#feel free to correct me on any terminology

[village-of-vibes]

NEW HYPERFIXATION U GUYZZZ, MIKE IS SUCH A CUTIE I LOVE HIM AND HIS HEADMATES

[xanfeursel]

I voted Edward Crane (cause she reminded me of MY oc Saccade w/ a history of murder and extreme paranoia who I just made a file for for my own first FNV play through 😆) but I'm very interested in Oliver. What causes his mutism, if you don't mind me asking? And what would he write novels about??

HEHE THANK YOU FOR THE QUESTION! olivier's mutism is caused by childhood speech apraxia, meaning he can still like, communicate verbally to an extent, its just very frustrating for him personally to try and verbally communicate so he prefers different ways of communicating, personally.

while CAS can be helped with speech therapy, and many adults w/ CAS can communicate verbally, it's not an option he was really able to have as a child, so instead he grew up with sign language as his preferred method of talking with people (specifically french belgian sign language! he's franco belgian in nationality ^_^)

as for what he'd write novels about ... he has a long running fascination with grotesque gothic horror novels, so hed definitely write things along those lines, i think.

[severinaprince]

“if harry, who has every right to hate snape, can see that it was horrible and call out sirius and remus who he loves so much, why can’t you?”

THIS. THIIIIIIISSSSS.

Harry was so upset over this memory of Snape. Even while thoroughly disliking Snape, he still could not comprehend why his father would do such a thing. Harry tried to make sense of it, to blame Snape, and yet could not! Because he himself said replied (heatedly mind you) to Sirius with "I'm fifteen." when Sirius (and sadly Lupin too, really) downplayed what happened.

For reference, I'll add under this cut excerpts from The Order of the Phoenix with the parts I believe most relevant as to how Harry was feeling and dealing with this situation:

(And what I've based a lot of my opinions on James, Sirius and Lupin (I still love you Lupin, your case is more complex.))

"He had no desire at all to return to Gryffindor Tower so early, nor to tell Ron and Hermione what he had just seen. What was making Harry feel so horrified and unhappy was not being shouted at or having jars thrown at him; it was that he knew how it felt to be humiliated in the middle of a circle of onlookers, knew exactly how Snape had felt as his father had taunted him, and that judging from what he had just seen, his father had been every bit as arrogant as Snape had always told him." Chapter 28, Snape's Worst Memory

"He felt as though the memory of it was eating him from inside. He had been so sure his parents were wonderful people that he had never had the slightest difficulty in disbelieving the aspersions Snape cast on his father's character. Hadn't people like Hagrid and Sirius told Harry how wonderful his father had been? (Yeah, well, look what Sirius was like himself, said a nagging voice inside Harry's head ... he was as bad, wasn't he?) Yes, he had once overheard Professor McGonagall saying that his father and Sirius had been troublemakers at school, but she had described them as forerunners of the Weasley twins, and Harry could not imagine Fred and George dangling someone upside-down for the fun of it ... not unless they really loathed them ... perhaps Malfoy or somebody who really deserved it .

Harry tried to make a case for Snape having deserved what he had suffered at James's hands: but hadn't Lily asked, 'What's he done to you?' And hadn't James replied, 'It's more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean.' Hadn't James started it all simply because Sirius had said he was bored? Harry remembered Lupin saying back in Grimmauld Place that Dumbledore had made him prefect in the hope that he would be able to exercise some control over James and Sirius ... but in the Pensieve, he had sat there and let it all happen ...

Harry kept reminding himself that Lily had intervened; his mother had been decent. Yet, the memory of the look on her face as she had shouted at James disturbed him quite as much as anything else; she had clearly loathed James, and Harry simply could not understand how they could have ended up married. Once or twice he even wondered whether James had forced her into it ..."

[...]

"Lupin returned with Sirius at his heels moments later.

'What is it?' said Sirius urgently, sweeping his long dark hair out of his eyes and dropping to the ground in front of the fire, so that he and Harry were on a level. Lupin knelt down too, looking very concerned. 'Are you all right? Do you need help?'

'No,' said Harry, 'it's nothing like that ... I just wanted to talk ... about my dad.'

They exchanged a look of great surprise, but Harry did not have time to feel awkward or embarrassed; his knees were becoming sorer by the second and he guessed five minutes had already passed from the start of the diversion; George had only guaranteed him twenty. He therefore plunged immediately into the story of what he had seen in the Pensieve.

When he had finished, neither Sirius nor Lupin spoke for a moment. Then Lupin said quietly, 'I wouldn't like you to judge your father on what you saw there, Harry. He was only fifteen--'

'I'm fifteen,' said Harry heatedly.

'Look, Harry' said Sirius placatingly, 'James and Snape hated each other from the moment they set eyes on each other, it was just one of those things, you can understand that, can't you? I think James was everything Snape wanted to be--he was popular, he was good at Quidditch--good at pretty much everything. And Snape was just this little oddball who was up to his eyes in the Dark Arts, and James--whatever else he may have appeared to you, Harry--always hated the Dark Arts.'

'Yeah,' said Harry, 'but he just attacked Snape for no good reason, just because--well, just because you said you were bored,' he finished, with a slightly apologetic note in his voice.

'I 'm not proud of it,' said Sirius quickly.

Lupin looked sideways at Sirius, then said, 'Look, Harry, what you've got to understand is that your father and Sirius were the best in the school at whatever they did-- everyone thought they were the height of cool--if they sometimes got a bit carried away--'

'If we were sometimes arrogant little berks, you mean,' said Sirius.

Lupin smiled.

'He kept messing up his hair,' said Harry in a pained voice.

Sirius and Lupin laughed.

'I'd forgotten he used to do that,' said Sirius affectionately.

'Was he playing with the Snitch?' said Lupin eagerly.

'Yeah,' said Harry, watching uncomprehendingly as Sirius and Lupin beamed reminiscently. 'Well ... I thought he was a bit of an idiot.' "

[...]

'How come she married him?' Harry asked miserably. 'She hated him!'

'Nah, she didn't,' said Sirius.

'She started going out with him in seventh year,' said Lupin.

'Once James had deflated his head a bit,' said Sirius.

'And stopped hexing people just for the fun of it,' said Lupin.

'Even Snape?' said Harry.

'Well,' said Lupin slowly, 'Snape was a special case. I mean, he never lost an opportunity to curse James so you couldn't really expect James to take that lying down, could you?'

'And my mum was OK with that?'

'She didn't know too much about it, to tell you the truth,' said Sirius. 'I mean, James didn't take Snape on dates with her and jinx him in front of her, did he?'

Sirius frowned at Harry, who was still looking unconvinced.

'Look,' he said, 'your father was the best friend I ever had and he was a good person. A lot of people are idiots at the age of fifteen. He grew out of it.'

'Yeah, OK,' said Harry heavily. 'I just never thought I'd feel sorry for Snape.' Chapter 29, Careers Advice

the one thing that will always make me furious is the way marauders fans downplay what happened in snape's worst memory. they had snape in the air, in front of a whole crowd, and exposed his underwear to everyone obviously against his will, then threatened to remove that too - which we have no reason to presume they didn't do. james was riled up and being cheered on, there was nobody there to stop him, no teachers nearby and we all know that remus wasn't going to say anything even though he was a prefect.

that is a form of sexual harassment, even if the underwear did stay on, and regardless of intention. and if you still can't see it, imagine how it would look if snape had been a girl. not a prank or joke or argument. call it what it actually was!

there is just simply no excuse for it either. snape was not a death eater, he hadn't done anything to them. he was a child simply sitting under a tree and minding his own business. and i truly believe that this is part of why it was his worst memory - yes, partially because he lost lily in this scene, but that's not the only reason. what happened here could leave anyone traumatised. he did not deserve that, in fact nobody does. this scene already disgusted me the first time i read the books way before i even liked snape. hell, it disgusted harry too. if harry, who has every right to hate snape, can see that it was horrible and call out sirius and remus who he loves so much, why can't you?

[projectionistwrites]

FOR SCIENCE | SUBJECT 3

In which the Moon Knight alter system presents a unique opportunity to settle the nature versus nurture debate, once and for all...

Jake Lockley x afab!psychologist!reader (13.0k+)

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+, mdni) WARNINGS: fetishization of mental disorders (DID), psychoanalysis, potentially unethical scientific practices, SMUT (dom/sub dynamics, fingering, oral (f! and m!receiving), unprotected p in v sex, doggystyle, spanking, mean!Jake, degradation, dacryphilia, daddy/papi kink, cum eating, creampie, soft sex, needy/touch-starved!Jake, praise kink, dirty talk), lots of spanish NOTES: jake lockley deserves so much love. this was hard to write, i had so much i wanted to put into this chapter and i hope it all came through okay. also, i am not a native spanish speaker, but i worked really hard to make sure all of my conjugations/phrases were correct, but still, feel free to correct me! this is the final case study installment of this series, there will be one final concluding chapter (+ potentially a bonus part bc i’m feeling generous) DISCLAIMER: although i’m incredibly knowledgeable about psychology, i am NOT a professional. all psychoanalyses made throughout the course of this storyline are entirely my own, based on my own interpretations of the characters. in a similar vein, i am also not an expert on DID specifically (although i am well-read on mental disorders and diagnoses), so i apologize for any incorrect terminology or misrepresentation. don’t hesitate to call me out if i say something wrong!

← previous part | next part →

CASE STUDY: JAKE LOCKLEY

ROLE IN COGNITIVE SYSTEM: Protector

ATTACHMENT STYLE: Dismissive

CHARACTERISTICS: volatile, tenacious, arrogant, cunning, reticent; a true adrenaline junkie (engages in risky behavior in an attempt to fill his emotional deficit with a brief but intense adrenaline rush); extremely autonomous.

SPLIT FROM HOST: ??? currently unknown/unconfirmed (predicted to have emerged as a result of some feeling of physical inadequacy or repeated threats to safety; may potentially trace back to host's service in the military).

TRAUMA RESPONSE: thinks every hill is one to die on; unwilling to compromise or make sacrifices in fear of revealing vulnerability; maintains face no matter the consequence.

SEXUAL PRESENTATION: demanding, excitable, impetuous, unapologetic, aggressive; unafraid to take what he wants, but uncomfortable with affection.

Your heart was picking up speed as you knocked loudly against the door for the fifth time.

Surely he was inside. Where the hell else would he be? You’d texted with him just hours before—well, technically not Jake, since he refused to use a phone, but Marc—confirming that you were still good for your previously scheduled arrangement. Had he changed his mind? Did something happen?

Your anxiety got the better of you as you fished around in your jacket pocket to pull out your keyring. Steven had given you a copy of the key to their flat in case you ever needed it, or if you wanted to come over before he got home from work. You had yet to actually use it, but you figured this constituted as enough of an emergency to warrant your uninvited entrance.

You clumsily slipped the brass into the keyhole and jiggled it, twisting it until you heard the click of the lock. You silently prayed that Jake—or whoever was fronting—hadn’t engaged any of the other locks on the door that could only be unhinged from the inside. Fortunately for you, the knob twisted and the door swung open with ease, revealing the familiarity of the flat within.

It was... quiet. Not eerily so, but enough to make you proceed with caution. Everything appeared to be in order, undisturbed and in its place, but still, you felt a sense of uneasiness crawl up your spine.

You weren’t a stranger to the feeling, though. You often felt this way when you were in the company of Jake. You enjoyed his presence, and wanted to get to know him better, but still, he was unpredictable and volatile—you never knew what to expect when he was fronting. You couldn’t read him as well as the other two alters, and as someone who had an affinity for picking up on unspoken emotional cues, you weren't particularly fond of the element of surprise.

You heard a low buzz from somewhere off to your right, and as the door clicked shut behind you, you wandered towards the source of the noise on the other side of the apartment. As you grew closer, you recognized the previously indiscernible sound—humming.

“...Jake?”

You called out softly, and just as rounded the edge of the bookshelf that separated the living space from the bedroom, the door to the bathroom flew open.

The man in question strolled through the doorway, steam billowing behind him, whistling to himself, but he froze when he saw you standing before him. He quickly recovered from his initial shock, however.

“Bebita. Looks like you need to work on your patience.”

He teased, and you felt your mouth run dry as you took in his appearance. He’d clearly just finished up in the shower—there were still droplets of water rolling down his shoulders and the toned skin of his chest and abdomen, trailing southbound where a white towel hung lowly on his hips. You could see the dark hair of his happy trail against his navel, the towel very loosely covering his modesty. His hair was wet and tussled, curls falling across his forehead, and you’d be lying if you said this wasn’t one of the most attractive sights you’d ever seen in your life.

Much to your chagrin, he seemed to pick up on the effect that his appearance had on you. You watched as his lips curled into a devilish grin, staring at you with a depraved look in his deep brown eyes that only Jake was capable of.

“Why—Why didn’t you answer the door?”

Your voice wavered slightly, betraying you in your attempt to appear collected. His head tilted slightly in question.

“Because...I was in the shower.”

Oh. Right.

You swallowed, lips downturned into a small frown, suddenly feeling sheepish at your previous concern for his safety. However, your focus returned to Jake as he slinked forward, taking a few slow, deliberate steps in your direction.

“You’re blushing, mi vida. Am I making you nervous?”

You unconsciously shook your head at his question, although you could feel your heart racing in your chest as he drew closer to you.

“No? Hm, that’s a shame. I could’ve sworn I saw you staring at my cock.”

He paused when only a foot and a half remained between you, and you felt your face grow even redder at his statement. As much as you tried to resist, as much as you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, your gaze involuntarily flickered down to glance at his crotch—you could see the outline of his hardening member through the soft material of the towel, more prominent than it had been even a few seconds prior.

