#anyone is fully welcomed to send any asks with questions or anything whatsoever!!!

[kn11ves]

my comic is live right now!

kyle and rex is an absurdist drama set in a stagnant afterlife where everyone lies, cheats, manipulates, and hurts each other in order to gain political power and admiration from the public.

with characters constantly haunted by ghosts of the past, trying to stay on top of the food chain despite constant betrayals and having their secrets held up above their heads, comes back kyle, from his long stay back as a guiding spirit on earth, to take back reigns of the throne in the inbetween. though much like everyone else, hes got a long list of dirty laundry that many are aching to reveal. there are no real friends here.

⸻

updates every 2 weeks, at 6:30 pm central US time! (SP & ENG)

WEBTOON: english link + spanish link

TAPAS: english link + spanish link

FANEO: spanish link

[cloudbxrry]

hello, and welcome to my blog! You can see some of my info in the blog description, but this is for rules and additional information. If you do not agree with the rules here, you can leave.

ALSO, I am cynophobic (scared of dogs) so do NOT try to send me pics of dogs. Cute puppies are ok, but just don’t send your fearbeastpics. Also, please do not come onto my blog to just send hate abt how I’m scared of your “little fluff muffin who can do no harm”. I am not sending hate to your dog, or any dog. Only putting this here just in case. Idk why anyone would send dog pics, but I guess I want to be sure idk lmao. • Black Lives Matter

• I believe that many cops are kind, but DO NOT support police brutality or racist cops.

• Stop Asian Hate

• Fuck Donald Trump

• All lives matter

• Pedophiles are NOT part of the lgbt+ community

Trans men are men and trans women are women

Non binary and Agender people are valid, including those who use neopronouns

You do not need dysphoria to be trans

Terfs and any other people who exclude/gatekeep trans people are not welcome to interact with me, my blog, or my content

Queer is not a slur. It is perfectly acceptable to identify as queer

I support ace and aro people, who are queer and part of the queer community

Love is not inherently romantic. I support platonic and queerplatonic relationships, as well as those who do not wish to be in any relationship • Lgbt+ rights

A relationship does not need to be monogamous. I fully support people in polyamorous relationships

I support bi, pan, and multisexual people, who are queer and part of the queer community

Pedophiles are not part of the queer community and are disgusting humans that are not welcome on my blog

Incest is never okay in any circumstance, even if it’s between foster or adopted family members

All religions are valid and welcome on my blog

Indigenous lives matter

Free Palestine

All races are valid. Racists are not supported by me in any regard

Nazis, white supremacists, alt-right members, zionists, and any other members of discriminatory groups are not welcome here whatsoever

Disabled lives matter, and this includes both mental and physical disabilities

Women’s rights are extremely important and I support feminist movements

Sex workers deserve respect, safety, and security

Wearing a mask is extremely important. Everyone should be wearing masks in public no matter what

• Your mental illness does not give you the right to be an asshole

• Do not use harmful slurs

• Do not post/talk about nsfw content on this blog please. I am a minor and am not comfortable with those types of jokes

These things are not up for debate. If you don’t agree with all of these, my blog is not for you and I am asking you to not interact with my blog. Unfollow me, block me, do whatever you must.

If you do agree with all of these, you are welcome and accepted here with open arms. My blog is a safe place for all people. I will not tolerate discrimination of any kind. Thank you.

(credit to mayflowers07 for some of the rules on here, I am not very good at wording things and I didn’t want to offend anyone/forget anything

These were already said, but If you are racist, queerphobic, transphobic, homophobic, biphobic, a “battle-ax Bisexual” (as in being a Bi that does not supporting omni, pan, or other multisexual people), Aphobic, or bigoted in any way then you are not allowed on this blog. It is a safe place for people of any race, religon, neurodivergant, cynophobic, and mentally ill people.

A BIT ABOUT ME:

(most of this is in the blog description)

Name(s): Ari or Nova

Pronouns: She/They/He/Void

Hobbies: Reading, writing fanfic, sports, drawing, memeing, stalking tumblr /lh

I do Grit Ninja (look it up on google if your interested, it’s a gymnastic/parkour thing lmao idk how to describe things)

My favorite ship is Cremini/Alyssa (my and my friends OC’s, they are dryad cottagecore lesbians ❤️) I have adhd (undiagnosed), depression, anxiety (getting diagnosed), and am a Bisexual Agender person.

MY (CURRENT) FANDOMS:

• Dream SMP (only the fandom. I have never watched the streams and my attention span wouldn’t allow it. I have been lurking in the fandom for a while tho)

• Hermitcraft

• 3rd Life

• Evo SMP

• Percy Jackson (especially TOA)

• Warrior Cats (kinda)

OTHER TOPICS I WILL POST ABOUT:

• ADHD/Neurodivergant stuff

• Depression

• Anxiety

• Therapy

• Abuse/Child Abuse (and Ptsd/C-Ptsd)

• School

HOW THINGS WILL BE TAGGED ON THIS BLOG:

Answering questions will be tagged #Ari Q&A

My Art will be tagged #myart

Picrews will be tagged with #Aricrew

Things with my and my friends OC’s will be tagged #AriOCs

Updates on therapy (starting in 9 days!!!) will be tagged #Ari therapy

My rants (I rant A LOT) will be tagged #Ari rants

Serious content (s3lf h4rm, depression, anxiety, gender dysphoria, suicidal thoughts) will be tagged #Ari srs

Random, more lighthearted things will be tagged #Ari speaks

MumboJumbo angst things will be tagged #Mumbo Angst Society

(Will use tags to tag this post to demonstrate)

Backround info to the Mumbo Angst Society:

I had noticed there wasn’t a lot of mumbo angst, and I was confused because he has just so many angst options! So I posted abt that and @ mayflowers07 in the post, and they responded (small fanenby noises bc fanfic writers are awesome) and said “Well this is a pleasant surprise! Thank you op, I am honoured to be the sole provider of the Mumbo Angst Society.” So now im calling it the Mumbo Angst Society ok.

Will add more to this over time :) have a good day!

[archieism]

hey friends. i know i haven’t been on a lot, but coping with the state of the world has been kinda tough on its own. but in the last weekend alone, my home life has left me feeling barely able to breathe. my mom is flipping stuff upside down after years of somewhat dysfunctional but tolerable and we ultimately love each other parent/child dynamic to concerning somewhat erratic behavior that’s left me feeling at a loss and no longer safe in this house. i don’t fear her as much as how i can live here anymore. she’s gone cold and outright voiced her sudden lack of regard whatsoever for how me or my siblings want to coexist with her despite being dependents, how we feel about these sudden changes without an invitation to be involved in them, or even if we feel safe with her anymore. 

she’s apologized just tonight, admitted she’s been acting out of fear instead of faith (hashtag conservative christian parents) but i’m not sure how much repair can be done, or if this means she’ll change what she’s been doing, or if it will even stick at all. my chest still feels tight. i still feel like i’m gonna throw up any moment. i still feel like i could burst into tears any second. maybe i’m overreacting, but i’ve never felt unsafe with my mom in my life. she’s always been my protector from the people who are unsafe, so this change feels life ending. i feel like i’m drowning and i don’t know what to do. to make it worse, i still have a cat with urinary issues and asmtha who needs special cat food AND litter who depends on me, who i’ve been borrowing money to take care of while i’m unemployed, and now i don’t know if that’s guaranteed anymore even though he could die without it. maybe it will turn out she’s not being that drastic, but i hate that i don’t know anymore if she would do that or not. as stressed as i am for myself and my siblings, i feel like not knowing if i can take care of my cat or if i’d even be able to transport him to a better home without a car even if i wanted to is making me want to keel over and die. but that wouldn’t help him, so i can’t.

i don’t know why i’m typing this. my mental health hasn’t been this bad in a while, or maybe ever, i don’t know; everything’s still very fresh since it’s all happened in literally like two days. but i guess that’s why everything feels uncertain now. 

i think i’m gonna make a gofundme for worse case scenarios concerning my cat, as well as any leftovers going towards me saving up for either a plane ticket or a car rental if i ever get the opportunity to leave here. i knew leaving my mom after years of her and us kids helping each other through hellish circumstances would be hard, but i never thought it’d be even harder due to leaving her behind by herself on such a bad note. i hope she can last by herself after years of mostly having just her kids as her friends due to living in such a shitty town full of shitty people. i’m so scared for her if i leave, but i’m also kind of scared for myself if i stay, or leave, or anything. i hope she can learn to fully love and care for herself as well as her kids in the ways we need her to for a functioning relationship. but i don’t know if that possibility’s been crushed in a single weekend. i want to keep that door open, but i also want to love myself enough to make decisions for myself that will lead to a future where i can hope to ever be happy with or without her instead of despair in my ability to even stay alive until i i can pass of old age one day.

my oldest sister who only just started living with us again in the last year and a half and has been kind of a rock through all this is choosing to leave in about a week and i’m really hoping it doesn’t break me. she doesn’t want to leave us behind, but she’s just as broke as the rest of us and even worse off with her physical health right now. 

the remaining three; my little brother, my older sister, and me, are trying to strategize a way we can collectively save up and move out together. we’re clinging to each other and trying to find solutions to this with no experience or training from any adults in our lives, parents who cared or not, from teachers, pastors, etc. despite being fully grown adults, i feel like we’re all feeling fragile. for one reason or another, our parents failed to raise us to even know how to be adults or do be on our own or how to keep a steady job, yet we’re expected to flip the full adult autonomy switch overnight with no warning or discussion before hand.

life feels scary right now, at least for me. really scary. i don’t know if i’ve ever been this scared before, and i know my entire childhood’s been pretty shitty. maybe my mom’s apology will finally actually mean something and i can delete this post with a cringey shake of my head in a month. i don’t know. but i know i need to look for some forms of stability outside of hers regardless. i don’t think i could make it through if i trusted this was over only for it to happen again. maybe it’s everything else going wrong in 2020 on top of it, but it feels like i’d just collapse and never get up again. it’s so hard to already, but i have my cat to help me keep going, if for no other reason than he NEEDS me to keep going in order to just stay alive, and now my siblings too. my mom used to be one of those reasons, and maybe she still is, but i don’t want to count on it as much anymore.

this is a vent post. way too much oversharing. but i feel like i’m going crazy and on the verge of an emotional breakdown, or maybe this is me having one lol

this is also a sort of question for any of my mutuals on here, if any of you are still reading (sorry it’s so long and so dramatic, i just. i feel rly scared and everything feels impossible right now). if any of you in the united states are looking for a roommate, i really need one. ideally, i’ll find an online job by the time i can execute any roommate plans, but if anyone is willing to take an unemployed depressed bitch who will fast for at most a month until i can find some local work, i am.... in dire need of something if my mom’s apology doesn’t stick, and even if it does; i really think i need to leave as soon as i can for both our sakes, even if as soon as i can is by the end of the year. ideally, cats are welcome in the space we’d be sharing, unless i find a beautifully trustworthy home i know he’ll be happy and safe with and can even bring myself to say goodbye. 

i’ll take anything at this point. even just brainstorming a situation over dms will probably do wonders for my mental health. i’m so sorry for dumping this all on the dashboard, and please know you can 100% keep scrolling or simply send good vibes, because i am asking around elsewhere. if my siblings and i can execute something together like we’re hoping, i probably won’t need a tumblr roommate lol, but backup plans feel kind of necessary, at this time, at least.

[stillebesat]

Virgil’s Interview

Sanders Sides: Virgil, Logan Blurb: It’d been his dream to work for StoryTime! since he was a kid, and now finally, Virgil may be able to make it come true.  Fic Type: General, Human!Au Warnings: Negative Self Talk Author’s Note: This fic is actually Virgil’s PoV of Chapter 3 in my other fic The Interview.  But you don’t necessarily need to read The Interview to enjoy this oneshot. :)

Why had he ever thought this would be a good idea?

Virgil tugged at the collar of his shirt, uncomfortable in the stiff clothing he’d rented just for this interview.

He had to be twelve kinds of an idiot to believe that a huge successful company like StoryTime! would be interested in hiring him for his designs. His artistic style with its angular lines and hair-thin strokes put him fully in the opposite category from StoryTime!’s bubbly and vibrant Prince, Princess and NonBinary Royalty aesthetic.

Virgil looked up to the shining building in front of him, heart climbing into his throat once more. Sure, they said on the website that they were always open to hiring people with different visions. The fact that he’d been able to set up an interview in the first place was proof of that.

