disappearinginq

[disappearinginq]

Seven Sentence...Sunday?

Today is Saturday (here, for now - give it an hour or so) but I doubt I'll remember tomorrow. Tagged by @thewildballyntynesgrow and with a rough 7-ish (heavy on the ish) sentences:

“Why would anyone want to know about Slough House?” Louisa pressed. And how did that play into River winding up in this mess by someone thinking he ‘mattered’? “Anyone who knows it exists also knows it’s as low value a target as you could get. I don’t even know that the windows are locked.”

“They didn’t want to know about Slough House.”

Louisa was really beginning to think it was well and truly drugs that had River talking in circles, or more likely, a combination of that and the rather significant head injury, until several things occurred to her.

If River was taken because someone thought he mattered to Slough House, a den of rejects and petty criminals at best, there was literally only one high valued target in the entire building.

And it wasn’t one of the Slow Horses.

It was because they thought River mattered to Lamb.

[disappearinginq]

May we have another slow horses snippet? 👉👈🥰

Of course you can! Though I did have to reread what I'd previously posted to make sure it wasn't a duplicate - this is an excerpt from "River disappeared for over a week because of Lamb's enemies"

“You’re too nice,” Louisa said abruptly.

River blinked owlishly at her, and she could see the gears working slowly at the shift in conversation. “Thanks?”

“It’s not a compliment.”

River made to shrug, but winced instead.

“I mean it, River. You’re too nice. You’re never going to be good at this job because you’re too fucking nice. And that’s not how you play the game.”

River didn’t say anything, and Louisa took it as permission to continue. Which perhaps wasn’t fair, given his current state of being, but who knew what he would remember next time he woke up.

“You can’t go into things expecting the best of people. You can’t be the hero all the time. I mean - Christ, look at you.” She gestured angrily with one hand, waving at the splints on his fingers, the broken ribs, the black eye and split lip. “You look like you went ten rounds with Rhonda Rousey. What the hell did you get involved with this time?”

“Not my fault,” River protested, though it came out more like a whine, which Louisa knew was the drugs talking.

“I find that hard to believe.” Louisa sat back in her chair hard enough the feet slid abrasively against the linoleum floor. She gestured towards Lamb. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“Why bother?” Lamb asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked over the rims of his glasses. “You seem to have it handled.”

[disappearinginq]

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

I debated giving you more Slow Horses, but thought I should at least find a fandom you're vaguely familiar with - though there's a solid chance that I already shared this with you and my memory is a sieve as of late....but excerpt from Tracker fic where Russell has to rescue Colter (written before season 2)

Colter pressed his forehead against the wall, sighing at the coolness against his heated skin. He could fall asleep right here and now, he was so tired. He let his eyes close, and tried to ignore the rolling nausea that never seemed to leave.

“Colter, talk to me,” Russell barked in his ear.

“Mmm?”

“No, Colt - words. Gimme actually words.”

He wasn’t very good with words. He preferred not to say anything at all. And he didn’t have anything to say right now. He didn’t even want to open his mouth, not with the way his stomach was feeling.

“Colter.”

Hmm. Russell sounded mad.

“’M sorry,” he whispered. It felt important that he should apologize. Like maybe if he didn’t say it now, he never would. He leaned against the wall, swallowing convulsively against the rise of bile in the back of his throat.

“For what?”

“Everything.” Sorry for not answering the dozens of phone calls when Russell first tried reaching out. For blowing him off when they’d finally made plans to meet face to face after twenty years. Sorry for thinking he would murder their father in cold blood. Sorry sorry sorrysorrysorry…

“Hey, don’t worry about it - it’s fine.”

No it wasn’t. Colter could hear the strain in Russell’s voice. He was still upset, and Colter was making it worse.

“I…” he floundered for the right words. But his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, the effort of just holding himself upright and trying to hold onto the phone in his hand pushing his already over taxed limits. “I don’t…” he swallowed again, pushing his head back so he wasn’t leaning on the wall where it’d already warmed from contact with his skin. The nausea rose, but there was nothing left to throw up - the acid burned the back of his already abused throat, and he tried to think of a time he felt even a fraction as miserable as he did now. He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the wetness as he pressed the heel of his free hand against his eye. “I don’t feel so good…” The confession was barely more than a whisper, but he knew his brother heard him because Russell sighed, and the tone in his voice shifted.

