to Spamton in association with real spam email history may be his favorite year, 1997, in which spam marketing emails became frequent nuisances. However, actions to stop spam mail started in 1996, and it was by the 2000s that they became a serious concern because technology had since advanced. If he were truly born in 1978, he would only be 19 by 1997. While not impossible, it's not how most people see him in his Big Shot years of barely just entering adulthood. Also, as someone who has lived through most of the 90s, I can attest to a lot of this. Spam stuff existed, but news reports only heavily got into it by the 2000s.

100% Inorganic or Robot. While a cool idea, there is more evidence against this, like his ability to eat, sleep, and genuinely feel pain.

Boobs. I get most people who do this are doing it for fun, but it's not canon to his design, lol.

Tall. The most obvious one. Spamton is below average height, as made evident by his nearly 1:1 scale with Kris, a teenager.

Toddler-sized. Same as above. I won't lie that it can be drawn super cute, though. Haha!

With all that being said, why is it such a contention among his fans to depict him as handsome?

There is evidence to support that Spamton is at least, to some degree, good-looking but unconventionally attractive based on several sources. It should be noted that people often use his shop sprite as the best representation of his head, but this isn't accurate, either. In Undertale and Deltarune, because of its cartoonish sprites, it shouldn't surprise anyone that Spamton's are the most inaccurate and change frequently. Another user posted an entire comparison of all his sprites and how drastically inconsistent they are. I tried searching through my likes for this, but I can't find it. If anyone finds this, please link or reblog it to this post. Anyway, the intent of the post was to show artists that there are numerous different ways you can interpret Spamton's design with what's provided in the game, alone.

Stuff people often miss that is canon:

Lips. Believe it or not, this bastard's got kissable lips. Toby's recent art and his Neo attack are proof of this.

Eyes under the glasses. Seen in his sprite of going "BIG SHOT" the first time with Kris. It also hints at heterochromia because they contrast in color with yellow pupils under the pink and pink under the yellow.

NEO has no visible jaw hinge line. Only puppet Spamton does. Big Shot Spamton doesn't have one, either.

NEO's glasses' colors are reversed, and they are pince-nez style.

Androgynous sense of fashion. This is the least missed one, but it's worth mentioning. Spamton has no issues wearing pink, a color nowadays associated with women, and the NEO body has fabulous heels in addition to mostly being a magenta pink. The dress on the mannequin that greatly resembles him (and may hint at him being a white Addison before) shows a pretty dress that mirrors the one Mettaton wore in Undertale.

So then, WHY is he being depicted as handsome or unconventionally good-looking a BAD thing?

There really shouldn't be an issue with it at all. It's less offensive and technically more canon than many of the supposed depictions of him being a sleazebag who looks like he hasn't showered in a century and is hooked up on drugs or booze. You don't become a media darling without a charming personality. Mettaton only got successful in Undertale before he got his EX body because there was literally nothing else the people could watch. Spamton, on the other hand, was competing against many, so he had to stand out and look good even with the help of Mike (and possibly Tenna).

I often see people make this very reductive argument that it's a "yaoi style." This is by far one of the stupidest arguments I've ever seen. Drawing good-looking men is NOT equivalent to liking Yaoi. There are plenty of other genres of Asian-origin or Anime-styled media that feature pretty boys that have nothing to do with Boy's Love. Even Shounen anime has some bishies. Drawing bishounen-style male characters is a design choice and does not indicate someone's interest in Yaoi media. I swear, I have never seen this problem with Eastern fans. It's rude to lump people with similar art styles under something most people who make this claim don't even understand. I've seen people make upset comments about other people calling their style stuff like "Cal-Arts" even if they never went to Cal-Arts or like the media produced by them. It's the same principle. Stop lumping entire artists under one umbrella.

I draw him handsome because it's simply the way I see him. I love many other depictions of him, undoubtedly, and I even have a sticker set that depicts him with the graying hair, but it looks really good anyway. My point is, the fact that people who draw him dark and handsome shouldn't be scrutinized any more than people who draw him way more off base.

My personal contentions with the assumption he is a "dirty sleazebag old man."

I find this absolutely hilarious because this is a genuine stereotype and stock character of people similar to him. The douchebag salesman is a trope that's been around for a long time, but people don't seem to realize that this is a caricature and not representative of real salespeople.

Go to any @$%^ing department store or even an electronics one. Do you ever see anyone selling you stuff looking like they crawled out of the trash? Most are lower-class people who can't find any other job, meaning they are stuck with sales. It takes skill to be a good salesman, and I hate to brag, but I can probably sell you a #@$%ing soap bar and convince you that the extra $10 you're spending on it over a drugstore brand is better for your hands by deeply moisturizing them through herbal extracts and only "naturally" derived cleansing agents. Your hands are dry from the cold, drawing moisture out of them, so the investment would be worth it for the health of your skin during this harsh winter season. Why risk a drugstore brand that will only make your hands feel even rougher, flakier, and cracked? Stuff like this requires you to look someone in the eyes and observe who they are—their body language, way of carrying themselves, and the cadence of how they respond to your words. Does it always work? No. However, do you think anyone would $%^&ing buy ANY LEGAL PRODUCT if a salesperson looked like they were a shady crack dealer who was suspicious as %^&( to deal with? NO. It's a stereotype caricature for a REASON. It's meant to demean the reality of the salesperson who is forced to peddle a stupid product for a living. It's hard, and if anything, GET MAD at the people who are the ones making the crappy product! Yeah, some salesmen are bad at their jobs, but do you really believe that Cyber City's #1 RATED SALESMAN got there from being mediocre?! He may have gotten outside help for something that Toby never made clear, but he definitely does NOT lack the personality to make a great salesman. And believe it or not, there is plenty of evidence to prove he WASN'T bad at it! The other NPCs sell stuff that was once his goods but with his labels removed, and based on his statement of wanting to "make his own deals," this heavily implies he was NOT selling products he wanted to sell before he became a Big Shot. He has a strong sense of pride in the way he sees and presents himself, and I think this may be overlooked by people who make him look as ratty as possible.

I will also CLEARLY state this but this depiction overall does several of the following, which I KNOW many people will say is bad:

Ageism. Why do so many people, mostly Zoomers, assume that a man in his 40s is washed-up, gross, or even considered old? I've seen hotter men in their 40s than some young men in their early 20s.

