#this is a general vague personal post bc i actually looked at myself in the light and its. Hm

[robobee]

I'm not even on T and I've got a full on beard going if I wasn't 5 feet tall I could be the coolest boy in all the land

[panlight]

hi!! i’m so sorry to keep sending you asks (if you get sick of it please just let me know and i’ll shut up i promise!! 💕💕)

so this is re: the cullens being in high school, as per the ask you answered a couple days ago! i also always thought it was super weird, and i’ve been thinking for a while now that a MUCH better cover story would for them all (even carlisle and esme) to be grad school housemates (i say this as someone who has now spent two years in grad school and is about to be there for another five at least lmaoooo)

here’s why i think it would work:

1. the age weirdness wouldn’t be as obvious bc people of all ages go to grad school (i started when i was 22 and had classmates in their 40s)

2. related to age, the visible/physical age also wouldn’t matter as much since some of my classmates (me included 😭😭) looked like we could still pass as high schoolers while others gave off huge “kids and a mortgage vibes” even if they were just like a year older

3. the whole looking “off” and tired thing is just like. the grad school Look™️. the shadows under the eyes and general gaunt-ish appearance honestly wouldn’t stand out that much and if somebody said something about them looking “off” or whatever, they could just be like “late night studying” and the other person would be like “lmao so true bestie”

4. if they pretended they were all renting space in the same big house (and carlisle and esme just acted a little less parental), the whole “dating each other” thing wouldn’t be that weird at all. i feel like it’s not that uncommon for couples who get along to rent different floors or sections of a house, and if they didn’t pretend to be one big weird family situation and instead just acted like they all met each other at school, i don’t think people would even bat an eye

5. people go to grad school forever. like. for so long (i vaguely knew of someone who was in the eighth or ninth year of her phd). esp if they picked something like a big state school where the “kids” could go to undergrad first, they could realistically do four years of undergrad, maybe a two or three year masters, and then a phd of indeterminate length (usually at least five). that would allow them to stay in the same place for at least 11 years

and this is not an official point, but i will note that for carlisle to still do his whole doctor thing, i think it would be perfectly reasonable for him to have already “graduated” or whatever, but continue to stay with his “friends” for financial reasons, or just bc the living situation worked for everyone

anyway, i’m so sorry this was so long, and honestly i bet someone has already said this somewhere before, but it just struck me when reading the “why tf are the cullens in high school” post that grad school would be such a great cover story for them

haha anyway thanks for putting up with my ramblings and thank you for all the lovely work you do on the blog!! 🥰🥰

I've definitely seen "just put them in college!" before (and I have made that argument myself) but I don't know if I've seen the grad school cover story specifically before!

It would allow Esme and/or Carlisle to be the 'peers' of their children rather than some sort of guardian or parental figures. They could, as you said, all be renting a house together and Esme could be studying architecture or getting a PhD in art history or whatever while the kids study who knows what. Maybe there's a medical school as well and Carlisle can go back (it still makes zero sense that Edward and Rosalie go "to keep him current' like how is that supposed to work? They come home and just recite from perfect vampire memory everything that happened in calls? Wouldn't Carlisle be keeping current by like, idk, actually being a doctor, reading journals, going to conferences, and continuing education?).

A group of friends renting a house together as a bunch of couples makes way more sense than two parents barely visibly older than their foster/adopted kids who all date each other.

And, honestly, it's probably a better use of their time to get actual advanced degrees rather than stopping at undergrad? I know because of secrecy how they use their knowledge and skills is somewhat fraught but like, publish papers under a false name or let someone else take the credit or something and you can still contribute to the world of academia.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for leaving a DND campaign abruptly?

Some backstory: I had joined a DND game about 5 years ago right after breaking up with my toxic ex at the time. Me and my ex were both trying to be cordial at this time and ended up both joining a DND game run by a mutual friend.

In our first session, I had noticed my ex made her character be a parody of me that she made look like an awful person. She then kept dm-ing me during our sessions to tell me how to play my character better and other general backseat gaming stuff.

Very quickly, maybe about a month in, I contacted the DM about leaving the campaign due to wanting to distance myself from my ex. She was very upset I wanted to leave and offered to kick my ex from the group instead. I declined saying it would only cause more drama. The DM agreed to let my character go off at the end of the activity we were gonna do that session so it would make sense story-wise.

But this departure did not happen. after that conversation she vague-posted onling about how people dont want to be her friend. She then purposefully kept extending this part of the plot, just so I wouldnt leave the game and could realize it could still be fun. I told her outright I could not do this anymore after 3 more additional sessions and telling me she'll get to my character's exit soon. I always felt like an ass to the other players in the game for leaving them abruptly but I could not do it anymore.

Fast forward roughly 4 years, the DM tells me she is going to make a new campaign and would like for me to join since my ex was no longer in it. I agreed as I had missed playing DND a lot.

For the past year or so I have been in this campaign and it can be fun at times but I still feel out of place. This new session is a direct continuation of the previous campaign's storyline and regularly references it. Now, as far as I know my ex's character has not been referenced at all but I am constantly reminded of this situation whenever they mention a character's name I don't remember (because honestly I don't remember her characters name nor do I want to). I know I said to not bring her up around me but I don't quite trust this friend to keep her word. Simply because I don't think she ever remembers anything I tell her out of a place of... just not caring.

The DM and I just don't quite mesh that well. I don't really like her DM-ing style of making it up as the session happens. I don't like that she will constantly decide what my character is doing, even if I ask to do something, she tells me to roll to see if i can, i can get a nat20 and she will still decide what my character will do next based on what she thinks is funnier to her but makes my next action harder to accomplish.

I have dm'd her to talk about the progression of my character arc (after she constantly implys in session my character is the comedic relief and doesnt have any character development) and she'll go ooo and aaa (literally all she would say) but never actually implement anything I recommend.

I kept saying to myself it will get better in time. I have voiced my wants for my character, and they are ignored. In session, my character actions are essentially decided for me no matter how I roll the dice. It feels weird to be around half of the party bc they spent 4 years in a campaign with my ex who played a parody of me. esp hard after the DM keeps making me be the comedic relief even though I keep trying to play more seriously. other players constantly joke about how my character is gonna be the one that gets them all killed etc because of actions I dont necessarily decide.

Now as mentioned before, DM is also known to vague-blog about how "her friends secretly hate her" at any moment as well. This has happened before after I tried to "real talk" with her a handful of times over unrelated topics too (even if she initiates this conversation)

Given everything above, I want to leave this DND game after giving it a try for a year (really giving it an opportunity to improve). We left off with my character running off alone to get supplies for the party. I was thinking I could make a statement saying I had some personal things come up and I need to leave the game abruptly and leave it to the DM to decide what to do with my character.

Now I feel like I may be the AH because: I am leaving the game abruptly for a second time technically. I would contact the DM on how to make it make sense for my character to depart, but I feel like she will do the same thing as before with the previous campaign and keep putting it off, especially after ignoring my character growth ideas for a year in this current campaign. I also feel like I may be the AH because in character my group does need those supplies, but there is nothing stopping the DM from controlling my character to deliver supplies within the first 5 minutes of the next session.

[reel-fear]

Genuinely so curious who Mike thinks is gonna be buying The Cage or the new DCTL GN bc with the way he tweets as far as he's concerned, it's not gonna be:

The queer people he has actively admitted he will never show any representation of in the games.

2. The POC he has actively fought against representing in his franchise. [Who he also mocked for thinking they would be represented in his franchise]

3. The Bendy fandom which has always been concerned with topics of diversity esp in the sense of queer people since its creation. Who he has responded to really poorly esp in regards to the GN.

4. The fans who critique him. [He blocked me for doing so lol]

5. His fans in general who he tweets about like this currently. [He's being vague about why people were mad at him or sent him 'nasty messages' because if you actually looked into why you'd see he was in the wrong. Either way, a very hateful way to speak abt ur own fanbase.]

Reminder while Mike is trash talking his fans he has always treated them rather poorly. The fans who won the fanart contest for Chapter 5 never got their posters actually in game due to it being rushed. Not only was chapter 5 a big slap to the face story wise, but it was literally so rushed he couldn't be bothered to add in the art his fans gave him for his game FOR FREE. [Meatly blames this on a crazy timeline, reminder him and Mike are the literal ceos of this company. The proposal of future updates here is also pretty cruel considering Mike nowadays happily admits he corrupted Chapter 5's source code and therefore literally can't update it At All currently. Because he is a moron]

At least they got to be in Boris and the dark survival, and by that I mean that was the Only game they got to be in so far, isn't that just treating your fans like you love them? Shoving their hard work into a spin off game almost nobody has played or addresses much. [Hell, who knows if with the Lone Wolf rebrand they'll even stay there. In which case they'll be in None of the games, only in the credits of BATIM]

6. The Bendy fans who just generally disagree with him on stuff. Like the new ink demon design where there is literally a public poll showing people generally prefer the old one.