He grimaced, running a hand through his hair as he again stood to pace around the bench in the courtyard that seemed to be his new permanent home.

But what if it was a mistake? What if the person who contacted him had looked at someone else’s portfolio and then accidentally called his number instead? What if they hadn’t even looked at his portfolio at all and now he was going to be laughed out of the one place he’d been dreaming about working at since he was a kid?

Virgil paused, chewing on his bottom lip. “I got the interview though.” He whispered. “Me.” He had a chance to prove it was all worth it. He glanced at the time on his beat up phone and growled, tightening his hold on his portfolio. If he could convince himself to walk into the freaking building in the next thirty minutes that is. He could have a chance!

Virgil drew in a shaky breath. He could fulfill his dream.

If he could convince them that his designs were worth looking into. If he could show them how they could expand the StoryTime! Brand so that they could continue reaching out to the outliers and show them that they too were worthwhile. Maybe they would hire him.

Virgil bit his lip. But what if they weren’t open to such a change? What if they laughed him out of the building? These last six years of constantly drawing, experimenting on his techniques and working a multitude of dead end jobs to earn money for more art supplies and for college courses would be...a waste.

His stomach twisted, a lump forming in his throat. What if StoryTime!--no, what if Roman Prince told him he had no talent whatsoever? His knees buckled, sending him back onto the bench.

Virgil laid his portfolio on the cool granite, burying his head into his hands, struggling to breathe. What if his family and everyone online had been lying when they said his artwork was amazing? That The Prince would be foolish to not hire him? That StoryTime! would welcome him and his designs in with open arms. 

He shuddered, heart sinking. 

What if he let everyone down?!

“Are you alright?”

Virgil jerked, letting out a yelp as he tumbled backwards at the unexpected voice.

A hand grabbed onto his flailing one, preventing him from hitting the grass. “Apologies,” the voice continued, pulling him back onto steadier seating. “It wasn't my intention to startle you.”

Virgil pulled away, cheeks burning as he looked up to his rescuer. “It's fine.” He mumbled, rubbing the hand the stranger had grabbed against his pant leg. He’d only been scared half to death because he hadn’t noticed anyone approaching him. Totally didn’t make him seem like a nervous wreck at all.

The man, looking more professional in a simple white shirt with rolled up sleeves, blue geometric tie, and black slacks than Virgil ever could in a suit, raised an eyebrow behind his glasses. “I highly doubt you are fine. As it has been noted that you've been out here for quite some time.”

Virgil stiffened, glancing up to the building in front of him and just as quickly dropped his head with a groan. Why hadn’t he considered that people could be watching him from there!? He must look like quite the fool to the entire company now. “Let me guess, they sent you out here to escort me off the property?” He asked getting to his feet, cradling his portfolio in his arms. It had to be a sign. A sign he wasn't wanted here.

“You would be incorrect.” The man stated calmly. “I merely saw you pacing and thought I could offer assistance.” He gestured to the portfolio. “Am I correct in assuming you are here for a job interview?”

Virgil tightened his grip on his life’s work. “Well yeah, Sherlock. Pretty sure the portfolio gave that away.” He flinched as his response registered. “Wait, please don't tell me that you're Roman Prince, and I totally just ruined this!” His day could not get any worse, but with his luck--  

He tensed as the man smirked and adjusted his glasses. Shoot! SHOOT! It was The Prin--  

“I’m not Roman, no, but your hesitancy to enter the building makes much more sense now.” He stated, folding his arms. “He can be rather intimidating and difficult to impress in interviews.”

Virgil ran a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs back over his eyes. No kidding. He'd read the horror stories of interviews with The Prince on the forums. Hearing that they were true from someone who actually knew him did nothing for his confidence. “Great.” He shook his head. Why had he even thought he had a chance? “That doesn't help my nerves at all, dude. Why not just cut my agony short and tell me it's pointless to even go in there and face him?”

The man raised an eyebrow, adjusting his tie as he gave Virgil the once over. “I can't give a fair judgement on that unless I can see your portfolio first.” He said, holding out a hand. “May I?”

Virgil blinked, taken aback. Truthfully, he hadn’t been expecting that. He narrowed his eyes, making no move to hand over his work to this stranger just yet. “You're going to be brutally honest with me?” He asked. “No sugar coating it just so you can see me suffer The Prince treatment inside?”

“You have my word.” The man said, without hesitation, keeping eye contact as he wiggled his fingers. “I will be honest in my assessment of your potential.”

Virgil chewed the inside of his cheek, unable to find anything but sincerity in his tone. He exhaled, reluctantly holding out his work. “Alright.”

The man took it reverently and sat on the bench Virgil had been off and on warming for the past couple of hours. He gestured with his freehand to the empty space next to him. “Why don’t you sit while I look?”

Virgil shook his head. “I prefer to stand thanks.” It would be easier to book it out of here if this stranger gave him bad news.

The man shrugged, pushing his glasses up as he flipped open the portfolio to the first page, to Virgil’s resume. “So…” he said conversationally as he skimmed it. “Virgil is it? Why do you want to work for StoryTime!?”

Virgil snorted, shoving his hands into his suit pockets, wishing for his hoodie. “Are you interviewing me?” Shouldn’t the dude just flip through his art and pronounce his final judgement instead of questioning him?

“Officially? No.” He looked up, offering Virgil a smile. “But a bit of practice before the actual interview doesn’t hurt now does it?”

“I...suppose not.” Virgil shook his head, turning half away to look again at the StoryTime! building. It made sense. A warm up for when he had to face The Prince couldn’t hurt. It could even help him get his thoughts together. “Well.” He exhaled. “Cliche as it sounds. I’ve followed StoryTime! since the very beginning when Thomas Sanders just had his phone and Vine to work with.”

“That’s quite a while.” The man remarked neutrally, carefully turning to the next page, his attention back on the portfolio. “Most people wouldn’t know what you meant if you brought up Vine now.”

Virgil smirk. “Don’t I know it.” He’d seen his fair share of blank faces when he brought it up. “His videos there were cheesy but good natured. The fact that Thomas could create such a positive impact in six seconds was...well it impressed me. Honestly, those videos were about the only thing that got me through some of my darkest days back then. Still do even now.”

The man hummed in agreement. “He does have a knack for knowing how to make people smile.”

Virgil nodded, pacing back and forth in front of the man as he slowly turned the pages of the portfolio, taking more time and care to study them than he’d ever seen anyone else do. “And Thomas kept that ability when he started StoryTime! He kept to his roots, kept to the positivity, the hopeful messages and still provided quality content without compromising his values or forgetting his fans. I just…” He sat down next to the man, tapping on a stylised version of Sir Sing-A-Lot he’d drawn after watching Crofters: The Musical, making the character more willowy and angular as he bent down towards a bear cub. “I admire it. I want to be a part of it. Help others like he helped me.”

“A good goal to have, Virgil.” The man commented, fingers hovering over the drawing as he traced the swirls on the bears fur. “But you are correct on it being cliche. A lot of people have come here with similar reasons.”

Well, Virgil had never considered himself unique in that regard.

“However,” The man continued. “StoryTime! prefers to hire people with the intention that they’ll stay on. We’re a FamILY here. We support each other, and would prefer to have individuals who don’t give up at the first sign of trouble.”

Family. Virgil bit the inside of his lip. That would be nice. To not have people glaring at him when they thought he couldn’t see, purposely handing him the hardest jobs in hopes that he’d fail. “I’m not the sort to give up after one setback, sir. You can believe that.”

The man’s moving finger froze, and he frowned. “You don’t give up--” He thumbed back to the first page, pointing at Virgil’s Job History. “Yet, here, it shows that you’ve held quite the series of part time jobs in the last six years.” He said, looking up, freezing Virgil in place with his amber eyes. “Why is that?”

Virgil swallowed hard, pushing down the spur of panic as he fought to keep eye contact. He’d never considered that having so many jobs would be seen as detrimental. “I…” He exhaled, looking at his feet as he stood, running a hand through his hair. He could feel his dream slipping through his fingers. If this man thought he couldn’t make it here--- “I don’t give up.” He repeated softly, mentally cursing his coworkers for conspiring against him. “I took most of those jobs in the first place to save up for classes to improve my drawing and animating techniques.” He kicked at a tuft of grass, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It wasn’t my intention to stay with them long. They were just stepping stones to the end goal of coming here.”

The man pursed his lips, closing the portfolio. “I see.”

Virgil’s blood ran cold. Those were not words he wanted to hear. That usually meant that the person didn’t see at all. He clenched his hands, working to breathe steadily as he looked up to make eye contact with the man. 

“I am a hard worker, sir.” He stated forcefully, crouching in front of him, flipping his portfolio back open. “I don’t slack off. I don’t quit a job unless it quits me first. I mean.” He jabbed at his education. “You can see here that I graduated last year with a double Bachelors in Illustration and Animation, Summa Cum Laude.”

“So you have.” The man murmured his face giving away nothing of what he was thinking..

 Virgil drew in another breath, focusing on his work on proving that he deserved to be here for this interview. “And here. That education didn’t go to waste.” He flipped through the portfolio to a dragon made from smoke, staring out at them with purple eyes.. “It took me a week to perfect this technique.” He said looking up, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “I burned through two sketchbooks, singed my eyebrows, and set off four fire alarms before I could get the paper to blacken correctly and create this smokey texture..” He turned the page three more times. Showing a shadowy kitten with a ball of yarn, a war-marred prince holding a broken sword, and an astronaut in a stark white suit floating in space. “Or even this!” He flipped to a later page. “This Basilisk? The scales? Their shimmer?” He looked up, faltering when he saw the man watching him intently.

“Go on.” He prodded, leaning forward, a small smile on his lips.

Virgil swallowed, looking down at his work. “I-I went to every store in the valley to find the right composite of pearlescent ink to put on these scales.” He said, “I spent hours getting it to flow just right and look.” He tilted the page, the green scales changing to white.

The man made a noise of surprise, reaching out to take the page himself, his hand brushing Virgil’s as he tilted the picture back and forth. “Amazing.” He murmured. “A casual viewer wouldn’t know you used two different shades until they moved the page. It’s a pleasant surprise.” He looked up, adjusting his glasses. “Well done, Virgil.”

Virgil straightened, flushing at the compliment. “Uh...tha-thanks.” He said, rubbing his hand against his pants as he stood back up. He hadn’t expected the man to praise him. He’d only been trying to prove that he had the chops to do well here, that his slew of jobs weren’t detrimental to his work ethic.

“So.” The word cut through Virgil’s thoughts as the man again patted the bench. “Hypothetically. If Roman were to harangue you because there is a storyboard due in fifteen minutes for presentation and you’ve drawn the main character all wrong because the MC’s look had not been made clear to you, what would you do?” He asked, eyes unreadable as Virgil hesitantly sat next to him.

What sort of test was this? Had The Prince done this before to someone? He gave the slightest shakes of his head, trying to think of something...polite to would say. 

But niceness under pressure was not a strong point of his.

”An honest answer, Virgil.” The man prodded, leaning forward, intent on him. “Your true reaction. Not what you think I want to hear.”

Virgil hesitated for half a breath, before he shrugged. He’d already put himself on the line for this guy, might as well go down in a blaze of glory. “Honestly... I would--” he clicked his tongue. “Call him nine types of an idiot for not checking in with me sooner to make sure I was on the right path, but I’d also--” He grimaced. “Be calling myself the same names for not making more of an effort to clarify the MC’s key characteristics with him. I would make an argument for keeping the current style and if I couldn’t convince Princey to go with it...then...well...” He shrugged. He already knew from the forums that The Prince could be rather mule-headed when it came altering his vision. The stubborn Perfectionist. “If I had drawn it on the computer I would sketch a couple quick MC replacements and copy/paste. Easy enough.”

“Easy enough indeed.” The man echoed, eyes glittering as he flipped the page to a market scene like unto the one from Aladdin.  

Virgil bit his lip, unable to tell if the man was humoring him or not. It didn’t feel like it...but he’d been tricked before by people he thought he could trust.

“And if it had been hand drawn?” The man prodded, once more looking up. “Roman usually likes the first storyboard presentation to be hand drawn.”

Virgil made a face. Of course he did. “Well, it would be a nightmare to redo, but I would make it work.” His lips twitched as he ran fingers through his hair. “Though I would be calling Princey a variety of bad nicknames under my breath the entire time I was redrawing them to make myself feel better.”

The man snorted, briefly covering his mouth with his hand. “I hope that they would be creative.”