A dark chuckle escaped him, and you forced your gaze back onto his face. He was grinning wickedly, gazing at you with a carnal gleam in his eye.

“Está bien, bebita. I know how much you like it. That’s why you rushed in here, isn’t it? Didn’t want to wait for papi’s cock any longer?”

Your breath hitched in your throat. Your jaw fell slack at the nickname he assigned to himself—you felt your knees grow weak. Just as you’d said—unpredictable. You certainly hadn’t expected that.

But fuck, you really liked it.

His smirk turned into a toothy grin as he observed your reaction to his taunt. One more step towards you and you were only a short distance apart. You could see moisture congregating in the divot of his collarbone, and you desperately wanted to lick at the pooled water.

“Are you going to be good for me, bebita?”

You nodded dumbly at him, any cohesive thought escaping from your brain as all you could perceive was Jake, Jake, Jake. He parroted your senseless nodding, mocking you condescendingly. Without another word, he dropped the towel from his waist and it pooled around his ankles, exposing his fully-erect member to your sight, and you swooned.

His tongue traced over his lower lip sensually, looking at you through hooded eyes. A shadow crossed his face as his mouth contorted into a sneer.

“Get on your knees.”

You obeyed before you even consciously processed the command, collapsing onto your knees before him, your abrupt fall cushioned by his discarded towel. Your mouth watered as you became eye-level with the hardness of his cock, the vein beneath the underside of his shaft just begging for your attention. You resisted, instead opting to stare up at Jake’s face expectantly, awaiting further instruction. It was clear to you that he liked to be in control.

He smirked at your complacency, his hand reaching up to lazily stroke his cock a few times, watching the way your eyes followed the movement of his hands with laser focus, your lips slightly parted in anticipation. He tilted his hips forward and slapped your cheeks with the ruddy head of his cock a few times, and you whimpered at the action, eyes squeezed shut tightly with restraint.

“Stick out your tongue for me, bebita.”

You obliged, opening your mouth wide and letting your tongue loll out past your lips. He tapped his length against the slick muscle, and you savored the familiar tang of his precum on your tastebuds as he pulled back to fist at his cock again. You whined as he withdrew from you, but he just tutted at you condescendingly, slapping your cheek once more with his member.

“Oh, pobrecita. You want papi to let you play with his cock?”

You nodded feverishly, staring up at him through your lashes, doe-eyed. He pouted his lip out in a look of mock pity before removing his hand from his length.

“Go on, then, bebita.”

You lurched forward, your tongue flexing to lick a long stripe on the underside of his cock, tracing the jagged vein that had enticed you earlier. He hummed at the action, watching as you eagerly lifted your hands to begin slowly pumping the velvety skin of his shaft, your lips suctioning around the flushed tip and tongue dipping into the slit. A low groan rumbled deep within his chest as you bobbed your head, eyes never leaving his face as you studied each reaction he had to your movements.

“There you go, mi vida. So good for papi.”

You moaned around his cock at the repeated use of the title, and he chuckled at your obvious approval, one hand finally reaching up to card through your hair as you continued to work more of his length into your mouth.

“You gonna let papi fuck your pretty little mouth, hm?”

He pulled his hips back, removing his member from your touch and you gasped in a breath. You nodded in response to his question, opening your mouth expectantly, and he all but laughed at your eagerness.

“You want it bad, huh, bebita? You gonna ask nicely?”

“Please, papi.”

The word sounded foreign on your tongue, but your discomfort melted away when you saw Jake’s cock jump at the sound of your desperate pleading and he threw his head back in satisfaction.

“Please, fuck my face. Want to feel you in my throat. Please.”

He seemed satisfied with your begging as he wrapped both of his hands in your hair, tilting your head upward and guiding your towards his awaiting length. When your hands reached up to rest on his thighs, he pulled back, hissing at you.

“No, mi vida. Hands behind your back. Don’t make me tell you again.”

You clasped your hands behind yourself obediently, opening your mouth again, and you finally felt the fat tip of his cock rest against your tongue.

You practically choked when he harshly thrusted into your mouth, sinking nearly his entire length into your throat without warning. Before you could even recover, he was pulling back and repeating the motion, not giving you any time to adjust to the intrusion or ease you into a rhythm. You gagged unceremoniously as he fucked your face with reckless abandon, so you tried to slacken your jaw and just take it.

“Look at you, mi llorica. So beautiful when you cry for me, with my cock in your mouth.”

You could barely see him through the blur of tears as they rolled down your cheeks, mixing with the saliva that was foaming around your lips and dribbling down your chin. He picked up his pace, grunting with each motion, the head of his cock bruising the back of your throat with every forward thrust. He was guiding your head forward and backward in time with his movements, successfully burying himself into your face.

“You want me to cum down your throat, bebita? Going to take everything papi gives you?”

You garbled around his length as his balls slapped against your chin, and you felt his cock throb on your tongue as he sheathed himself completely inside of you, growling out your name as he shot his load as deep into your throat as he could. Still, he challenged you more, forcing himself further and further down your throat with each spurt of cum that he released, your nose smushed against his pubic bone as you swallowed around him, trying with all of your might to prevent yourself from gagging and ruining his orgasm.

With a satisfied groan, he slowly pulled his spent member from your mouth, and you gasped harshly, sucking in a deep breath of air and finally allowing the muscles of your neck to relax. There was a soreness lingering in the back of your throat, but you relished in the feeling as you wiped the mix of spit and tears from your face with the back of your hand, staring up at the fucked-out expression that Jake offered you.

“Did so well for me, bebita. What do you say to papi?”

There was an edge to his tone, his domineering persona not faltering for even a second as your scratchy voice responded accordingly.

“Thank you, papi.”

He nodded at you approvingly, watching as you blinked up at him expectantly. He was pleasantly surprised at just how quickly you’d fallen into submission—he thought he might have to coax you into cooperating with him, but it was clear to him that you were eager to please, your eyes glistening with residual tears from one of the best goddamned blowjobs he’d ever had in his life.

He leaned down and clasped his hands on your shoulders, yanking you to your feet without a word. You saw his eyes flicker down to your swollen, spit-soaked lips, but his gaze was hard as he took a step away from you, as if to resist the temptation to kiss you.

“Strip. Hands and knees, on the bed for me. Now, bebita.”

You didn’t protest as you hastily heeded his words, shedding your layers of clothing and tossing them to the floor before you scampered back towards the bed, crawling to your hands and knees in the center, head facing towards the pillows. You could hear Jake creeping up behind you, but you resisted the urge to turn your head and follow his movements, opting instead to squeeze your eyes shut and wait.

You weren’t afraid of Jake. Of course you weren’t. You knew he’d never hurt you—not unless you wanted him to. Nonetheless, you knew what he was capable of—actually, that was the thing. You didn’t know what he was capable of, but still, you could see the thinly-veiled chaos that swirled behind his coffee-colored irises, could sense the firm restraint he forced upon himself when he was around you, holding some unnamed beast at bay on your behalf. It scared you, but also sparked something inside of you—a primitive, savage excitement as he stalked you like his prey. Was it wrong if you secretly hoped he’d unleash the mayhem that resided within him, let himself go? God only knows the man deserved an outlet in which to channel his frustrations.

You felt the mattress dip down behind you, Jake kneeling on the bed behind your bowed position—your nerves spiked at the vulnerability you displayed, exposed as you practically felt his eyes tear through your body with crazed, wanton desire.

You were surprised to feel a soft caress on your hips, his rough fingers delicately ghosting over the supple skin on your waist. It was comforting, soothing, and surprising—a needed reassurance under his scrutinizing gaze. You felt his lips brush softly against the tender flesh of your left buttock, and you relaxed slightly, letting yourself sink down to your forearms but keeping your ass raised with the arching of your back.

“Are you ready, mi vida?”

He asked quietly, and you managed to squeak out a small ‘yes’ before sinking further into the bed and shifting your hips backs toward him in anticipation. He chuckled at your obvious eagerness, greedy for his touch, and you startled when his tender hold on your hips tightened into a bruising grip, the soft press of his lip to your left asscheek morphing until he was sinking his teeth into the flesh with a playful nip.

You yelped at the abrupt shift in demeanor, the sound earning you a sharp smack to your other cheek, his palm quickly rubbing the afflicted area to soothe the lingering sting of his spanking. You pressed your forehead into the sheet beneath you, your legs beginning to quiver with desperation.

“You’re going to stay like this, and take what I give you. Don’t move. ¿Vale, bebita?”

You nodded, but were met with another harsh swat on your backside at your lack of a verbal confirmation.

“Yes! Okay, papi, okay. Just—please.”

You were practically dripping onto the mattress beneath you, your arousal slickening your needy cunt as you desperately sought out any stimulation.

The pads of his fingers experimentally swiped through your folds without warning, and you jolted, involuntarily pushing your hips back to follow the withdrawal of his touch. Another firm slap against your opposite asscheek, a whimper escaping your lips as he scolded you.

“Stay still, bebita. Stop squirming.”

His order briefly brought you back to your first time with Marc, who had requested the same thing, but the words felt heavier when they were uttered by Jake—you knew he wouldn’t hesitate to find a way to make you comply.

When his fingers made contact with your core again, you clenched your muscles, forcing yourself to remain completely motionless, and you were rewarded with the tip of his digit just barely skimming over your clit. You whined at the sensation, but held your position.

Jake was pleased with your cooperation, but you couldn’t help but quake when you felt his tongue sweep through your folds to taste you. The spank he offered was softer, taking pity on you as he leaned forward and fully sank his mouth into your awaiting cunt. You mewled, fingers twisting into the fabric of the sheets beneath you and fisting at them tightly in an effort to keep still.

He was moaning shamelessly into your sex, his method tactless, sloppy and rushed. His movements weren’t practiced and deliberate like Marc’s, nor careful and precise like Steven’s—no, Jake was eating you out like a man starved, greedily mouthing at every part of you and reveling in the sounds that escaped your lips.

His hand lifted and he sank two fingers into your entrance, curling them forward frantically as his mouth latched onto your clit. He was working you to your orgasm quickly, hurriedly, desperate to feel you clamp down around him and cry out his name.

Your thighs were beginning to tremble. He must’ve sensed you were close, because he doubled his efforts, the vibrations from his growling buzzing through your flesh and pushing you over the precipice. On its own accord, your body lurched back towards him, your cunt grinding back against his face as your eyes rolled, your walls contracting around his digits and your juices leaking onto his awaiting tongue.

You felt dizzy, faint, your efforts to hold yourself upright through your climax exhausted you, and when you came down from your intense high, you felt Jake draw himself away from you, slow and intimidating. You felt your pulse spike as you awaited whatever came next. His large hand caressed your ass, gently smoothing over your soft flesh in back-and-forth motions.

“Sabe a miel, bebita. Such a pretty little pussy.”

His touch on your skin halted, and you felt his body lean over your back, his lips coming to brush against the nape of your neck.

“But you didn’t follow my instructions, pobrecita. You need to learn how to listen.”

You cried out when his hand swatted at your abused clit, your body jumping at the painful sensation in an attempt to escape his cruel attack. You felt one arm snake beneath your stomach to hold you upright, his forearm pressing your hips back towards him and keeping you there.

“I let you cum, even after you moved when I told you not to. Do you like being a brat, hm?”

You shook your head—another smack to your cunt, and you whimpered.

“No! No, m’sorry, papi, I—”

“Don’t you think I’ve been generous? Spoiling you? And still, you’re ungrateful, bebita.”

Your body flinched in preparation for the next blow, but instead, you felt his lips tenderly brush a kiss to the flesh of your ass.

“Compórtate. I think I need to teach you how to mind your manners.”

He slapped your ass again, harder than before, and you could feel the lingering sting forming a welt across your skin. He hummed.

“What do you say to papi, hm? For being so good to you?”

“Thank you, papi.”

You whimpered, tears starting to dampen the sheets beneath your face. Your appreciation earned you a soothing hand across the flesh he'd just struck.

“That’s right. Five more times, bebita.”

You sobbed in protest, body trying to pull away from him, but his arm wrapped around your torso forced you into place. He cooed at you.

“It’s okay, pobrecita. You’re going to say thank you after every single one, and then papi will fuck you. ¿Sí?”

He didn’t wait for your response. He smacked your clit, the sting burning its way through your lower belly. You choked back another sob.

“Th—thank you, papi.”

You stuttered, voice barely audible from where your cheek was smushed into the bedding, but Jake took pity on you. Two, three, four more times—the final blow landed sharply against your cunt, and you whimpered out your gratitude, eyes squeezed shut tight and your lip starting to freckle with blood from where you’d held it between your teeth.

He placed gentle kisses on your lower back, your ass, as far as he could reach, his arm still supporting your weight while the other came to softly smooth over your hip. Your mind was cloudy, your body completely surrendering to Jake’s will as you descended into subspace, clinging to his approval.

“You want my cock, mi vida?”

He asked gruffly, and you could feel his hardened length prod against your behind as he leaned further over you to press more kisses on your shoulders. You whined.

“Yes, papi, please, want you inside me, please—”

He shushed you calmly, sitting back to kneel behind you. He lifted your hips higher in the air with his arm, and you felt the flushed head of his cock brush across your soaked folds once, then twice. You mewled.

Without warning, Jake sank into you, bottoming out with one harsh stroke as his balls pressed against your puffy clit. You cried out, legs turning to jelly and giving out from beneath you, but he held you upright, keeping you stable in his arms.

“Mierda. Your little cunt is swallowing me, bebita.”