7. The Bendy fans who can see he is actively lying to them. To their fucking faces.

He says this has always been the case, but screenshots and links to tweets regarding the books being canon prove it was not. Does he really think bendy fans are stupid or something? [Unless he's admitting here he lied to Kress when he told her the books were canon which sounds worse!]

8. Anyone who doesn't like the idea of giving money to a guy who laid off tons of employees then afterwards thought it was a great idea to express his anti-union views! Also brag about how good of an employer he was, according to his employees, he was not!

So in summary; Mike is an awful person who has not learned anything from the awful things he did. I will not be purchasing The Cage because, combined with this and his absolute refusal to take any kind of critique or see any differing interpretation of his franchise, I have no reason to think my problems with the franchise will ever be addressed or fixed. I probably will pirate The Cage along with any future Bendy Products [Including the movie] and will do my best to avoid giving it any kind of monetary support. Unless this changes any time soon, I can't see myself making anymore positive Bendy posts soon.

Mike has just managed to make it so hard to speak positively or optimistically of this franchise when he's so willing to broadcast how little he cares about it or its fans. I'm at the point where I refuse to pull any of my punches with my problems with it. What's the point of trying to play nice with my critique when either way the people creating it don't care?

So with this post, I want to invite anyone who feels similarly about the franchise to tell me, make a post or send an ask talking about how all of this makes you feel. It may not change how things are, but genuinely seeing other people share my feelings of anger makes me feel better. It feels nice to see when other people share our same concerns and worries. I'd also love to know if anyone else thinks they'll be avoiding purchasing Bendy products over this.

I'm not forcing anyone to participate in it nor trying to say anyone who doesn't supports mike but genuinely maybe if we can collectively decide to boycott things like the movie, graphic novel and The Cage... It might at least make the bendy devs acknowledge how much they have destroyed their own fandom's faith and trust in them.

The way Mike tweets about his actions like he had no control over why people were mad at him at least proves to me he takes NONE of it back nor regrets it. If you didn't know about his actions and only went off his tweets, you would be led to believe Mike has been needlessly picked apart by fans over things he couldn't control [or in his own words, had his words twisted and taken out of context]. That is not how you speak about your actions if you have actually learned better from them.

anyway, that has been my bendy dev callout post. This is an open invitation to anyone feeling similarly upset about the way the franchise is going to talk about it. It's genuinely nice to see how people feel about this and the more we talk about the more it's likely the bendy devs are forced to address our concerns. I don't think they will but hey, that's why I'm not gonna support them with my money anymore nor am I gonna be nice to them in any content I make critiquing Bendy. I mean I'm also basically making this post just in case anyone asks me Why I feel this way towards to bendy devs/as a way to respond to anyone who thinks I am too harsh in my critique in the future.

As always, it seems the best part of Bendy isn't actually anything about canon but about what the fan's are creating with the ideas Bendy failed to do anything interesting with.

Also the books, the books slap.

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋��𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you a transfer student?” Steven asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marc. His name was Marc.

Why is he stuck in my bloody head?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stiffened. “Y-yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. You were shy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now, anyway.

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

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

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

Steven hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only he knew.

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

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

“ ...Steven? ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’m here for you.’

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

You quirked an inquisitive brow.

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

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

Oh, he could kiss you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you responded encouragingly, expression neutral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[beartitled]

Content time fellas 🍄

We’re getting through my uni catalog 📒 /silly

🍄Mushroom lantern🍄

This project has irl backstory behind it, it will be under read more for ppl interested

This is not a real game 🫵 just some concepts smashed together to look like one

All pixel assets were made in about an hour or so

And afterwards I drew some additional art bc I liked the concept

The main heroine

Is a littol mushroom

I imagine her to be a fake fly agaric (I think it’s a real species, but I need to read more about it)

She basically imitates fly agaric in order to protect herself, bc she’s tiny and defenceless

NPCs

I don’t have a specific species for this one, so just the purple guys™️

I imagine them to be sentient pieces of a huge organism THE big purple mushroom lmao

Those are just random dudes you help with random quests, using the light of your lantern

The catch tho

The lantern

This is pretty much the characters soul

The fire you collect, helps you continue living

Something happened with lantern or if all light is drained = u dead

Not every species has it, but many use the lantern light as a resource

yea so by helping the npcs

you kinda

👁️👁️ actively die in the process

The Chanterelle Witch

This is where additional content begins >:D

I kinda imagine a mushroom city/town as a main location

The witch lives outside of it, isolated from other mushroom creatures

She decided to leave everything behind and live without any creatures around

~ because something mysterious happened 👀~

I imagine her being trans 🏳️‍⚧️

And of course

Mushroöm lesbiens ❤️🍄

Tall gorgeous woman x tiny smol little woman

I don’t really have a structured story for this world

Those are just some vague concepts floating in my bear brain

Which I may or may not develop in the future

Maybe someday I’ll get a random inspiration boost to do something with this💥

There are 2 pixel games concepts I did, so ya’ll see more pixels in the future 👾

Ok, so the backstory behind this project

Bring the tea fellas ☕️

Back in my uni days 👵

*dramatic bear coughing*/silly

Basically we had a subject “Game design”

The assignment was to create a pixel game concept: mainly just sprites, tiles and a “gameplay” screenshot

I will post the project I submitted later on (I need to keep u guys entertained while I’m on portfolio grind, so intrigue pauses ☝️)

This project however 🤨

Was a product of one interesting situation

I finished my project on time with no problem, but one person from my study group didn’t

They pretty much copied the sprites from an existing game (I believe they didn’t trace them, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they did lmao)

Professor found out

and said “you either do an actual game in 3 days or you fail this class”

How take a guess who came to me after this pathetically sobbing and asking for help

And I, being a naive idiot, made them an entire game in 1 hour

Completely for free

Thinking they will change and they were probably just too busy to do this assignment

I’m incredibly angry at myself, bc the same person submitted an AI generated image as their art project next semester AND NOBODY CALLED THEM OUT ON IT

BRUH

I’m still incredibly mad to this day

And I’m telling you guys that

Bc don’t repeat my mistakes

Many people will use your kindness and steal your art outright

Don’t let people like that discourage you

I did that mistake

But L to that person, I have the og files, this is my silly mushroom lesbians

🔫🐻‍❄️

So yea

This person did not deserve this (I hope they step on a lego in the middle of the night)

But I’m glad I did this project

“That’s free real ocs🍄”/ref

[rosyfingered-moon]

2023 drama roundup

Unchained Love: I still hum the unhinged flute intro on a regular basis, easily my fave intro of 2023! I didn't actually finish the show due to dwindling interest, but for the first 14 episodes or so I took a keen pleasure in it (and it made me go on a eunuch webnovel spree, expertly curated by @mercipourleslivres). I love it when heroines are allowed to be truly funny, rather than just quirky or ditzy. Also appreciate the goofy Lamp Prince turning into a brutal incel tyrant the moment he got power.

Six Flying Dragons: I don't think I can write anything succinct enough for the roundup format so I direct you to my "my sfd tag" if you want to access my enthused livetweeting. Show of all times, lives were changed.

Tree with Deep Roots: I literally can't think of a better topic for a tv show than Sejong the Great constructing hangul together with his band of nerds, one of whom he has a weirdly intense, vaguely erotic relationship with. Han Suk-kyu carried this entire show on his trembling shoulders. What an actor! What range!!! It was such a treat to watch him smugly debate his ministers, roleplay a farmer, and hiss half-mad soliloquies to himself in the dark. It took nuance and depth to portray the kind of inner conflicts and generational trauma that Sejong battles in the background of this drama. To be honest I didn't always enjoy the Milbon subplot which I felt got repetitive, and often found myself wanting to fast-forward the wuxia scenes. In a better world the show would have centered the whip-smart palace maids and their alphabet workshops. But I will definitely rewatch this soon. And maybe also write a fix-it where Sejong and Soo-yi fuck idk.

Quartet: Cute little murder mystery about a found family of freaks, liked it a lot.

My Country: The New Age: As entertaining as ever. Very fun to rewatch this back to back with Tree with Deep Roots, since Jang Hyuk plays diametrically opposite characters with the same vigor and commitment.

Gone with the Rain: Sometimes you watch something which you understand is technically a masterpiece but it doesn't do anything for you, and sometimes you watch a piece of campy silly fun and it makes you tingle with joy. This was the latter category for me. I liked the first and middle parts enough to make up for the lukewarm fizzle of an ending.

The Autumn Ballad: Has some fucked up elements that are difficult to stomach, but the parts that are good are really good.

Not Others: Bingeable! But imo they could have cut out the stalker/murder cases and just focused on the excellent family drama.