Virgil rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling despite himself. “Considering my past track record with nicknaming, I’m sure I could come up with a few good ones.” Especially if he had to redraw a whole storyboard--Virgil snapped his fingers, suddenly standing. “Come to think of it.” He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the Sk3tch app a roommate had created for him to hold his various school projects. “I actually had to do a similar scenario to yours in my second year of college.” He confessed, showing the man the mosaic of stained pictures on his phone. “Half an hour before our final project was due for presentation, a cotton-headed ninny muggins spilled their stale coffee all over my group’s storyboard we’d spent the last month working on and we had to quickly draw replacements..”

The man’s eyes lit up. “Really?” He asked sounding more interested than Virgil had expected, taking the phone from him. “I’ve been there myself.” He said smoothing down his tie as he scrolled through the images.

Been there himself? Was this guy one of the storyboard artists then? He had spoken of the Prince with familiarity.

“How did you do on this project, after the redraws, if I may ask?” The man asked, pausing on the replacement sketches that Virgil’s group had thrown together. They were much more stylized compared to the first batch, the strokes quick and more bold than Virgil preferred.

Virgil shrugged,  gesturing offhandedly. “We managed an A-.” He said trying to not sound prideful of the fact, but really, it had been a miracle after that particular disaster.

The man whistled, handing him back the phone. “Impressive. And out of the ruined ones, how many did you personally redraw?”

How many? “Uhmm.” He looked away, mentally calculating as he tapped his fingers against his thigh. “Me personally, I took around twenty of them.”

“Twenty? In half an hour?”

Virgil ducked his head, cheeks warming as he kicked at tuft of grass. Yah, not many people believed he could work so quickly. “Yes. I was the quickest at the line art in that group. The other four divided up the remaining thirty between them.”

Logan blinked, giving a soft laugh. “Once again, Virgil. Impressive.”

He really hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt right now. “It...wasn’t...well...umm... thanks.” He hunched his shoulders. He definitely wasn’t used to people complimenting him in person and this guy had already done so multiple times and he barely knew him! 

“It is impressive, Virgil.” The man repeated, leaning forward. “Not many people here could do such a quick turn around.” He said, thumbing through through the portfolio stopping on a Sallyized version of Jack Skellington. He smirked, tapping the picture. “Nor would many dare to call Roman an idiot to his face. He could probably use more of an ego check from time to time.”

“Well,” Virgil spread his arms, offering his own smile. “I’m sure I could give Princey that ego check, if he needed it. I’m quite used to being the villain.”

The man jerked his head up, his dark eyes piercing through Virgil for what had to be seconds, but felt like an eternity.

He slowly lowered his hands under the scrutiny, eyes widening as his words echoed back in his head. Shoot! SHOOT! He hadn’t meant to reveal that!

“Your drawing style is rather unique compared to StoryTime!’s usual stuff.” The man said slowly, searching Virgil’s face. “You tend to draw in darker color schemes, use thinner lines, and showcasing typically good characters as your villains.” He said, flipping through the portfolio to point out Virgil’s Evil Princess dressed in green and black while holding a fractured scepter before turning to a thin angular baker pulling skull cookies out of the oven. “While using the typical hero shapes of circles and squares on your villains.” He gestured to a square jawed vampire, pulling children from a burning home. “Why do you think this sort of thing could be a fit for StoryTime!?”

Virgil clenched his shaking hands, hoping that this guy hadn’t noticed, even though he probably had. “Well…” He drew in a shallow breath. He could save this. He could save this. Just draw the man’s attention away from his personal statement. Easy.

He took another shallow breath. “There’s... been a surge in people empathizing with the bad guys recently. Wanting to know their backstory, see what caused them to go...well... bad.” He said, moving to cautiously sit on the bench next to the man. “Even Disney’s caught onto that fact.”

The man hummed, tilting his head. “Go on.”

Virgil licked his dry lips, leaning closer to the man in order to flip to his later works that better showcased his series of misunderstood villains.

While he had included the more typical fairytale ‘happy’ artwork to show he could be versatile, it was rather obvious his main inspiration came from more of the Nightmare Before Christmas, Coraline, and Corpse Bride though a discerning eye would see the influences of Disney’s underappreciated Post-Renaissance Era as well.

“You can see it with Disney choosing to retell Sleeping Beauty with Maleficent’s backstory as the main focus.” He said, gesturing to his softer smaller version of her in dragon form, curled around a broken spindle. “They already have firm plans to do a similar thing with 101 Dalmatians and Cruella and maybe with Ursula in The Little Mermaid or the Evil Queen in Snow White. It’s a trend that StoryTime! should jump onto and take charge of.”

Virgil tapped his portfolio empathetically as the man stayed silent. “Because no one and I mean No. One. Else. is better at turning tropes on their heads than StoryTime! is.” He pointed to the building. “From the very beginning, you’ve twisted plots into unexpected directions, created morally grey characters that the audience should expect to hate, only for them to come out of the theaters ardent supporters of them, praising your plotlines and attention to details and I...”

He looked up to see the man staring at him with a fond smile and jerked his hand back, self conscious on how he’d been blabbering on.

“And you?” The man asked in a gentle tone.

Virgil looked away, placing his hands in his lap. “And I think telling stories from the villain's point of view could be StoryTime!’s next big break and…” He bit his lip, taking a steadying breath as he looked back up. “I would love to be a part of it, if given the chance.”

The man nodded thoughtfully, slowly closing the portfolio, holding it lightly in his hands as he stared at StoryTime!’s front doors.

Virgil fidgeting at the silence, sensing this pseudo interview was over. Had he proven himself to this guy? Had he shown that he had the chops to do well here? Or had he just confirmed he wouldn’t make it? His stomach twisted as his doubts came back in full force. 

“Well?” He asked, unable to take the quiet any longer as he held out his hand to take his portfolio back. “Do you think I have a chance in my interview with Princey?”

The man made no move to return his work. Instead he slowly looking up, meeting his eyes. “Virgil.” He said quietly. “I’m going to have to say-”

His heart sank as Virgil braced himself for the rejection. This was it. This was the moment he was told it was all for nothing. That he had wasted his time. That--

The man gave him a warm smile. “That you’re hired.”

Logan’s Pov -The Interview: Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5

Taglist in Reblog

[smoloof]

Welp I did it

My first contribution to this amazing fandom is a story! I honestly just wrote this out of the blue and after a few days thought, “Screw it might as well post the first chapter!” Me at 3am is a brave soul. Brave, stupid and tired. I also posted this by the same title on ao3 so heck, if you wanna drop by there too or not that is perfectly a-okay~

Alright enough of me rambling about my life and I’ll ramble a bit about the story:

Basically it’s Hosuh being dared to go into an abandoned house on Halloween night by his friends and he accepts the dare (why you ask? Don’t we all make some weird decisions every now and then? This is the same). Of course it’s going to involve ghosts and the supernatural and Hosuh’s going to have a bad time at first but it gets better! I think...I hope. It should. 

This story isn’t going to contain any ships whatsoever (because why write romance when I can write friendship oh hoh) but if you want to scream about ships I’m all ears. And any other types of feedback or screaming is welcome! I’m not going to stop you. Thank you for joining me in this wreck if you choose to do so! Chapter 1 is under the cut which I hope works! 

Next Chapter: Chapter 2

Halloween Night

Chapter 1

    Perhaps he really shouldn’t have taken the dare. It would have been a much better – much safer – choice to say he didn’t want to do it. After all, his friends aren’t monsters. They wouldn’t pressure him into doing anything he doesn’t want to do like any good decent friend. As to why he still agreed to visit the old, slightly dilapidated house at the end of the street is a question that probably has no sane logical explanation.

    Hosuh looks up at the house in question. With the night settling in with dark clouds looming in the sky, it only adds to the unsettling feeling building in his gut. The house itself is made entirely of wood with a few missing planks here and there like the iconic haunted houses seen in movies and children’s stories.

    Despite the sorry state the house is in, no one has ever thought to tear it down. Perhaps whoever owns the property doesn’t want to bring it down…whoever that is. Hosuh bites his lip as he takes his phone out to check the time. 8:04. His friends say if he doesn’t message the group chat that he's out of the house by 9:30 they’ll come check on him. He has great friends.

    Not wanting to drag this on longer than he has to, the silver-haired man pockets his phone and walks up to the doorway. The old doormat with faded letters spelling out “WELCOME” does not make him feel welcomed in the slightest. Hosuh grasps the doorknob and after softly counting down from three he turns the knob. It doesn’t budge. He opens his eyes which he doesn’t remember closing and notices a small circular button for what he presumes to be the doorbell off to the side on the wall. It looks pretty out of place now that he thinks about it. Maybe he should press it? Would the ghosts even care?

    A part of him feels like this is ridiculous as he continues to stare at the doorbell. But after a moment of hesitation, he presses the button. The silence continues on. Of course it wouldn’t work! The power’s been off in this house for years! It probably doesn’t have electricity running to it anymore. This is quite an old house after all…

    For a brief second a feeling of relief washes over him. The door is locked so there’s no way he can get in! Yes there might be windows, but he isn’t interested in breaking and entering any time soon in his career. Even if it is into an abandoned house no one lives in anymore. With that thought in mind he turns around, fully intent on leaving and never coming back for the rest of his life.

    He doesn’t finish taking the first step away when he hears a deafening ‘click’ sound coming from the door behind him. His body tenses and he stops breathing as a single resounding thought screaming, “No!” blares in his mind like an alarm. Hosuh closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in and out before slowly turning around to face the door again. His eyes narrow as he gazes at the doorknob with an accusatory stare.

    “This really has to be some kind of joke.” Hosuh mutters to himself. Maybe his friends are pranking him and are actually in the house coming up with other ways to scare him. He takes a few steps towards the window and tries to peer into the house. Even with the moon providing some light for him to see, he can’t make anything out through the glass. There’s only a screen of pitch black. It wouldn’t be too surprising if the house uses black curtains to prevent anyone from seeing inside he guesses. Although robberies aren’t too common in the neighbourhood, the owner wouldn’t want to take any chances.

    Hosuh goes back to the front door and grasps the doorknob. His fingers must be ice cold for the metal to feel slightly warm in his grasp. A few seconds go by before he decides that it’s now or never and he turns the knob. It twists and he pushes the door open slowly. Surprisingly it doesn’t let out a high pitched creak he was expecting it to.

    The inside of the house looks just as old and broken as the outside. Hosuh looks left and right, up and down. Nothing really seems out of the ordinary he supposes. The room on the left has a short and small circular coffee table being illuminated by the moonlight coming in from the window. What looks like a half-finished board game is set up on top of it along with three cups resting off to the side. He takes a tentative step into the house, hand still gripping the doorknob in case he needs to make a quick getaway.

    He knows it’s probably a stupid idea but at this point the whole trip is a stupid idea and when – if – he comes back from this he’ll make sure his friends will never hear the end of it.

    “H-hello?” He calls out. “Is anyone here?”

    When no one responds Hosuh takes that as a good sign. He’s sure if someone replied he would have booked it then and there. He knows better than to stick around when a disembodied voice starts talking. Then, a particularly strong gust of wind blows through the doorway, sending shivers down his spine and nearly topples him over. Along with the wind an uncomfortable sensation of static running up his hand makes him let go of the doorknob.

    "Whoa!" He cries out as he stumbles farther into the house to prevent himself from face planting onto the ground. And like any other classic horror story, the door slams shut which is then followed by another ‘click’ sound for the lock turning. Everything happened so fast that Hosuh doesn’t register what had happened at first. The only thing that is registering is the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. After a few seconds of him just staring at the door he quickly goes over and tries to turn the lock. It doesn’t budge in the slightest.

    “Of course it’s stuck.” Hosuh hisses as he tries again and again to no avail. He bets when he checks his phone it’ll have no signal so contacting anyone would be impossible as well – just like in every other horror story. He reaches into his pocket to get his phone only to find that it’s not there.

    Another wave of adrenaline rushes through his body as he frantically pats himself down. No phone. He checks the ground around him. No phone. What if it somehow fell out from that gust of wind earlier? While it sounds highly unlikely it might not be impossible. But now his phone is just lying on the ground outside for anyone to pick up. Does anyone walk down this street on Halloween anyway? What if someone steals his phone? It’s going to be a mess if he loses it now of all times!

    Something moves from the corner of his eye, bringing him out of his panicked thoughts. Startled, Hosuh looks over in the direction of the coffee table. His blood turns to ice and it feels like his heart has stopped beating altogether. It shouldn’t be possible. Why is it all the way on the table?