[disappearinginq]

Apparently, the key to writing motivation is to get strangers on the internet to be interested in your idle daydreams

[disappearinginq]

WIP WEDNESDAY

I was apparently tagged by two different people - this time by @thewildballyntynesgrow

I had this random idea when I saw a picture and a write up of someone's experience pop up on Tumblr and immediately messaged @amandagaelic about the possibility of it being River, and I did not put pen to paper (so to speak) until this very moment, because I am unhinged and only get around to writing when someone else tells me to.

Louisa bangs on the door, perhaps a little too roughly if he actually is sick, but she finds it a little difficult to take anything River says concerning himself at face value. And if neither Catherine or Lamb knew the reason he was out, that just made it worse. The fact he’s not at his flat, but out at his grandfather’s estate, makes it even more concerning. Because now she’s imagining anything ranging from some bizarre farming accident when a neighbor’s tractor went awry and ran him over to tetanus, or whatever it was one could pick up in the countryside.

“River, so help me God -” she mutters, debating how concerned she really is and if jimmying the lock is, in fact, overkill for the situation at hand. She raises her hand to knock again, but the door opens before her knuckles connect, and she is suddenly face to face with River.

He looks…well, fine, actually. Louisa half expected the telltale red nose of a cold, if nothing else, but he doesn’t actually look sick at all. Just a little disheveled, and perhaps a little tired, but -

“What on earth on you wearing?” The question is out before she can stop herself, because it is just that heinous. The tank top is old, loose from multiple washes and less than gentle wearing, stained and pulled thin in places so that the lettering is faded and cracked and mostly missing from whatever logo used to be on the fabric to the point she can only tell that the letter ‘A’ is involved somehow. The arm holes are almost as long as the top itself, and for a brief moment, she wonders what in hell River is doing with a bodybuilder’s tank before her attention catches on the burns.

From the top of River’s right shoulder, down his arm to his finger tips are raised, bright red blisters, spreading out from one long vein into dozens of smaller ones, like a river way aerial view, or -

“Did…did you…get struck by lightning?”

[disappearinginq]

WIP WEDNESDAY

tagged by @cartwrong

I have no idea what the rules are to this game, so WE HAVE NO RULES.

Ahem.

Enjoy a random excerpt from Slow Horses fic of dubious origin and plot:

Compared to Lamb’s normal throwaways, Cartwright was almost competent. Lamb never felt like he had to keep a tight leash on the young man because of all the Slow Horses, Cartwright was the only one there because of someone else’s mess - because he’d been a little too good at being a spy, and caught the wrong people at the right time.

It made Lamb complacent.

Lazy, he cursed to himself on the fifth day. Lazy, and fucking stupid.

Because he allowed himself to forget that River’s ambition and talent were soundly outdone by his absolute shit fuck awful luck.

If David Cartwright hadn’t been River’s grandfather, Lamb doubted River’s disappearance would’ve received more than a dismissive ‘good riddance’ from Taverner and her Dogs.

One - admittedly frequently- missing agent from Slough House was hardly worth putting the entirety of Downing Street on high alert.

After day six, it was clear that this wasn’t just an errant field agent who’d gone off on his own. Cartwright, even if he was feeling particularly spiteful of Lamb and his mild neglect form of leadership, never went radio silent for near a week. If he’d found something worth pursuing, he’d at least call to gloat about being right.

[disappearinginq]

[disappearinginq]

Whumpuary 2025!

(edit in case anyone actually reads this, i messed up and put "i'm fine" in twice for day 25 and alt prompt, so either ignore that or you can use "do it" as an additional alt prompt)

these prompts came together through community submissions and then a voting form where people voted for their favorites, here are the top 53 prompts

i want to try a slightly new format where there are still only 15 days for creation prompts but with additional community prompts/questions. those are entirely voluntary but are here to possibly inspire some community interaction and trying new things

i'm excited to see some awesome creations in january!

go here for info/rules/tagging go here for faqs

(note: number 31 is not a creation prompt and therefore not required to complete the challenge, it's just colored black so the colors add up)

text version of the prompts and rules is under the cut

(image description note: there are 31 numbered prompts, on each odd number the text color is black and on even numbers the text color is white)