The Matchmakers: This surprisingly swooped in towards the end of the year as my favorite comedy of 2023, all thanks to a rec by @haraxvati. I adore Cho Yi-hyun in this role!!! She is so hot as a shrewd matchmaker with a fake mole and a twinkle in her eye. Love the virgin prince with his yearning-induced panic attacks (Rowoon didn't work for me in The King's Affection in a quite similar role, but he's so much weirder and lamer here, which is something I like in a man). I am obsessed with the side plot of the crossdressing romance novelist and the solemn police officer who is trying to capture her and ends up giving her free home renovations and smouldering looks instead. Also, Park Ji-Young and Lee Hae-Young are two of my favorite villain actors on their own, and here they are married!! Still have a few episodes to go, but I intend to binge them as soon as I post this.

Dramas I dropped or paused:

Our Blossoming Youth: I shipped the heroine and her cute maidservant a little too much to bear the dull prince they stuck her with. But I might rewatch it some day bc I want to write a Sherlock Holmes fic for the girls.

Little Women: A real disappointment, because I love Louisa May Alcott and I love Jeong Seo-kyeong. Once again, letting the women kiss might have solved much of it.

Island: Casting Kim Nam-gil as an expressionless cool-guy action hero offends me personally. (Yes Song of the Bandits I'm giving you the stinky eye also.) But Lee Da-hee and Cha Eun-woo were delightful!

See you in my 19th life: I couldn't, even for my most darling Shin Hye-sun, go beyond episode 1. There's something about a kid dating another kid even though she's a literal adult inside her brain that I can't really vibe with.

My Dearest: I do intend to finish this, but I lost the thread after the first half. It got a little too dark for me I think.

[xf-cases-solved]

S1E19: Shapes

Case: In what will unfortunately become a recurring theme of the X-Files writers creating plotlines that make sweeping generalizations about Native American cultures and traditions, Shapes takes us to -quickly looks it up- Montana, where a Native American man—I am reasonably sure they don't actually ever say what tribe he's from, bc again, sweeping generalizations—has been killed, ostensibly by his white neighbor over a land dispute. But! Said neighbor swears he was shooting a monstrous beast and not a man. Mulder, as is his wont, is inclined to believe the more paranormal edge to the story, this time citing the Very First X-File that tells of a similar monstrous beast attack that has a very werewolfy vibe to it. The Natives fucking hate the FBI and want them off their land (that part, at least, was believable and understandable); Mulder believes in lycanthropy; Scully does not believe in lycanthropy; and I only partially watch the episode bc I'm too busy cringing and reluctantly picking my battles to pay attention. [Edited to add after having already written this, but I did actually go back and fact check myself, and they DID specify a tribe. The problem is... the tribe does not exist. Nor does the legend they reference lmfao.]

(The only saving grace here is that this is the episode that has one of my favorite interactions (that I'm sure most of y'all have seen in gif form a million times) which is, "Charlie, do you believe in shapeshifting?" "This is a funeral."

So that's something at least.)

Does someone die in the cold open: Yes

Does Mulder present a slideshow: No, which is surprising given that Mulder has that first X-File to reference, but I guess he didn't have any good visuals. 

Does the evidence survive the investigation: Not really

Whodunit: A werewolf thing with a fun, vaguely racist flair 

Convictions: None

Did they solve it: Maybe. Mulder is pretty certain it was the werewolf thing, while Scully has gaslit herself into thinking it was a mountain lion or something, and it's ambiguous about whether or not they actually stopped the crime. 

[how do i determine if a case is solved? check the scale here: x]

THIS EPISODE IS SPONSORED BY: Cringing and reluctantly picking your battles. From the makers of "anxiously clenching your butthole while crossing your fingers and praying that your faves don't say anything TOO problematic" comes this new and exciting way to deal with your 90s show doing an episode that involves literally anything having to do with minorities. While clenching your butthole and praying is great, sometimes we know in our hearts that things are probably gonna get... lightly to moderately racist, and when those incidents happen, it's good to have cringing and reluctantly picking your battles on hand. * *Cringing and reluctantly picking your battles is a multi-use product, and can be employed in many situations, including, but not limited to -- Seeing your great-aunt's conspiracy theory Facebook post, hearing a white person with dreads describe themselves as a "g*psy" at your local co-op grocery store, or during almost any online discourse argument.

***

General Total Stats:

(green means stat has changed since last ep; red means new stat added to list)

Total Cases *Definitively* Solved So Far: 9 (streak ended whomp)

Total Number of "Mulder/Scully, It's Me" Phone Calls: 1

Total Number of Times Scully Has Conveniently Not Seen Something Crucial: 5

Total Number of Times Mulder Has Been in Mortal Danger: 5

Total Number of Times Scully Has Been in Mortal Danger: 7

Total Number of Sexually Charged, Uncomfortably Intimate, and/or Flirty Moments Between Friendly Coworkers: 10

Total Number of Autopsies Scully Has Performed On Screen: 2

Total Number of Times Scully Plays Doctor: 2

Total Number of Times Mulder Talks to an Informant: 10 

Total Number of Times People Making Out in a Car Are Hurt or Killed: 2

Total Number of Nosebleeds: 4

Total Number of Times Mulder Has Tasted/Sniffed/Touched Something Questionable Without Following Proper Safety Procedures: 2 

Total Number of Times Someone Says "Trust No One": 1 

Total Number of Times Someone Says "I Want to Believe": 3

Total Number of Times Someone Says "The Truth is Out There": 1

Total Number of Cigarettes Cigarette Smoking Man Has Smoked: 2

Total Number of Maggie Scully Sightings: 1

Total Number of Lone Gunmen Sightings: 1

Total Number of Alex Krycek Sightings: 0 :(

Total Number of Times I Had to Look Up What State the Episode Takes Place in Even Though I Literally Just Watched It: 7½ (in my defense, i wasn't paying attention)

Total Number of Times I Had to Look at an Episode's Wikipedia Page to Fill This Out Because It Was Fucking Confusing and/or Too Boring for Me to Pay Attention: 5 (had to look up some clarifying details bc i was. not paying attention, lol)

[atopvisenyashill]

do you have any idea of how jon’s ending is going to be? 😄

me answering this two months later should tell you that i have no fucking clue alsjfdlk. i mean...i have some guesses but i'm not completely sure on any of them and i reserve the right to change my mind as soon as 3 seconds after i post this answer and i actually had to psyche myself up to post this bc i crave validation and i feel like i'm talking out of my ass here lol.

jon's story is honestly the one that trips me up more than everyone else's. for one thing, the show is basically no help at all here - i think a lot of the stuff they did with jon in the show they mostly did because it looked cool and fit the action hero trope they were trying to fill even though "action hero" isn't really what jon's story is about or even follows. for another thing, the fandom just differs soooo much on what's going to happen to him that it's hard to sort of sift through how everyone feels and come to a specific idea on how EYE personally feel. there's a few things i feel strongly are or aren't happening so i guess i'll just ramble on a bit here:

there is one thing i am absolutely sure is going to happen and it's this:

His lord father had once talked about raising new lords and settling them in the abandoned holdfasts as a shield against wildlings. The plan would have required the Watch to yield back a large part of the Gift, but his uncle Benjen believed the Lord Commander could be won around, so long as the new lordlings paid taxes to Castle Black rather than Winterfell. "It is a dream for spring, though," Lord Eddard had said. "Even the promise of land will not lure men north with a winter coming on." If winter had come and gone more quickly and spring had followed in its turn, I might have been chosen to hold one of these towers in my father's name. Lord Eddard was dead, however, his brother Benjen lost; the shield they dreamt together would never be forged.

I really think this is foreshadowing Jon and Bran's ending wrt each other - building up holdfasts and raising up new lords and ladies not as a shield against the Wildlings but to help the Wildlings as well as the large amount of Northerners in need of somewhere safe after the destruction of the Long Night. Land and resources to help this group of people desperately in need of a new homeland - it's Brandon's Gift to his brother!

the other thing i'm mainly convinced of is i think a bit spicy of a take not just amongst the greater fandom but even amongst the jonsa side more specifically - jon isn't going to be king nor is he legitimate. it's not to say that I don't think the crown will be offered to him because I definitely believe that jon is going to have several other moments similar to stannis offering him winterfell where someone is offering him a crown and a way to jump ahead of the other starklings in the line of succession. i do not believe he will say yes. not only that, but i think his story is going to end with him leaving Winterfell and KL specifically because he doesn't want anyone building a faction around him and his name to topple his family members' claims. like maester aemon, his beloved mentor, he is going to purposefully take himself out of the succession AND get himself out of sight and out of mind so Sansa and Bran face no real backlash.

the thing is - i just don't know when that is going to happen. i generally fall under the idea that this ending will come about halfway through a dream of spring - after sticking by his siblings, supporting their claims, dealing with his identity crisis, doubling down on making Sansa QitN and Bran King on the Iron Throne, he's going to realize there's a political faction building around him and just peace out to the Gift to deal with resettling the Wildlings. Completely out of politics, completely cut off from most of Westeros.