    It’s his phone.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Lena got into an accident and lost her memory. She becomes cold and callous. Kara watches from afar but says a phrase Lena used to Always say once in a while. Later Lena remembers everything and says the phrase to her on her own?

There’s something about the way Lena’s bruised and bleary eyes slide off of her that sends a jolt of alarm down Kara’s spine. 

Lena searches the faces surrounding her hospital bed, but none of them is the one she’s looking for. 

“My brother, Lex… why isn’t he here?” She asks the doctor whose speech she interrupts. “Was he in the car with me? Is he okay?”

Kara and Alex lock eyes, as Kara’s stomach drops to her knees and Lena’s tone sharpens.

“Where is my brother?!”

The doctor explains that amnesia isn’t an uncommon side effect of a brain injury like Lena’s. Through a series of carefully crafted questions, they learn that Lena’s lost almost five years. She’s lost L-Corp and Kara and Supergirl and her brother’s conviction and her mother’s arrest and her mother’s escape from prison.

When Lena closes her ears to the doctor, Kara volunteers to explain why Lex hasn’t visited. It’s the worst decision she’s ever made.

“Get out.”

There’s no denial, no outrage. Just the complete and utter rejection of her presence. From that point onwards, Lena doesn’t look at her, doesn’t say a single word. Kara finally does leave, accepting she won’t make any further progress that night. 

She’ll try again in the morning.

She finds out the next morning that she learns Lena has rejected any and all visitors.

“Except for a Mr., ah….” the doctor pauses, flipping through his notes, “Jack Spheer? If you have a way to contact him, please let us know. The number she was able to provide is out of service.”

Kara shuts her eyes. “Jack Spheer died two years ago.”

The doctor sighs. “This woman just can’t catch a break.” He closes his file. “I’m sorry. Until Miss Luthor changes her mind, my hands are tied. And due to HIPAA policy, I won’t be able to share anything further about her condition.”

“But– I’m her next of kin! And her emergency contact!”

The doctor shakes his head. “Not anymore. Her family lawyers have already communicated her change in permissions.”

Kara freezes. “She– she can’t do that!”

“She can. She’s fully cognizant, and capable of giving and rescinding consent. There’s nothing the hospital can do until notified otherwise.”

“Please, just let me see her, I have to talk to her–!”

“I’m sorry.”

The doctor leaves. Kara stays for days, stubbornly hoping her persistence would levy a response from somebody. All she earns are a few sympathetic glances, and nothing more.

Kara honors the letter of Lena’s new rules, but not the spirit. As Supergirl, she hovers high above the hospital, hearing focused entirely on a single room below. 

“Good morning, Miss Luthor,” as nurse greets, following the same script as all the others come before. “How are we feeling?”

“Fine. When can I leave?”

“The doctor wants to keep you a few more nights. Head traumas are tricky things. Though, if you had someone who could stay with you, he might agree to let you go sooner.”

Lena snorts. “And what part of the past week suggests to you that I have anyone?”

“Well, what about Kara? I’m sure she’d love to spend a few nights with you.”

Kara could kiss that nurse, if not for the blow that quickly follows.

“Who?” Lena asks.

“Kara Danvers? I’m told she was here when you woke up.”

“Oh. Her.”

Kara will never in her life forget the sound of Lena’s voice in that moment. 

Oh. Her. 

“She seemed very worried about you. I’m sure her contact information is still on file: we would be happy to give her a call–”

“Jesus christ, will you just shut up? I don’t know her! Why would I want her in my house?”

The nurse leaves. So does Kara. She doesn’t listen again.

Lena returns to L-Corp almost as soon as she’s released from the hospital, and hits the ground running. By lunch, she’s agreed to a meeting with James so long as he comes to her. Kara insists on going with him, and does so under the guise of being an extra pair of hands lugging a stack of board meeting minutes and profit projections and Rao knows what else James deemed necessary.

She practically leads the way to L-Corp, only dropping back when they reach Jess’ desk. The assistant gives them an uneasy glance– Lena’s condition doesn’t sit well with anyone, it would seem. 

James is the first to step into Lena’s office. Lena greets him before even bothering to glance up at him.

“Mr. Olsen.”

“Hi, Lena,” he returns, undeterred by the curtness of her tone. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me. I just wanted to stop in and see if you had any questions about CatCo. I know it’s been a weird couple of weeks so I brought minutes and annual reports–”

“I already know everything I need to– that for some inconceivable reason, I’ve purchased a useless company that I neither want nor need. So you and your assist– oh.”

There it is again. Oh.

Kara fidgets behind James, adjusting her glasses and shifting the stack of papers in her arms.

“Kara Danvers is one of our best up and coming reporters,” James covers quickly. “But she’s just here for the heavy lifting today.”

Lena’s lips curl in a mirthless smile. “Reporter. Funny. You told the hospital something different, Miss Danvers.”

“I–” Kara takes a breath to explain, but barely manages to edge a word in before Lena’s hand snaps up, dismissing her entirely.

“Don’t bother. I’m just glad I made the right choice. As for you, Mr. Olsen, rest assured that I have no interest in a media conglomerate. It’s my understanding you were running CatCo in Miss Grants absence, and you’re welcome to do so again until I find a way to cut the company loose.”

Lena leans back in her seat, eyebrow lifting when neither of them make a move to leave.

“That’s all.”

“Just give it time,” Alex tells her over ice cream later that week. “The doctor said there’s still a chance of her memory returning.”

Kara shakes head. “He said with familiarity. If I’m there helping remind her. Which I’m not. She won’t even let me get close.”

“If you let her find her own normal, maybe she’ll be in a better position to talk. There’s no reason to lose hope this early.”

Sure. Whatever Alex says.

After three weeks, there’s no change. Lena doesn’t reach out, to any of them. Kara doesn’t know if Lena reaches that new normal Alex described. The only new normal she knows is the constant ache of missing Lena, and the chill of her empty apartment. 

She uses Supergirl as a distraction. Only problem is, the city is sleepy with wintertime, and when Thanksgiving rolls around, there’s nothing that requires Supergirl’s attention. 

Nothing but a lone figure on the L-Corp balcony, gazing forlorn across the city.

Kara should just go home. Eliza’s in town, and even though a party doesn’t feel right without Lena, there are some family traditions she just can’t ignore. Even so, Kara finds herself drifting closer, and then hovering just off the far end of Lena’s balcony. 

“Miss Luthor.”

Lena’s head snaps towards her. Kara tries not to notice the instinctive recoil of Lena drawing back, eyes wide and wary at the sight of her.

“What do you want?”

Despite her racing heartbeat, Lena’s voice is strong and biting. Kara offers a smile. “I heard about what happened. I’m sorry.”

Bracing herself for the inevitable snap back, Kara’s left reeling when Lena looks away, shoulders hunching in a rare moment of vulnerability. 

“So you’ve finally come by to see what Lex Luthor’s sister is up to?”

“No. Not at all.” Kara doesn’t move any closer, and Lena slowly relaxes. Amazed that Lena hasn’t already banished her, Kara rests her arms against the outer edge of the railing, the reflection of Lena’s own lean that she resumes as her alarm abates.

They stand– and float, respectively– in the quiet evening for several minutes.

“They won’t let me see him,” Lena confesses softly to the shadows. “I’ve requested visitation three times since I woke up, and every time I’ve been denied.”

Kara doesn’t respond. She’s well aware of Lena’s struggles. One of the perks of being Supergirl is that when she requests Lex Luthor receive no visitors whatsoever, he receives no visitors. It might be overreach, but she’ll feel guilty later, once she’s certain Lena’s emotional walls are fully fortified. Lex Luthor won’t be getting the chance to sink a single claw in his sister.

“I can only imagine what you must think of that. Baby sister trying to takes notes…” Lena’s voice turns bitter, then trails to nothing. "But I just– I need to ask him… why.”

Kara doesn’t pretend to have an answer. She simply stays, until Lena finally turns and goes back into her office without another word. Even then, she lingers, rising to hover above L-Corp and listen as Lena sips at a bottle of wine before falling asleep on her office couch.

When she finally returns home, she sobs in her sister’s arms. For herself, and the loneliness of Thanksgiving without Lena. She cries for Lena too, and the loss of Lex made new again.

The next morning, she reaches for her phone, fingers itching to text Lena. She does so, against every instinct warning her against it. It doesn’t matter.

Her number is no longer in service.

Two weeks before Christmas, Kara is run so ragged she almost forgets to miss Lena. Almost. 

But on this morning in particular, she’s trying plot a course through six scheduled interviews plus her looming deadline for a separate article when she waits to pick up her coffee order. She hates impatience, but this time she’s that person tapping their foot and checking their watch repeatedly.

“Gingerbread latte for Kiera!”

Kara lunges for the counter and snatches the cup away before it makes contact with the ledge. 

“Thank you!” She chirps before stuffing an extra couple of bills in the tip jar. She makes a mess at the condiment bar before hastily jamming a lid on and pushing towards the door.

She smacks into a body entering. Her lid flies off, latte sloshing up and over her hand and drenching the blouse of her unwitting victim, who gasps first in surprise then cursing in pain as the hot liquid soaks through her shirt.

“Ow, fuck!” A familiar voice sears Kara’s consciousness. “Watch where you’re going!”

Kara blinks at Lena, cheeks heating when recognition doesn’t hit Lena for another three heartbeats. When it does, it comes with its own curse.

“Of fucking course. Are you following me now?”

“Nnn-no?” Kara responds, hesitantly. “I was here first, technically? So, no. Definitely no.”

“Whatever,” Lena mutters, plucking at her shirt. “Did you manage to grab any napkins before jumping to lightspeed?”

“Oh!” Kara starts pulling her horde of napkins from her pockets. “God, I’m so sorry. Yes, here!”

She gives Lena one handful before using the other to start cleaning up the mess, starting with the floor before wiping the tops of Lena’s shoes dry. She very nearly moves on to the splotches of damp hose, but catches herself just as Lena curses again.

“God damn it,” she huffs, slopping the soiled napkins into the trash. Her shirt is hopelessly ruined, and they both know it.

“I really am sorry,” Kara says again. “Is there anything I could do–?”

“Staying the fuck away from me would have been a start, but apparently you’re physically incapable,” Lena snaps. “So unless you have a magical stain remover in that messenger bag, no, there’s nothing that will salvage the meeting I’ve been prepping for the past two weeks. So. Thanks for that.”

Kara knows the importance of keeping appointments for L-Corp. Sometimes, she’s learned, investors only give you one chance. 

She eyes the stain on Lena’s blouse, then starts pulling off her bag. “Wait a second!" 

She strips off her blazer, and holds it out to Lena. The fit will be off, but it should hide the damage just enough to get Lena through her meeting. 

"It’s not a remover, but does a magic stain HIDER count?”

Kara weathers Lena’s skeptical glare. Weighing her options, Lena must land on the side of not having any, and a moment later the proffered jacket is plucked from her fingers. 

It fits well enough once Lena cuffs the sleeves. The result is some exposed lining, which actually looks deliberate with its pretty spotted satin. Most importantly, it hides the stain entirely.

“Perfect. You look great.”

Lena’s cheeks flush, but this time Kara isn’t certain it’s from anger. “It’s passable.” She meets Kara’s gaze. “Thank you.”

“Oh, please,” Kara waves off. “That’s what friends are for!”

Lena blinks, then jolts as the words register. Before Kara can frantically backtrack to salvage what little conversation they were having, her phone starts to ring. James’ name is on the caller ID. 

“Oh shoot! I’m so sorry, I have to go, I am so late.” Kara shoves the rest of her napkins into Lena’s hands. “Just send me your dry cleaning bill, okay? Sorry, again!”

She escapes into bustle of foot traffic, and lets the day sweep her away.

Two days later, she returns to CatCo to find James bustling towards her.

“Where have you been?” He asks. “I tried calling you–”

“I was talking to a source, and then I was coming here anyway, so…” she blinks at James’ agitation. “What’s wrong?”

“Lena was here.”

“What?”

“She was looking for you. I tried to call you…”

Kara presses her hand to her head. Lena, here. Looking for her. And Kara missed it.

“She left something at your desk.”

Nearly tripping in her haste, Kara scurries to her desk. There in a neat cardboard garment box is her blazer, crisply pressed and devoid of any coffee transfer. 

She doesn’t find a note.

She’s Supergirl again when she next sees Lena. It’s on the L-Corp balcony again, and this time Lena somehow looks even more troubled than she did at Thanksgiving. 