Whumpuary 2025

a whump-themed multi media creation event for january

create for at least one prompt from each odd/black number to complete the challenge community prompts (even/white) numbers are voluntary

main prompts

1. sacrifice | headache | "this will hurt" 2. how did you find the whump community? 3. choice | storm | black eye 4. what are your favorite whump tropes? 5. "do you trust me" | manhandled | chills 6. share your favorite whump creations (others or yours!) 7. unfair fight | insomnia | "no one is coming" 8. what media genre do you like whump in? 9. trapped under rubble | gunpoint | out of time 10. write your own whump prompt 11. "i didn't ask for this" | blood | abandoned 12. create something in a new/less familiar medium 13. close call | sleep | choking 14. what's your favorite character dynamic? 15. handcuffed | dead | "please, stop" 16. leave a comment on a whump fic/art/creation 17. drugged | "i'm glad you're alive" | revenge 18. favorite whump medium? (movie, book, art, ...) 19. "let them go" | overworked | head injury 20. send a nice message to someone in the community 21. bruises | "who are you?" | immortality 22. take 10 minutes to work on a wip 23. backhand slap | alone | "i can't do this anymore" 24. what do you take inspiration in? 25. "i'm fine" | missing | drowsiness 26. draw/doodle something whumpy 27. stuck in a loop | twisting the knife | rescue 28. find a creator in the #whumpuary tag and send them an ask 29. kidnapped | "don't leave me" | devotion 30. make a whump meme 31. say something nice about your own work

alt prompts

hiding impaled "i'm fine" rain betrayal hair pulling darkness falling (added later, not in the image: "do it")

rules & info

-any medium is allowed (art, writing, gifs, edits, ...) -prompts are open for interpretation (but the context does have to be whumpy) -create for at least one of three prompts on creation prompt days (black/odd numbers) to complete the challenge -if you're not aiming for completionist you can do however many prompts you want any way you want -community prompts (white/even numbers) are voluntary and don't count for completionist (but can be combined with creation prompts if applicable) -use alt prompts to replace main prompts you don't like some works posted on tumblr will be reblogged if tagged correctly -#whumpuary2025 -#whumpuaryno1 (number of the prompt(s)) -#sacrifice #head injury #"i'm fine" (the prompt(s) you're using) -any trigger/content warning tags -any additional tags (fandom, oc, other used tropes, ...)

[disappearinginq]

🌹Some slow horses goodness if you please 🌹

OF COURSE. This is in fact a separate story, one where River has been missing for more than a week and a hospital finally calls saying that the Slough House landline was the only number their mystery patient said to call. They're all convinced River got himself in trouble - again - but it turns out for once, it's actually not his fault. It's Lamb's.

Perhaps if he hadn’t known River - or at least, of River - for most of the man’s life, he would feel differently. Maybe if he hadn’t known the Old Bastard for years, and hated him more than most, which was a high bar. Maybe if River was even half the bastard his grandfather was, Lamb would’ve found it easier to dislike him, or leave him to wallow in the ego was sure River would have, with David Cartwright as a grandfather.

Truth be told, he’d expected someone more like Spider. Some slicked back, arrogant little shit who got his suits and shaves down on Savile Row, who would rant about how his grandfather wouldn’t allow him to be treated with such disrespect, and to just wait until my grandfather hears about this.

Instead, he got River.

River arrived at Slough House with less than most - he didn’t last long enough to get a desk to clean out before finding himself in exile. As Catherine showed him around the building, River offered very little, and what he did say were mostly minor and vague pleasantries. He didn’t complain about the small, dark room he was relegated to, which was by design directly below Lamb’s own office so he could subject the younger Cartwright to having to listen through thin walls and thinner ceiling to whatever struck Lamb’s fancy for a form of torture.

Lamb made all the right noises, vowing to make River quit by the end of the first day, and if by some wild happenstance he was wrong about River’s capacity for punishment, by the end of the first week. He pointed out River’s monumental failure - a training exercise? You didn’t even fail at real life - that he wouldn’t even be a footnote in his grandfather’s legacy because surely, David would disavow him just as the Park had.