THAT. It's the only thing I'm sure of in his story. All my other theories are a lot more vague and I'm a lot less certain of them but Jon helping resettle refugees from the Long Night (whether it's displaced people from the Riverlands and the North, perhaps the remnants of the Unsullied even, as well as Wildlings and former Night's Watch members) and purposefully going there to make sure no political faction builds around him to usurp his brother and sister's claims after rejecting a crown, that is the one thing I would bet money on happening at some point in the series.

But the other stuff...I'm gonna bullet point because I'm less sure:

Jon as Hand/Regent - there's a lot of foreshadowing about Bran having a Regent for awhile and while I'm not sure Bran is going to have a lot of say over his regents, he will have more say over his Hand and I think if Jon does access any sort of power, it's going to be as Bran's hand. But once he realizes people are still kinda itchy about the new political structure (a parliament style rule with a disabled king), that's what prompts him to leave entirely.

Jon as the Mummer's Dragon - Dany is going to show up thinking he's a "proper dragon" because she's already killed the mummer in Aegon VI (or so she thinks) and rumors have started about Jon's parentage (part of why Jon is going to refuse the Winter crown will be because any claim he has comes through Lyanna which puts him at the bottom of the rankings anyway! No way Howland is just going to let Jon get crowned without pointing all of this out!). But Jon isn't a dragon, he is a wolf in dragon's clothing. I don't fully believe he's going to stab her a la the show - I think it's more likely Arya kills her and Jon takes the fall for it to protect Arya.

Jon as a Romantic Hero - we all know I go back and forth on whether Jonsa will be canon or not. IF it does go canon, I think what happens is they fall in love through TWOW, find out about his parentage so it's surprise not incest, and then broach the topic of marrying (maybe they even do get married secretly) only for it to get put on pause because of like, ice and fire magic plot reasons, then Jon's reputation is ruined by "killing" Dany, and he leaves. I THINK that's how the story is going to end - with them separated due to the politics but with some hope of one day reconciling. if they DO end up together though, it will be after he builds a reputation for himself in the Gift (maybe even colloquially referred to as King of the Gift by the people there, the way he's called King Crow by the wildlings in the show), Sansa broaches the topic of them being together once again and this time they can because of how his reputation has built, and because it combines their claims without usurping Sansa's (and I think it's likely Jon insists on being called Prince-Consort and not King-Consort). That's the only way I see it ending happily for them but tbh I vastly prefer the idea that he lives in the Gift forever and secretly marries Sansa maybe but they are never able to live together due to the politics. But that's because I love a bittersweet romantic ending, I want those two full of longing for the love that could have been!!!

Jon as a Dragon Rider - also something i waffle on. part of me feels like you don't have a dragon named after a main character's secret father and not have that character interact with that dragon. another part of me feels like the set up of all three dragons have defined, loving relationships with their riders might be set up for dany's feelings on losing her dragons to enemies (euron/victarion and aegon) than for those dragons actually getting relationships with main character riders. i like the idea of jon, like nettles, having a close relationship with his dragon because he's serious about keeping this dragon away from other people, and treating the dragon like a pet (the way he treats ghost) instead of a war machine but i'm not sure george finds that compelling, ya know. Don't ask me which dragon he could possibly ride, i have no strong opinions one way or the other.

[writinandcrying]

Hellou!Im the persone who asked about requests a while back(Mainly because I didnt wanna overwhelm you if theyre closed) and Im really glad they are.Anyway,could I request Donnie(TMNT),Tamaki(BNHA) and/or FatGum(BNHA)(Also,I hope I havent gone over the character limit) with a slightly chubby s/o?(Insecure or not,you chose!).You dont have to do this if you dont want to tho!Have a nice week❤

Hellou! Thank you so much for being so thoughtful, I’ll have to apologize tho, I no longer write for bnha, I had a huge burnout fand I do not feel comfortable writing about it anymore, I hope a veeeery detailed Donnie reaction to a chubby reader will make up for the absence of those characters! ♥️

Tmnt - Donnie x Chubby reader (Gender Neutral!)

I’ll have to start that all of the boys wouldn’t judge or reject you based on your appearance, being either chubby, slim, tall, short, there are a few attributes that I think each turtle would find it e seeing or interesting, but it’s more… humanly related(?) maybe one day I’ll make a post about it if you guys wanna hear my opinion on it hehe :)

Donnie(generalized) x Chubby Reader:

just like there are certain stuff about the turtles that they like and dislike about themselves, there are stuff about humans who think the same about themselves! and even though Donnie knows there are beauty standards that control many areas in humans society, he still doesn’t understand why people outcast those who are different

I think some of us (readers / shippers) get a bit :C when thinking about Donnie bc in almost every version, he had a crush on April (who is a babe in every. Version. Specially rise, I love rise-April so much, and that’s the only apriltello I’ll let it slide lmao) and that can give a “perception” that he wouldn’t even glance at some of us ( “us” = being a huge group, trans, guys, chubby girls, chubby guys, skinny girls and guys, everyone who doesn’t fit the normie mold I guess- I unfortunately think about that often. Which sucks cuz I gotta remind myself that isn’t true!!! At all!!)

I personally Headcanon Donnie being… I don’t know if interested would be the correct word, but more intrigued with how humans relate to each other, on their first missions, he knew they could… scare some of them off, “frightened by their own prejudice” as master splinter would say, but it’s far more different to hear about it than to actually live it, and it hurts to hear someone scream their heart out just by seeing you

While growing up, he started to notice not only in television, on and off midia, how people would mess around with others on the street just because of their appearance, he knew society worked though this beauty standards, but he didn’t understand it. It didn’t made sense! value someone based on what they look like? There are so many things, so many attributes to make someone interesting, and you gonna pick the most…. Boring? Plain? Vague? Shallow reason to create privilege over others? Really? (And thst enters on the topic of how almost all beauty standards are rooted in white privileged and racism but I’ll go on a tangent about it once I start it and I’ve already said a lot lols)

He could literally go on for hours about this topic (which he has. At least tried with each one of his brothers, but they never really responded well to so said topic “if humans have it bad, then what do we have left?” Raphael barked back once, an attempt to shut him up, which it worked, btw- he didn’t like to go through that direction when thinking about that topic, but yeah, what does he have left?)

He started searching about different aesthetics, ethnicities, he has folders on Pinterest dedicated different body types, cultures, he swears it’s for research reasons, which kinda is, but Donnie’s guilty pleasure is checking “different” people online, those who would deem strange and weird outside the internet, he liked seeing their content and specially their comment sections being filled with wonderful compliments, people relating to different styles and tastes, that gave him hope that there are someone out there with different views of how everyone should be “shaped”, and that maybe he will find someone who thinks he’s handsome and desirable (Donnie, just like Raph, is also insecure about his body, but he’s more… melancholic about it, if you confessed to Raphael, there would be a high change of him pushing you away, trying not to break his heart from actually believing you, while DonDon here, if you both started dating- on some days Donnie would need more reassurance that yes, his partner does think he’s handsome/hot/attractive. Otherwise he might internalize his insecurities and it will be HARD to get a confession “why he’s so upset out of the sudden” from this turtle)

With that being said!!!! (My god I do know how to ramble) without even realizing, Donnie open his “preferences”? Let’s say, Became more open minded than most, While seeking comfort for himself, and when he says he doesn’t have a type, he really doesn’t. There are so many aesthetics that could be attractive! punks, goths, cottagecore, y2k, dark academia, light academia, grunge, fairycore, alt, the list is endless! And don’t get him started on physical attributes cuz there are so many different combinations that some how, people manage to connect the most random ones and make it look great

Donnie wouldnt fall for someone specially bc of their appearance, or that would be the first reason he would fall head over heels, when you think about it, what happened to April it was that she was extremely passionate and dedicated to *insert which cause she was fighting for* and took Donnie seriously, that light up a lightbulb in his head that has never been on before, people showing how ardently they can be into something, how much they care and such, that’s attractive to him, and after that, everything that person does, or is, suddenly becomes beautiful and amazing for Donnie

Withthatbeingsaidpart2- if Donnie did fall for someone more on the chubbier side, their “plumpy-ness” would def be something to call his attention out after he developed feelings, he longed for your hugs, specially after he found out how soft and warm they were, he actually started having more naps after you caught his heart, imaging how it would be to cuddle someone as soft as you while hugging his pillow late at night on his bed (which eventually he would doze off from day dreaming so much)