Downplays his mental health struggles. One of the best things about Spamton is how he DOESN'T play into just the "sleazebag" stereotype. Once we go into his shop, we see that he is truly just a very broken man. His theme song is a FARCE to try and convince you that he's tougher than he really is.

Classist/Poor-Shaming. The assumption that a homeless person has to have no sense of cleanliness. Please, for the love of all that is good, meet actual homeless people. Not all of them are like this. Spamton clearly keeps himself rather clean for someone who dumpster dives. He is trying to stay true to himself, and his sense of self is one of pride. There is no dialogue or description to imply he smells or lacks proper hygiene.

Again, while there is nothing inherently wrong with drawing him this way, I just want people to be more aware of why they draw him this way. Think of it like a thought experiment to reflect on why you see him the way you do. How I draw Spamton comes from a place of deep empathy, love, and life experiences I've had in sales in addition to ALWAYS being customer-facing, meaning I know what works and what doesn't for over a DECADE. It's rather bizarre to me that people who claim to be big fans of him draw him in such a demeaning way that goes beyond the canon depiction and lowers him to absolute dirt, almost like beating this character with the ugly stick just because it's "funny." Is he a tragic character to you? Or is he simply a clown to laugh at for his failures and hardships? How we depict and see people is utterly fascinating because it reflects in real life, too.

You can take the exact same person and show them to different groups of people, and they will all see the same person differently. They don't have to be artists, but they tend to vary if you ask their opinions. For example, I think the actor Mads Mikkelsen is very attractive, but I know many who wouldn't understand why. A guy I've had a crush on for years is one of the hottest men ever to me, but a friend of mine called him "just a guy."

I fully understand that some people find the way I draw him stupid. It is what it is. I can't force you to like it.

I'm simply trying to point out my reasonings for why I draw him this way, and I would like others to think about their methods, too, and NOT to bash other people outright or go "ewww Yaoi tumblr sexyman" just because someone doesn't depict him with stereotypical traits or as "100% canon style" (which is mostly just copying the game's sprite style.)

[gender-trash]

dunno how much i've blogged abt my eye problems here but they've been getting worse lately -- the most life-impacting effect is that i can't safely drive, like, at all, because i am seeing double so bad i cannot see the god damned lane markings or tell how far away from me other cars are, but the most *irritating* is that i can barely read light-text-on-dark-background. because it makes the double vision worse. i can strain to read it briefly, but it gives me a headache to do it for too long. and i don't know if you've been on the internet in the past -- oh, i don't know -- fourish years? but at some point everyone decided dark themes were GREAT and """reduce eyestrain""" (LOL. LMAO EVEN) and if you don't use a dark theme you're some kind of n00b scrub.

which, like, i have enough self-confidence at this point that i don't actually care much if someone thinks i'm a n00b, but it gets more irritating when designers of ux interface stuff just fucking decide that, well, THEY like dark themes and goddamn it so will everyone else. at work we have a custom CLI for starting/stopping/reconfiguring deployments of code onto robots, and it's a wrapper around docker-compose, except the docker-compose ui colors presuppose a dark theme and there's this fucking light gray that's almost invisible in my beloved solarized light terminal colorscheme, and there's some, like. environment variable that you in theory can set to modify the colors but it doesn't work (possibly because of the custom CLI wrapper?) so i've resigned myself to just not being able to read the light gray docker compose output. i slacked someone in infra abt this and he MORALIZED AT ME ABOUT HOW DARK THEMES ARE BETTER and then just pointed me back at the environment variable and i was like "thanks! ^_^" because what else am i going to fucking do

or, more recently, the UI team updated our [thing] editor tool to use a new code editor that supports autocomplete! yay! except that for whatever reason they decided to make the default theme light-blue-on-dark-blue with like a 9pt font. in lieu of ripping out chris's throat with my teeth (which would have been difficult because he lives in canada) i just thought about it really hard and then, grumpily, made myself a custom build of the [thing] editor that uses solarized light + 14pt font size. but i swear to fuck the NEXT time i am forced by my employer to use some kind of tool that i need to hack or work around to be able TO FUCKING SEE IT i am going to start biting

:) (<- vibrating with barely-suppressed rage)

[reasonsforhope]

Just found out that the sidebar on my desktop theme automatically adjusts the font size to fit the text...lol that only took like a full year

Anyway, I've now restored the full text of my previous blog description, now that I know I can fit more than like 3 lines! Wanted to mention this since I know a couple people were worried the change in my blog description meant the first statement was no longer true. Good news: yes it still is!

Blog description now (once again) reads:

Because scientists say we have a better chance of saving ourselves than ever. Because people are better (and better at solving problems) than we think. Because hope is vital. A catalogue of reasons not to despair. MC, they/them. Main: lookingforcactus "We must not let the perfect become the enemy of the good."

(I'm using Accessible Revamp by egg.design. Screen-reader friendly, responsive, desktop has a toggle for dark mode and one to switch the font to Open Dyslexic)

[altraviolet]

This might be a weird question, but do you ever get sad that Echo Garden is going to end? I know it's not actually extremely close to being done, but I already know I'm going to miss it

I'll miss reading Soundwave having silly interactions, I'll miss the wonderful side characters (Toaster best boy)

I'll miss the way you make characters feel so alive, how the world you write feels so enthralling. I'll miss this Lost Light, and their alternate universes, and all the adventures they'll have after the story ends

YES

How do I make the font bigger. Also sorry this response got really long.

YES I GET WEIRD AND SAD ABOUT IT. I feel a LOT of things (which I'll get into). I actually started feeling sad about it at least a year ago. It's VERY weird to be this brain-deep into a story and know it has a lifespan. I've gone through this before with my other very long fic. That ended and I felt really accomplished, but kind of sad. But I ended it in a way that made the reader feel like what we saw was just a peek into their lives. They had lives before we intruded and they'll have lives after our eyes have turned away. The TEG ending won't quite hit that note, at least in the same way, but I am still VERY excited for the last line (for nerdass English teacher reasons)

(I'm not an English teacher)

(I'm excited for reasons your high school English teacher would be excited ANYWAY)

Yes, I will be sad to let this go. But, to be honest, I'll also be relieved, because the story is massive. It's sometimes daunting to write, and at this point, every chapter is draining to write. I am so happy people say that they find the characters' emotions easy to identify with, because I put ALL MY BRAIN into writing those emotions. It's almost like acting in my head: I live through all those emotions over and over as I write and edit each part. So, I am tired.