He withdrew slowly, and you could feel each ridge of his length as he pulled out until just the tip remained. Even though you braced yourself, you couldn’t prepare for the way he slammed back into you, his pelvis flush against your tailbone as you cried, pleasure sparking at the bottom of your spine in spite of the pain.

Jake’s pace was relentless, unforgiving, hips snapping forward over and over, the sound of skin slapping skin drowned out by your pathetic sobbing as your walls throbbed around his member. His teeth were bared as he railed into you, intently watching the place his cock was splitting you open.

“Carajo, you’re squeezing me so tight—going to cum for you, bebita.”

He practically growled as he speared you, and another orgasm was ripped from you with a particularly harsh thrust of his hips. Your cunt clamped down around him as he let out a long, low whine, hips stuttering at the sensation.

He let you collapse into the bed as he began frantically jerking his cock, pulling out of you just in time to shoot his load all across the reddening flesh of your ass. He let out a series of grunts, coupled with Spanglish expletives as he thrusted into his fist, his head thrown back in bliss. You felt globs of his hot spend settle onto your skin, streaking your backside with his seed as he panted above you, falling back onto his heels as he drank in the aftermath of his intense orgasm that was now painting your skin.

The moments that followed blurred together as you drifted aimlessly in the wakes of your pleasure, eyes fluttering in their attempt to keep you awake. Jake left you for several minutes, the absence of his body heat making goosebumps erupt across your skin, but you were too exhausted to move.

When he finally returned, you felt him softly dab the remnants of his ejaculate from your back before he gently shifted you onto your back, tucking an arm beneath your knees and the other around your shoulders as he hoisted you into the air. You whimpered slightly at the soreness in your muscles, your head falling limp against his bare shoulder as he carried you off. You weren’t consciously aware of your surroundings, but the sensation of warm water surrounding you helped ease the ache in your bones and clear the haze that had overtaken your mind. Jake gently lowered you into the bathtub, carefully tilting your head back to rest against the ceramic edge as you let out a relieved sigh, sinking into the welcoming heat of the water.

You felt as if you’d only blinked when you awoke, the water around you now lukewarm and the candle that had been burning beside you melted to the wick. You shifted yourself upward, hissing slightly at the soreness in your thighs, but you forced yourself to stand and exit the tub.

Silence surrounded you as you leaned to pull the plug from the drain before you noticed the plush white towel that had been folded neatly and left on the lid of the toilet for you. You gratefully reached it and wrapped it around your body, noticing the pruning of your fingertips.

How long had you been asleep?

You tentatively creaked open the bathroom door and peered outside into the apartment. It was dark, and empty, for all you could see, and you took a few cautious steps out into the room.

“Jake?”

You said softly, your soft call sounding much too loud in the quiet of the space. You proceeded forward towards the bed, shrouded only in light from the single lamp that was lit from across the way. Your clothes had been folded neatly and left in a pile at the foot of the bed, and you saw a small piece of paper settled on top. A note.

You picked it up and scanned it over once, then twice. You could tell this was Jake’s handwriting—it was a messy scrawl with an evident slant, the letters each written harshly with sharp lines. It was different from Steven’s languid scribbling, his words swirling together with smooth, clean strokes, and also from Marc’s, whose blocky penmanship was unmistakable. You couldn’t marvel at the fact that all three alters had markedly distinct handwriting, though, too focused on the content of the message to give it a second thought.

Went out for a drive Text when you get home See you tomorrow.

JAKE

You frowned slightly, heart feeling heavy in your chest as you forced yourself into your clothes. You checked the time—11:28. You’d conked out for nearly two hours, and you wondered how long ago Jake had stepped out. Was he waiting for your text in order to come back home? Waiting for you to leave so he didn’t have to see you?

You had absolutely no right to be upset, you knew. You should be grateful that he was sticking to his ordinary routine after your sexual encounter in honor of your experiment, but still, a pang of hurt bloomed in your chest. You briefly returned to the bathroom to blow out the flickering lavender candle before heading out the door, your legs wobbly as you trekked the two blocks back to your own apartment.

It was nearly midnight when you finally got home. You reached for your phone and shot the boys a brief message.

made it back safely x

A response came in barely thirty seconds later.

I'm so sorry Y/N He shouldn't have done this to you M

You fell into your bed immediately, eyes skimming Marc’s words, your lips pursing slightly. You let out a long sigh before typing your reply.

it's ok marc, i promise he didn’t do anything wrong i had a nice bath! :) tell jake i said goodnight xx

You connected your phone to the charger before setting it on the nightstand, quickly turning over and sinking into your pillow, trying to ignore the tears that were stinging the back of your eyes.

Your phone buzzed with a final message.

Sleep well baby Hope you give him hell tomorrow M

POINTS OF CONTENTION:

- slowing down

- embracing vulnerability and confiding in others

- accepting intimacy and allowing raw emotion

TREATMENT: - patience, foreplay - allowing himself to feel - aftercare (!)

You were, in fact, not going to give him Hell. Just the opposite, actually.

Jake spent too much of his time letting his demons possess him. Perhaps he needed a little taste of Heaven to show him what he's missing.

“Hi, Jake.”

You greeted shyly when the door swung inward. He leaned against the doorframe slightly, looking at you down the length of his nose. He didn’t say anything—just watched you. Studied you. Observing. After a few brief moments, you cleared your throat.

“Can I—uh, can I come in?”

A beat passed before he finally sidled back into the apartment, opening the door just enough to let you slip inside. Your side brushed against his front when you passed him, and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke clung to his white shirt. Oh, Steven would be livid.

You didn’t wait for an invitation before plopping down on one end of the sofa. Jake quirked a brow at your forwardness, and you signaled with the jerk of your head for him to join you on the other end. He offered a slow, dramatic roll of his eyes before seating himself beside you.

“What time did you get home last night?”

You asked quietly, fiddling with the hem of your shirt as you avoided his gaze. He breathed out a slow breath.

“Not too late. Hardly slept, though—your boyfriend wasn’t very happy with me. Kept me up all night, nagging at me.”

You frowned, finally noticing the deep purplish bags that had settled beneath his eyes. His curls were spilling out from beneath the brim of his flat cap.

“I’m sorry, Jake. Marc isn’t s’posed to be bothering you—it’s your weekend.”

He waved a dismissive hand, turning to settle further into the couch as he stared at some point straight ahead of him.

“No pasa nada. I’m used to it.”

He shifted in his seat slightly, his brows furrowing, and you could tell that he was receiving an earful from Marc.

“I’m—I guess I’m sorry, mi vida, if I upset you.”

You shook your head derisively.

“No, Jake, it’s—you’re fine. That’s what I asked you to do—treat me like any other girl.”

He let out a humorless bark of a laugh, knuckles rubbing over the stubbled skin of his jaw.

“Any other girl wouldn’t have gotten to see my bed, bebita.”

He noticed the perplexed look on your face and offered a sigh.

“It’s not...often, that I sleep with anyone like this. Usually it’s in the back of my cab, or a quick one in a closet—tienes suerte, mi vida. It’s rare they ever see me a second time.”

You felt a deep sadness wash over you at his confession. All Jake knew were rushed, meaningless hookups, no strings attached and no obligations. One and done.

“Is that why you didn’t kiss me, yesterday?”

Jake looked startled by your question, eyes widening marginally as his brows furrowed deeply. His lips set into a straight line, his jaw clenching tightly.

“I did kiss you. A lot.”

He insisted softly. You shook your head.

“No, Jake. A real kiss. You wouldn’t do it. Are—Is that not usually a part of your... you know?”

His knee began anxiously bouncing, his discomfort making itself evident to you.

“No sé. Never really thought about it before.”

You stood from the couch, and his stare followed your movements sharply as you crossed the short distance between you, stepping forward to stand between his spread legs. He looked up at you with dark, brooding eyes, uncertainty churning just beneath the surface. You slowly moved to sit on his lap, your thighs slotting on either side of his hips so you were straddling him. His hands mindlessly settled on your waist, his touch timid and delicate. Your fingers smoothed over his chest as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Can I kiss you, Jake?”

His lips silently parted, a flash of fear briefly flickering over his features as he gazed up at you longingly. His nervousness was palpable, his hesitancy evident through the tension in his shoulders and the crease between his brow. He didn’t offer you a response, so you carefully began leaning your face towards him, tilting your head so your nose brushed against his. You felt his stuttering exhale fan out across your face before you finally let your lips brush over his own.

It was soft, and tentative, as if he was unsure of how to respond or worried he would somehow break you. You pressed your mouth a bit firmer to his, melding against him. You wished, hoped he could feel all your emotions come through the kiss—how much you cared for him, how much you wanted to show him that. Maybe your manifestation worked, because after his few fleeting seconds of unresponsiveness, you felt him sink into the feeling, one arm traveling from your waist up your back to cradle the back of your head in his hand.

He shifted beneath you, trying to pull you closer, as if you weren’t already on top of him. You could feel the stiffness vacate his muscles as the kiss grew feverish, desperate, his lips moving against yours hastily and messily. His free hand began to roam the expanse of your back as he pressed his torso into your own, your nose smushing against his cheek as he gripped you tighter.

He whined when your tongue swiped across the seam of his mouth, his lips immediately parting to allow you access. You dove in to taste him, the stale tobacco and faint mint of his toothpaste overtaking your senses and inebriating you with the distinctive flavor of Jake. His own tongue began to tussle with yours as he mirrored your actions, your teeth clashing messily as he all but tried to swallow you whole.

You pulled back abruptly, gasping in a breath, and his mouth chased yours in a frantic attempt to maintain contact. You felt his hips instinctually rut up against you, his hands still pulling you tightly against his body as he nuzzled into your neck, inhaling the scent of your soft skin.

“Slow down, Jake, take it easy.”

You placed both of your hands on either one of his shoulders and forced him to relax against the couch, his body following your guidance as he sank backwards at your request. His eyes were practically crazed, his lips swollen and ruddy as he looked up at you with a half-lidded gaze, chest heaving with panted breaths.

“Oh, hermosa.”

His muttered, his grip pulling you back to his chest as he surged forward to hungrily meet your lips again, his hands beginning to claw over every inch of your body he could reach, trying to feel all of you. You pushed him away again, more forcefully this time, and he fell backwards with a grunt.

“Hey, relax. It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

A flicker of sadness glinted briefly in his dark eyes, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it expression, but you caught it. You offered him a soft, assuring smile, grabbing the hat from his head and tossing it to the side so you could sink your fingers into his hair. He leaned back into your touch as your nails gently scratched at his scalp, a soft, breathless moan breaking from his lips as his eyes fell shut. You leaned forward and pressed a single kiss to the exposed skin of his throat.

“Come on, handsome.”

He was reluctant to loosen his hold on you, but you reached for his hand and clutched his fingers tightly so he could still feel you touching him somewhere. You led him over to the bed, pausing at the foot of it and gesturing with a nod of your head for him to lay down. He quirked a brow at you, lips curling into a mischievous grin.

“You going to punish me for being so hard on you yesterday, bebita?”

You weren’t oblivious to the excitement that shone in his eyes—he seemed enticed by the possibility of you torturing him in a similar vein to Marc, and you figured that was some information you could keep in your back pocket for future reference.

Instead, you let out a saccharine giggle—it was sickeningly sweet, cloyingly so, and Jake might’ve gotten a toothache from the sugar if it weren’t for the softness with which you crept over his splayed-out body, sinking your front against his as you pressed a featherlight peck on his lips.

“No, Jake. Nothing like that.”

You let your weight settle onto him, straddling his lap and letting your chest fall flush against his as you kissed him again—he mouthed at you hungrily, trying to force his tongue into your mouth, fighting for dominance, and you gently pulled away.

“Hey, tough guy. What’s your rush?”

His brows furrowed, gaze flickering from your eyes and down to your dewy lips, his pupils blown wide. You smiled sweetly at him.

“Slow down, okay? There’s no hurry, really. Let me just feel you.”

He blew out a huff of air before your lips were on his again, and he heeded your request, letting you take the lead as your poured all of your passion into the kiss. It was slow, deep, intimate, your fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt and across the hot skin of his torso, pushing the material up as you went. You slowly drew back to discard the article of clothing before immediately latching your mouth to his, slow movements still heavy and dripping with desire. You finally parted his lips with the swipe of your tongue, and you felt his fingers sink into your hair, tilting his head for a better angle with which to lavish you.

You could feel him getting greedier as he pressed his body up into your warmth, hands sliding down the expanse of your back and making a move to rip your shirt from your body. You pulled back suddenly, giving him a warning look.

“Hey. Slow.”

You reminded, and he stuttered out an exhale, his fingers gradually raising your shirt above your head as he tossed it to the side. His eyes ravished your body as his fingers traced along the newly exposed skin of your sides, his touch softly skimming your curves before coming up to cup at your breasts. You smiled sweetly down at him as he pressed a few fervent kisses to your collarbone. His dark eyes found yours, lips parted provocatively as he silently asked for your permission. You nodded gently, and his fingers trembled with restraint as he slowly reached around to unclasp your bra.

It was taking everything within his power not to flip you over and pound into you, but something about the look in your eye—reverent, devoted, loving—he didn’t mind too much.

When your breasts exposed themselves to him, he made a low rumbling noise from the back of his throat, leaning forward to latch onto one of your nipples hastily. You tugged at his hair and he groaned in frustration.

“Jake.”

You warned, and he pressed his face down into your cleavage, his breathing ragged and shallow.

“Mierda, bebita. You like being on top so much, hm? Like being in control of papi?”

You gently pulled at his curls again, forcing his face to lift and look up at you. You regarded him softly, one of your hands coming to delicately trace over his jaw and cheekbone.

“No, honey. None of that, okay?”