He expected indignation, and protests that Lamb was full of shit or didn’t know anything about him, and he would be back at the Park as soon as he called his grandfather and pulled some strings. He expected the normal whining that came with every new Slough House addition, dialed up to eleven to accommodate Park Royalty entitlement. He expected rage.

But the only anger River had was for himself.

[disappearinginq]

🌹☺️

For Slow Horses Conspiracy Theory Rip Off - :-D

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I…” His babbling is cut off when Lamb moves River's hands away from the wound, pressing down harder to stem the flow of blood from leaking further into the floor, and turns into a whine. “I-I can’t remember. I can’t remember. I…” River chokes off a sob, his bloodied hand coming to cover his face, smearing red as it trembles from from shock. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Lamb considers for a moment not accepting the apology, as though spite will help River, but it is only a moment. Fuck all. “Don’t be.”

“I can’t remember them,” River says, his hand clenching and moving away from his eyes to clench in a fist that he raps against his forehead, but he lacks the energy to do any real damage. “I can’t remember them. I can’t remember me.”

That was a disturbing comment, and Lamb made a mental note to bully Standish into checking up on River more often than she already was. She was more like River than either cared to admit - or perhaps, the other way around - adrift without something to do to make themselves feel like they were doing something that mattered. And River would take Standish’s presence better than anyone else.

River’s gaze fixes on Lamb. “But I remember you.” His face softens as he says it, like he realizes he can remember something, even if he doesn’t understand anything else. “I remember you.”

Lamb is uncomfortable with this level of familiarity, and wants no part of it.

Or so he tells himself, and purposely pushes away.

[disappearinginq]

🌹

Alas, I have nothing new to Limits, buuuuuuuuuuut I do have parts to How Everyone Met Thanks to JJ (as of yet untitled Origin of the Pogues fic) :-D

Nobody ever remembered when exactly JJ and John B went from being strangers to BFF’s. As far as anyone was concerned, they were always two halves of a whole idiot - where one was, the other wasn’t far behind.

Well. Nobody, except John B.

There used to be two schools on the island. One on the Cut, and one in Figure Eight. The normal excuses were made - long bus rides, unfair grading curves, lack of space - to keep the kids separated, but everyone knew the real reason.

Nobody from Figure Eight was going to put money into a school where their precious children, in their polo shirts and pristine white shorts and shoes that cost more than cars, could rub elbows with kids who occasionally didn’t even have running water and were on a first name basis with the CPS agent.

But, budget cuts and a declining poverty-level population - not because anyone from the Cut was getting richer, but they moved on when they kept getting bought out by the Figure Eight crowd - the Cut’s school was shuttered, closed, and demolished over the course of one summer, and the kids from the Cut were shuttled in to Figure Eight’s Kildare County Prep in a single bus that coughed and belched diesel smoke like it was auditioning as a prop piece in the Mad Max franchise, and rattled down the unpaved county roads at speeds that suggested the driver wasn’t sure he wanted to live to see tomorrow.

John B’s stop was last, given he lived the furthest away from the bridge, on the north end of the island in the Chateau with his dad, and by the time he was picked up, some seats were occupied three kids deep, with the exception of the seat furthest to the rear. The younger kids were supposed to sit up front where the driver could keep an eye on them, but nobody took him seriously when he threatened to call their parents or report them to the office. Not even the driver himself.

Which is how he wound up next to JJ Maybank, crammed into a seat not meant for two people, gripping the back of the seat in front of him with white knuckles as they were bounced into the air every time the bus hit a pothole, while JJ shouted for the driver to loop around and do it again.

[disappearinginq]

🌹🌹🌹🌹

I am like...99% positive we share 99% of fandoms, so you a snippet for Slow Horses so I can drag you into that one too and make our circle complete :-D This one is based off of Conspiracy Theory (ye olde whump galore movie). General background - more people than just the Park know about Frank Harkness's child-assassin cult, and some people aren't thrilled with Frank in general. However, they get some wires crossed, and don't realize that River wasn't one of those kids.

“But give me the gun.” He held his hand out for the weapon, hoping, praying River would hand it over without the Dogs doing something stupid.

But if they did…

Lamb would be armed.

And he would do terrible things to protect his people.