I find the audience size a little daunting. I've never done ANYthing in my life that had an audience of 1000+ people. I've presented to hundreds, but never thousands. I also - and this is not something I keep a secret, but it's also something I don't mention often - feel very very skeeved out at the minors that are reading this fic. I know they're there and it's grossssssssss... I've come close to deleting the story more than once because of that. I'm feeling really asdlfkajsf about the next chapter because of that. Like. They don't respect the rating or the warnings I put on there, so there's nothing I can do. So once the story is done, at least I won't be thinking about that anymore, eugh.

So sad, relieved, daunting... what else? I will feel accomplished. It looks like this sucker is going to cross 300,000 words and that is MIND BLOWING to me. I'm going to feel so happy about that :)

And...! I've been considering this fic practice for writing (in terms of description, dialog, story arc, character arc) for original work. I dunno if I'd tell you all when I wrote something original. Maybe it's best to keep names separate. Maybe you'll find me anyway ;) But yeah. Echo Garden is a huge love letter to the original work and also practice for future work that, I hope, people will also love.

WHICH REMINDS ME sorry this is getting long. The feelings you feel for TEG are what I feel about MTMTE. I fucking miss that comic! I miss new adventures. I miss the characters! And that's also why I'm writing TEG. I want to see them moving and adventuring and alive again. Suffering and growing, as well, but alive nonetheless! JRO COME BACK AGSLDKJSAF I'm ok I'm ok

So thank you! I appreciate your kinds words. AND! I may very well write a sequel. I've been thinking about it. There are little seeds I've planted in TEG specifically so that they may bloom in a sequel. I also said I'd write a sequel for Face The Past, though, and I never did that... but maybe I'll write something even better than TEG! Or not lol. But! Yes, thank you so much for your kind words. Don't give up hope for a sequel. Enjoy what we've got as it's coming out, and keep your heart and eyes open for future stuff from me :)

Thank you again ❤️

[ursulaismymiddlename]

Where Memories Never Fade and Fairy Tales Come True | Dream of the Endless x f!Reader

The title is a mouthful, but the Dreaming and its master never do anything by half measures. Whether it's creating worlds or courting a new lover.

Rated S for Smiling Morpheus (and also sorta kissing)

Thanks to @captainpoopweinersoldier @whats-rambled-rambled and @laurelwen for putting up with me going on and on about the damn thing.

I'd apologize for the delay, but I'm honestly just happy I got this one done lol

---

The lush and verdant landscape before you can only be a dream.  The green of the rolling hills is too vibrant, the blue of the sky with its perfectly painted clouds too brilliant.  And yet, even knowing this, you find yourself in awe, feet trailing the gently worn path that splits through the field of wildflowers.  The air is thick with the perfume of them and you smile in the vague knowledge that no pollen will irritate your sinuses and that the butterflies and bees will leave you in peace.

A tree looms ahead, branches stretching upward and outward, blossoming against the vault of sky.  It draws you ever so gently, a tug in your chest you’re all too eager to follow.  But it’s beneath the breeze-blown boughs that you discover what truly calls.  A toy box.  Your toy box.  The one from your childhood that you haven’t seen in far too many years.

How strange and delightful to pick your way through it.  Old toys greet you as old friends, your heart aching with glee at the sight of ancient stuffed animals and wind-up toys long since forgotten.  All in perfect repair, as shiny and new as your furthest memories of them.  Still, it’s at the bottom of this mountain of joy that you find it.  You know this is what you were meant to find all along. And you know, with a giddy sob, exactly who has left it here for you.

There, sitting pristinely in the recesses of the toybox, untouched by the hands of time, you find your old typewriter.

It’s a child’s thing, and just as well since you were a child when you had it; long before you even knew what typing was or how to craft a story.  With great reverence, you lift the precious plastic thing into the dappled sunlight beneath the tree.  Turn it this way and that to inspect it, to recall the lines of it and the weight of it in your hands.  You remember it much heavier, in the hands of a little girl all of nine or ten.  Something in so minute a difference swells in your chest, makes it more real.

Vibrant color flutters in your peripheral, pulling your attention to the incandescent butterfly crossing your path.  You turn to follow it, watching the rainbows of its wings shimmering in the speckled sunlight.  And your wonder only grows when you see where the little creature leads you.  A desk, set amongst the wildflowers, chair pulled out so invitingly.  The butterfly alights upon a stack of clean white paper that awaits you and the typewriter in your hands.

With a delighted grin, you take the offered seat, placing the machine down gently.  Your kaleidoscope companion flutters lazily when you pull a sheet from the stack beneath it, but settles right back in while you spool the paper into the typewriter.  It’s been so long, you’re surprised you remember how, but you find things moving with practiced ease.  And like many a dream, the letters and symbols on the keys don’t seem quite right.  Yet, your fingers find their appointed places just the same.

The keystrokes flow from you in a fervor, your excitement tangible.  And while the inky symbols appear on the page in different fonts and sizes, hardly recognizable to the eyes, you know exactly in your heart what you type.  You think in a place like this, that’s all that really matters.

Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless…

A gentle breeze rustles through the leaves above you.  It even buffers against your little butterfly, sending it flittering into the air in a delicate twirl of color before the lively thing disappears into the grassland.  Anticipation thrums in goosebumps along your skin as you turn in your seat.  Feeling him before you see him.

“You called for me, little writer?”

Your smile grows at the sight of the Dream Lord mere feet away.  To say he looks out of place in such a natural scene isn’t entirely accurate.  If anything, his presence seems to bring everything into sharper focus, the romantic haze giving way to something more palpable.  His kingly countenance commands the attention of the entire world around him.  But his eyes are on you, curious and amused as he regards you.

“I suppose I did,” you tease, rising to your feet to greet him properly.  “I’m actually a little surprised you weren’t here already.”

“I thought, perhaps, you could use a reprieve from my company.”  His eyes never leave yours as you stand before him, lip quirking ever so gently.  “Our last encounter seemed to trouble you.  I wish for you to be at peace while you are in my realm.”

Though his voice holds a playful lilt, there’s enough sincerity in his words to set your cheeks ablaze.  Perhaps a reprieve is in order, though nothing quite so harsh as his absence.  You settle for turning to eye the greenery around you, to catch a breath.  “Very peaceful… and gorgeous.  Is every place you make here so beautiful?”

To your surprise and delight, Morpheus beams with pride and surveys the land beside you.  “I take great care in the things I create.”

“Like my typewriter?”