“Good evening, Miss Luthor.”

Green eyes blink up at her, too despondent to be surprised. “Supergirl. Did you need something?”

“No. Nothing, just– you seemed troubled, and I wanted see if you were okay.”

“My family is either dead or in prison, and I haven’t left my office in over a week. I’m just peachy.”

Instead of getting discouraged, Kara offers a sympathetic smile as she sits on the edge of the balcony rail. Her feet dangle, perilous for anyone who isn’t her. 

“It must be really lonely, to wake up the way you did. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Why are you speaking with me?” Lena asks. “You should hate me.”

She regards Kara carefully. “Let me guess. You were my friend too.”

Kara grins. “Yes, I was. And I hope I still can be.” Lena looks away, and Kara tries to ignore the way her heart drops. “Maybe I should have mentioned it sooner. But I didn’t want you to feel pressured to resume a life you don’t remember.”

For several long moments, neither of them say anything. Winter doesn’t get cold in National City, not like it does in Metropolis, but there’s still a significant chill, this high up and this late at night. Kara knows from the way Lena tugs her sweater closer around her that the chill is present tonight, even if she herself can’t feel it.

“Do you know Kara Danvers?” Lena asks quietly.

Kara straightens, surprised by the question. Lena correctly assumes her response regardless.

“Of course you do,” she drawls with a roll of her eyes. “Everyone in the city seems to know Kara Danvers.”

A nervous chuckle scrapes out of Kara’s throat. “Yeah, as a reporter, she really gets around.”

“She said something the other day… I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.”

“What’s that?”

“She lent me her jacket, and when I tried to thank her, she said ‘that’s what friends are for’.” Lena shakes her head. “It’s a normal thing to say, but… I just keep hearing it over and over in my head. Always in her voice.”

Kara swallows. “Lena, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I should be the one you talk to about this.”

“Oh.” Lena’s gaze shutters. “Of course. I don’t mean to take you away from your duties.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just… I’m not…”

It’s just that she’s not impartial.

Kara can’t be the sounding board to Lena’s confusion, when all she wants is to take her in her arms and bring Lena home where she belongs.

Kara sighs. “I’m Kara Danvers.”

Lena freezes. “Excuse me?”

“I’m Kara Danvers. Superhero by night, intrepid reporter by day.”

Whatever Lena expected, it isn’t this. The revelation throws her for a loop, and she pulls away from both Kara and the balcony rail, arms folding tight in front of her. With a knot in her stomach, Kara floats up off the rail, and descends to land on the balcony facing her.

“Why would you tell me that?” Lena demands. Her eyes are hard, yet uncertain. “And why would I believe it?”

Kara fishes for a way to prove it’s not a lie, and finds herself at a loss. She doesn’t have her glasses, or even an elastic for her hair, and Lena hasn’t spent enough time with Kara Danvers to have any kind of special knowledge.

She laughs at the unexpected absurdity of it.

“It’s a lot easier to prove this when I can just pop my buttons open and show off the suit. I’ve never done it this way before…” She shrugs. 

“I can tell you that it was a gingerbread latte I spilled on you at Noonan’s the other day, and that the blazer I loaned you had little blue polka dots on the lining. And I can tell you I’ve been kicking myself ever since I found out you came to CatCo looking for me and I wasn’t there to meet you.”

Lena’s eyes glisten in the light filtering through the windows of her office. Her throat works silently for long moments until she trusts her voice enough to speak. “How can you trust me? I may not be– you don’t know me.”

Kara shrugs. “You may not have the same memories that I do, but Lena… you didn’t become a different person when you came to National City. Supergirl didn’t make you a good person, and neither did Kara Danvers. You were already good.”

Silence stretches between them. Lena doesn’t look convinced, and clearly doesn’t trust the trust that Kara is offering. Kara sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Last time, I waited too long to tell you the truth. It nearly destroyed our friendship. I don’t want to make that mistake again.”

Lena looks away, finding distraction in the lights starting to turn off in the building across the street. Kara waits, letting Lena be the next to speak.

“I mean something, to people. Ever since I woke up in the hospital, and found out my brother– that Lex killed people, everyone has been acting like they know me. Like they care.”

Kara nods, but doesn’t say anything.

“I know Kara is different. She– you mean something to me, I just… I can’t remember. I’ve puzzled out what we had, but I don’t feel it. I don’t have it inside me.”

The last tiny shred of hope that Lena might one day recover her memories evaporates in that moment. Kara feels the tears spring to her eyes, but she blinks them back before Lena can see them.

She shakes her head and pastes on a smile. “That’s okay. Your memories may not come back, but that doesn’t have to matter. You have friends here, and not just me. James, and Sam, and Alex… you can make new memories, if you want. You don’t have to be alone.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

Kara’s heart trips in her chest, and her breath locks behind her ribs.

“But I would like to know you better. If you– I know I’ve been awful to you, I’m sorry…”

“Already forgotten,” Kara promises swiftly. It’s true, but Rao she’ll say anything she has to if it means Lena will open the door again.

Lena nods, swallowing again. “Then, if you’re agreeable, maybe… maybe we could get to know each other again?”

“I would really, really like that.”

They go for coffee that night. Supergirl flies off, and meets Lena on the street as Kara Danvers. In the light of the foyer, Lena studies her, as though looking for hints of Supergirl.

“Miss Danvers,” she greets. Kara’s chest constricts painfully at the resumed formality.

She swallows. “Hi.”

“What was the question I wanted to ask my brother on Thanksgiving?”

Kara blinks, then softens into a relieved smile. “Why,” she answers. Her grin grows when Lena breaks into a tiny smile of her own. Her eyebrows lift, and her head tilts towards the door.

“Shall we?”

With that, they strike out into the dark, together.

[obliterus]

RULES UPDATE//07/27

     𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘;

Don’t be rude, and we’ll get along just fine. This is a kingdom where all muns and writers are welcome; I’m here to have a good time, and I really love meeting new people and writing with a bunch of characters.

There will be adult themes here, such as mentions of abuse, gore, violence, etc. Mostly in Shion’s villain / Bungou Stray Dogs verses. I will go in. I do love a lot of dark themes, so expect to see those here too. There will be absolutely no sexual content on this blog whatsoever. This isn’t it chief. 

My inbox is always open for questions and concerns, or even if you’d like to fling a short starter in there. Literally, you can send me anything and I’ll be happy. I’ll gladly return the kind gesture.

I am fellow OC friendly 110%, multi-muse blog, and Crossover friendly. I frankly do not care if you’d like to interact with Shion if you’re from a fandom I don’t know. Let’s plot it out and make it work! Anything could happen. Mutuals only at this time, please. 

Shion is also still completely single ship! @galaxythixf​‘s portrayal of Monoma Neito is their only romantic partner. There will be no more romantic shipping done with Shion, that’s closed. Therefore, this blog is fully open to as many platonic bonds as possible. Heck yeah, we love good friendship and mentorships!

Please read all of my pages before interacting with me. If you have any questions, please come on over and message me to chat, I would absolutely love to hear from you and encourage it!

I follow pretty much everyone who has an easily accessible about / rules page. If you do not have these anywhere on your blog, I’m sorry but I will not follow. I want to make sure I read everything about your muses and your rules. That being said, do not follow me if you’re a personal blog. I will not follow back, and I do not like personals liking / reblogging any of my content.

Do not steal any of my headcanons, quirk information, or any of my edited icons, please. The main face claim I use for Shion consistently is Riku from the manga Short Cake Cake. 

This blog will remain drama free. No callout posts will be reblogged here either. If there is an issue that must be addressed as soon as possible, please message me privately to discuss it. We’re here to have fun, not stress out. If something is bothering you, please definitely come to me. I’m willing to talk to anyone and sort things accordingly. If you have a problem with somebody you see me interacting with, please do not hesitate to let me know so I can create a tag that you can blacklist. I want everyone here to feel safe, comfortable and have a good time. I’m often out of the loop, so if there’s anything I have to know, contact me.

I do practice reblog karma, and I will send you an ask meme with pleasure! Do not use me as an ask meme source, either. 

I am slow at times!! I have a full-time job that drains my life force and there will be days where I just cannot write. I am also a little scattered so if it takes me some time to get to reply to you, please feel free to poke me as a reminder. I honestly don’t mind if you want to check-in. 

I am always open to pre-established friendship bonds but please consult with me first if you wish to do this so we can plot this out. No god-modding, and do not assume any of Shion’s actions, please. 

Please for all that is holy, do not follow me just to never interact with me. I want to write with my mutuals! Even if it will take me some time, I absolutely want to do it.

You can make any ask I answer for you into a thread. I wholeheartedly encourage it, go for it. I love that. I will always be happy you do. Just don’t reblog the ask, tag me in a post.

Above all, let’s have a blast. This is a hobby, not a job, and we’re all here to create. If you made it this far, you’re a trooper and I am happy you’re here!

[notquitejiraiya]

Chess [19] - {ShikaTema AU}

Once again, felt only right to post as much as I can during Shikamaru Week 2019, so here’s another Chapter.

Enjoy, all :)))

[On AO3 Here]

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Shikamaru sipped on piping hot coffee like cold water, ticking off the many bouquets they’d already completely sorted today on a clipboard Ino had shouted for him to ‘be useful with’. Downstairs he could hear her whistling cheerfully. She was nothing short of bright and breezy, perfectly content with her morning already, and the sun was only just fully risen. While he sort of understood the joy Ino got from a huge order running smoothly, and the overjoyed look on someone’s face when said order was collected with glee, he couldn’t help but notice the mammoth task that drew up along side it; the stress, the labour, the early start.

With another sip, he ticked off another few boxes next to the same name, and his mind began to wander to her. If it weren’t for his early start he’d have had to have faced her—spoken to her about the night before—and that was something he wasn’t quite sure he could do, not yet. When he’d left her she was sound asleep, and had clung onto his sleeve like a child clings to their favourite toy.

It tore him a little to pull it away from her, and the fear that had flown through his body that the yanking of the fabric might’ve woken her was ridiculous to him. It scared him half to death to have to face the consequences of waking her at six-o’clock, but not nearly as much as the idea of having to explain to her why it was she was gripping him in the first place.

At least, that had seemed scary until he’d looked out the window at the sound of a deep voice, and found himself looking deep into the dark eyes of someone who he was beginning to believe he had every right to be afraid of.

“Kankuro…” he mumbled to himself, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

The way his arms had engulfed the blonde woman he had to assume was Temari was horrible; not because of malice or brutality but because of the intense care with which he held her. This was a man Shikamaru had watched sling wood around his shop, back and forth and through the door, dozens and dozens of times—he was a very manly man from what he could tell, and to see him grow so suddenly affectionate made him only worry further.

Had he upset Temari even more? Was that even possible?

Sitting back, he grabbed his coffee in his hands and took a large gulp, ignoring the burning at the back of his throat as his eyes wandered across the walls. There were so many pictures of so many different flowers, including ones that he didn’t even know the name of after five years of working here, and he scanned every one with the same question in mind: what flowers, if any, would Temari want?

However, even if she miraculously would, how on earth would he give them to her? Surely he’d have to send them to her office anonymously. He had no business going back there himself, but given that he had no idea where she lived and leaving them at the carpenter’s for Kankuro to give to her was most certainly out of the question if he wanted to keep his balls.

“Who am I kidding?” he groaned, throwing his head back, lazily. “I’m never going to bloody see her again…”

She’d been so sharp with him yesterday at the office; it didn’t matter whether or not he wasted his money on flowers, she wouldn’t accept them. Or, at least, she wouldn’t accept them sober…

Shikamaru couldn’t deny that she was far less terrifying when she was drunk, and way less brash. When she wasn’t sober he could talk to her without fear that she’d call him out on his irresponsibility or his wrongdoings, but it wasn’t right. Temari was the way she was meant to be when she was sober, and whether he was afraid of her now or not, he still felt the same way when he looked at her.

When he’d left her this morning he’d felt the biggest swarm of guilt building in the bottom of his gut, and it bore no relevance to the anger resonating from their session or her wandering hands in the pub bathroom. All that had provoked it was that he didn’t want to leave her—Temari: the woman who despite her harsh tone, could smile so sweetly that the world felt peaceful for a moment; a woman whose eyes could hold his far longer than anyone without feeling awkward (or at least that’s how it had been.)