His brows furrowed, and you leaned down to press a kiss against the crease between them.

“It’s just you and me. Jake and Y/N.”

He repeated your name back to you in a low murmur, as if saying it for the very first time. Actually, now that you thought about it—maybe it was. Jake had never addressed you by your name before, only used endearments to speak with you.

He seemed puzzled by your suggestion, eyes round and questioning and lost, almost uncomfortable with the proposal of having you call him by his actual name.

“You can be on top if you really want to, Jake.”

You pressed a kiss to his nose, then atop both of his fluttering eyelids, then one in the center of his hairline.

“You just—have to be patient.”

You pressed your forehead against his, letting your eyes drift shut as you took in the soft sound of his breathing, finally settling down and evening out. You felt his head tilt up to meet yours again, and you let him kiss you, his pace steady and deliberate, easing you into a rhythm. His hands slowly crawled up your spine, cradling you close to him as he licked into your mouth, his hips bucking up just slightly when you gently tugged at his lower lip with your teeth. He pulled away, shaking his head at your flirtatious action and giving you a playful glare before mouthing gently at your jawline, down your neck and behind your ear. When you leaned into his touch, he sank his teeth in and suckled a deep red mark into your skin, earning a soft whimper in appreciation. His lips stayed pressed against you as they trailed down the column of your neck, along your collarbone and shoulder, and finally down to the flesh of your breasts.

You breathed out a low moan when he placed wet open-mouthed kisses along the top curves of your chest, slowly teasing lower until his teeth scraped your hardened nipple and his lips puckered around it. His hand came to palm at your other breast, kneading at the doughy flesh as he stared up at you seductively through his lashes.

“Fuck, Jake.”

You whimpered, and the sound of his name rolling so deliciously off of your tongue caused his hips to grind up against you once more. When he was satisfied with the array of red and purple marks he’d imprinted on your skin, he dragged his face back up to your own and pressed his lips to yours once again.

You were impressed with his restraint. You could feel the hardness in his muscles, see the tension in his thick shoulders as he forced himself to take his time instead of jumping your bones from the start. You hummed against his mouth before pulling yourself away and off of his lap, your fingers slowly trailing down the length of his torso before settling on the buckle of his jeans.

His breath stuttered at the action, his abdominal muscles contracting as he awaited your next move. You gently reached down to palm at his bulge through the layers of fabric and he groaned throatily, his eyes fluttering shut at the much needed stimulation. Your fingers deftly worked to unloop his belt before unbuttoning his jeans, and he lifted his hips to assist you in pulling them off of him.

When he was left in just his briefs, you pressed gently against his shoulder to make him lay back down and relax. He sank back into the pillows, propped up so he had a decent view of you between his legs, your fingers teasingly stroking over his length through the thin cotton of his boxers. He hissed.

“Estás una calientapollas. Please, hermosa. Y/N.”

He saw the way your eyes darted to his face at the sound of your name, your lips parting and your fingers ceasing their gentle sweeping motion over his cock. You held his gaze as you slowly reached up towards the waistband of his briefs and coaxed them down his legs, freeing his member that had been straining against the fabric.

After you’d tossed his final undergarment aside, you settled back between Jake's legs, your hands stroking each of his inner thighs softly, watching as he pulled his lip between his teeth. Your left hand slowly, slowly crept upwards until it ghosted over the silky skin of his shaft, his body shuddering in response to your touch. You waited until his eyes were open again, watching you, before leaning forward and letting a pool of your saliva drip from your lips and onto his awaiting cock. He keened at the sight, his hips jerking just slightly as you finally wrapped your hand around the base and began to stroke him at a treacherously slow pace.

“Mierda. Fuck.”

He grunted quietly, trying to keep his hips still as you started to pump him a bit faster, glittering eyes staring up at him reverently. It was dizzying, the way you gazed up at him with such infatuation. It almost made him nauseous.

You slowly leaned down and licked the precum from his leaking slit before letting your lips wrap around the head, swirling your tongue languidly over the tip, watching his face scrunch up in pleasure.

You briefly pulled back to press kisses up along his entire length, coupled with soft caresses of your fingertips. It was clear to you that Jake was beginning to feel frustrated—his hands were buried in his hair, head thrown back against the bed as if attempting to subdue his desires.

You took him back into your mouth, working him slowly over with your tongue and swallowing him down bit by bit, agonizingly slow. You could feel Jake’s thighs tensing around you, his hands flying from his head to fist at the sheets on either side of his body.

When you gagged around his cock, he lost his composure. You made a startled choking sound when you felt his hand against the back of your head, pressing you down onto his length as his hips bucked up to try to sink into your throat. You immediately recoiled, and Jake nearly whined, his eyes desperately pleading with you to grant him some release. You weren’t taking any pleasure in seeing him like this—this wasn’t your end goal.

“You going to edge me like Marc, huh? Want to hear me beg?”

His voice broke off slightly, his frustrations venting through his lips as he almost glared at you. You sat up, moving to straddle his waist once more so you could press your lips to his again.

“No, Jake, I told you, I’m not. I just—Let me take care of you. Wanna show you how much you mean to me, wanna—wanna worship you, wanna make you feel good—”

His brows furrowed as you rambled slightly, your eyes big and round and glassy. He was confused—what exactly was it that you wanted from him?

“Let me fuck you, mi vida—make us both feel good with me inside you, hm?”

“No, Jake, just—hang on, that’s not—”

“Then what? Want to see if I can be as vanilla as your little Steven?”

“I want to make love with you, Jake.”

His breath resembled something of a gasp as his eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline, disappearing beneath his curls while his eyes widened almost comically at your hasty confession. You cringed inwardly at your forwardness, taking in the expression of sheer panic on Jake’s face that had him looking like a deer in headlights. You sighed, leaning forward to press your forehead into his chest in an attempt to hide your face from view.

“Fuck. Sorry. I just—I don’t want you to feel like you have to rush through this. I’m sorry, I just—I want—want you to enjoy it, want you to let yourself feel it, Jake.”

You could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, his lack of response smothering you after your fervent explanation. You wanted to disappear, wanted the ground to cave in and swallow you whole—instead, silence consumed you, settling across your back like a weight that you weren’t strong enough to carry.

“That’s...a new one for me.”

His voice was quiet, sheepish, and you could feel the vibrations rumbling in his chest as you lifted your head to look at him.

“I know.”

You acknowledged quietly. He was staring at you. Dark eyes searching within yours, scanning your expression, every detail of your face, as if attempting to see straight through you. Your heart was still pounding, your face rosy with an embarrassed blush—you felt his arms shift, his hand hesitantly lifting, fingers ghosting over the skin right above the waistband of your jeans at your hips, getting about as close as he could to holding you without actually touching you at all.

You’d never seen Jake Lockley at a loss for words before, and you’d certainly never seen him look so unsure. He was always so collected, nonchalant and unfazed, never dropping his guard for more than a second before that smug smirk reappeared on his face. He took things in stride, his confidence stifling as if he was always three steps ahead of the rest of the world, always knowing what came next.

But now there was vulnerability displayed across his slacken face, a certain wariness serrating his words as he spoke.

“I’m sorry, mi vida, but I don’t—”

“You don’t have to apologize, Jake, really, I promise it’s okay.”

You reached up a hand to cradle the side of his face, fingers gliding across the stubble of his jaw as your thumb brushed over his cheek. His head instinctually tilted in the direction of your hold, turning to press a soft kiss to the palm of your hand.

“I’m sorry. This—I don’t know what I was thinking. This isn’t fair to ask of you at all, it wasn’t a part of the deal, and—we can stop here. Let’s—just tell me where you wanna go from here and we can do it. Anything.”

You breathed, looking into his eyes, your brows furrowed in remorse as you anxiously awaited his reply. He was still just looking at you, unwavering, his chest heaving slightly with each brash exhale.

You felt his fingers skate up your bare spine and you straightened at his touch, letting him gently pull you towards him until your noses were brushing again. His gaze never left yours as he drank you in, his lips parting so you could feel his warm breath against yours. After a few more grueling beats, your pulse jumping with anticipation, his closed the gap and kissed you with a tenderness you didn’t know he even possessed. He pulled himself into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around you until they enveloped you completely, your bodies melding together as his tongue traced the seam of your mouth, although he didn’t press any further—just feeling you, tasting you, savoring the sweetness that seemed to course through your veins.

You were breathless when he pulled back, although he only recoiled just enough to speak. You could feel the movement of his lips against your face as his dark eyes burned through you.

“Hermosa, I don’t—I’ve never... Nunca he hecho esto antes.”

You knew what he was saying even if you couldn’t actually understand it. Your eyes crinkled at the corners as you smiled softly at him, sliding your palms over his chest before wrapping your arms tightly around his neck.

“It’s okay, honey. I—we can figure it out together.”

He blinked rapidly at you, and if you didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought there were tears shining across his eyes. But then he was kissing you again, so softly and sincerely that it fucking hurt.

Your body was slotted perfectly against his, flush against the contours of his current position as his hands slid up and down your spine, settling lowly on your back, just above your ass. You could feel his aching arousal pressing into your heat, rubbing against the seam of your jeans as he held you against him. You let his tongue lick inside your mouth greedily before you drew away.

“Can I—Can I keep going?”

You asked softly, grinding your clothed core up against him for emphasis. A breathy whimper fell from his lips as he closed his eyes, resting his forehead against yours for a moment before slowly nodding. You slowly crawled down the length of his body, pressing gentle kisses all the way down until you found yourself settled between his legs once again, not wasting any time in wrapping your hand around his cock and giving him a few gentle strokes. He sank into the mattress, throwing his head back into the pillows as his teeth sank into his bottom lip.

“You’re supposed to enjoy this, okay? But remember, this—this isn’t just about making each other cum, it’s—wanna make you feel good. We’ll take it nice and slow. You tell me when you’re ready to—when you wanna move on, and we will, okay?”

He looked down at you, his eyes still full of doubt and hesitance, but beneath the veneer you could see the warmth of trust shining through. He nodded at you reassuringly, and the soft smile he offered was one you’d never seen from him before—so genuine and credulous that it almost resembled Steven.

Without another word, you leaned forward and let the tip of your tongue trace the driblet of precome that had begun to slide down the length of his shaft. You wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, suckling at the flesh as your hand began to stroke him steadily, wrist twisting just slightly to maximize the stimulation.

Jake let you toy with him for awhile, his hands gripping the sheets on either side of him in tight fists while he endured you doting on his throbbing cock.

When you reached to squeeze for his balls, your head sinking a bit lower onto his length, you felt his fingers wrap in your hair and gently coax you off of him, a low growl rumbling in his chest. You immediately ceased your ministrations, staring up at him attentively as he blinked slowly at you, his lip swollen from where he had been biting it.

“Do you—you want me to stop? Wanna—want me to ride you, or—”

He interrupted you with groan, throwing his head back against the pillows and squeezing his eyes shut. You could feel the muscles of his abdomen rippling.

“No, mi vida, it’s alright, whenever—you can stay down there as long as you like, I just—mierda, your mouth is so good to me, hermosa. Worried I’m gonna cum.”

He confessed, a sort of pained expression on his face. You gave him a pitying look—it wasn’t mocking, not at all, but genuine sympathy. You didn’t want to make him miserable.

“Just a little bit longer, okay, honey? I know it’s hard going so slow, I’m sorry, but—but I promise, when you finally let go, it’ll be worth it, okay?”

He smiled meekly at you, nodding as he removed his hand from your hair and returned it to its position tangled in the sheets at his side. You gave him one last reassuring glance before sinking your mouth back down onto his cock and lavishing him with more attention.

For several more minutes, he let you worship him, his hips jolting and cock twitching, although he was displaying great levels of restraint when it came to letting you dictate the speed and pace of your actions. You suckled one of his balls into your mouth, watching as he squirmed, legs kicking just slightly beside you as he mewled, his face scrunched up in pleasure.

You released him with a popping sound, finally satisfied with how you’d worked him up and extolled his cock. You crawled up his body and he eagerly welcomed your proximity, pulling you to his mouth to plant a hard, desperate kiss to your mouth. You smiled into him, fingers nestled in his curls.

“Thank you, Jake, did so well.”

You whispered, pressing gentle kisses to the expanse of his jaw as his chest heaved beneath you. He hummed to acknowledge your praise, although you could feel the tension in his muscles as he impatiently awaited your signal that you could continue.

When your eyes met his, they blinked at him, docile and alluring, and he took that as his cue to roll you onto your back so he could position himself on top of you. He pressed a few kisses to your mouth, as if he was struggling to pull himself away, before his lips traveled down your neck and collarbone, his hands popping the button on your jeans to finally have you bare beneath him. You didn’t protest when he pulled them down off of you, your panties joining them soon after. He leaned up to kiss you again, his rock-hard length dipping into your sopping folds as his body rocked against yours once, then twice, earning a low whimper from your throat.

“Go ahead, honey, I’m ready for you.”

You whispered, voice sweet, and he groaned lowly. However, he surprised you by pressing a soft peck to your cheek before sinking down the length of your body, his mouth trailing a line down the center of your torso before kissing right atop your pubic bone, brown eyes watching you closely. Your breath stuttered as you wrapped your fingers in his hair unconsciously.

“Jake, you’ve waited long enough, you don’t have to—”

“Wanna do this right, Y/N.”

He whispered, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on your clit, causing you to gasp.

“Make me feel so good, hermosa. Promised going slow is worth it—gonna make it worth it for you, too.”

You couldn’t dwell on the fluttering sensation in your chest when his mouth pressed against you, wet tongue meeting your dripping folds with attentiveness—you released a soft cry as he lapped at your entranced, the tip of his tongue prodding at your clit gently, causing you to squirm.