His attention cuts to you from the corner of his eyes, finding your smile there seems to ease him, though his head still ducks a little in chagrin.  “Pray you, forgive me for taking the liberties.  I’d only hoped to encourage you.”

There is something so soft about this ethereal creature beside you, that without thinking you reach to touch the sleeve of his black coat.  His head turns to regard your fingers, then your face, but he makes no move and you make no mention.

“Thank you.”  And you can only hope to sound as sincere as you feel.  “I can’t even imagine how you…”

You trail off, a realization dawning on you with a gentle gasp.  “Half of dreams are memories, aren’t they?  Whether mine or someone else’s.”

At this, Dream turns back to you fully, and the warmth of his expression nearly knocks the breath from you.  “You’ve found me out, little writer.”

It’s his turn to reach for you, with one graceful twist of his wrist, he finds your hand with his own, thumb grazing against your knuckles.  “There were a few different writing instruments in your memory, but this one seemed to have the most meaning.”

“That is… incredibly thoughtful.”  And finding yourself yet again at a loss for words before the King of Dreams, you settle for the ones that stick and swell in your heart.  “Thank you.”

If your ineloquence bothers him, Morpheus gives no sign.  In fact, he bows his head regally, bringing the back of your hand to his lips for a chaste kiss.  “I’m happy it pleases you.”

You try to school the giddy grin that overtakes you.  It wouldn’t do, to just melt entirely right in front of him, not when he’s just arrived.  And sure, he told you he wants to court you, but he’s still the King of Dreams and you don’t want to look like a complete… Holy shit, you’re being courted by an Endless! What the –

“Will you walk with me, then?”  That soothing voice interrupts the start of a good mental spiral.  And judging from the tilt of his head as he looks at you, he is well aware of it, too.  Still, you’re thankful, even if it takes you a moment to recover yourself.  “That is, if you’ve no intent to write at the moment.”

“Absolutely.”  

Your nod is all eager relief as he tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow.  How easy it is to follow his lead down the gently beaten path.  Sneaking a glance at him, you note just how proudly he walks, yet there’s nothing so severe in his face.  It’s formal, old-fashioned, some might even say a little stiff, but…. Somehow, this feels as intimate as any kiss upon your knuckles.  At least, if this Morpheus truly is anything like the one from your stories.

“Speaking of being pleased,” you eventually say, smiling when he crooks an eyebrow at you.  “I finished writing another story.”

His head tips in acknowledgement, but there’s a playful glint in his twinkling eyes.  “Yes.  You should be pleased.  Though… Matthew was quite saddened you had not worked on his tale first.”

The memory of your last meeting strikes you then, the gentle jibe of jealousy on his part and the fond look he’d given you.  You wonder briefly if you look the same when you say “Well, I only follow where the inspiration leads.”

This seems to tickle the Dream Lord, a sharp amused snort shaking his shoulders slightly.  It’s hard not to raise your chin in a bit of triumph at having elicited such a response.  

“Actually,” you dare to add, bolstered by the easy camaraderie.  “What I meant was I thought you’d be pleased to hear I finished it.”

“I am pleased indeed,” Morpheus assures, though he gently slows you both to a stop beneath another tree, a lush willow near a sweetly babbling creek.  “I was already fond of this particular story.  But you should take pride in your crafting.  It was… quite beautiful.”

The compliment lights you up like nothing else.  “You really think so?”

“Yes, Little Writer.”  An indulgent smile curls the corners of his mouth.  “It felt every bit the dream it was meant to; fever-pitched and ethereal.”

“I’m so glad you liked it.”  You beam, barely able to meet his gaze, fingers curling more firmly around his elbow lest your bout of giddiness send you reeling.  “I was a little worried since you didn’t really make a full appearance…”

“But I was there.  In the sand and the stars.”  His hand finds yours again, engulfing it with his fine pale fingers.  Something thick in his velvet voice feels like a promise, drawing your attention to his glimmering eyes so intent upon you.

Though, you do manage a bashful smirk.  “I didn’t think you danced.”

“I confess, I do not.  But that does not keep me from enjoying the sight of you doing so.  A wild and free thing.”  Dream tips his head closer to you, his little smile conspiratorial, and you’re struck by it as much as the sight and sound of the willow’s branches beginning to move; twisting and twining into a soft curtain of green to surround just the two of you.  “Is that how you wish for me to court you?  Shall I help you dance among the stars?”

“I…” The reminder of his intentions flutters in your stomach, a nervous, airy chuckle squeaking its way out of your throat.  “I don’t think I’m much of a dancer either.”

By the twitch between his brows, you think Morpheus means to argue, but he only offers a placating nod.  “Very well.  Then what else shall I offer you?  What might you wish of me? You need only ask.”

“I think you offering yourself is more than enough,” you guffaw, the giddy absurdity taking you.  

But when a ghost of an expression crosses his lips, as though surprised and flattered by your words, you find yourself suddenly much more sobered. It calls to question the smallness you feel before such an Endless being.  That you’d be so lucky to capture his attention, let alone his favor. And because he liked your writing of all things?

“I suppose I might ask…”  You suddenly feel a little ridiculous, but the curious arch of his brow serves to pry your bottom lip from between your teeth.  “Well, you said you like my stories.  For whatever reason, you enjoy my writing.”

“I do.”  

“And you’ve read every story I’ve thought of, written or not, because they’re all in your library?”

The slightest nod of his head seems to urge you on, eager to follow where you’re going with this line of thought.  “But then, why does it matter if I actually write them in the Waking World?  If they’re already here, you already have them to read whenever you want.”

Dream straightens a little, lips pursing as he seems to mull over his answer.  You get the feeling he knows exactly why, but perhaps is less sure how to put voice to it.  And there’s something beautifully mundane and endearing about the little crease of concentration between his brow.  

“Stories fuel the unconscious which, in turn, fuels The Dreaming,” he begins, slow and measured, as if weighing each word on his tongue.  “The more stories there are, the more people who read them, the more robust it makes this realm.”

There’s no denying his sentiment, of course, but… but something still tickles at the back of your mind.  Teases out your curiosity with an amused huff. “Can’t that be said of any story, though?  Why these?  Why mine?”

The Dream King’s dark crown tilts back at a regarding angle, only the softness of his features keeping his demeanor from aloofness.  A softness that melts some of the stiff angles of him, until he moves your hand from the crook of his elbow downward to cradle between his own. “When I first took notice, you were standing at the Gates of Horn, staring in, but too frightened to walk through.” 