Talking about day dreaming, Donnie can totally lose himself in his mind, just like with his projects, he can imerse himself in a fantasy about you two easily, which makes him totally freeze when you show up and he actually have to say or do something he has been constantly dreaming about

So please confess first, cuz when I say he can lose himself in his daydreams, that can last for months until he actually gathers courage to do something about it

While in a relationship, Donnie is totally a hopeless romantic, but not the typical “roses and candlelight’s dinner” kind, as your boyfriend, he wants to help you out no matter what, he will make aaaaas many inventions as he can that might increase the quality of your life, becomes easier to do… whatever, literally. And he always longs for your adorable reactions to his gifts

He adores your chubby cheeks, he will! Get lost! in your face! Your eyes! Eveything! He will oh so slowly caress his knuckles softly across it, sliding to your neck, traveling through your arms, he likes to squish your face a bit as well while cupping it when he goes for a kiss, he just thinks everything about you is adorable (and hot at the same time)

He really like the contraste his skin has with yours, it’s so foreign for him and he can’t help but to love how smooth your skin can be, (which leads his mind to ahem. Certain kind of thoughts. If you know what I mean)

Just like he needs reassurance about his appearance, he knows you probably had to deal with more than one unpleasant comment about your physique, so you don’t even have to ask, Donnie is so whipped with you, compliments about you just drip of his tongue, and it’s always so sweet, followed by a pair of soft eyes, always admiring you, plus, Donnie is a science / fact man, he would gather information about other cultures that value more curvy, chubby, bigger people, he would go as far as making a slide presentation how wonderful and more inclusive people are being (even if it doesn’t seams like it, and there’s still a long way to go) he would include real opinions online other than his on the matter that your body is indeed, a snack, (aaaaaand he is once again right, aaaaand just like everyone else you just have to live with it and accept it 😌 end of story)

He would definitely “put up to test” his theory of how amazing it is to cuddle someone who’s more on the chubbier side (and his theory is ✅ correct)

Cuddling becomes a weekly thing for you guys, that being you sitting on his lap, having naps, watching movies together, he loves to create or update his projects with you on his lap, holding you grounds him. Plus it’s easier to speak some kisses on your cheeks that way

He finds out some people on the heavier side stops themselves to live some experiences the hard way, he never wants to make you uncomfortable, ever. But it takes a while for him to understand why wouldn’t you like to, as an example, wear a bathing suit/ swimwear around other people, wearing lighter clothes when it’s absurdly hot during winter time, that you don’t like when he picks you up? things that don’t connect right away. he promises himself to never force you to do anything you don’t want to, but he slowly will try to support you to do whatever you have always wanted to but stopped yourself from doing so bc of your weight

He would take extra time while making out with you, he wants you to know how much he loves your body, every inch of it. Lowkey likes to drag his nails on your tights and mark you

Overall? Donnie is extremely thoughtful, independently of how his partner look like, if they were “part” of some sort of outcast from society, he would take his sweet time to show how important and special his partner is, he is extremely thankful to be able to experience love, something that not only him, but all of the boys, thought it was out of their reach for a really long time, so you bet he’s going to show how appreciative he is oof your love, of all of you 💜

I really tired to innovate a bit here, didn’t want to add the same stuff as other Headcanons that already exists (I mean, Its cute to read how we as writing blogs / authors “agree” on how the boys would react in certain situations, which it is a FactTM that Donnie is a sweetheart. but it’s also good to read new stuff, oooor you know, a new perspective of it, even if it is a “common” / “already done” scenario, you know? )

even if I mostly rambled about Donnie’s personality analysis than to actual stuff he would do or act around an chubby reader lmao, I truly hope you like this! I didn’t proof read this so I’m sorry if there are any grammar mistakes hehe

[player1064]

i’d be interested to hear about your planning process for your neville fic… how did you think about what would be included in each chapter? do you have a general timeline youre working on that you fragmentes and rearranged? i really love the fic and would like to know more about how you’re going about it!!

oooooooh good question.... short answer I DID have a plan but I'm in too deep now and we're mostly going on vibes

okay I started writing out the long answer and it's getting VERY long (sorry guys for being passionate about my silly rpf fic writing process) so I'm putting it under the cut

I was actually working on this fic for AGES before I started posting it, it started out I'd just write sections as I thought of them but then I got Very Deep into timelines and stuff so it's like

I've got a list that's got basic details of Gary & Becks' actual careers going by year so that's got like:

debuts for club/england

retirements for club/england

trophies won by manchester united between 1993-2013

personal awards/honours won

when Becks moved to different clubs

post-football career stuff like start/finish of coaching jobs, tv stuff, salford, miami, etc

Personal life stuff - breakups, meeting real life partners, weddings etc

Salford stuff e.g. promotions and trophies from 2014-present

(here's a screenshot actually kdghdfkjfsda... turns out I Love talking about this)

THEN as an aside to that list I've got notes of the key things that have to change for the AU to work - and specific dates of scenes that I could potentially write (still basic stuff e.g. for the chapter that's just gone up I had '2000 - bad season', '2023 - fight about documentary', '2021 - collapses at the euros', '2020 - weird pandemic conversation with carra')

I also have a page filled with random dialogue I've written without the full like Written Out Section bc I'm someone who thinks in conversations so I like having somewhere to dump all the conversations I'm imagining happening at various points in the fic... they don't all make it in for example here's part of the original valencia conversation gary & becks were going to have:

Then I've got a list that goes year by year which is less focused on Events and more on like their emotional journeys and what their relationship situation is at any given point.... trying to see if there's anything on that list that wouldn't give spoilers i THINK this one has mostly all been covered at this point:

yes there is still more to come. SORRY this is so insanely detailed but this fic has consuming my every waking thought for months. so.

so before I started posting it, like I said I was just writing sections as they came to me. I keep them in onenote rather than word bc then they're separate pages which is easier to navigate quickly and find what I want as I'm going.

I actually wasn't sure if I was gonna do the mixed up timeline or go straight chronological order but I think going chronilogically would be difficult bc there are some parts of their lives that get a lot more weight and attention than others and some that get skipped over just bc they're not super relevant to the story. so instead they're organised kind of by theme.

SO how I decide what's going in each chapter is like I had a vague outline of what I want the sort of Journey through the fic to look like, which is basically (again no spoilers so JUST for what's posted so far):

(ALSO actually reading through my notes on this I've gone slightly off course lately bc these things sort of get away from me. so this is a good reminder to myself that I did at one point have a plan that I was quite happy with and I should try keep it in mind)

1: establish the main things that have changed in this universe (not being sold to madrid and getting together when they're very young)

2: this bit is harder to explain but it's like. part of it is sort of highlighting different points where their paths diverged from real life and part is just like they're happy and in love but the outside world keeps creeping in - Becks getting more and more famous, Gary feeling like he can't keep up, the difficultes of being a gay footballer.

3: Jamie's coming in and starting to mess things up

4: issues they're having with their careers sort of seeping into their relationship and making everything a lot harder than it needs to be.

again I've not read through these notes recently and now I'm thinking I probably should have - I've just been going with the vibes which sometimes u need to do it's not a bad thing BUT anyway I just saw this note I made and I really really like it I think it's a good summary of the fic as a whole kfdhjgkdfs

GUESS WHAT I'm still not done. Yes this is insanely intricately planned out yes like I said the last couple of chapters I've mostly just been going by vibes rather than the actual plan I actually had. For example turns out I had never intended to write that second jamie interlude. oops!

SO like I said I keep all the sections as individual pages in a section of a onenote notebook and those I keep in chronological order for easy navigating. Then I use notion's board view and I've got the date of each section as a card that I can easily drag and drop between columns representing chapters so that I can organise how I want them to flow and I can reorder things until I'm happy with them:

and then after obsessively researching every single section for historical accuracy I just kind of. throw it all together and post it and hope for the best........

THANK U FOR THIS ASK btw!!!!!!!!! it was really really fun trying to explain all of this and I'm sure it looks like a complete mess (this isn't even including all my random scribbles in notebooks omg) but yeah. I really really love writing this fic I love this universe I love imagining them happy and in love I wish I didn't have to give them so many problems but as I'm always saying I LOVE pain and suffering!!!!

[isa-ghost]

Thinking abt how like an entire decade before QSMP, Latin Americans and their culture were already so present in my life and I never really properly thought abt that, or how much I genuinely love and enjoy it.

It fills me with so much nostalgia and I love seeing and hearing about certain Latam things that I already know because I'm already familiar with them from the past.

My closest childhood friends were a massive Puerto Rican family, their mom treated my sister and I like her own. We were taken with on outings, given clothes and meals, spent nearly every day all day hanging out with them either at their place or around my neighborhood.