Jake liked to run his mouth, but now, he was silent. It's not that he didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to spur you on with filthy praise—he simply couldn’t find the words. He was absolutely hypnotized by the sight above him, bewitched by the expression of pure, unadulterated euphoria on your face at each ministration he offered. He’d never been witness to such a beautiful view before—any time he’d gone down on someone, watching their nonverbal responses to his touch simply wasn’t his priority. It had always been rushed, forceful, as he ripped orgasm after orgasm from his partner with greed and insatiability. But now—now it was you. He was in between your legs, pulling angelic sounds from your lips as your thighs quaked around his head. You were glowing, radiant, ethereal as you basked in the pleasure, and Jake finally realized why foreplay was so important—seeing you like this might be even better than the real thing.

He heeded your words. He wasn’t trying to make you cum, wasn’t speeding you towards your climax with rapid swipes of his tongue and fingers. He was savoring you, each brush of his mouth against your core was languid and indulgent. His lips puckered around your sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing slow circles around it with his tongue as your fingers fisted tighter into his curls, offering enough of a sting to make him groan around you. His tongue dipped into your entrance, lapping at your dripping arousal, your walls fluttering around his thick muscle as your hips jerked to meet his thrusts, pressing yourself against his face to chase your mounting pleasure.

This was different than the orgasms he’d granted you the day prior—this was a simmering heat, coiling lowly in your stomach, festering and building slowly as he sought out the places that made you squirm. You could feel the intensity spiking, even though his lazy speed remained constant—the way his dark eyes stayed firmly fixated on your face was dragging you closer and closer to the threshold.

“Fuck, Jake, oh God—”

You whined, and his hands slipped beneath your ass, lifting your hips to grant him a better angle at which to devour you. Your thighs were trembling, his tongue beginning to swipe over your clit in rapid side-to-side motions—the change of pace pulled a ragged wail from within you, the muscles of your abdomen squeezing tight. He couldn’t control the shameful rutting of his hips into the mattress beneath him at the sound.

“So close, Jake, yes, fuck—”

You were right on the precipice, stars clouding your vision, but right before you tipped over the edge, you yanked your hips back, lifting Jake's head away from you with your grip on his hair. He jolted, hazy eyes suddenly wide and alert as he sat back, bewildered at your abrupt departure from his lips. You squeezed your eyes shut as your orgasm dissipated, your tense muscles sinking back into the mattress as the coil loosened itself. You breathed out lowly, your lashes fluttering as you opened your arms to pull Jake against you.

“Sorry, honey, I—so good, Jake, fuck, but I—wanna cum on your cock, wanna cum with you.”

A low groan escaped him as he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes blinking closed to stave off the arousal that was singeing his insides.

“You—¿estás lista, mi vida? Are you sure?”

You nodded vigorously, pressing a kiss to his lips, and he let out a slow breath, hands sliding to your sides. Your brows furrowed when he pulled back, gently attempting to roll you onto your stomach. You reached up to grip his shoulders tightly, shaking your head.

“No, no, Jake, I want—wanna see you, wanna be close to you, please.”

There was turmoil churning behind his eyes as he stared down at you, brows furrowed heavily as he fought his internal battle. You realized he’d probably never done it like this before—if the fact that he was afraid to kiss you was any indication, you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he’d never let himself be caught in such an intimate position.

But then his eyes softened, his hand coming to cradle the side of your face, his thumb pressing up against the swell of your lower lip.

“Okay, hermosa. Por ti hago lo que sea.”

You felt his member slide between your dripping folds, the head of his cock brushing across your clit as he guided it against your center, hearing the way your breath hitched at the feel of him over your bundle of nerves. You felt it notch at your entrance, the tip just barely breaching your folds. Jake cursed lowly under his breath, eyes glued to where his cock was about to sink into you. In spite of your desperation, your hands lifted to rest on either side of his face, forcing his eyes onto you.

“Look at me, honey. Want you to look at me when you split me open.”

“Carajo.”

He muttered, closing his eyes to steel himself before opening them again to stare into yours. You watched his lips part as he pushed into you, unbearably slow, a low moan rumbling through his diaphragm as he sank into you, only stopping when he was fully-seated within your fluttering walls.

The intimacy was stifling him. He felt lightheaded, breathless, his body hovering over yours just barely as he held himself up above you, drinking in your heavenly being—your hair was fanned out on the pillow beneath you, your pink lips slicked with saliva as your gazed up at him with doe-eyes, blinking slowly as your walls clenched around him.

“God, Jake.”

You whispered, arms wrapping around his neck and pulling so he fell against you, chest flush against your own. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, staying still inside of you for a few brief moments in order to just feel the way you surrounded him.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled back his hips, just barely, before pressing back inside of you, your moans echoing in unison as his balls nestled tightly against your ass again. He’d always been so busy chasing his release, relentlessly pounding into you that he hadn’t taken the time to appreciate just how perfectly he filled you, just how perfectly your walls clamped around his pulsing length.

“So good, mi vida.”

He groaned against your neck, repeating the motion of his hips at a more steady pace. Each thrust pressed against your cervix, causing you to whimper.

“Fill me up so nice, Jake, fuck, feels so good.”

He felt your walls clamp around him once more, and he pulled his head back slightly, lifting himself up a bit more so he could increase the breadth of his thrusts.

“Me vas a matar.”

He growled, sucking in a breath through his teeth as one hand came to palm at your breast, his eyes glued to the way the other bounced with each push of his hips forward. His eyes drifted back to the fucked-out expression on your face, your lips parted as you stared up at him, and his hips stuttered just slightly.

God, he was close already.

“Fuck, hermosa, me arruinas.”

You could feel him faltering, a bead of sweat dripping from one of his curls and down onto your chest, sliding between your breasts and down to your stomach. He watched it dribble downward, eyes dazed, his abdomen clenching as he attempted to stave off his impending orgasm.

His hand clumsily wedged between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in crude circles, his arm trembling just slightly. Watching him grow desperate above you was enough to spark the beginnings of your climax. You pulled him down for a bruising kiss, teeth clashing and tongues swirling as you swallowed his incessant groans.

“Wan’ you to cum with me, Jake.”

Your words were drawled, drunk on the way his cock filled you, and you could feel pleasure sparking in the base of your spine. The speed of his fingers on your clit sped up slightly, his hips struggling to maintain their cadence.

“Mierda, hermosa, oh fuck, so tight—can’t, I can’t—”

“Cum inside me, Jake.”

Your words were only a whisper as you skated along the edge of your orgasm, just barely hanging on as you desperately tried to convince Jake to let go. His eyes blew open wide at your words, grunting as his hips continued jacking forward.

“Y/N, shit, don’t—I’ve never—”

“Oh, God, fuck, I’m cumming, Jake, please, please cum with me, fuck—”

He couldn’t have stopped himself even if he tried. The rhythmic pulsing of your walls around his painfully hard cock was harrowing, gripping him so tightly that he couldn’t have pulled out even if he wanted to.

His balls drew up tight as his climax exploded.

“Oh, me vengo—mierda, fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m cumming, shit, shit, shit—”

His eyes rolled back as he nearly collapsed on top of you, his hips pistoning forward again and again as he shot his spend deep into your walls, his cock pulsing. His orgasm seemed to last minutes as his vision blacked out, brain emptying as his awareness only focused on how the pleasure zipped across his skin with each pump of cum that he released and how tightly your walls were squeezing him, milking him for all he was worth. He’d never cum so hard in his life, or so much—his seed was leaking out around his length as his body slowed to a halt, your tired cunt stuffed full of him as his cock spilled one final spurt of warm release, the head of his member settling against your cervix as he stilled, his weight bearing down on you as he went boneless.

Jake was slowly grounded back into reality at the feeling of your fingertips brushing softly across the length of his spine, your other hand buried in his curls from where his face was tucked into your shoulder. He could feel your hot lips pressed against his temple, your breathing steady and even as you regained your bearings. He forced himself to follow your inhalation patterns, attempting to slow the racing of his heart.

As the endorphins flooding his bloodstream began to thin out, his anxieties threatened to consume him once again. He pushed himself up and off of you, groaning at the soreness in his muscles and the exhaustion tingeing the edge of his movements. You could do nothing but watch him as he slowly pulled out of you, and you expected him to leave you as hastily as he had the day before—maybe he would’ve, if not for the way his eyes glued themselves to your exposed center, enthralled by the sight of his cum oozing from your fluttering hole and dripping downwards.

Your hips jumped slightly when you felt his fingers gently sweep over your cunt—his gaze never lifted as he scooped his release from where is was beginning to escape and pushed it back into you, forcing you to keep as much of him inside as you could. His eyes were dark, possessive as he tilted your hips up just slightly in an effort to stop his cum from leaking out of you.

His sudden captivation and obsession with filling you was surprising, a stark contrast from just moments before when he had desperately resisted your pleas to finish inside of you. The ghost of a smile flickered over his lips as he settled you back down, seemingly content with the show. His eyes flickered up to yours, and as soon as your gazes met, you saw the way a shadow crested his features, abruptly throwing up his guard after the unexpected vulnerability he’d just granted you.

Jake walked to the bathroom, letting the door shut behind him with a click. You pulled yourself into a sitting position, sighing as you felt the stickiness between your thighs and settling beneath you. You should clean yourself up, get dressed and head out so that—

The bathroom door swung open again and Jake walked out, a wet washcloth awkwardly held in his left hand. He stood at the end of the bed for a moment, as if unsure of what to do next. His eyes hesitantly found yours.

“Do—I’m—I haven’t done this part before, mi vida.”

He quietly admitted, offering a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. Still, your heart warmed at his efforts.

“Thought—figured I’d try what Marc does, but I don’t—”

“Thank you, Jake, that’s perfect.”

You encouraged softly, and his eyes lit up with your soft praises as he knelt down on the edge of the bed, leaning down to carefully press the cloth to your ruined core. You sucked in a sharp breath, the coldness of the water a foreign sensation in contrast to the heat that was broiling between your legs—Jake recoiled, eyes searching yours widely for direction. You offered him a lopsided grin.

“Sorry, s’just—sensitive.”

You explained, and he nodded, slowly wiping at the arousal that stained your skin. His lips were pursed as he focused on his actions, trying desperately not to hurt you. After awhile, he sighed.

“Would you—do you want Marc? Or Steven?”

Your face fell as he finished cleaning you up, tossing the towel on the floor beside the bed, before facing you, his curls falling across his forehead and into his eyes. You frowned.

“No, Jake—not unless you don’t want to—it’s okay, I can always leave if that’s—”

He let out a humorless, bitter laugh, one hand coming up to stroke at his stubbled jaw as he stared at the ceiling, clearly uncomfortable.

“No sé lo que estoy haciendo.”

You heard him mumble breathlessly, his shoulders sagging with defeat.

“Do you—will you come lay with me, Jake?”

You asked softly, as if you were speaking to a wild animal and were trying desperately not to scare it away. His eyes darted to your face, lips parting to protest, to make up an excuse, but then he shook his head at himself, crawling up towards you and seating himself beside you, his back resting against the headboard. You tentatively leaned into his side, nestling your head against his shoulder. You felt him stiffen beside you slightly, but then his arm moved to wrap around you, pulling you closer against his side.

You felt him release a breath he’d been holding as you lifted a hand to rest on his bare chest, drawing random shapes into the warm skin mindlessly.

“Why did you think I’d want Marc or Steven?”

You asked softly, your eyes watching the movement of your fingers on his chest. His hold on you tightened.

“This—s’not my job. I don’t do things like this.”

You sat upright, turning to face him fully. His eyes were hard as they looked at you.

“What do you mean, not your job?”

His lips pursed.

“You know, hermosa. You’re the doctor, hm? Steven and me, we’re—we both do something for Marc. S’why we’re here. Marc and Steven, they—they get to feel things, know people. I’m—I’m just here to make sure they’re safe, that they don’t get hurt.”

Tears pricked behind your eyes as his words registered in your brain. There was an aching sensation festering in your chest.

“No, Jake, that’s not—that’s not how this works. You’re a person, you have every right to experience things just like they do, you’re—”

“No pasa nada. This is the way things are, hermosa. I know you thought—thought you’d be able to come and figure us out, show us what’s what, but—but I already know who I am, what part I play.”

The dejection in his voice was unmistakable. There was bitterness in his words, resentment. The pain in your chest expanded.

“I protect. That’s what I do. Means I don’t get—I don’t get to have this, mi vida. What happened today—that’t not mine.”

A tear rolled down your cheek, so you turned and sank back into his side, hoping he didn’t catch your display of emotion. In spite of himself, he let you press against him, savoring the feeling of your soft skin against his own.

You were hoping he’d open himself up to you after your intimate tryst, but you obviously misread the situation—his walls had come back up, even stronger and more unwavering than before.

Perhaps he sensed your sadness. You felt him release a long sigh, his muscles going lax as he let his head fall against the headboard.

“Lo siento, hermosa. I—you deserve better than what I can give you.”

Your head turned to gaze up at him, finding his eyes staring straight ahead at a random focal point. You felt your heart crack a bit.

“Stop, Jake, don’t say that. That’s not true, I don’t—”

“It’s okay, mi vida. I appreciate what you tried to do for me today. Significa mucho para mí.”

He swallowed, and when he finally looked down at you, the warmth he’d been unabashedly displaying for you had been replaced by the familiar austere glint that normally resided there.

No. You wouldn’t have it. Not after all of this.

Your hand reached up to cradle his jaw, thumb swiping over the apple of his cheek as you turned his head to face you.