He levels his gaze with yours, expression gentle and imploring.  “I merely opened the way.  You took the steps that lead you here, to this place.”

To me, your brain supplies.  And your stomach swoops, uncertain if it was your own voice in your ears or his.  With a gentle shake of your head, as much to hide your flushed skin as to express your confusion, you reply. “I don’t understand.  I thought the Gates of Horn were for true dreams.”

“Your words may be fiction, but there is truth at the heart of them.”  No small amount of pride flashes through his eyes, gaze hot upon your cheeks.  “I see it in the way you write The Dreaming.  And in how you speak of my siblings.”

“That… didn’t come from you?”  You blink in surprise at the thought.  Certainly you recognized the other Endless in your little fics. Despair, Delirium… They’d presented themselves quite naturally in the narrative.  You only assumed it was the influence of the Dream Lord himself.

“No,” he insists, amusement tinting his voice.  “Yet you write them as I know them to be. And the way you write me…”

Here his eyes finally stray from yours; flitting down to your hand in his, where his thumb traces the ridge of your knuckles, before finding you again through the dark rim of his lashes, an almost timid smile curling the corner of his lips. “Flattering as it may be, there is a realness to it that I can only hope to strive for.”

You’re not sure how to process this.  This Endless cosmic being enjoys the way you write him, is flattered by it… Aspires to it.  With dawning realization, you gasp.  “Dream of a Thousand Cats.” 

It’s the Dream King’s turn to look puzzled now, lips parted in silent question.  But you know, in the way one can only know such things in a dream.  And the thought alone leaves you awed.

“You hope if enough people read the way I write you…” A smile tugs your lips; the clench around your heart both fond and bittersweet in equal measure.  “If enough people dream it, then it will always have been true.”

Whatever sourness threatens Morpheus’s features is quickly released with a lighthearted huff. “Quite the clever little writer.”

A part of you wants to keen in triumph, but this Endless being before you looks caught out enough, you don’t dare to rub it in.  And you feel rewarded for it by the unexpected twinge of vulnerability in his velvet voice. 

“Do you think it selfish of me?”

“I…” Your fingers squeeze his a breath tighter, to reassure him or settle yourself, you’re not quite sure.  “If you think it’s a better version of yourself, then who am I to judge?  Of course… I might be a little partial to the way I write you.”

Any hint of uncertainty you might have imagined in him evaporates against the spark of fondness in his eyes; the brilliant blue of them fluttering behind your ribcage. “Another reason, then, to live up to it.”

You can’t help but think your knees ought to be buckling beneath you.  Perhaps in the Waking World, they would.  But here, with your hand in his, you managed to inch a little closer, your own boldness flushing you. “Can I ask something else of you?”

“Name it.”  There’s a quiet eagerness to it you might have missed beneath the obliging tip of his head. Except you’re a little too focused on him in this closeness.

“May I…”  It catches in your throat only a beat, slipping out before you can lose any more nerve.  “Kiss you?”

The curious twitch of his brow has you bracing, but then his face lights up in amusement.  “Is it not customary for the suitor to request the first kiss?”

If your laughter is quaking breathless, you still find a way to smile at him playfully. “Times change, my lord.”

“Morpheus,” he corrects gently, offering a gracious smile at your flash of confusion. “My station is deserving of respect and reverence, but when we are alone…”

It seems the Dream Lord’s turn to pause a thoughtful breath before speaking in a quiet voice meant just for you.  “When it is only the two of us, I need only be Morpheus.  Your Morpheus.”

His tone itself is enough to melt you, but his words… Those steal the air right out of your lungs.  You have to lick away the dryness from your lips before you can respond.  And even then, it’s little more than a reedy whisper. “Then, may I kiss you… my Morpheus?”

“By all means.” 

Dappled sunlight catches in his glimmering eyes when he leans in ever so slightly closer.  An offering.  And that voice thick with a promise you can’t quite name, but want to hold him to more than anything.  With a steadying hand on his chest, you close the meager distance, your lips finding the cool, pale expanse of his cheek.  The kiss is chaste, but his sharp breath and the way his jaw clenches beneath it makes you wonder if you’ve scorched him.

Yet, you barely manage to part from him -how ever reluctant- before Dream’s delicate fingers find the curve of your neck; stilling you as he turns his face to yours.  Your noses bump gently, parted lips sharing the same shaky breath as they brush together.  And when you make no move to pull away, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, Morpheus, your Morpheus, seals his mouth over yours…

—

Your Monday morning alarm is quite possibly the most hideous sound you’ve ever heard at this moment.  Sure, you picked it because it would be enough to wake you without startling you silly first thing in the AM, but that hardly makes up for it pulling you from such a wonderful dream.

It’s left you in a strange state of longing, coupled with a clench around your fluttering heart.  With a twinge of sadness, you realize the details are quickly fading, but you manage to grab your phone.  Once the alarm has been silenced, you tap your note app and start typing what little is still solid in your mind.

The tall dark-haired man, his soft pink lips on yours, a butterfly with stained-glass windows for wings… your old typewriter?

That last one brings a confused smile to your face.  How absolutely silly… How lovely.

You can only hope, as you finally pull yourself from the warmth of your bed, that it will be enough to work with later when you can find some time to write.

[sunshine-zenith]

1, 4, 18, 19, 24 from this ask game

Thank you for the asks!

Heads up y'all, this one is a bit long and the questions dig deep, so mind the tags lol

1) What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

I stick with default Ariel Size 11. Times New Roman is kinda the only other font I can take seriously when writing, and it’s kinda tainted from years of typing out essays and media releases for school and my old job

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

Recalcitrant and pluperfect — two words that I don’t think I’ve used in any of my writing but I love working into conversations when I can (bonus — they’re both words I learned from reading fics)

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end.

From By Your Side Again (sorry, this is a long one, with even longer rambles, probably, but I put a lot of thought behind the headcanons I included here)

Spoilers for Nimona (both the film and the graphic novel), and obviously the fic

“...Your arm?” Ballister eventually asks.

“Just dislocated, don’t worry. I can move it fine, the sling is probably overkill.”

“I heard Todd broke his.”

“Good for him.”

They both chuckle weakly before Ambrosius stands.

Ballister’s eyes glance away before meeting his again, looking apprehensive. “Speaking of, could you… plug my arm in? If you’re okay with it.”