I was the oldest of the group and would sometimes help look after or play with the toddler of the family, who absolutely fucking adored me. I remember just naturally picking up on (or perhaps autistically echoing) some of their Spanish slang, like "chancla" or "sala," and their mom absolutely thrilled to hear this White preteen just casually using it (and saying it correctly!) I told the toddler to find her chanclas and their mom overheard me and lit up like a Christmas tree about it.

I never bat an eye at how they lived, even if things were dirty or broken or whatever. To my 11+ year old ass, they were just poor like my family. The economy sucks, there are more important things to prioritize besides cleaning and sometimes you just can't afford to fix stuff that's broken. Shrug, it happens. That, and I already had a vague clue at that point that struggling poc families were often given even less help than struggling White families. I just wasn't online enough at that point to hear stories from poc about just how bad the disparities are. But still, even at that age, with barely any clue about the real extent of it, I still never thought about how they lived like a xenophobic asshole would. I just kinda accepted That's How It Be Sometimes and rolled with it. I remember even helping them clean the house sometimes. My sister and I were basically honorary family, so why not?

As I got more self-aware, I'd find it so funny that since I spent so much time with them, I'd catch myself (this time definitely autistically) code switching and talking like them until I went home and eventually went back to speaking like,, idk, an average White Midwesterner I guess?? Sometimes I even catch it happening present day when I hang out for a long time with my irl Mexican friends.

One of my mom's best friends online (who we got to meet in person) was also Latina, and she taught us other misc Spanish words and funny stories about them. To this day my mom, sister & I will yell "AFUERA!" at each other and start giggling. It's especially sweet, because that friend ended up passing away, so now it's kind of said in memory of her. She and one of my mom's other Latina friends taught me baby's first Latin Folklore, which hilariously was La Llorona; it freaked my sister out.

In hindsight, I really deeply appreciate getting to experience and learn about it all firsthand before seeing stuff online. I've realized now that it's given me just a pinch more of an advantage spotting harmful stereotypes and microaggressions (damn, it's almost like if you take the time to learn, you won't be such a shithead /s). Not to mention I knew to ignore any garbage said by racists I encountered irl. I'm not the best at wording things sometimes, so I generally let actual Latin people call out bs like that (that and White Saviorism is cringe), but I always try to be good about boosting what they say and backing them up.

And coming into QSMP last year with all that knowledge through experience (and seeing some posts on here from Latino people abt dif things), it made things so much more fun. I'd hear things I was familiar with and get so excited, which sometimes felt so dumb and silly bc I'm sure from a Latino's POV I was just some random ass gringa getting hyped over the most mundane shit.

But it still made QSMP more fun, and I loved getting to learn even more Latin culture through it, because I've long since fallen out of touch with the family I was friends with, and even so, what I was learning from them was specifically Puerto Rican, Latin USAmerican based. There are so many other places in Latin America I never got to learn about until QSMP. Like holy shit, Brazil is so fucking cool and I want to go there some day so bad.

It's been so fucking cool to learn things from other parts of Latin America, especially from people that actually live in the countries, not just USAmerican Latinos.

Idk, I just found myself reflecting on everything for a moment and I'm realizing just how much I appreciate what I've gotten to learn and experience. Latin Americans and their culture are so fucking cool.

[nyelung]

Fic author interview! Let's see what that sets rolling in my head. Maybe even some words for fic? Thank you @lynne-monstr <3

No-pressure tagging: @narina-vhey @dragonpyre @theloneliestshipper

How many works do you have on AO3?

Currently 26 after I went on a bit of an orphaning (and deletion) spree last year.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

397,281. Also a victim of last year, I guess, but I'm getting back there. I kinda hope to find the time to raise that to 500k and feel good with what I've written but we'll see.

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Hence begins the journey (part 4 of the vampire Percy series I'm writing) - 598

The Ferryman (potc) - 474

Negotiator's Garden (star wars OS) - 414

Of New Beginnings (part 1 of the vampire Percy series I'm writing) - 344

Far Dawn (part 3 of the vampire Percy... well, you can guess it) - 307

Well, I'm seeing a pattern here is all I'm saying. I'm also wistfully staring at the Ferryman because, well, that's no longer my baby because it's too old for that but that fic has been with me for a while and looking at it now I really want to get around to officially finishing it someday. It's also hilarious to see that Star Wars oneshot up there but I guess vaguely fae Obi-Wan is a fun premise. Fond memories writing that one.

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I do. There are a few comments in my inbox that are a bit of a pile of shame right now but generally I respond to comments because I love talking about the fic I share. Like that one post so eloquently put it: I write for myself, I share for a feeling of community. Or something like that.

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Ooof, that's a tough question because I don't like angsty endings with a few rare exceptions. I think the closest I got online can aspire to vaguely ominous (as in hinting at Order 66) but that's not much, is it?

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

Another tough question because I don't go darker than bittersweet for endings I write so, in a way, they're all more or less happy endings? Hmm, I would say maybe No Doubt In Us (TKA canon divergence) bc a) it's actually finished and b) the characters worked hard for their ending and got it.

7. Do you write crossovers?

Not as often as I'd like to and somehow I never get around to finishing them.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

One or two unhappy comments when I wrote Obi-Wan as bisexual (I mean, come on, look at the guy. He's supposed to be straight?) because how dare I write him like that but that's about it.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Rarely and somehow usually as a gift for one person or another. Curious.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not apart from those mass-stealing incidents where lots of fic got copied to other sites and all that. At least not that I know of.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I think ten years ago or so someone wanted to translate one of my fics into russian but I honestly can't remember what came of that.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, actually, with the wonderful @theloneliestshipper and with @narina-vhey but overall I prefer to write on my own because I got my own approach, time limitations and all in all it just became too stressful.

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

I don't have one. On further thought, I don't think I'd be happy having an all-time favourite. I prefer that to stay in constant flux.

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Oh, that's difficult. Stuff from the pile of shame, probably, so i'll pass on this answer^^

15. What are your writing strengths?

I am told that I manage to keep the characters in character but I think my favourite thing that one person pointed out was that I am good at building connections between canon tidbits to make up new canon divergences and headcanons.

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

Since my favourite topic is canon divergence, most of my plotbunnies have a tendency to turn into longfic which, as we all know, is not that easy to finish.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I could read this question in two ways but I think it means writing dialogue in a different language than the general narration and, no, just no. I don't automatically pass on a fic for that if it's using phrases from a conlang in moderation but usually it's just far more confusing than enriching the experience for me.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Oh, hmm. I'm not sure. The first fandom stuff I did online was for Yu-Gi-Oh and Detective Conan, I think. First fanfic was probably some OC for some high fantasy novel or other.

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to?

Polymachina (I'm getting there) and zjl/xby/szp for King's Avatar.

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written

I can't choose but the whole vampire Percy series has some of my favourite moments I've written, so I'll go with that one.

[whilomm]

Hey, so this is kinda off the wall, but I need to find a roommate but I'm so anxious about it, did you use a certain website? Or like do you have any roommate finding tips?

oh yeah i was super nervous about it too bc of previous bad experiences (with college apartments that were auto-matched), i guess my tips would be from someone whos only done this manually Once:

worth a shot, straight up ask if any of your friends need a roomie. sometimes things line up! didnt for me atm (aside from one friend who said "oh maybe in like 2 years but maybe not")

try and keep in mind that if it doesnt work out its not Forever if that helps you not freak out as much. like, maybe yall stay to the end of the lease and split, or if yall have to split before than eh youre just starting the matching process over again. getting that thru my head helped me lmao

as for websites, yeah there are a ton of specific roommate matching sites you can use, personally I just used facebook and posted in a couple of local groups with a lil thing about myself and I got some matches p quick. I live in a largerish city tho (austin tx) so if you live somewhere smaller there might not be AS big of a pool. facebook as a whole sucks of course but the groups here and there are useful!

I posted both in a more general group and a queer housing group, and i said a lil more about myself in the queer group, but you can also use your post to explicitly or gently filter out ppl you dont wanna live with. personally i did purposefully mention being autistic offhandedly just to hopefully filter out ppl wholl be cunts about that (made a lil comment about "im autistic and a super picky eater, so i wont eat your food lol"), you can explicitly say you dont wanna roomie who has pets/smokes/etc, stuff like that.