“I know you’ve heard me say it, Jake. To Marc and Steven. This wasn’t—this isn’t just research.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as his eyes flickered down to your lips, and you felt the arm that was wrapped around you tighten its grip again.

“I care about you, a lot—”

“You don’t know me.”

His words were brazen, suddenly harsh, insistent against your admission. Your brows furrowed.

“I’m not—I’m not like the others. I’m—I’m no good, hermosa. You care about Steven, and Marc, but I’m not like them. I don’t feel things like them, I can’t—estás mejor sin mí.”

“Then let me know you, Jake. You’re a part of this system, just as much as Marc and Steven, and you deserve to be happy.”

He didn’t answer you—his jaw rippled at the conviction your tone offered, so certain with yourself. You let out a long sigh, reaching to pull at his arm as you shifted. His brows furrowed, but he let you coax him into a lying position, his head against the pillows as you once again nestled into his side, arms wrapped tightly around his torso as you pressed your front against his side, face squished against his shoulder. You placed a soft kiss to the skin there.

“I’m gonna stay with you tonight, okay, Jake?”

You felt his muscles tense in protest, every fiber of his being telling him to make you leave, to get up and go, but the proximity and warmth of your body was intoxicating. After a few beats, he finally offered a slow nod, his limbs relaxing as he sank into the bed. You reached to pull the duvet over you two, clutching onto him tightly, and even if he refused to hold you back, you could feel the way his body went pliant beneath your touch.

He shouldn’t let you so close. He’d managed to keep his distance before—but with the way your breaths slowed into gentle snores, your hair tickling against his bicep, your comforting heat seeping into his bones—he felt his resolve begin to crack beneath the pressure of your insistent affections.

Jake let himself mold against you, his head tilting to rest against the top of yours as he pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of your head—he told himself that it was okay, you were sleeping, no one ever had to know just how much you’d softened him, how deeply you’d sunk your perfectly-manicured nails into his flesh—and no one ever had to know just how much he loved it.

For the first time in what felt like ever, Jake Lockley actually slept.

TAGLIST: @kezibear143 @gingermous @josephquinncore @steven-grants-world @am-3-thyst @fanofverymanythings @vaneyvfs @theboggyman-blog @belladri @roserfz27 @nowayhomerry @justanotherkpopstanlol @bagsy-not-it @elles-mind-palace @pimosworld @winterbiip @moonmoonboys @icuminurbutt @spxctorsslxt @fandomqueen74 @freerangesweets @wumpsquill @wordacadabra @lunaleah @hornkneeforbucky @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @sweatyroadcowboyjudge @ronanthesimp @deezisnotreal @avengersinitiative2012 @pri00r @wand-erer5 @bitchotine @cookielovesbook-akie @kingtwhiddleston @manofworm @welcometostayingawake @papillonoirsworld @xsarcasticwriterx @this--is--music @paradox-brody-chase

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

As someone who has always loved siblings dynamics in fiction, I find it funny that almost every single member of the HoM team has siblings. Kim has two little brothers, Danny has an older sister, Jake has a little sister, Jenny has eight robot sisters, June has an older and a younger brother, Rex has an older brother, and Zak has three cryptid siblings. Ben and Randy are the only ones who are technically only children but Ben still at least has a cousin who he has a sibling dynamic with. I don't think Randy had anyone like that. (Although it's one of the few shows here that I didn't watch so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.) Any way, now Only Child Cunningham is being treated like the little brother by all of these experienced siblings and has no clue what to do and I find that funny.

(P.s. sorry about the long comment. This thought wouldn't leave me alone so I thought i should share it)

(P.p.s I love your HoM au and your art. Thank you for sharing it!)

Please, don't be sorry, this is like, one of my favorite asks about HoMies I ever got! And also thank you for your kind words! <3<3<3

I also adore sibling dynamics in fiction! It's one of the main reasons I don't want to put much focus on ships in this AU, like I mentioned before, there would be like one canon couple with one of HoMies, but otherwise everyone are sort of floating in nebulous single area, so I could focus better on their complicated friendships with a dash of found family/siblings dynamics!

(And your ask reminded me of a fanart I did a long time ago about Randy being the only child in Secret Trio. xD same brain anon!)

Also one can argue that Howard, Randy's best friend, could be considered sort of like a brother to him (they became friends at a very young age), but I personally view them more as Bros. (does it make sense, lol?)

But even if we count Howard, their dynamic would be more equal in older-younger sibling scale, while Randy indeed would be mostly treated as a younger sibling amongst HoMies and it would probably drive him insane!

Being the youngest and newest in their friend circle, he is like a new baby brother or a co-worker/young kohai (ye, cringe wording but terminology vibe aint wrong! xD) that others are prepared to protect and help, impart their wisdom on, but also tease! (and perhaps learn something from him in return! )

But Randy Only Child Cunningham, as an already seasoned, if a bit overconfident, hero would hate (just a little bit) being considered as less experienced (even if he technically is) than others, no matter how much he absolutely adores being in presence of all those cool people! At times it would feel condescending, but in reality others just want to support him the more they learn about how he came to be the Ninja.

After all they know what it felt like being that young, having that responsibility trust upon your shoulders and going through so much. Especially considering that among them, Randy perhaps had the least stable support during his hero-ing career. Sure, all of them had to go through some things alone, but there were family and friends that were there to help when it came to it. And, no offense to Howard, who does sometimes manages to get through for Randy, he is not the best at being the type of support Randy needs at times. And, Ninjanomicon? While incredibly useful for teaching moral lessons and art of being Ninja - is not exactly the most er, physically able in supporting Randy at time of crisis, being an inanimate object and all that, lol.

So yes, Randy-Only Child-Lone Ninja Hero-Cunningham sometimes doesn't know what to do with all those people who appeared in his life and treat him like a little bro! But sometimes, he enjoys it. ;)

(a little bit of random rambling beneath, feel free to ignore! haha)

Also random, and its not very obvious at all, but there is slightest differences amongst HoMies on how they view/regard him and behave with/around him, depending on their own experiences:

Kim and Jake, as older siblings through and through, tend to see him as a younger bro, like their own siblings who can be a handful and overzealous little hellions at times.

Danny, Rex, Jenny and Zak are a bit complicated. They all have siblings that are older than them, but they are also kind of younger in some sense (or in Danny's case an adopted younger sibling).

Danny and Rex would tend to be overprotective a little bit, as people who didnt have a younger sibling before (I mean, Danny does but she is so independant! Danny doesnt get to exercise his overprotectiveness on Danielle xD) so its a bit new to them. But they are also kind of dicks, and thats just the younger siblings in them talking, lol.

Jenny and Zak on the other hand, both have siblings that are very confusing from the age bracket view.

All ofJenny's siblings are older than her BUT their prototype AI and bodies make them behave younger than her, so she tends to view them as younger siblings. There is a constant argument amongst them about who is older-younger, but its all in good fun! (She also sometimes misses being the only child. xD)

Zak's siblings are all cryptids, and two of them are older than him in age (Fisk and Zon are definitily full grown and possibly more long-lived than humans, I still have questions about Komodo, but he is probably older than Zak in age just by a little bit), but their behaviour, as.... well, i don't want to say animals, because they are not mindless animals, but let's just say - their disregard to human behaviours and norms, as cryptids, make them behave in a way that could be considered irresponsible, thus making Zak often behave like a responsible older sibling, despite being younger than them.

So, Jenny and Zak tend to be as snooty and in 'charge' as an older sibling would, but also be mischevous little shits that is younger (sorta only) child behaviour.

Ben and Jun are sort of like the previous four, but they tend to view Randy on a more equal footing rather than just vacilate between older-younger types of behaviour.

Ben, is a single child, but he grew up pretty close to Gwen, since they were born on the same day. Sort of growing up twins but not kinda situation. They also have an older cousin/brother Ken, and they both adore him, but it is obvious that primarly those two grew up together and are equally annoyed with that, lol.

Jun is a middle child. (I kind of dont want to say anything else, because i feel like it explains everything. xD but-) She is independant, and is equally exasparated with her snooty older brother and her hellion of a younger brother. So, really, she just tends to be the most normal towards Randy in the end???

so, ye, of course in the end they treat him as just a new friend, this was just more of me trying to look into inner mind of sibling dynamics in a weird way haha

sorry about it, but if you got this far, hope you had an entertaining read! ;D

[onigiriico]

Mikoto audio drama (t2) - English TL

[ links: Spotify | YouTube ]

Mikoto-ing again 🫡 I know I say this like every other post, but I 100% recommend listening to the audio alongside the translation! On one hand the VAs just did an amazing job on this, and on the other hand I also feel like it'll. probably make the switches more obvious than I can convey in text lol

Little disclaimer about the way I translated the DID terminology here: I know the correct term in English is "alter", but in the JP audio they're consistently referred to as "personalities" (人格 / jinkaku) while the closest Japanese equivalent to "alter" seems to be 自我 / jiga, from what I could find. I generally try to stick as closely to the JP terminology with my translations as possible, so I mostly went with "personality". I really don't want to offend anyone here so I hope that's a somewhat okay choice ahshbsdj

Okay. Okay that got lengthy. As usual, if you find any mistranslations, have questions, etc etc feel free to send me an ask or hit me up on Twitter where I drop by, like, once a month 😅 And now without further ado:

⬇️ translation under the cut ⬇️

(Es enters)

E: Mikoto…

M: Ah… Hi, Warden-kun.

E: You… are Mikoto, right?

M: Uh… What are you talking about? It really feels like it’s been a while, doesn’it? How have you been? – Huh? What’s that…? Chains? Oh, no. Take them off!

E: I refuse. You’re too dangerous. Physical restrictions are necessary.

M: Umm… (laughs) What are you saying, restricting someone who can’t even hurt a fly?

E: You really aren’t aware, huh…

M: Well, I mean… I do get it. I… go out of control while I’m asleep, right?

E: …

M: The others told me about it. How I got into a fistfight with Koto-chan and whatnot.

E: Seems like it, yeah.

M: I wonder if it’s like… some kind of sleepwalking…? After all, I’ve been losing sleep more and more often recently… Man… It’s really troublesome, isn’t it?

E: Mikoto…

M: The others are all scared of me. I can tell by looking at the way they act. Because I read the room.

E: …

M: It’s pretty tough, isn’t it? (laughs) Ever since I came here, so much has been happening that I don’t understand…

E: … You really… do laugh when you’re suffering, huh?

M: Huh?

E: You don’t get angry. You don’t scream. You laugh, like it’s a minor inconvenience.

M: Ah… I guess so. I might have that kind of trait.

E: …

M: Usually, if you just laugh and pretend, things work out in the end, right? I’m pretty good at that. Making things work out to the best of my abilities.

E: Is that so…

M: (laughs) …But… it’s not coming to an end. All of this. With things I’ve never even heard before, the whole ti—

E: …

M: —the whole time… I have to make all these irritating experiences…!

E: You came out, huh.

M: Hey. Looks like you haven’t gotten a beating yet, Warden brat.

E: …!

M: Hah? What, are you scared?

E: Like you didn’t get beaten by Kotoko…!

M: Hah. That was just because she caught me off guard. We went at it again while you were asleep, and it’s not like I lost there.

E: Multiple personalities… Am I right with the assumption that the you I’m talking to right now is another personality of Mikoto’s?

M: Well, I guess that’s about right.

E: I see. What do you want me to call you?

M: Huh? You’re accepting this pretty readily, aren’t you. Wouldn’t the whole multiple personalities thing normally raise some eyebrows?

E: Yeah. I also didn’t think it was real, at first.

M: Figures. If it wasn’t me, I wouldn’t believe it either. I’d just think it’s a lie someone came up with to get away with murder.

E: But Milgram acknowledges that [it is real] in your case. I simply accept that as the truth, and develop my thoughts from there. So? What do you want me to call you? Your name.

M: No clue about that. Just call me whatever.

E: … For convenience, I’ll be calling you John.

M: Sounds like a dog’s name.

E: It’s derived from John Doe, the name given to unidentified bodies. Do you like it?

M: Can’t say I’m very fond of the way you’re flaunting your knowledge.

E: … Anyway. You’re acting pretty calm today, aren’t you? I thought of you more like a monster of some sort. I wasn’t expecting to have such a proper conversation with you.

M: Don’t get cocky! If not for these chains, I would’ve beaten your face in by now, brat.

E: Ohh, scary, scary.

M: Hmph.

E: John, you are not a prisoner of Milgram. The fact that Milgram’s usual restraints are ineffective against you is more proof for that than anything. Milgram has judged that Mikoto is the prisoner, and you, as his alter, are an exception.

M: Huhh, I see. So that’s why you believe that there’s multiple personalities.

E: That’s why I thought I would try and talk to you as a key witness today. I’m rather glad that you’re being cooperative.

M: But, you know… This isn’t a good thing, probably.

E: What do you mean?

M: I (boku) might be trying to disappear.

E: …

M: Evidently, the time I (ore) have been fronting has been getting longer, so this “me” has been able to stabilize. Isn’t that the reason we can talk properly?

E: …

M: If I had stayed a monster… maybe that would be better.

E: …

M: What?

E: You’ve turned out to be much more rational than I expected… I’m surprised.

M: I’m a university graduate, after all.

E: (sighs)

M: As for alters… Why do you think they’re born?

E: In precise terms, it’s called dissociative identity disorder – generally speaking, [it refers to] when a person experiences severe pain or stress, and a new personality is created to try and isolate [the original personality] from the resulting trauma.

M: Yeah. I… probably come out to ease the stress Boku experiences. The fact that I come out for longer just means that Boku is constantly under extreme stress.

E: Stress… Namely the environment of Milgram, right?