Ambrosius blinks, turning to face the arm on the counter. “I- sure. Of course.” Walking towards it, he sees the robotic prosthetic is in three parts -- the arm itself, laying palm up (-Ballister’s arm falling, almost mockingly slow, the sword falling from it as Bal screams and looks at him in shock-). He sighs through his nose, counting to ten and grounding himself back in this moment. As horrible as he feels about his actions, this arm, right here -- it's not about him and he’s not about to make it about him. He’s not going to make Ballister pretend the arm doesn’t exist. Beside it is something that looking like the upper right part of their chest armor, but thinner and more form fitting, with straps attached to it -- what the arm connects to, Ambrosius guesses, with the straps presumably going across Ballister’s chest and under his left arm to hold the whole thing in place. On the other side is a thin, tiny crystal-like device on a tray. Ambrosius runs a finger along the edge before giving Ballister a hesitant look. Ballister quirks an eyebrow that had Ambrosius nodding, confirming his curiosity.

“That chip reads my brain’s signals, sending it to my arm to make it work like my other one,” Ballister begins. “It's not necessary for the arm to work, but without it, my arm wouldn’t be quite as….” he wiggles his fingers as explanation. Ambrosius nods again, silently urging him on. “It's a hybrid -- electronic and body powered, as well as mind controlled. When it has no charge and the chip isn’t connected, the wires react to movement in my shoulder, which can open and close my hand and- you’re smiling at me.”

“Am I?” Ambrosius asks absently. It's hard not to smile when Ballister gets passionate about something. “Should I stop?”

“No, no, It's just… I missed your smile.” Ballister’s voice dips low enough Ambrosius almost misses it. Clearing his throat, he says, “Anyway…?”

Just another thing they need to talk about eventually. Ambrosius lets it go for now, because he’s worried he’ll get choked up if he gets into it. “How would this even reach your brain?” He asks.

“Well, I cracked my skull open when the ground gave out that night.”

Ambrosius laughs at the unexpected answer. “Oh, of freaking course you would, Bal!”

“Wait- I- That was a joke, obviously I was joking!” Bal gives him an offended look that only makes him laugh again. “It goes in my ear, why would I- why would you think-?”

“That you’d do DIY brain surgery? Because you’re you, Bal. I mean….” Ambrosius gestures to the arm behind him. “I always said if you weren’t so squeamish, in another life, you’d be a mad scientist.”

So—

I specifically wrote Ambrosius with his arm as in a sling to both nod to the moment in the Nimona Graphic Novel this fic based on (where Ballister Blackheart’s arm is in a sling). I specifically gave him a dislocated shoulder because a) you can see his injured arm hanging limply as he approaches Bal after Nimona’s sacrifice, and b) I wanted to give him an injury that didn’t break continuity — his arm clearly being injured after the Director shot him and he was blasted to the ground, but it not being in a sling in the epilogue while Todd’s was

I wrote Bal’s prosthetic as a hybrid — biotic, mind controlled and body powered — instead of just biotic for a couple reasons.

In universe: he DIY’d it himself while on the run from the law, so it doesn’t need to fit solidly into one or the other. Who’s gonna stop him? Insurance coverage? Research funding? Nah, he’s out there probably salvaging parts from abandoned flying cars, he can do whatever he wants with his design

Out of universe/my personal experiences: my mother was in an electric wheelchair nearly the last decade she was alive, and while thing offered her a lot of autonomy, it was also, frankly, a clunker. One time when I was a teenager, we were going down the sidewalk when the battery that powered her chair just fell out.

I remember spending a good ten minutes trying to just pick the thing up to put it back in, it was so heavy. Luckily a nice jogger happened to be running by and stopped to help me lift it, but like. Y’all. When the cheapest electric wheelchair insurance will swing you loses its battery, it does not convert into a manual wheelchair. My mother physically could not move from that spot. Neither of us had good cellphones at the time and anyone we could’ve called wouldn’t get back to us very quickly, so if that jogger hadn’t stopped to help me lift that battery who knows how long we would’ve been stuck there

Since then, whenever I encounter fantasy mobility aids that rely on super high technology or magic or whatever, I just mentally tell myself that it’s a convertible/hybrid model that also functions without electricity/magic/etc or that they totally have a backup readily available just off screen, just because this memory is not a super fun one for me

As for why I specifically had Bal need to charge his arm/likened Bal’s arm charger to a phone charger, it’s because I’ve seen battery prosthetic users with above joint amputations (specifically, admittedly, above the knee amputees) describe charging their prosthetic as being like charging a phone

(Video examples by Alex1leg and Josh Sundquist, both above the knee amputees.)

I specifically took a moment to make Ambrosius unconsciously smile because I love his smile. I love his smiles for Bal. I love that little moment at the beginning of the movie where he tells Bal, “they’re going to love you,” before a smile grows on his face as he says, “like I do” — likes he’s excited and overjoyed he already gets to love Bal and the thought of others loving Bal makes him so happy. I love that moment where, when they see each other for the first time post-chop, when Ambrosius says, “Bal,” you can see his lip quirk up, like Bal’s name is just of of those sounds you can’t make without smiling a little. I love Ambrosius smiling because of Bal

The “chip” was my hand waving how Bal’s prosthetic could balance so well and had such fine motor skills when he’s basically finished DIYing it right before rushing off to the Institute. Many advanced biotic arm prosthetics do use brain scanning to interpret their user’s brain signals. Eh, its the future, if they can include holographic coins when venmoing tips to street musicians, Bal can DIY a neurolink in an alleyway while on the run from the law and probably having a hemoglobin of 3.6. I made it “crystal shaped” to mirror the crystals Nimona left behind after stopping the Director

Also Bal is absolutely feral enough to casually do brain surgery on himself. I just didn’t go that route because his signature finisher in the movie is headbutting people wearing helmets with his bare forehead, and thinking about it too long made my head hurt

Lastly, my favorite bit of characterization from the graphic novel was Blackheart’s love of science (I even specifically referenced Nimona shapeshifting into Blackheart and shouting “SCIENCE” in a set of notes I took for my friend for our cell bio class), and while I love the movie I am a little sad they didn’t lean into it. The “in another lifetime” line is a blatant reference to the epilogue of the graphic novel

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

I guess my “journey” started in elementary school — I would draw pictures and tell admittedly impressively sequential stories about them. My mother would transcribed these stories, stable them together, and show my teachers, who in turns told me I should become a published author one day. I wasn’t sold on it at the time, admittedly (I’m dyslexic and I was bitter about it as a kid), but all the adults around me figured I’d either go into healthcare or become a writer (my peers figured I’d either cure all disease one day or become the next Jack the Ripper, so make of that what you will).