(oh, also, if you have a long abandoned facebook acct/need to make a new one, that can sometimes look a lil sus so maybe straight up say "i dont use facebook but i can give you one of my other socials if you want to snoop")

look around the website/group for examples from other people on what to include (max rent, apartment layout prefs, area, whether you already have a place picked out or not and if you'd be willing to apartment hunt w someone, timeframe, etc)

and of course actually say a lil about yourself in the listing. I know thats nerve wracking and all but eh, people wanna have a vague idea of you beforehand. List some of your hobbies/interests, normal boring stuff like that.

talk about how clean you are. and how clean you want your roomie to be. neat freaks and gross ppl may be Incompatible. "i can keep the common area clean but my rooms gonna be a mess" was my thing, and roomie is sameish, which works out!

make a listing, in multiple places if possible, and both see who contacts you and browse other peoples listings. this is defo a time to get over that fear of being the first to say hi! if someone lists a super sweet set up at a good price tho and gets 20 likes dont be surprised if they dont respond lmao, might have a waitlist going

(OH YEAH and if u havent used facebook in 10 years be aware on mobile theres a separate messaging app and you might miss ppl messaging bc of the stupid "pending" tab or whatever. a lotta ppl in the group specifically also commented "messaged!" on posts ig to just say "HEY CHECK THE OTHER STUPID APP IF IT DIDNT GIVE YOU A NOTIF", i found it REALLY easy to miss messages for a bit)

SCAMS EXIST! be cautious, dont just send ppl a "$500 deposit" off the bat, make sure you meet people IN PERSON and preferably talk to whoever you're gonna be renting from (like the leasing office if its an apt complex, or just the landlord) first before signing whatever someone on facebook sends u

as usual meet ppl in person in public places like coffee shops and tell ppl where you're going espec if you're going to look at the rental etc etc, same safety rules for meeting anyone from the internet

if you got any responsible adults in your life (like parents/family/friends who have more experience renting) just talk shit thru w them. maybe they can literally help u look at any contracts if you're not used to reading them, or maybe just chat w them about how shits going so they can just be like "oh yeah that all sounds normal they sound cool" or "YEAH THATS A RED FLAG".

oh yeah, make sure you READ YOUR LEASE. i know we all just Agree To The Terms And Conditions all the time but yeah contracts should be read. even if you dont read every word at least skim it, make sure u read the big things like the money numbers (and stuff like uh. how much notice the apt requires on move out. recently fucked over by that! 🙃). check for extra fees and numbers that are different than discussed. dont just sign whatevers put in front of you!!

think about how much Stuff you have. are you moving out for the first time and have Jack Shit? well, you probs wont have conflicts like "whos couch do we keep?" which is nice. do you currently live on your own and have p much all your own furniture? might be a lil issue if your roomie is also established! just st you gotta work out with your roommate, and if nothing else you could always get a cheap storage locker to set aside shit you dont wanna get rid of til you know its gonna work out long term. if its st important, maybe say it in your listing. personally i noted in my listing "i got a big ass couch i dont wanna get rid of" and my roommate specifically contacted me like "oh yeah the couch is chill" so all twas fine 👍

and like. try to talk shit out w your roomie when issues arise instead of letting shit boil over. gotta get good at this myself!

sorry for being long and disorganized but those are just a few of the things that popped into my head lol, +anyone else w more roomie searching experience has any advice on the matter feel free to chime in! im not really an expert or nothin but also feel free to ask more questions, i can at least try to answer!

[rexaleph]

Fruit pt 1 lmao

Back when I was first getting into perfume my assumptions around what was gonna work for me were in the vein of traditional men's fragrances from like when I was a kid and vague ideas around freshness and perhaps coniferous woods. However I'd come across a discussion of Byredo's Pulp and the way people spoke of it as this super strange, polarising, borderline unwearable art piece got me interested, so I tossed a sample of that into my cart, intrigued but expecting not to get it. Ofc I fell in love instantly. It was in fact the only fragrance I ended up liking out of everything I picked going by vibes and word associations, probably bc all of the others smelled of air freshener for the car. So i was like ok, it's fruit for me now, I am a fruit perfume person, and have looked p widely into that fragrance family since. Fig was always a note i was interested in bc it is allegedly central to Pulp, and its plant-like, soft-green juiciness is attractive to me in concept. However! As i started looking towards shifting my lifestyle away from a million samples and decants into a small number of truly beloved bottles, I came to the realization that the only even fruit adjacent thing I was immediately interested in having in a large volume is the fucking grapefruit cologne from Zara. And they don't even usually count citruses as a fruit! So fruit ended up not being my thing in practice, but the thought of it still haunts me. I feel like there should be a fruit for me out there. So i want to spend some time thinking abt the fruity scents that I've tried and maybe figure out where to go from here. I am about to get deeply weird once again.

So to start at the beginning - Pulp by Byredo.

Byredo is a brand with a deeply unappealing aesthetic. When I picture their bottles it is on a glass and gold tray in an influencer's white interior and that is not something I want to associate myself with. But given that the first perfume I fell in love with was one of theirs, I still pay attention to their line.

So Pulp is a very intense, tart, barely sweet fruit. The haters have often said that the fruit smell is fermented and rotten, but I perceive it to be on the other end of the sour fruit spectrum - green and underripe. It suggests maybe an inedibly hard pear. Another major feature - I keep saying "fruit" without specifying, because I struggle to discern anything particular. People will say apple, blackcurrant, citrus, fig. I do perceive the intense opening blackcurrant and maybe apple. Besides the that I get cedarwood, and i guess that woody-green-sweet effect could be a fig note. Pulp does not feel like it evolves much as it wears, but what it does is first fill the space around itself and then settle within minutes, which I think is a quality created by like carrier molecules. (I know of iso e super, which allegedly improves longevity but that would be the opposite effect i think, though i feel like it's in here as well. What i experience w Pulp feels like theres sth that increases volatility, momentarily dragging scent molecules into the air w it. Or theres just a lot of the cassis top note ingredient and much of it evaporates off quickly.)

This room-filling effect is what brings me to the haters' 2nd point that sticks in my mind: Pulp is less like a perfume for a person to wear and more of a large scale air freshener, not even for your home, but for hotel lobbies and shopping malls. And I think this is how I ended up feeling about Pulp - beautiful scent, but I don't want to wear it. There are other perfumes in this post I consider unperfumelike and don't want to wear for their industrial chemical quality, but those actually smell bad to me. I'm not generally concerned w wearability (outside of like not wearing strong or irritating things where people will be forced close to me), I don't think of perfume in terms of daytime vs evening or seasonality, but there is something about Pulp, however much I like it in theory, that makes it unwearable to me. Like whatever I'm looking to wear, be it sweet, fresh, complex, natural-produce-like, loud - Pulp is never the answer. I think what drew me in at first was it's brightnness and intensity, and how different it was from any perfume i had experienced before. I'm wearing it now and it is still impressive, mostly a powerful, mouthwatering blackcurrant; leaves, berries and wood sap. There's another strong natutalistic plant perfume I love - Vetiver Extraordinaire by Frederic Malle. I tried to articulate the vibe i get from it as "you can't fuck me, I'm a tree". Which, I love that for a cold deciduous tree trunk you can't get your arms around. To me right now Pulp also has a strong you can't fuck me aura, though I used to think of it as insanely attractive (the mouth-watering aspect, confusing different kinds of intense sensuality). But i guess being high-pitched, juicy and ultimately friendly and food-like, this is not the unfathomable remote unfuckability of nature; "you can't fuck me i'm covered in berries" is not sth i want to embody. I used to really love the idea of scent-as-art in a vacuum, but now I probably am more concerned with what a perfume can do to create me as i present myself to the world. That mostly excludes unpolishedly naturalistic plants at this point. (Btw a 20 y o coworker who is just starting to get into perfume told me that someone introduced him to Pulp and he loved it so much! It is a good entry point to unisex niche perfume - beautiful, approachable but characterful, different from most designer scents, especially as marketed to men. I'd probably still it like very much on someone else.)

Having spent 4 notes app pages on Pulp I'll be brief on the fruit shampoo types: Kirke by Tiziana Terenzi, Antigua by Phaedon, Eau de Rhubarbe by Hermes, Sirio by Mendittorosa, I wanna say Cedrat Boise by Mancera. The widely recommended fruity one by Mancera anyway. So turns out banana flavored candy isn't weird bc it's based on an extinct breed, it just uses a single flavor compound out of the bouquet found in real bananas, so the flavor comes off distorted. This is I think what people mean when they use "synthetic" as a criticism in perfume. I assume that for shampoo they mix individually made molecules, which is what causes unnatural-seeming compositions, even if the ingredients themselves aren't in any way worse by being synthetic. All the above fragrances have that screechy, fruit-scented toiletries/household chemicals vibe to me, plus Kirke and Antigua at least have some kinda sickly musk note that I don't get along with. I've also encountered it in a number of of woody-fresh cologne type scents. So these fragrances are all widely beloved (except maybe the Mendittorosa on account of being less well known), I think because of what I outlined with Pulp - they're bright and friendly but still fairly unusual. Common notes i believe are lychee or rhubarb - tart, juicy and sweet, which I guess is what most people look for in this type of fragrance. I'm just particularly sensitive to their type of dissonance. Eau de Rhubarbe i think is the most successful one of these - only inelegant, but for the most part I find them fully unpleasant.