River’s face crumpled, the very definition of abject misery, a quiet sob of relief and perhaps resignation escaping between clenched teeth. “I’m sorry…I’m…” he glanced at the Dog he’d stolen the gun from, “sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to…” He let the gun fall forwards, loose in his grip so that he handed it grip first to Lamb.

No sooner did Lamb’s fingers close around the cold metal, River was slammed from both sides by the opportunistic Dogs, thrown to the tile floor hard enough River yelped in pain.

“Hey, hey-” Lamb shouted, “take it easy, he’s one of us!”

Lamb can admit that perhaps he lost his temper, just a bit, when the hand cuffs came out and they wrenched River’s arm around to fasten the metal around his wrist, trying to flip River onto his stomach with a knee to the base of his neck so that he can barely breathe, even though River wasn’t fighting back like Lamb knows he could. Because the problem with River has always been he was a star student - with the worst luck imaginable.

River wasn’t trying to fight them, but he was trying to get them off him, but he’s trying to roll sideways to get his right side off the ground and out from underneath the Dogs’ punishing grip while they tried to argue with Lamb that they’re not hurting him and this is for his safety as well as yours-

Lamb points the gun directly in the Dog’s face. “Let go of him now, or you’re next on the wall at St. Leonard’s,” he pulls the hammer back, “understand?”

[disappearinginq]

🌹🌹🌹

You, good Nonny, get a literal wild card after I put options into a random selector - so if the Rookie is not a fandom of yours, feel free to send another ask.

He’d been home for a year and a half now, but his shoulders still tensed when someone was behind him, or he was forced to sit in the open and under the heavy scrutiny of twenty other people, friendly or not. After six years of assessing what kind of target he would be in any given situation, it was harder to let go of the idea that he was not surrounded on all sides by Unfriendlies than he thought it would be.

So he avoided the front row as best he could by picking the row slightly further back because of its proximity to the door. He kept his arms folded across his chest and leaned back to put even more space between him and Sergeant Grey’s podium, and picked the chair closest to the glass wall so he didn’t feel like he was surrounded, and Isabel took the seat next to him.

“You look like you want to kill someone,” Isabel whispered, without turning her head towards him.

“The day is young.”

Isabel was one of the only other recruits at training that wasn’t put off by what she called Tim’s ‘resting bitch face’, which Tim considered another form of armor. People took smiles and pleasantries the wrong way too often, and he was sick of having to backpedal out of awkward conversations he hadn’t realized he was walking into just by being nice. He’d rather be a dick that no one would misinterpret as flirting.

They were two of the four rookies assigned to Mid-Wilshire, but the other two sat on the opposite side of the room - Lopez and Graham.

Tim knew little about either of them, other than Isabel really like Lopez and referred to her as Spicy Lopez - as there were seven at the academy - in appreciative awe of her shooting ability on the range, and the way she managed to flip every guy in their hand-to-hand class with an ease that spoke of having a lot of male relatives to fight while growing up, and a low tolerance for bullshit.

Or that her side hobbies included vigilantism in Gotham.

[disappearinginq]

🌹

I am absolutely terrible with names, and I know we've spoken, but I do not remember which fandoms we share, so if this is not one of them, feel free to specify one in another ask:

Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ was never such a welcome sound, and Magnum almost dropped the phone as he pulled it from his pocket.

“Rick, where the hell have you been, HPD-”

“Hello, Mr. Magnum.”

It wasn’t Rick. But it was a voice just as familiar. One that still haunted him in nightmares that followed him into the waking world.

He froze, hands clenching the phone in his hand so hard, he was surprised it didn’t crack beneath his grip. The blood drained from his face so fast he saw dark spots across his vision, and he put a steadying hand out on the desk nearest to him.

“What’s the matter?” the voice drawled. Educated. Cold. Calculating. Just a hint of foreign accent on the vowels. He could see the man’s face as clear as day in his mind’s eye. “You were always so talkative before. I had hoped for more…conversations.”

Magnum felt himself sliding to the floor, back braced against the wall in a sort of mildly controlled fall. There was no way. No fucking way. He was supposed to be dead. How many times had they told him he was dead? That they’d dropped a MOAB on the coordinates Rick provided, that after searching what remained of the camp, they determined no one could survive?