(spoilers, I'm going with both)

(the healthcare/writer thing, to clarify. Not the scientist/serial killer thing)

My first degree was in English/Creative Writing, and I worked as a journalist for a couple years. I’ve even got a couple poems and a short story published in small magazines.

My mental health took a dive after some personal loses, including the death of a beloved irl writing partner, combined with a shitty work schedule (listen if your job promises only 35 hours a week but actually has you working 50 across five days, not including travel, with promises of punishment if you call out and refuses to offer part time, run), so I haven’t had the motivation to publish anything original lately. I’m hoping once I’ve got my second degree in nursing, I’ll be able to land a job that lets me survive off of three day work weeks, so I’ll have time to focus on poems and novels (I don't care if my work days are long, as long as I enjoy what I do and can get them out of the way as soon as possible)

For now, I’ve dedicated myself to my fanfics (instant gratification upon publication babay)

24. How much prep work do you put into your stories? What does that look like for you? Do you enjoy this part or do you just want to get on with it?

If you can’t tell, I overthink as many small details as I can lol. I try to plot my stories out in advance and research things in advance. This part of the process does lead me to procrastinating often, though — I’ll plot the entire thing meticulously, tell myself, “wow that was a lot of work,” then I won’t touch the story again for weeks. The thing is, once I do start writing, I let myself have freedom — the characters and plot will go where they go whether I want them to or not, so I don’t try to fight it. If there’s a specific bit of dialogue or action that I want, I’ll write that part of the story first and hope the before bits don’t go too off track to get there smoothly

I’m also the worst as guessing what my word count will be — it’ll either be half as much or twice as much as predicted and I won’t be able to tell you what the word count will be until it’s ready to go live

[shadowsong26x]

Hey friendo! Asking you the weird writer questions : 1,5, and 23 ❤️❤️

All right, cool <3

1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

Generally the default. Although I had one program where the default switched from Arial to Calibri at some point during a transition from an old laptop to a new one, so I would switch it back for the things I used that program for? Basically, if I'm starting out in a new program I'll use whatever the default is, but then I Don't Like Change, lol.

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

Hm. I don't know that I do, exactly? I'm trying to think if there's anything I would call a superstition. I guess like I said above, once I'm used to things being set up a certain way, I don't like change, maybe that would count? I remember at one point I wrote a solid chunk of a like 100k-word fic on these little notepads I stole from the supply cabinet at work. When I switched jobs, the supply cabinet didn't have notepads in the same size/shape/style and it became Significantly Harder to write things out longhand? (I did eventually adjust, lol, but it was a Process. And I don't do it nearly as often as I used to. ...it also helps that I work remotely...part of writing things out longhand was that it was Much subtler/easier to hide a bunch of scribbles on a notepad than an extra window on my computer...lol)

...yeah, so if that counts, that would be it? But I don't really have like...rituals, or needing to be in a specific space/have things set up a specific way. Sometimes I listen to music, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I'll set like a 10-minute timer to get myself going, sometimes I don't bother. Other than some vague 'the stars are not in position for this tribute' stuff when I sit down to write and the words Will Not Come but there's no consistent way to fix that other than Deadline Panic. Soooooo yeah.

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

Ahahaha, I should read what the next question is before I answer the last one lol. Wasn't that a thing for like tests in high school, too? "Read the whole thing before you start answering questions?"

...anyway.

Like I said, I don't have a super consistent place? The three most common would be probably my work desk, which is a long light-brown rectangle, probably two feet by six feet? I have a desk lamp (I usually don't bother with the overhead light), a little platform/lapdesk in the same wood that I usually put my work computer on, and a little bowl for candy, and a handful of soda bottles that need to go out with next week's recycling. If I'm writing there, my work computer gets shoved over to the left, right next to the lamp, so I can keep an eye on emails/etc./bounce back and forth between tasks. My personal computer goes on the right, and I pull up whichever writing program is the correct one for what I'm working on.

If I'm writing at home, it's one of two places. First is in my chair in the living room. Which is a chair and a half, and grey. I have an old Amazon shipping box I use as a lapdesk, so I'll have my laptop in my lap. Sometimes my roommate will be watching something on TV while I'm doing this, or I'll be checking in and out of conversations. Or sometimes we're just doing parallel play.

The second is--I have a loft bed, and underneath it I have several bookshelves and a very cheap twin bed. That's where I'm usually hanging out on tumblr/just chilling if I want to be in a Private Space. There's a pink blanket, a black husband chair/armchair pillow and then a regular pillow. I have a lapdesk I got for like $10 at Best Buy a million years ago and I shift position a lot.

Ask me a writing question!

[kaicodess]

this is buzzkill (wip), one of three projects i'm working on atm, and i've decided that i might need a little help holding myself accountable or i'd probably never finish them lol.

i've been super nostalgic for an old site lately and (thanks for some encouraging logic from a couple of friends) wanted to see what that site would look like if it was alive today with a mixture of its old bones and some of my fav current trends and features. i'm forever a fan of black/white contrast but i know it's harsh on the eyes these days so i'm trying my best to incorporate it without the strain 😅

heading features:

○ navigation/user menu toggle ○ light/dark mode toggle ○ font size toggle ○ 3-tone gradients (preview shows three different shades of blue) ○ sticky topbar ○ brief link to news/update box (using lux's carousel code)

i'm really wanting to share skins with people this year but i'm not 100% confident in my work enough for that, yet. i might test this one out sometime down the line. and if all goes well maybe i'll toss it up eventually as a premade? please don't quote me, i make no promises.

[findablog]

i saw someone else say they started rping on neopets... i did too but not on the chat boards... in a warrior cats guild back when the series had like six books about the cat who became Firestar.

my trip of rp went neopets --> inkpop character chats --> chat boards with people from inkpop when inkpop began to die and doing it on figment wasn't the same --> tumblr specifically a PJO group rp that i was in for over 3 years and when i left they retired luke because they didnt want anyone else playing him ever

and on tumblr i have seen it all from the big gifs and just lines no quotations to specific para threads still with gifs to the beginning of novellas and 100 by 100 icons to all the fancy fonts and stuff with new size icons to tumblr changing formats so we get all the lines before the icon to the banners and formatting we see today. also i started out in fandom group rps to non fandom group rps to indie fandom rps back to fandom group rps (glee specifically) to indie rp again and here i have been ever since. i also ran rpc (another acronym for rph) at one point, and ran a few groups lol.