M: Right. Especially the fact that you judged against forgiving Boku is causing a lot of stress. That’s why he’s entrusting me with his heart.

E: I see.

M: Not like I can blame him. From his point of view, he’s being blamed for a crime he can’t even remember.

E: If that’s the truth, then… you’re the one who committed the murder?

M: Yeah, it’s me. I killed them off.

E: …

M: So Boku really didn’t do it.

E: Can I ask… why you killed them?

M: They annoyed me.

E: Who did you kill?

M: Just someone who was walking around nearby.

E: … How many did you kill?

M: Can’t remember. I was first born back then, you know. It’s kinda fuzzy.

E: How can you talk about that so calmly?

M: (sighs) According to the law, how would this go for Boku?

E: With a psychiatric evaluation, there’s a chance of a reduced sentence, but depending on the number of victims… the death penalty might be inevitable.

M: …! I– I’m the one who did it! Boku was just sleeping!

E: Is this really something that works that conveniently?

M: Just put yourself in Boku’s shoes for a moment! He was bottling up all his stress! He kept dealing with it all by himself the whole time, until it exploded! It’s not like he just decided that he wanted to hurt somebody!

E: …

M: He’s not the type of person who could do stuff like that! He always looks out for others, always reads the room, always tries to get along with people around him! He can’t do stuff like that… He was on the verge of exploding! That’s why I was born. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Boku didn’t do anything!

E: Even if that’s true… Even if it wasn’t what Mikoto wanted – someone’s life was still lost.

M: …!

E: Even if it was you, John, who was in [your body at the time] – there’s no way for you to prove that. At the very least not in a way that would be accepted in court. It could still be judged that you’re pretending—

M: You…!! What do you think?

E: I…?

M: I’m the one who did it! Boku didn’t do it! You know that because of Milgram! I don’t care about the law, I want to know what you think!

E: …

M: Please… forgive Boku. I’m the one who did it.

E: … I can’t… judge that right away. It’s not something that I can easily decide to forgive. In fact, Mikoto’s mental footage was so violent… it’s unforgivable. That’s how I judged.

M: That could also just be a fake or owed to the multiple personalities, right?! Boku really isn’t at fault! I’m the one who killed them!

E: …

M: Are you really satisfied [with the unforgiven judgment]? He turned into a murderer overnight!

E: What you did could still be considered a sin, though!

M: …! … I think… I might be the person Boku wishes he was. The person who stubbornly stands his ground, who doesn’t cry himself to sleep from stress, who gives people their payback. If I, the “ore” personality, hadn’t been born, I’m sure Boku would have reached his limit and fallen apart.

E: John… you…

M: It’s true that I was the one who wanted to destroy everything… and the weakness of Boku, who couldn’t stand up for himself all alone, might have been the origin of that. But… that’s all there is to it. Is that a sin?

E: I’ll be considering that after this.

M: After talking to you, I get that you couldn’t forgive what I did. And I’m fine with that.

E: …Yeah. That’s right.

M: The one Milgram is supposed to judge is Boku – Mikoto, right. He’s not me – so, not John.

E: Precisely.

M: Please, forgive Boku. If you don’t… I’m sure he won’t be able to deal with this any longer.

E: “A sin committed by another personality isn’t a sin”... you’re telling me that’s how I should judge?

M: Yeah. If you forgive Boku… I’ll disappear.

E: …

M: That’s right. I’ll have to disappear eventually, anyway… Disappear, and take all of it with me. I… was born to protect Boku, after all.

E: You were… born for it…

M: Yeah. If it’s for Boku, I’ll… do anything.

(machinery whirrs, bell rings)

E: John…

M: W…what? A dog’s name?

E: Mikoto…?

M: Warden-kun, you own a dog? What breed? No, wait, let me try guessing first– A toy poodle? Actually, maybe you surprisingly prefer the ugly-cute kind… like a French bulldog!

E: … No…

M: A pug, then?

E: It’s not the name of a dog!

M: Ehh… Then what…?

E: … It’s the name of your… friend.

M: (laughs) I don’t know anyone like that~

E: … I bet you don’t.

M: Huh…?

E: Prisoner no.9, Mikoto. Sing your sins.

[sunlit-skycat]

Some pondering on the organization of Musser's forces in Pale. Text below cut to avoid spoilers. It's been a while since I actually read the relevant sections, so feel free to correct me if any of this is contradicted by the text.

On a strategic level, Musser wants to stop Charles from being able to decide stuff about Practice in the region. He chooses to accomplish this by taking as many Lordships over Ontario as possible, to lock out Charles' influence. In canon, we see him doing this by having a single strong Practitioner claim the area, and then hand it to someone weaker who can hold onto it, like Milly. It isn't very important to him which Practitioner takes exactly what area, as long as it is within the general pool he wants to reward.

Technically, this means that only the actual person making the Lordship claim matters. Dipping into gaming terminology here, Musser's win con is to get someone who can do an accelerated 3 day Lordship claim into the appropriate location and make sure they don't face anyone they can't win a fight against.

Musser is super strong. In 12.9, Zed says that he can run roughshod over LVA and bind every single Other in Kennet. He has a ridiculous number of combat feats. Given all of that, why does Musser need to send anyone else into Kennet before he gets there?

It isn't explicitly stated in the text, but it would make sense if everyone else is sent there as canon fodder to discover what traps the locals have sent by walking into them first. In other words, reconnaissance by force. In his interlude, Easton is told, "Stall them, until we can hit them with our main forces, he remembered the order.  We’ll arrive just before dawn." What he isn't told is that his group isn't intended to succeed, because none of them can realistically achieve Musser's win con, which is to get one (1) strong Practitioner into the center of town and successfully complete a Lordship claim. What they are meant to do is to bait out any tricks the Kenneteers have so that all of Kennet's reserves are exhausted by the time Musser comes into town.

Because they don't matter, Musser hasn't bothered to make sure that these groups have strong cohesion and work well together. Successful armies tend to be ones that replicate well-functioning peacetime social structures on the battlefield, or have long training periods to build up cohesion through shared experiences. The most "natural" unit in the Practitioner world is that of the family, but instead the groups Elizabeth and Easton are sent to Kennet in are made of loose acquaintances and classmates. It's demonstrated multiple times in their interludes how these groups have a lot of clashing personalities that cause them to work at cross purposes to each other. Elizabeth and Angie have some preexisting feud, and Easton can't go 10 minutes without sexually harassing Shay. These are terrible group assignments, and the only in-universe example I can think of for why anyone thought it was a good idea to put them together is if leadership doesn't care enough to set them up to succeed. After all, they are mooks meant to prepare the way for Musser, both in-universe and outside of it.

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you a transfer student?” Steven asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marc. His name was Marc.

Why is he stuck in my bloody head?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stiffened. “Y-yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. You were shy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now, anyway.

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

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

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

Steven hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only he knew.

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

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

“ ...Steven? ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’m here for you.’

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

You quirked an inquisitive brow.

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

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

Oh, he could kiss you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you responded encouragingly, expression neutral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[your-fav-is-a-wod-monster]

Hello and Welcome! My name is Marrow!

I Love The World Of Darkness. Obsessed some would say. Many would say.

This blog is to finally get more of my brain-thoughts out. In particular, have fun with some other fandoms and shove their characters, monsters, and general beings into a WoD (or CofD) shaped cookie cutter. the idea is mainly inspired by many gimmick blogs, in particular @yourfaveisafearavatar and the recent Burgerkrieg video (linked below). some more info below the cut!

(generally go check out TheBurgerKrieg excellent content creator)

I have a fairly good grasp of WoD, but i am not an expert on these topics, so take my word with a grain of salt. this is all in good fun and i actively encourage you to tell me what YOU would think would be a better fit for the given character Speaking of:

For submitting a character, monster, or otherwise supernatural being, i only ask that you put in a name and brief description of the character you send. A name will be enough, but i would prefer having more of your input and thoughts as i make my analysis.

I will cover just about any character and do my best to give an accurate account of The Lore (tm) of WoD This goes for anything, not just strictly supernatural beings (i fully expect at least 1 mention of Columbo). Just keep the joke characters to a minimum.

I'll also go into my best detail about what the monster i am assigning your character is and its functions. For the most part, i feel like anyone submitting a monster will be doing so knowing what WoD is. However i have always loved these types of blogs where i get to learn about a whole new subculture, so i will at least briefly go over what is necessary for my assessment

Ill also happily do follow ups, corrections, debates on some of my choices, and generally respond to any other questions or thoughts you may have. Feel free to poke me, i will not bite :3

Lastly, i have no problem reviewing most if not all media, up to and including the problematic stuff. But i will include trigger warnings if necessary for the submission, and actively ignore anything that may be hateful or purely for my own suffering. i am simply having fun here with my touys. please be kind.

All analysis's will be numbered and categorized with the appropriate gameline. More specific terminology and catergorization to be determined later. Have fun!

[meet-this-stuttering-character]

Greetings Tumblr!

I present you another do-you-know-this-thing blog, but this one is dedicated to characters who stutter. I’ve noticed an extreme lack of stuttering representation both in media and here on Tumblr, and my goal is to change it with this blog.

First, a little about me.

I’m a stutterer myself. I’ve been stuttering since childhood, and now when I’m an adult, my stutter starts to severely affecting the quality of my life. It made me actively fight it since last year, I was in therapy and took medication, but there were no visible improvements. Currently, I’m learning how to accept my stutter and live a full life in spite of it.

I don’t know whether this blog will become a thing, so I’d prefer not to reveal either my main blog or my nickname for now, but you can refer to me by using she/her pronouns. I also want to point out that English is not my first language, so if I mess up or use the wrong terminology, forgive me, I’m genuinely sorry. Feel free to correct me, though.

And now, about the blog.

For now, my plan is to post one poll weekly. I’ll wait until the middle of June, and if there are no submissions, I’ll start posting the characters that I find myself in hope more people will learn about the blog and get interested in it.

I haven’t created a google form yet, since I want to start gathering submissions through my askbox. However, if more people prefer google forms, I can always create it. I can work with whatever.

Submission requirements.

Your submission needs to include the character’s name, the character’s picture, and the name of media they’re from. If you can also provide a video fragment where it’s clearly heard that your character is indeed a stutterer, that would be great (but it’s optional, so please, don’t feel pressured).

I will not accept real people unless they’re from a movie/book about a historical figure. My priority is fictional characters. However, your character can be from any kind of media, whether it’s a movie, a book, a video game, or anything else.

I will not accept characters who just pretend to be a stutterer. Their stutter must be real otherwise it’s just pointless.

A few things to add.

I haven’t met a single person on Tumblr who stutters, so I also want to create sort of a stuttering community here. If you’re comfortable with sharing your experience about your stutter with me and everyone else here, feel free to send a message! Really, I’ll gladly listen to all of your stories and I’m sure that other stutterers will be happy to know that they’re not alone.

For now, my profile picture is Bill Denbrough from It. I know nothing about this guy except for the fact that he stutters, so if he’s not good representation, let me know and feel free to suggest any other character that you want to see as this blog profile picture. My header is the sea, and it has nothing to do with stuttering, I just love the sea.

I was inspired to create this blog by:

@do-you-know-this-adhd-character

@doyouknowthisdisabledcharacter

@doyoulikethissong-poll

@doyouknowthischaracter

If you can spread the word, I will highly appreciate it!

That’s it! Thank you everyone for your attention, I’m really excited to start working on this blog and meet all of you.

[talbaquix]

A layman's guide to olympic fencing—

for writers, artists, olympic fans, or the otherwise curious.

disclaimer: i say layman for a reason! i'm not at all a professional, or even good, but i have been fencing (very) recreationally at an amateur level for ~7 years. also, my exposure to sabre is extremely limited, and i am speaking from an american POV, so please feel free to correct me on any points you see necessary. :)

long post incoming...

So, what is "Olympic fencing?"

First and foremost, it is a sport. Not a fight, not a duel—a sport. One of five that have been permanent fixtures since the very first modern Olympic games, actually—hence the name! While other similar sword-wielding activities (such as historical European martial arts (HEMA), kendo, or wushu for example) may occasionally be referred to as "fencing," most people (me included) define fencing as this specific sport, and use other classifiers to categorize the rest.

Originally, fencing began as a form of military training in Germany and Italy, before spreading recreationally across more areas in Europe. Currently, the fencing scene is almost uncontestedly dominated by Italy, France, and Hungary, though both China/HK and the US have had some pretty stellar wins more recently.

In addition, French has a pretty large influence on fencing terminology and language, at least in the West. Be prepared!

The Basics

Three Weapons

Fencing is divided into three disciplines, each with their own equipment, strategies, and ruleset. They are as follows:

Épée: The classic. The heaviest and most defensive of the three blades, épée's simple ruleset allows for more elaborate strategy and really lives up to fencing's moniker of "physical chess." In épée, the entirety of your opponents body (including face, toes, etc!) counts as valid target area and all hits must be scored with the tip of the blade. In case of a double-touch (relatively simultaneous hits from both opponents), both opponents score points.

Because there's no need for specific target areas, épéeists enjoy minimal equipment, forgoing lamés (electric jackets, pronounced luh-may) and mask cords in exchange for a larger bell guard to protect the hand (that big bit of metal at the end of the blade). Épéeists can use pistol grips for more point control (molded to fit a hand), or a french grip to get a little bit of extra distance (red stick grip).

Épée bouts are stereotypically known for being slow and boring, since the absence of right-of-way (explained later) allows more freedom in trying to sus out opponent reactions and strategize, and the whole-body target + double-touch system means there's more benefit to fencing slowly in comparison to sabre or foil. It's not uncommon for épée bouts to begin with both fencers being carded for passivity! There's a lot of bouncing back and forth in the middle.