She’d called him wonderful last night, so many times he’d lost count. Hell, she’d told him so many times, with that drunk, dumb grin on her lips, that he’d almost believed her; almost leant down and kissed her forehead to send her off to sleep. That smile was consistent through the sobriety and the drunkenness. It was the constant to her ever-changing nature, and it was what captivated him more than anything else about her.

It told him, oh so simply, who she was at her very core.

“That’s it…”

His eyes settled finally on the row of succulents on the top shelf in the corner of the room, and he knew instantly that that was it—it was what he would buy her, if he ever plucked up the nerve to do so.

Shikamaru forced his attention by to his clipboard, downing the final gulp of caffeine to get him going again, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.

“Shikamaru!”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head as it fell forward into his hands, the flicker of a smile he’d grown thinking of Temari disappearing instantly. He was past exhausted in every sense of the world, and the woman knew that. “What now, Ino?” he called back, his voice croaky.

“Someone’s here!”

“She’s here already?” His head perked up, and he examined the board in front of him in a flash. “I thought she was coming at half past!”

“No, not the lady for these things! Someone else!”

Shikamaru sighed.

“Don’t sit up there and huff, get down here!” In a softer, calmer voice, he could hear Ino mutter, “Please do excuse my colleague.”

“This is a shop, Ino,” he called, hauling himself to his feet and throwing his apron back on, “and you work here, also. Maybe you could take the order?”

“They’ve asked to see you! God knows why they’d want to though!” And there is was again: “I seriously am so sorry about him…”

He dragged his feet towards the stairs, tying a final lazy knot at the front of his apron and taking a single step down. “Hello,” he mumbled, his voice carrying a lot further than he’d anticipated. Noticing ink on his thumb, he smeared it across the bottom of his apron and took another step. “Welcome to the Yamanaka flower shop, how can I—oh.”

“Shikamaru.”

“Hello, um, Kankuro,” he sighed, his hand back on his neck as he trudged his way slowly down the remaining stairs.

On the way up there seemed too many, so why now on his way down did it seem so few?

“Nice to see you again.”

Shikamaru wanted to laugh—he would’ve if the guy didn’t have arms twice the size of his own. “How exactly can I help you absurdly early on a Wednesday morning?”

The glare Ino gave him instilled no fear whatsoever by comparison to the way Kankuro shifted his weight as he crossed his arms. “You’ll find that absurdly early is two-thirty this morning,” he spat, “when I was up worrying about where she was.”

A jolt shot through Shikamaru’s body and instinctively he fell back, taking a seat on the steps. It was a mistake, it gave the already larger guy the higher ground.

Wow, he thought. Bit blunt, huh?

“I’m, um, sorry, man.” He shook his head in dismissal. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Excuse me, sir. Sir?”

Ino flew between the pair of them, holding her hands together before her, forcing the brightest of smiles. Sometimes she drove him nuts, but sometimes to Shikamaru she was a saint.

“I’m sorry,” she giggled, “but unless you’re buying something would you mind, um…” She shot Shikamaru a desperate glance behind her before turning back, biting her lip.

Kankuro frowned. “Would I mind what?”

“Sorry,” she repeated, growing increasingly more agitated as she bounced up and down. “Would you mind laying off him a little? Only we’re super duper busy this morning, and I could reall do with Shikamaru having all of his limbs.” Dramatically, she gestured to the many flowers that donned every last inch of the shop. “Busy, busy.”

Despite the soldier-like build the man had being undoubtedly his most obvious feature, Shikamaru could see by the raising of his eyebrows and the instant shift in his personality after hearing her girly giggle that he was a smart man, and a good liar. The grin he plastered over his face, and the harmless shake of his head as he uncrossed his arms seemed far too familiar to Shikamaru to ignore. The man could lie—act, even—as well as Shikamaru could himself, almost as though he’d been trained to, but from what he’d heard about the guy from Temari it almost made sense. He was the middle child, after all, and he recalled on Saturday night she’d called him an asshole through gentle laughs. Clearly he’d done some mischief in his time, and by the look in his eyes he wasn’t about to stop now.

“Busy indeed,” he repeated, chuckling in his new-found sweet tone. “But, sorry, yes! I want something for my sister.”

Shikamaru grew rigid, his lip so tightly between his teeth he almost thought he could taste blood.

Ino smiled, totally oblivious and shooting a Shikamaru a calmer smile. “Of course! Anything in particular?”

He shrugged, looking at Shikamaru, who’s hands were now busy rolling up his sleeves. “I don’t know. What do you suggest?”

“Well, personally, I like the purple chrysanthemums and pink lilies best. Smell beautiful and brighten the room.”

“And what do you suggest?”

Shikamaru’s eyebrows rose, not looking up. Yes, he was afraid, but he didn’t need Kankuro to know it. “I’d go for cacti.”

He heard a scoff from the brunette’s direction. “What did you say?”

“Cacti,” he repeated, much slower, finally looking up with a straight face. “They’re manageable, not too troublesome…”

“Unlike you…”

“Sir, I don’t think—”

“Ino,” Shikamaru interrupted politely, shuffling to one side of the stairs and pointing upwards. “I think I messed up the list upstairs. You go sort that and I’ll, um, handle this.”

Hesitantly, the blonde nodded, tapping his shoulder reassuringly as she sidled past him. As  he listened to her footsteps above him, eyes fixated on the throughly wound-up man before him, Shikamaru couldn’t help but gulp. Slowly—and so damn nervously—he made his way down the last few steps, and began shuffling through the maze of bouquets across the floor.

“You know too much about her.”

“Excuse me?”

His scoff only topped off Shikamaru’s ever-present knowledge that he could squash him in a second. “I cannot believe she told you.”

“Told me?” he groaned. “Sorry, but I actually have no clue what you’re saying.”

“Mum.” Kankuro’s eyes narrowed, reddening. For a moment, Shikamaru thought he heard his breath hitch in his throat, and he watched as the older man squeezed his eyes shut in tandem with his fists, shaking his head. “She told you about our mother, didn’t she?”

He knew to be blunt would be awful, and yet in his current mindset all he could muster was, “That she, um, died?”

“No—about the cacti, dumb-ass,” spat Kankuro, edging forward. “About how we keep cacti because Mum used to.”

Shikamaru frowned, stepping behind the desk as if it offered some miraculous layer of protection. “No, I just thought it suited her,” he replied honestly. “I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”

“Forget it. We have too many of the things at home.”

Shikamaru stayed silent. His hand instinctively went to the back of his neck, and his fingertip wove into the hair across the bottom of his hairline, coaxing it out of its hold. The longer he stared into Kankuro’s eyes, so clearly weaker than before—though still undeniably intimidating—that he couldn’t help but wonder what his real problem was. Surely he knew that Shikamaru was his sister’s patient, and that meant that he was mentally unstable to some degree. Surely he understood that maybe confronting someone that you know must have troubles, though you don’t know what, maybe wasn’t the kindest or smartest thing to do.

But despite the watery glaze over his eyes, he didn’t seem to be letting up quite yet.

“You really don’t know who she stayed with last night?” he snarled. “Because Gaara said he thought he saw you.”

“Of course not,” he lied. “Sure, I was at the pub but I had a few drinks and just went home, you know?” Something in him grew a little cocky, and he leaned back against the stool he kept behind the counter for when the shop floor grew barren. What made him think it was a good idea to smile was beyond his comprehension, but he couldn’t stop himself narrowing his eyes with a slight grin and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, man, but what is this actually about?”

Kankuro seemed thrown. “Well, clearly it’s about my sister.”

“But why ask me? You just saw her, didn’t you?”

Don’t push it—he has a shop full of sharp tools and machinery.

“If you saw me, so did you.”

“Through the window,” agreed Shikamaru. “I looked out cause I heard voices and there you guys were—only human, isn’t it, to be curious?”

The sad glint in Kankuro’s eyes was quickly vanishing. “I saw your face, kid. You’re involved in this, and she came here to see you. I don’t know why, but she did.”

Nervously, Shikamaru laughed, biting down on his lip. “Well, that makes two of us.”

“Shikamaru?”

Ino’s voice rang down from upstairs, and for once of only a few times in his life, he was thankful for her big mouth.

Graciously, he smiled. “I’m sorry, but I reckon she’ll have my head if I don’t go and help her.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Eyebrows raised, Shikamaru froze. “Um, me neither?”

“You’re a sarcastic git, you know that?” With a shake of his head and a very forced chuckle, Kankuro stepped back. He tripped slightly on a piece of ribbon, and it took all of Shikamaru’s weak will to not laugh at his loss of composure. “Just stay away from her, yeah?” he grumbled, staring right at Shikamaru. “She doesn’t need this.”

He watched him stalk away, listening to the haunting ring of the bell on the door again before he jogged across the road and into his own shop. It was terrifying to know that such a person worked only seconds from him, everyday; that he knew his name, and that he’d go so far as to tell him he didn’t want to hurt him, as if he actually would.

Ino must’ve called to him a dozen more times before he finally shouted her back, shuffling through the bouquets once again, wondering where that sudden burst of confidence had come from, and why exactly he hadn’t just stayed quiet.

“Why do I always put my damn foot in it…”

“What?”

“Nothing, Ino,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes as he put his foot up on the first step. “Can you chuck me my jacket quick? I need a smoke.”

“I just asked you to come here and—”

From behind him, the bell on the door rang again, the sound resonating through his mind so loud he tuned out of what Ino was saying. Minutes: it had taken only minutes for him to come back and scathe him some more, grill him until he told the truth, and Shikamaru didn’t have the backbone for it—he was, in his own mind, a total coward. Closing his eyes, and taking a couple of audibly deep breaths, he finally stepped down from his spot on the stairs.

“Well,” he mused quietly to himself, his palm—so predictably—against his neck, “that didn’t take you long. I thought you said you didn’t want to hurt me.”

“What the hell do you mean? I said that?”

His eyes flew open, and his neck craned to look round, almost dumbfounded by the owner of the voice. “Oh,” he finally managed. “Hi.”

“You, um, need to sort that nervous tick,” Temari joked, her own voice weak and shaky, much like her hand, which she held out before her. “And, um…I thought I should return them.”

Shikamaru bit down on his lip, letting his hand drop due to his acute awareness of it’s position. He fell back onto the stairs, sitting, and smiled at the familiar pink sticky note sat atop the carton of cigarettes and lighter in her hand. As grateful and warmed as his chest felt, the look in his eyes, slightly avoiding hers, spoke volumes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she retorted, eyebrows raised. “You need them.”

He couldn’t help but smile a little. “I was just about to have one.”

“Of course you were.”

Desperate to hide the sheepish grin on his lips, and the awkward feeling brewing in his stomach, Shikamaru hauled himself up and reached his hand up the stairs a little. “Oi, Ino! I said can you chuck me my—ah!” He yelled with surprise as his coat landed on his head, accompanied by high pitch laughter from upstairs.

“Need me to come help the customer?” she called down, clearly trying it tone it down.

“Nah, I’ve got it…” He groaned, throwing on his coat and looking at Temari. “What?”

She bit down on her lip. “I think we need to talk.”

All he could do was nod and grab the contents of her hand as he edged past her, holding the door open for her to follow him. As the bell rang, he shuddered. “Just make sure your brother doesn’t see us, alright?”

Temari frowned, her teal eyes narrowing into a confused stare. “What?”

“Just get out here, you troublesome woman, and keep your head down.”

[celestialholz]

Qcard 222? Pleeeeeeeeeease? :D

Happy to oblige, dear anon - thank you for the prompt! I apologise for this taking me a little bit - I’m trying to organise moving house, which is an absolute ordeal!

Welcome to 1600 words of feels for your patience, my friend, and the deliberate misdirection of what you’d probably expect from this prompt. I thoroughly enjoyed creating this, and hope you love reading it just as much! =)

22. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

Prompt list here: http://celestialwarzone.tumblr.com/post/179662102941/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you

It was blissfully quiet in Picard’s quarters; soft breath was all thatcut through the air, the sleeping Captain’s mind at utter ease. By his side, Q’slips curled into a silent smile; it was majestic to watch this ineffable humanat peace, his diplomacy, quick wit and brilliant intelligence switched off byhis own biology. Jean-Luc Picard soared above his species, courageous enough tobegin affairs with gods, stubborn enough to keep such matters private from hiscrew, and far too delightful to watch in their afterglow.