[ghostedglitch]

happy one year to my hypnospace comic!

(and one day, just pretend i had this up yesterday shhhhh)

here's a little series of fun facts about making it

- started as a poem. i wanted to make a Millenium Anthem animatic and/or write a fic (i ended up doing the latter) but this came to me in the meantime and, being hyperfixated and eager to make something about it, it developed into a comic.

- that said, i was deep in the throes of an art burnout. i tend to make a lot of art around the new year, usually due to being in multiple gift exchanges, as well as working on my own things during winter break since i don't usually have the time to during school, and that wears me out. both this year and last i struggled with having energy to draw. however, i'd just recently found out a style that was pretty easy to work in even in that state: polygonal! so the comic is pixel polygons.

- the comic actually sort of ties into (and is directly quoted in the summary of) the aforementioned fic i wrote—which is called "do(n't) be afraid"—as evidenced by the focus on the HSPD badge as well as the Enforcer being almost a self-insert

- the typography is done by hand. i looked at the game's font file for the standard font and copied it. to this day i can pretty reliably just. handwrite in hypnospace font with the pixel pen. and i do! it's very space efficient!

- the dithering is also done by hand, because i'm a madlad. well, for each pattern i did like a portion by hand and then copy-pasted it until i covered as much area as i needed to, because i'm a madlad but i'm not a masochist. and then when i needed it again i just copied and pasted the layer and used a clipping mask to change its color. now though i have that big pixel brush pack on clip studio paint. so i won't be needing to do that again anytime soon.

- in panel 3 we see the Enforcer's face as well as glasses on their desk. like i said. pretty much a self insert. we also see their computer and hypnospace headband; i studied that intro video for this but between not seeing it a whole lot and the artstyle i was using being really simplified, i'm probably missing something lol

- in panel 4 we see dylan merchant at his desk. there's a calendar behind him. i actually looked up what day of the week was december 31, 1999 so i could circle it. it was a friday.

- the girl in panel 5 is supposed to be rebekah, the girl who likes squisherz and won the fan art contest but didn't get to find out because her dad took away her hypnospace headband. there's only one small picture of her to go off of, though.

- panels 7 and 8, which can also go together as one tall panel, were fucking FUN. what i did for the glitchy static bits was i made various clusters of black rectangles, each cluster on a different layer so i could copy and rotate them to fill more space. then on a clipping mask i used airbrush without antialiasing in white, RGB, and CMY. boom, static pattern. the elements from the game (the error message window, the cursors, the car) i had to copy by hand. see, the wiki doesn't have many screenshots, and if you try to screenshot the game or a video of it then it scrungles your image clarity. so i had to take those screenshots, eyedrop the colors from there, and then do such riveting and time efficient (that's a joke, it took forever) tasks as Count Pixels So Everything Is The Right Size. which for the shiny new HypnOS 2000 look was painstaking. look at those gradients. gradients everywhere. it was worth the work because it looks fantastic but man. and then to scrungle those elements i just used the rectangular selection tool, grabbed arbitrary bits and pieces of the things and Moved Them Elsewhere.

oh yeah babey

[just-a-cup-of-anxietea]

End of the Year Book Tag 2023

Tagged by @the---hermit! Thanks friend!!

Are there any books you started this year that you need to finish?

AHAHA yes. Very much yes. I have SO many books that I started this year and need to finish; it's honestly pretty ridiculous. I think the official number is something like...36? So, yea. I'd say of those 36, I only intend to actually finish 4-6 by year's end. (Two of those are textbooks for courses that end in December.) I have a very long list of books that I "need" to finish, but I'm flexible on the timeline.

Do you have an autumnal book to transition into the end of the year?

Not really, no. I've just been doing my best to keep my head above water lately, so I haven't been doing book (read: vibe) planning or, like, conscious book transitions. I suppose I probably should find an autumnal book, though, huh? Would be nice! Cozy vibes are always good. I am writing this now while on break, and I have a bit of time to make that Deliberate Choice of an Autumn Book Selection. (Any suggestions, anyone?)

Is there a new release you're still waiting for?

YES!! Marissa Meyer's With a Little Luck comes out on February 13, 2024. Not this year, so I don't know if that's exactly what this question is asking, BUT I'M VERY EXCITED FOR IT. Ali Hazelwood's Bride is also coming in Feb of next year, Feb 6, and I'm pretty stoked! (I've been reading more romcoms lately, and it shows.) I can't think of any releases I'm waiting for between now and Dec 31, 2023 though.

What are three books you want to read before the end of the year?

I'm still finishing up the 23 books in '23 list. I just finished The Alchemy of Architecture by Ken Tate and Duke Tate (finished literally ten minutes ago lol), but I'm still trying to get to O Pioneers! by Willa Cather, The Lost Art of Reading Nature's Signs by Tristan Gooley, and Beyond the Last Oasis by Ted Edwards. (Planning to update that 23 books in '23 list very, very soon on my studyblr! YAY FOR BREAK AND HAVING TIME!)

Is there a book you think could still shock you and become your favourite book of the year?

I mean, I think if I anticipate the shock, it’s not really shock anymore, is it? So no. But ALSO, in a less pedantic sense, I think maybe I could really like How Far the Light Reaches by Sabrina Imbler. I've read quite a few good books this year though, so we shall see!

Have you already started making reading plans for next year?

Oh, I’ve got a TBR that could stretch to Mars on TNR size .2 font, babey! The exhaustive list is, as always, available on my Goodreads. I do have specific plans and lists that I'm hoping to enact next year, though, yeah. Of those, I've got the 24 books in 2024 list (tentative, still making decisions about what I'll Officially Include), the Intro to Philosophy list (lots of Nietzsche, Jung, and Plato), the Psychology list (covering all things from neuroanatomy to neurotoxins to cognitive sci), and the Environmental Science list (lots of eco-anxiety fodder). From these lists, I'm particularly looking forward to Your Brain on Art: How the Arts Transform Us by Susan Magsamen and Ivy Ross, Wolf Wilder by Katherine Rundell, Hurricane Lizards and Plastic Squid by Thor Hanson, and The Republic by Plato.

No pressure tagging: @noa-the-physicist @daydreaming-optimist @nettlewildfairy @courageisneverforgotten @obesecamels @deirdrerose @permanentreverie @dinosnaurnuggets @willowstea @senatorhotcheeto and anyone else who wants to!