“Mr. Magnum?” There was a paused on the other end of the line, and Thomas knew without thinking that he was checking to see if he’d lost the signal, or if he’d just been hung up on. “Thomas. Come now, don’t be rude. It’s still customary to greet old friends with something more than silence, isn’t it?”

[disappearinginq]

🌹🌹🌹!!

You get the random snippet of what borders a crackfic of how I now headcanon Lamb and River having to bump into one another over the years because of David Cartwright.

He hated the countryside almost as much as he hated the OB. It was too hard to avoid notice when you were the only thing around worth noticing, and nobody was more observant than bored housewives and pensioners. The lack of hustle and bustle of thousands of cars and millions of people made the relative quiet of the bucolic landscape of Tunbridge Wells oppressive.

It also made it impossible for the minutes not to drag as he waited for Cartwright to get his carcass in gear without having anything more interesting to look at than the carefully manicured lawn and garden, where the only thing out of place were a pair of abandoned gloves and a trowel near the hydrangeas, likely from where Rose left them when she came to greet him at the front of the house.

He frowned at the gloves. They were unusually small, even for Rose, who, while hardly Amazonian in stature, was not child sized. The fact that they were even left out seemed odd. Rose never left anything lying about, even if she was still using it.

Lamb took another drag on his cigarette, blowing out a puff of smoke in a blue-gray circle above his head as he considered the benign mystery. Perhaps David had hired a midget to look after the undergrowth.

“I thought only wizards could do that?”

Lamb choked on the smoke, almost inhaling the cigarette entirely as he jackknifed forwards, coughing and hacking violently, his face turning beet red and probably some shade of purple, too.

When he finally remembered how to breathe, with only the occasional hack that sounded like a cat about to be sick on the carpet, he twisted sideways to glare up at the tree.

A boy - less than ten, more than five - Lamb was not a good guesser when it came to the ages of children - leaned around the bulk of the tree trunk, peering curiously down at Lamb from his perch several feet up. He looked unconcerned about having nearly killed Lamb, but moderately curious about this stranger.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” Lamb wheezed.

[disappearinginq]

5, 13, and 50 for AO3 Wrapped Ask?

I PROMISE I MEANT TO DO THIS LIKE A WEEK AGO I"M SORRY

5. Your most read fandom this year?

This is a wild, wild game - you don't understand. I have 99 tabs open to AO3 on my phone, and that is not an exaggeration. And those fandoms range from Magnificant Seven (TV series), Slow Horses, Ted Lasso, Lord of the Rings, Star Trek (AOS), Outer Banks....possibly Slow Horses might win by the amount of DIFFERENT works because most of them are one shots and I think I read one author's entire whumptober series in an afternoon....

13. Personal favorite fanfic that I read this year

Ok, this is just going to have to be a multiway tie - A Series of Narrow Escapes (Slow Horses) by @altschmerzes; Bridges (Slow Horses) by juicewiththebits; Not the Plan (Outer Banks - bless her for fixing redoing canon) by @fayedartmouth; and Houndsight (Hudson & Rex) by @itsjustdg; Repeat a Decision by Teeelsie

50. Favorite comment I left or received this year

Ooof. Having not updated diddly squat in months - perhaps all this year? I refuse to check now...I don't have that many to choose from, so pretty much any of them. I DID start making an effort to review the ones I liked though, so there's that. But probably the one I like the most is this one from Crash:

"Love this fic so much!! It's one of my most common re-reads for sure, just the right balance of hurt/comfort, badass-ery, angst, friendship etc. Length is perfect for "finish before bed but don't fall asleep halfway through" for me lol. I love all the characterisation so much, especially the dynamics between the characters. Your pacing is perfect, with the perfect mix of internal thought, action, and dialogue, and everything is so naturally and vividly described too, in a way that makes sense for the characters? Like you describe what katsumoto would have noticed and how he would have thought about it to himself. Thank you for writing and sharing it with us!!! Please take this comment as about 30 kudos by now, with at least 30 re-reads on the way xx" - mostly because of the last sentence, that just like made my whole month when I got it. I love return readers! <3 And honestly, that's more of how I wind up leaving reviews because I have to actually set reminders for myself to do it. Also, because Crash is one of my favorites too - I think I wrote it when I was supposed to be doing homework in like an afternoon?

Aaaaaaaaaaaaanyway...sorry for the delay, and thank you for the asks!