He wasn’t welcome after hours, he knew – “I wouldn’t want you to getthe wrong impression, Q,” he’d murmured several weeks earlier, everthe diplomat. Too late, dearest, Q had acknowledged, onlyslightly bitter – the man was far too enthralling to ever be truly irritatedby, and he was vastly too enamoured to maintain the illusion of being so. Itwas an arrangement of convenience, a way in which to satiate the entity’sconstant desire to play god upon his vessel. It didn’t mean anything – well,not to one of them, at least.

Made something ofa rod for your own back there, didn’t you? His subconsciousdrawled. A billion lifetimes of cosmic awareness, and you still thought thatengaging in intercourse with a transient mortal you’re in love with was amagnificent idea. And you mock theirstupidity.

Q sighed wearily, in desperate need of a distraction from his personalself-deprecation; quietly, he slipped into the dreams of his lover, knowingthat whilst it was invasive, Jean-Luc would hold no great qualms with the act.

Picard was relaxed, sun beating down upon his handsome features from aworn sun lounger that perched upon the hill above his family’s vineyard. Qglanced down at him in fond amusement, vexed.

“Honestly, Johnny – who dreams of being asleep?”

The Frenchman’s eyes wrenched open within his own mind, startled.

“Q?” He demanded in bewilderment. “What on earth – is thistelepathy? Am I still asleep? What are you doing here?!”

“Yes, yes, being intrigued,” the deity replied softly, smirking. “Doyou want me to leave?”

The ‘get out’ lingered on Picard’s tongue for a long moment,before he gave a sigh of relent.

“As long as you don’t intend to be irritating, and I get the requiredrest, then no.” He shoved his spine into the back of the lounger, calming. Hismind hummed with disapproval, accepting nevertheless, and Q basked in itstangible glow; the sun held real warmth in the mysticism of the mental space,the experience as true to its beholder as the actual world would have been.

“I shall be a paragon of virtue, my dear,” the entity assured himmildly, conjuring a recliner of his own and easing into it.

“First time for everything,” Picard drawled, unconvinced.

Q gave a silent grin, summoning a frosted glass of iced tea to sip;they basked in silence for a little while, simply enjoying the ambience of aFrench summer, the god fully absorbed in the tantalising, indistinct psyche ofhis companion. It was a marvel, the resonant peace he’d managed to acquire justbeing beside him – any real period of inactivity had always had Q itching todiscover something new, to create havoc, yet he was entirely content to existquietly beside this enigma of a human.

Missionaccomplished, he noted miserably. Sleeping with me haseradicated my desire to entertain your precious crew.

“You hated this place,” he murmured, more to hush his damning owndamning assessment. “Why would you return to it in dreams, when the universe isyour oyster? You are as omnipotent as I am, here.”

Picard’s lips pursed pensively, smile fading as quickly as it hadarisen.

“Saudade,” he murmured. “Something lost, which can never bereclaimed – in this instance, a time when things weren’t always perfect, butfar simpler.”

Oh, I remember,Q mused inwardly, only his mastery of telepathy keeping his thoughts personalin his lover’s domain. I only wish I’d recall well enough to abandon you –but, then, I never was one for self-preservation. Too dramatic, you see.

“Mm,” he muttered noncommittally, simply to fill the void.

Picard rose a surprised brow at the lack of quirky reply, gauging thesituation for a moment.

“I doubt my need for relaxation this evening stems from anything that Ishould be overly concerned about.”

“No?” Q summoned a cushion for the back of his head, placing it in afluid movement as he tried to appear as though he didn’t hang permanently offthe man’s every word.

“I think not. I’m sure the individual that I have appealed to is on thesame page as I am.”

Q turned onto his side to stare, following the line of cryptic thoughtwith equal vagueness.

“Well, hopefully. I could check, if you like? It would hardly be beyondme.”

“No, no, it will be quite alright, I’m certain.” Picard’s gaze returnedto the ambling vineyards. “I just don’t understand, you see, becausethey knew the whole time. I was never anything other than upfront.”

Something very similar to foreboding crept up Q’s spine.

“Perhaps they do know,” he murmured, “though, of course, knowing doesn’tmake something personally applicable.”

“Doesn’t agreement?”

“Potentially. That rather depends on who we’re discussing, doesn’t it?”

Picard’s eyes wrenched back to his, their irritation clear.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me, when you think I don’t notice.” Hiswords were little more than a whisper, though they held the sharpness ofmidwinter. “Like I’m comprised of, of… stardust, of the finest jewels… asthough I’m something – wonderful.”

Q gave a bark of a bitter chuckle, gaze taut, his tea cast aside with aswipe of his hand.

“You mortals are so obtuse,” he murmured, deliberately glancing away,the vines before him blurring just slightly. “You spend so much of your livesdealing with the physical, the tangible to your limited senses, that you forgethow much more there is, that there are things far beyond your comprehension.You’re human, Jean-Luc – oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, nitrogen, calcium, a handfulmore; seventy percent water, five foot nine, French… really quite dull, by yourpeople’s standards, though highly intelligent, and rather handsome to boot. Youlive an average life, on an average vessel, in a largely uninteresting timeperiod – by rights, you shouldn’t fascinate anyone, much less a god.”

He conjured a holographic star system, a miniature Captain floating atits heart, a bright smile gracing his lips. The real thing watched, entranced,unwilling to give away a damned thing.

“But we’re all more than the sum of our parts, aren’t we dear?” His ownsmile was tired as he regarded the hologram. “You’re brilliantly clever, morethan willing to stand up someone so beyond your capacity it’s laughable… yourise above the morons you exist beside. A diplomat, a man of honour, wisdom,passion… you are wonderful. You match me word-for-word, never bore me, alwaysprove a challenge – and you care, on whatever level it may be. You askme how my day’s been when I don’t even have a concept of linear time, how theContinuum’s doing. No one does that, you know. I’m acquainted with billions,Jean-Luc, and none of them mean a damned thing in comparison. Innumerate stars,planets, phenomena, people, timescales, and it all reduces to you.”

The tiny cosmos retracted to nothingness in Q’s palm, leaving the simulatedCaptain alone, still regarding his magician as though he was the world. Picardstared, breathless, his relaxing dream quite forgotten.

“My point is, you’re the tiniest pinprick of existence – you aren’t anewly formed sun, an unexplored M-class system, the first inklings of a highlyadvanced race upon an untouched world… physically, you’re worthless.”

He smiled morosely, trembling fingers causing his illusion to flicker;his eyes finally deigned to meet his lover’s, burning with emotion.

“But by the Continuum, and all we are, you are the universe tome.”

Picard choked back tears, visibly compromised.

“I…” He swallowed quietly, struggling to regain his usually impeccablecomposure. “This was never meant to – I told you – ”

“Oh, I know.” Q shook his head just slightly, the lament clear. “If ithelps, it isn’t your fault, Jean-Luc. You really were perfectly upfront.”

He paused, essence threatening to shatter, gaze drilling into the human’s.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Picard murmured immediately, understanding that the offer wasn’tunique to his dream, “but I need… time, Q. Perhaps the concept of the cosmoshasn’t only narrowed for you, my friend.”

A thrill shot through the god’s spirit, and he barely suppressed abeam, instead settling for a soft smile – gods only knew he didn’t wish toappear smug.

“Alright.” He breathed softly, delight curling through his spirit. “Igenuinely didn’t think –”

“Nor me, but apparently you’ve somehow wormed your way in,” Picardadmitted dryly, warm expression belying his caustic tone. “I’m… willing toconsider the notion, Q, but that’s all I can offer as yet. There will be rules,of course –”

“Naturally.” The sarcasm held no bite whatsoever, distant starsexhausting their chemical supply under his joy. “It is you, after all.”

Their gazes drifted to the vineyard, both comfortably silent for a longmoment even as the question itched at Q’s mind.

“So, Captain, how long do you think –?”

“Q,” Picard interrupted coolly, “shut up. I’m trying tosleep.”

He leaned back against the lounger and closed his eyes, his loverlaughing softly.

“There isn’t anyone else in this universe I’d stay quiet for, you know.”

An eyelid partly opened, its look humbled – the cynical, desperatelyhopeful part of Q could almost call it tender.

“I’m glad.”

By mutual agreement, they reached out a hand, lacing them together,grins identical as they simply basked in the ambience of rural France, and thecontentment of being united.

[kayawagner]

An Open Letter to My Impostor Syndrome (Maybe It Will Help You Too)

This week at the Stew, some of us were inspired by a series of disparate recent events to send some love and sentiments out to young gamers, especially those who are marginalized. We wrote these letters to our younger selves, because in you, we see ourselves, and we hope that we can give you the words of encouragement we needed to hear. You are welcome in this space. 

Dear little Senda,

There’s a trick to it, not letting it get to you. We’ve internalized it so much already—all the stereotypes that tell us we aren’t the people who play games, who run games, who write games, who work in this industry. I’m not saying I’ve got this down pat now, because the impostor syndrome still gets me. The trick is, as hard as it is, to do it anyway. And when you do it, you prove to that little voice you can, and it gets easier every time.

 The trick is, as hard as it is, to do it anyway. And when you do it, you prove to that little voice you can, and it gets easier every time. 

It’s Okay To Love Your Games

Okay, past me. You love games and you know you do, and you do that thing where you admit it grudgingly, laughingly downplaying your passion so that others won’t be uncomfortable. You say things like “oh, I’m just a player. I can’t imagine running a game.” I have some news for you. You can run a game. Your ideas are good, and people like them. It’s okay not to know every single rule in the book backwards and forwards. You don’t need to. These are your friends. You can craft this experience together. You will help each other out. When you don’t know, it’s okay to ask – even if you’re running the game – whether it’s grapple rules or what to name this NPC. No matter how it may seem from the outside, GMing is a set of skills (some people would say eight but I’m not committing) that is completely learnable and teachable. There is no magical master GM springing forth fully formed from Zeus’s head. They are not some rare breed. There is a game that will work for you, that you will enjoy running, and it’s out there—and you can do it!

I know you tried running D&D, and then Pathfinder, and it didn’t really work for you. It made you nervous, flustered, feeling like you couldn’t track all the moving parts of your carefully constructed adventure. That’s totally okay, although once you can let go of your players having to follow your exact path, it will become easy to run nearly anything. Sure, knowing the rules helps keep things smoother at the table, but it’s your ability to have a story, to think like water (allowing it to move and shift so you are never at a loss) that makes running anything possible. Heck, here we are, ten years later, having run a 4e campaign without ever having read the book whatsoever. And that game was awesome. Don’t let it hold you back.

What will make running a game fun and comfortable for you?

Appropriate prep

Comfortable genre

Giving yourself permission to stray from your plans or the module if occasion calls for it

Playing with people who know the rules when you feel comfortable asking

And There’s More

And now . . . it’s not just that I believe in you to run games. I know you can. With a little bit of chutzpah to get over that initial hump, to get that first good game going and the energy clicking at the table, I know you will be hooked. Now I know you are saying “I just play games. I run them too, but I don’t know enough to write them.” Except . . . you do.

Shakily, with not very much confidence right now, like a new foal. To build confidence, the foal uses its legs more, and learns to walk. To build confidence, you can start with little games, or commenting on games you play, or internalizing their mechanics and seeing why they’re there, what the designer put them there to do. And having seen why something is there, looking in to that next layer, you can do this too.

 Sometimes, no matter how much you know and how much you’ve done and how involved you are, someone is going to ask you if you have a right to be there. 

You can talk through why something works and why it doesn’t. You can learn this language—you have been learning this language, without even meaning to. And now, you can write games too. It’s just the same, a little bit of determination to get over that first hump, just like GMing. A little bit of bravery. I believe in you, and now it’s your turn to believe in yourself too.

You Belong Here

Sometimes, no matter how much you know and how much you’ve done and how involved you are, someone is going to ask you if you have a right to be there. They won’t say that exactly, they’ll say something like “What games do you run?” or “What games have you written?” or “How long have you been playing RPGs?” And they’re saying it because they’re trying to decide if they think you have enough cred for them to care about your opinion. It doesn’t matter how many games you’ve played. It doesn’t matter how many games you’ve run. It doesn’t matter how many games you’ve written or if they’re published or not. You have the right to be here. You do belong here. This is your space too. And when they ask you those questions, my friend Kate from Blue Stockings has some suggestions you can use to prepare yourself with appropriate responses, because it can be really hard to think in those moments.

Return the question—ask them their qualifications.

Point out what they are doing: “Why do you need my credentials? Are you asking how important my opinion is?”

Walk away.  Sometimes, these people are not worth engaging. You do not have to defend yourself and your passion to these people. You are worthy and you do get to be in this space as well. And you are worthy of safety and comfort in your games and at your tables.