Speaking of unpleasant, let me briefly return to Byredo. Mixed Emotions vs Amouage Jubilation XXV

So after my first unsuccessful run at Amouage with the florals I held off on trying their big iconic scent for years. The way people spoke of Jubilation it's this amazing layered masterpiece of resins, woods and fruit, meant for like distinguished gentlemen. Obviously I never felt like I could pull it off, but earlier this year I decided to have another go at Amouage as well as figure out fruit, so I finally tried it out. And yeah it's alright. I think what I'm realizing is that these niche fragrances massively popular among men are always gonna be on the safe side, but spoken of as hugely transgressive bc they smell a little bit outside of menthol shaving foam. Jubilation is soft, deep, smooth and resinous, with like an overtone of sweet-spicy toothpaste freshness I'd put down to blackberry, orange zest and tarragon. Very attractive, would not feel incongruous on any age or gender, for sure not a mature man kinda scent. I went on two week-long trips within a month in August/September and wore it throughout for like professional and leasure occasions and it never felt out of place, I never wanted for anything else. Dudes online are big mad abt alleged weak reformulations, idk abt that, however I will say it is kinda subtle and I wouldnt pay Amouage money for it.

So given that 15 years ago Amouage came out with this hugely popular cult hit, why would Byredo in 2021 make basically the same thing but worse? Black currant for blackberry and birch smoke and mate for all the woods and resins, Mixed Emotions to me is just a loud, unbalanced version of Jubilation, though idk that i've seen anyone else make the comparison. It's very northern forest, tree sap and berries, which is kind of an obvious combination and doesn't make it feel less heavy-handed. Junk by Lush feels adjacent, which is not a compliment. A recurring review phrase is cough syrup. The fruit is scratchy and cloying, overconcentrated. I kept trying to get myself to like Mixed Emotions, but given that it feels like basically a worse version of something that's just pretty nice but not worth the money, it's probably time to give up on her.

So do I hate a scratchy, cloying preserve-like fruit? Not necessarily.

Mendittorosa Rituale

I am a mark for Mendittorosa. I feel like i can still tell when they really don't work for me, but I probably exaggerate how special the ones i do like are. Anyway.

The vibe is nectar: flowers, blackcurrant, pomegranate, raspberry, honey, beeswax. Its heavy and sweet while having a rough scratchy quality (down to beeswax, patchouli and hyrax I'd guess) that can give gourmands a real kitchen-y feel. Mugler AMen has that imo, as well as El Born by Carner Barcelona, both of which suggest rustic dessert to me. Rituale is not really like them them with its big heady floral and fruit elements but that effect is the same. It's like when you have a very sweet pastry with black coffe. Rituale puts me in mind of traditional desserts that use preserves, honey and rose water in a way that doesnt get along with my modern milk chocolate sour gummy palette, so it is a little bit challenging. Going off the notes alone, I was very excited but also apprehensive about this one, I expected it to be either breathtakingly beautiful or just fully disgusting. Especially lavender can really fuck things up for me when it goes nauseating soapy-sweet potpourri. And some of that is there: i notice the lavender and the whole composition teeters on the edge of sickly, but never quite goes there. The actual flowers throughout its middle stage (rose, jasmine, narcissus, what do daffodils even smell like?) give me this high-summer orchard honey bee fantasy. Raspberry is i think the most prominent opening impression, maybe pomegranate, quickly overtaken by floral honey. That's probably the way to discuss the florals in here - not flowers but the way e.g. linden honey can smell of flowers & pollen. Beeswax is also discernible from the very beginning. As it sits and the fruit recedes it goes from nectar fantasy to complex rosewater dessert while always maintaining that little bit of low-pitched roughness you usually get with honey fragrances, just enough to keep things interesting. It's all a whole lot. The very end is a rounder mellower sweetness, feels like vanilla to my nose, but might be some combination of the woods, resins and beeswax. I wish I perceived more of the hyrax, some people complain about it being crazy animalic and i just don’t get that at all unfortunately. I love dirty animal shit :( On the other hand it already has borderline too much going on.

If Mendittorosa made small beautiful bottles Rituale would be a no-brainer to get. It is a very special combination of rich and opulent while also consisting of what to me reads as basically all food-like botanical notes. Real nectar and ambrosia vibes. Very different from those fresh effervescent unisex fruits, a very cool take on the genre imo. And like, yeah, if I'm so bored of fruits, maybe my one fruit perfume to have should be the one that's unlike any of the others. But even with this one, I'm not sure that I want to smell like this! There is again an air of botanical unfuckability about this one that makes it a little emotionally confusing. Not sure what mood I'd want it for, especially if we're talking about getting a bit expensive bottle. I think I wore it for my 29th or 30th birthday, she's festive and attention-grabbing but doesn't necessarily make me feel attractive. One idea I'm holding out for is that if I tried it from an atomizer instead of the shitty dabbing wand sample and got a more accurate idea of how it wears from the bottle, there would be more hyrax and that'd swing it into something more obviously my style. As is it may or may not be my one fruit but for sure points to some directions to continue thinking in.

Putting here so I don't forget my other fruits to discuss: Un Jardin sur le Nil, Pomegranate Noir, Wilde, Bitter Peach, Peau de Peche. And then the figs.

[ectoamerican]

WHAT NOT TO DO WHEN INTERACTING WITH MY BLOG - Customizable Edition

BASICS !

Name / Alias: Spooky Pronouns: he/they Blog type: single muse | Multi-muse | non selective | semi selective | selective| mutuals only | private | other (specify) Type of muses: canon | OCs | both | other (specify)

GENERALITIES ! Triggers people MUST tag: animal death Interest tracker / checker: I have it and it's mandatory | I have it, it's not mandatory but I'm more likely to follow bad / interact with the people who fill it | I have one and I prefer it if people fill it in | I have it but it's to people whether to fill it or not | I don't have one | other (specify) Reblog karma: I practise it | I practise it sometimes | I don't practise it | I always reblog memes from the source | indifferent | other (specify) Rule passwords: I have one and it's mandatory | I have one and it's optional | I don't have one | I send passwords | don't sent passwords | I have to hype myself up to send one

3-5 ESSENTIAL RULES PEOPLE HAVE TO RESPECT

please read my rules

please be patient with me. irl stuff can get in my way or leave me too drained to do stuff, even if i WANT to write

the basic stuff, no metagaming, godmodding, infomodding, etc

3-5 IMPORTANT PET PEEVES TO KEEP IN MIND

I am 100% okay with my rp partner not matching my reply length. Be it shorter or longer. (heck, if they make it longer then I'll feel better abt my next reply being longer.) HOWEVER, if I give a paragraph or two, I will expect more than one line. which is what I actually got one time.

if my rp partner goes into a thread with me assuming something about my muse even though I make it clear that my muse is canon divergent. I'm absolutely free to IM if you have questions! I'm friendly and don't bite, i promise. QwQ

when i can't figure out your blog. please, readability is the most important thing to me. which is why the most I do is small text. I will change my theme if I think even one thing is making it unreadable or even slightly harder to read. bright harsh colors as well, makes the blog a mess to read anything on.

not trimming your posts. it makes it hard to follow whats going on sometimes. even if tumblr now makes long posts auto readmore. (at least it does for me)

i do prefer that ppl tag their posts most of the time, but that's not really a requirement if it's not like for a trigger or something. it just helps me search for stuff on their blogs if i can't find it through our notes.

2-5 THINGS THAT WILL LEAD TO INSTANT (SOFT/HARD)BLOCKING

if the blog looks like a bot in some way

if it's a personal who has repeatedly reblogged something after being asked not to

if it's someone i've known in the past to make me uncomfortable

2-5 THINGS THAT LEAD ME TO UNFOLLOW / SOFTBLOCK A MUTUAL / SOMEONE I INTERACT WITH

ooc drama between people, vague posts, bullying

minor/adult ships

very rarely, if they're spamming TOO MUCH ooc stuff, untagged or other wise, in a short amount of time. I mean like, many posts that are actually ooc not having anything to do with their character. not like aesthetic posts, headcanons, or art. I'm also not talking abt like, PSAs or updates on the mun's health/lack of energy. i get that it's your blog. but i didn't want to follow a blog that's being treated more like a personal blog.

also very rarely, if my dash is going too fast and it's clear someone isn't going to interact with me i might unfollow just to make things easier for myself to keep up with. but again, that doesn't happen very often.

if it's clear a blog has been abandoned. if they show signs of activity later tho, i may refollow. bc i know irl stuff happens, u kno.

2-5 REASON YOU DON'T FOLLOW (BACK) SOMEONE

if their muse is from a series i am uncomfortable with. (used to love HP, but i can't look at anything from it now. for example.)

if they ASK why i haven't followed them back. just feels weird, man. I will then not follow out of spite for how uncalled for that question is. nobody is owed a follow. not even me.