Sometimes it’s not other people, though. Sometimes you cred check yourself before anyone else even has a chance. You already know what they’ll say, and it’s the same every time: you don’t have enough experience to do this, you don’t know this well enough, you haven’t practiced enough, you’re not prepared. You are your own worst critic. This is the part where you have to take a deep breath, trust yourself, and leap. The worst case scenarios are not as bad as your head would like you to believe, and even if it doesn’t come out the way you envisioned, it’s still okay. It’s still a triumph because you did it. It’s still a stepping stone. It’s still creation, it’s still passion, it’s still forward momentum. So take it. Don’t let yourself hold you back from being passionate and creative in the activities that make you passionate and creative.

There is one last thing I want you to remember. You can make a difference. By existing in these spaces and supporting each other, we’re all making a difference. And we can tell the next people how worthy they are, and that their passion is valid, so that they can tell the next, and the next. And we can all belong in this space, together.

Have you ever cred checked yourself, as in, nah, I can’t do that I’m not x enough? Has anyone ever cred checked you? Do you have any other recommendations for dealing with it?

An Open Letter to My Impostor Syndrome (Maybe It Will Help You Too) published first on https://supergalaxyrom.tumblr.com

[swipestream]

An Open Letter to My Impostor Syndrome (Maybe It Will Help You Too)

This week at the Stew, some of us were inspired by a series of disparate recent events to send some love and sentiments out to young gamers, especially those who are marginalized. We wrote these letters to our younger selves, because in you, we see ourselves, and we hope that we can give you the words of encouragement we needed to hear. You are welcome in this space. 

Dear little Senda,

There’s a trick to it, not letting it get to you. We’ve internalized it so much already—all the stereotypes that tell us we aren’t the people who play games, who run games, who write games, who work in this industry. I’m not saying I’ve got this down pat now, because the impostor syndrome still gets me. The trick is, as hard as it is, to do it anyway. And when you do it, you prove to that little voice you can, and it gets easier every time.

 The trick is, as hard as it is, to do it anyway. And when you do it, you prove to that little voice you can, and it gets easier every time. 

It’s Okay To Love Your Games

Okay, past me. You love games and you know you do, and you do that thing where you admit it grudgingly, laughingly downplaying your passion so that others won’t be uncomfortable. You say things like “oh, I’m just a player. I can’t imagine running a game.” I have some news for you. You can run a game. Your ideas are good, and people like them. It’s okay not to know every single rule in the book backwards and forwards. You don’t need to. These are your friends. You can craft this experience together. You will help each other out. When you don’t know, it’s okay to ask – even if you’re running the game – whether it’s grapple rules or what to name this NPC. No matter how it may seem from the outside, GMing is a set of skills (some people would say eight but I’m not committing) that is completely learnable and teachable. There is no magical master GM springing forth fully formed from Zeus’s head. They are not some rare breed. There is a game that will work for you, that you will enjoy running, and it’s out there—and you can do it!

I know you tried running D&D, and then Pathfinder, and it didn’t really work for you. It made you nervous, flustered, feeling like you couldn’t track all the moving parts of your carefully constructed adventure. That’s totally okay, although once you can let go of your players having to follow your exact path, it will become easy to run nearly anything. Sure, knowing the rules helps keep things smoother at the table, but it’s your ability to have a story, to think like water (allowing it to move and shift so you are never at a loss) that makes running anything possible. Heck, here we are, ten years later, having run a 4e campaign without ever having read the book whatsoever. And that game was awesome. Don’t let it hold you back.

What will make running a game fun and comfortable for you?

Appropriate prep

Comfortable genre

Giving yourself permission to stray from your plans or the module if occasion calls for it

Playing with people who know the rules when you feel comfortable asking

And There’s More

And now . . . it’s not just that I believe in you to run games. I know you can. With a little bit of chutzpah to get over that initial hump, to get that first good game going and the energy clicking at the table, I know you will be hooked. Now I know you are saying “I just play games. I run them too, but I don’t know enough to write them.” Except . . . you do.

Shakily, with not very much confidence right now, like a new foal. To build confidence, the foal uses its legs more, and learns to walk. To build confidence, you can start with little games, or commenting on games you play, or internalizing their mechanics and seeing why they’re there, what the designer put them there to do. And having seen why something is there, looking in to that next layer, you can do this too.

 Sometimes, no matter how much you know and how much you’ve done and how involved you are, someone is going to ask you if you have a right to be there. 

You can talk through why something works and why it doesn’t. You can learn this language—you have been learning this language, without even meaning to. And now, you can write games too. It’s just the same, a little bit of determination to get over that first hump, just like GMing. A little bit of bravery. I believe in you, and now it’s your turn to believe in yourself too.

You Belong Here

Sometimes, no matter how much you know and how much you’ve done and how involved you are, someone is going to ask you if you have a right to be there. They won’t say that exactly, they’ll say something like “What games do you run?” or “What games have you written?” or “How long have you been playing RPGs?” And they’re saying it because they’re trying to decide if they think you have enough cred for them to care about your opinion. It doesn’t matter how many games you’ve played. It doesn’t matter how many games you’ve run. It doesn’t matter how many games you’ve written or if they’re published or not. You have the right to be here. You do belong here. This is your space too. And when they ask you those questions, my friend Kate from Blue Stockings has some suggestions you can use to prepare yourself with appropriate responses, because it can be really hard to think in those moments.

Return the question—ask them their qualifications.

Point out what they are doing: “Why do you need my credentials? Are you asking how important my opinion is?”

Walk away.  Sometimes, these people are not worth engaging. You do not have to defend yourself and your passion to these people. You are worthy and you do get to be in this space as well. And you are worthy of safety and comfort in your games and at your tables.

Sometimes it’s not other people, though. Sometimes you cred check yourself before anyone else even has a chance. You already know what they’ll say, and it’s the same every time: you don’t have enough experience to do this, you don’t know this well enough, you haven’t practiced enough, you’re not prepared. You are your own worst critic. This is the part where you have to take a deep breath, trust yourself, and leap. The worst case scenarios are not as bad as your head would like you to believe, and even if it doesn’t come out the way you envisioned, it’s still okay. It’s still a triumph because you did it. It’s still a stepping stone. It’s still creation, it’s still passion, it’s still forward momentum. So take it. Don’t let yourself hold you back from being passionate and creative in the activities that make you passionate and creative.

There is one last thing I want you to remember. You can make a difference. By existing in these spaces and supporting each other, we’re all making a difference. And we can tell the next people how worthy they are, and that their passion is valid, so that they can tell the next, and the next. And we can all belong in this space, together.

Have you ever cred checked yourself, as in, nah, I can’t do that I’m not x enough? Has anyone ever cred checked you? Do you have any other recommendations for dealing with it?

An Open Letter to My Impostor Syndrome (Maybe It Will Help You Too) published first on https://medium.com/@ReloadedPCGames

[kayawagner]

An Open Letter to My Impostor Syndrome (Maybe It Will Help You Too)

This week at the Stew, some of us were inspired by a series of disparate recent events to send some love and sentiments out to young gamers, especially those who are marginalized. We wrote these letters to our younger selves, because in you, we see ourselves, and we hope that we can give you the words of encouragement we needed to hear. You are welcome in this space. 

Dear little Senda,

There’s a trick to it, not letting it get to you. We’ve internalized it so much already—all the stereotypes that tell us we aren’t the people who play games, who run games, who write games, who work in this industry. I’m not saying I’ve got this down pat now, because the impostor syndrome still gets me. The trick is, as hard as it is, to do it anyway. And when you do it, you prove to that little voice you can, and it gets easier every time.

 The trick is, as hard as it is, to do it anyway. And when you do it, you prove to that little voice you can, and it gets easier every time. 

It’s Okay To Love Your Games

Okay, past me. You love games and you know you do, and you do that thing where you admit it grudgingly, laughingly downplaying your passion so that others won’t be uncomfortable. You say things like “oh, I’m just a player. I can’t imagine running a game.” I have some news for you. You can run a game. Your ideas are good, and people like them. It’s okay not to know every single rule in the book backwards and forwards. You don’t need to. These are your friends. You can craft this experience together. You will help each other out. When you don’t know, it’s okay to ask – even if you’re running the game – whether it’s grapple rules or what to name this NPC. No matter how it may seem from the outside, GMing is a set of skills (some people would say eight but I’m not committing) that is completely learnable and teachable. There is no magical master GM springing forth fully formed from Zeus’s head. They are not some rare breed. There is a game that will work for you, that you will enjoy running, and it’s out there—and you can do it!

I know you tried running D&D, and then Pathfinder, and it didn’t really work for you. It made you nervous, flustered, feeling like you couldn’t track all the moving parts of your carefully constructed adventure. That’s totally okay, although once you can let go of your players having to follow your exact path, it will become easy to run nearly anything. Sure, knowing the rules helps keep things smoother at the table, but it’s your ability to have a story, to think like water (allowing it to move and shift so you are never at a loss) that makes running anything possible. Heck, here we are, ten years later, having run a 4e campaign without ever having read the book whatsoever. And that game was awesome. Don’t let it hold you back.

What will make running a game fun and comfortable for you?

Appropriate prep

Comfortable genre

Giving yourself permission to stray from your plans or the module if occasion calls for it

Playing with people who know the rules when you feel comfortable asking

And There’s More

And now . . . it’s not just that I believe in you to run games. I know you can. With a little bit of chutzpah to get over that initial hump, to get that first good game going and the energy clicking at the table, I know you will be hooked. Now I know you are saying “I just play games. I run them too, but I don’t know enough to write them.” Except . . . you do.

Shakily, with not very much confidence right now, like a new foal. To build confidence, the foal uses its legs more, and learns to walk. To build confidence, you can start with little games, or commenting on games you play, or internalizing their mechanics and seeing why they’re there, what the designer put them there to do. And having seen why something is there, looking in to that next layer, you can do this too.

 Sometimes, no matter how much you know and how much you’ve done and how involved you are, someone is going to ask you if you have a right to be there. 

You can talk through why something works and why it doesn’t. You can learn this language—you have been learning this language, without even meaning to. And now, you can write games too. It’s just the same, a little bit of determination to get over that first hump, just like GMing. A little bit of bravery. I believe in you, and now it’s your turn to believe in yourself too.

You Belong Here

Sometimes, no matter how much you know and how much you’ve done and how involved you are, someone is going to ask you if you have a right to be there. They won’t say that exactly, they’ll say something like “What games do you run?” or “What games have you written?” or “How long have you been playing RPGs?” And they’re saying it because they’re trying to decide if they think you have enough cred for them to care about your opinion. It doesn’t matter how many games you’ve played. It doesn’t matter how many games you’ve run. It doesn’t matter how many games you’ve written or if they’re published or not. You have the right to be here. You do belong here. This is your space too. And when they ask you those questions, my friend Kate from Blue Stockings has some suggestions you can use to prepare yourself with appropriate responses, because it can be really hard to think in those moments.

Return the question—ask them their qualifications.

Point out what they are doing: “Why do you need my credentials? Are you asking how important my opinion is?”

Walk away.  Sometimes, these people are not worth engaging. You do not have to defend yourself and your passion to these people. You are worthy and you do get to be in this space as well. And you are worthy of safety and comfort in your games and at your tables.

Sometimes it’s not other people, though. Sometimes you cred check yourself before anyone else even has a chance. You already know what they’ll say, and it’s the same every time: you don’t have enough experience to do this, you don’t know this well enough, you haven’t practiced enough, you’re not prepared. You are your own worst critic. This is the part where you have to take a deep breath, trust yourself, and leap. The worst case scenarios are not as bad as your head would like you to believe, and even if it doesn’t come out the way you envisioned, it’s still okay. It’s still a triumph because you did it. It’s still a stepping stone. It’s still creation, it’s still passion, it’s still forward momentum. So take it. Don’t let yourself hold you back from being passionate and creative in the activities that make you passionate and creative.

There is one last thing I want you to remember. You can make a difference. By existing in these spaces and supporting each other, we’re all making a difference. And we can tell the next people how worthy they are, and that their passion is valid, so that they can tell the next, and the next. And we can all belong in this space, together.

Have you ever cred checked yourself, as in, nah, I can’t do that I’m not x enough? Has anyone ever cred checked you? Do you have any other recommendations for dealing with it?

An Open Letter to My Impostor Syndrome (Maybe It Will Help You Too) published first on https://supergalaxyrom.tumblr.com