Saber (Sabre): Fast, slashing, and aggressive. The fencing you see in movies? Sabre. It's the only cutting weapon, where the entire length of the blade is able to register contact with the opponent. In sabre, the target area is the upper half of the body (including the face, but excluding the hand) and their lamés reflect that. Sabre also employs what is known as right-of-way/priority/advantage (from here on abbreviated as RoW) which, in the case of a double-touch, essentially gives RoW—and therefore the point—to the "aggressing" fencer at the referee's discretion. RoW is pretty complicated, but is very influential in how both sabre and foil play out.

In their ready (en garde) position, sabreists also hold their blade vertically to protect the face (as opposed to foil and épée, where the blade is held horizontally to keep the point towards the opponent). Sabreists also need special masks to register hits, as well as a mask cord to connect it to the rest of the electric circuit. Sabre bell guards are kinda swoopy and extend downward (think pirates) and are always "french grips" (aka just a stick).

Sabreists are generally known for being (respectfully) batshit insane and dramatic as hell. Bouts are extremely fast (rarely more than a few seconds) and look simple, and rely much more on pure athleticism and fast reaction times than épée. Most bouts consist of the two fencers running towards each other, maybe a parry or two, then both fencers scoring hits with a fair bit of screaming and angrily pointing at the ref. Oh wait, did I say running? Sorry, I meant advancing, since sabre is also the only discipline where crossing-over with your legs got banned because people just started sprinting towards the middle instead of actually fencing. Love them for that.

Foil (Fleuret, rarely): Oh, foil. The artistic middleman. Originating as a practice weapon, foil tends to sit in the middle of épée's careful point-control and elaborate strategy and sabre's split-second reactions and fuck-it-we-ball energy. Yet somehow, it ends up being more nit-picky and complicated than both. It has the smallest target area of the three, only covering the torso, as well as the lightest blade. Touches are only registered from the tip.

RoW's influence is noticeably large, since, compared to sabre, the longer bout times actually allow for opportunity for RoW to be traded between you and your opponent. Foil can almost be thought of as turn-based combat. Fencer A initiates the attack first, now has RoW, lunges and misses, which gives RoW to Fencer B. Fencer B attacks, gets parried (back to Fencer A), A extends, B counterattacks, A gets the point.

Foil stereotypes aren't as strong as épée or sabre stereotypes, but foilists are generally known for either being super pedantic and arguing w/ the ref about RoW or whipping their blade around constantly & being flowery (hence, "fleuret"). Because of how bendy the foil is, foilists can also do cool stuff like flicks (snapping your wrist so that the blade bends around, oftentimes to hit your opponents back) and can also get into pretty funny in-fighting situations a bit more often than sabre/épée (since corps-a-corps contact isn't allowed in fencing, and stepping back means you lose RoW, there's a lot of awkward up-close poking).

Some Positions

En garde: the basic fencing position. In essence, a squat, with one foot facing forward and the other turned out, roughly one and a half foot-lengths apart. This is the basis from which all other movements—the lunge, the advance, the retreat—should be executed, and the position fencers return to once an action is completed.

Lunge: the quintessential fencing attack. From en garde, extend your dominant arm, kick out your front foot, land forward, and extend your back arm for balance. To recover, bend your back leg and return to en garde.

Parry: the most basic piece of defensive bladework that every fencer learns, with the "beat" serving as its offensive counterpart. Consists of hitting your opponents blade to prevent a touch. There are nine different parries in classical fencing, but the most common (in foil/épée) are the four and six, which defend the inside and outside lines respectively.

Ettiquette & Other Fun Facts

All fencers must salute their opponent, referee, and audience (if there is one) before and after the bout. Usually just consists of "nodding" at the salutee with your blade before the mask is donned. At the end of bouts, a handshake with your opponent using your non-dominant hand is also expected. Many people substitute/add on to the handshake by tapping blades instead.

Unlike in tennis, seeing a fencer hold up a one on their hand after a touch is an acknowledgement of the opponent's point, whereas a closed fist is a claim of theirs.

When fencing without a ref, many people will slap their thigh to indicate the start of a bout.

Fencers may not speak while the mask is on.

Fencing clubs are also sometimes called salles.

While electrical equipment can vary between disciplines, all fencers are required to wear knickers, a plastron (under-arm protector), a body cord, a jacket, a glove, and a mask. For women, a plastic chest protector is also required. In sabre and foil, fencers also wear a mask cord and lamé.

The first safety rule most fencers learn is to never raise your blade towards someone without a mask on, and it's taken pretty seriously. Because the back of a mask is exposed, its also a big big no-no to turn your back to your opponent during a bout or otherwise lower your head.

Common Terminology

En garde, prez, allez! - On guard, ready, fence! Used to signal the start of a bout.

Halt! - Said by referees to. halt the bout.

Strip/piste - The surface on which fencers fence. Usually around 2m wide and 14m long, the lines on the piste also dictate where fencers must move to to begin bouts, and where they're considered out-of-bounds. Sometimes, they're on raised platforms. Yes, people have fallen off, yes, it's extremely funny.

Feint - Probably what you think it is.

Disengage - Moving your blade in a little circle to avoid contact with what is usually an incoming parry/beat. On a very basic level, straight attacks beat disengages, disengages beat parries, and parries beat straight attacks.

Fleche - An explosive running attack. Due to not being able to cross-over, sabreists use "flunges" instead, a mix between a fleche and a lunge that essentially entails flinging yourself at your opponent in a flying lunge.

Balestra - hop :)

Riposte - An immediate attack done after a defender's parry. Usually heard as "parry-riposte."

Tempo - A kind of nebulous concept, but very similar to the musical definition of the word. The pace of a bout, sorta. Often used when someone is advised to break tempo or if one fencer is controlling the tempo of a bout.

FAQ

Why are the blades bendy? To keep us from dying, mainly. What, you want the metal pole people can throw at each other at the same speed as a bullet (literally) to be solid? Also, blades break a lot already, especially in the hands of the inexperienced—they'd snap a hell of a lot more if they weren't flexible. Ouch.

Does it hurt? About as much as getting poked really hard with a steel stick would. Leaves bruises often, but cuts very rarely. You get used to it. The real kicker is staying in en garde for that long. Trust me, your quads will be screaming.

Is it- No, it's not dangerous. If you follow the rules, fencing is actually extremely safe, especially compared to contact sports.

Does a red light mean no touch? No. One fencer is assigned a red light that lights up whenever a touch is made, and the other is given green. In sabre and foil, yellow (sometimes white) means whatever the fencer hit was off-target, and should not be counted as a point. Épée doesn't have an off-target light, since épéeists don't wear lamés.

How do the masks know when a point is scored? Often asked upon seeing the little lights on the side of masks light up upon touches. Unless you're "dry fencing" (no electricity), you're typically hooked up to a circuit. If you fence épée or foil, there's a little button on the end of your blade that registers when pressure is added onto it. When a hit is scored, the signal goes through the wire in your blade, up your body cord, and eventually to "the box" (and your mask if you're fancy), and the corresponding light is flashed.

Why hold your hand behind your back? Most people don't! Some beginners do it to prevent themselves from reflexively moving their non-gloved hand in front of them when being attacked (which is against the rules), but most fencers either keep their hand relaxed at their side, raised in a t-rex pose, or occasionally above the head.

Helmet? Mask.

Sword? If you want.

Touché? Often "touche," actually. No accent.

Paralympics? On (stationary) wheelchairs. Extremely cool, actually, and very hard. Check it out!

Expensive? To get all your own stuff? Yes. But most clubs will rent you equipment, or sometimes lend it for free! But yes, more expensive than, like, soccer. :(.

Is it fun? Absolutely. To quote some random internet user, "it's like chess, at 90 miles an hour, oh and there's swords!" I would 100% recommend it to everyone, especially if you're on the older side (fencing isn't super age-restricted at all—seeing a 12 y/o and a 70 y/o facing off on a club piste isn't uncommon!) It is exhausting, exhilarating, and super, super fun. Give it a shot!

.

Please feel free to send any and all questions, corrections, or musings my way. Thanks for reading—I hope this was interesting and/or useful!

[fanby-fckry]

It’s not Wednesday, but UH3 brainrot has once again consumed me.

I’m supposed to be catching up on Ace Alastor Week, and instead I’m writing ahead in the Season 1 fic.

Sneak peek below, heed the tags.

Content Warning: self harm*, blood, references to canon-typical violence, implied/referenced child abuse, inconsistent terminology regarding sex and gender**

*Whether or not this is self harm could probably be up for debate, but I, personally, consider it to be a form of self harm. Please put your own health and safety first; read with caution of feel free to keep scrolling. Stay safe, readers.

**Alastor sometimes conflates sex and gender because he just doesn’t think about or care what people have in their pants. He grew up in a time where the two were considered interchangeable; while he knows neither sex nor gender are static/that not everyone matches up with the gender they were assigned and will call a trans person by their chosen name/pronouns, gender them correctly, and treat them exactly like he’d treat anyone else, he still gets the terms a little mixed up from time to time. He wouldn’t gatekeep someone based on their transition status, because the physical state of someone else’s body isn’t his concern unless he’s actively in the process of killing them. And even then, he’s not focused on sex characteristics of any kind.

…

…

…

“And all this time, I thought it was mere population control!” Alastor ranted ino the private connection. He was pacing across his meticulously sound-proofed hotel room while his shadow flew from wall to wall.

“Well,” Lucifer began, but Alastor wasn’t done speaking and didn’t care for being interrupted.

“Ha!” Alastor laughed, threading a hand through his own hair. “Can you blame me?” he asked.

A rhetorical question, but Lucifer gave his best attempt at answering. “It is p-”

“They’ve got no style, no finesse! And barely any skill!” Alastor’s shadow curled its claws into fists, and Alastor removed his hand from his hair to keep himself from pulling it or digging his claws into his scalp as he felt the urge to do the same.

“Year after year, decade after decade, it’s nothing but artless, soulless slaughter!” Alastor laughed again, manic, hysterical, and lacking any and all joy. “Is it any wonder I assumed it was simply a mindless masacre?”

“Alastor-”

“Entertainment…” Alastor dug his claws into the inside of his palm, attempting to ground himself with the pain.

“If killing Sinners for one’s own entertainment is so damned Holy, then why is he in Heaven while I’m down here?” Alastor demanded, static rising in his voice. “Why, one could argue that he’s worse than I am!”

“He’s certainly killed more Sinners than I have by now, considering how long the Exterminations have been in effect.” Hell’s history books were patchy at best, and Lucifer only talked about his – and by extension, Hell’s – past in vague, non-specific terms, often while drunk or sentimental. Or both.

Alastor’s claws began to draw blood. “And from the combination of what Charlie and Lilith and you have all told me, he’s a vulgar, disrespectful chauvinist!”

The pain no longer felt like an anchor. It was fuel on the fire that was the rage burning within him, the wrath he felt at the injustice of it all.

“My mother raised me to be a gentleman,” Alastor said. “Any disrespect I show is based on a woman's actions, not her sex. But Adam expected Lilith to bend to his whims simply on the basis of her gender! He talked down to Charlie, likely on the same logic!”

“And yes, I kill because I enjoy it, but I’m selective with my victims! I enact vengeance on behalf of the weak and vulnerable! In life, I corrected the injustices of a corrupt system, and in death I punish those already Damned by their sins!”

Blood was seeping through Alastor’s knuckles. He pushed his claws deeper, sinking them into the meat of his palms.

“So why…?” There were bloodstains on the carpet. Niffty would be quite upset if she learned that the blood was Alastor’s rather than one of his meals’.

“Why?” Alastor repeated, barely audible above his own feedback. His cheeks were wet. He must have gotten blood on them at some point.

Everything was silent for a moment, save for the static Alastor couldn’t reign in.

Then, Lucifer spoke. “It’s complicated,” he said, quietly.

Alastor made an animalistic sound deep in the back of his throat, something between a growl and a whimper. But he let the Devil speak.

“I don’t know the particulars, but murder and vengeance are both Damnable sins.”

“Then why isn’t he Damned,” Alastor said through gritted teeth. “Why hasn’t Adam Fallen?”

Lucifer sighed. “Nepotism?”

Alastor laughed. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you!”

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Lucifer asked, his volume increasing. “My Father kicked me out of Heaven for falling in love with Lilith and for daring to dream of a world where humanity wasn’t bound by eternal ignorance.”

“And he gave you a kingdom!” Alastor swung his arms, flinging blood across the room with the sheer force of the movement. “He let you and Lilith elope when he could’ve smited you both! Do you think he’d give the same courtesy to his other angelic children, or do the rumors of you being his favorite son hold true, hm, Lightbringer?”

The radio began to smoke and glow with a faint golden light.

“Get that name out of your fucking mouth, Alastor.”

Alastor ignored him, ignored the projections of his power.

“My father never would’ve shown me such benevolence if I’d disobeyed him the way you did yours.” Alastor moved to inspect the bloodstains on the walls. “And the best thing he ever gave me was a lesson in the inherent cruelty of man.”

[sea-lanterns]

tw // : mention of hypersexuality and disorders

i'm not sure if i contributed to the need for that statement or not but i know i sent asks that mentioned hypersexuality in passing some time ago and in case i did cause any kind of problems; first: as someone that's been medically diagnosed with hypersexuality i want to thank you for pointing out the distinction between high libido and hypersexuality. it's an important difference that's severely misunderstood amongst a large amount of people and a topic that should be treated with way more respect than it gets.

second: i would like to apologize if any of my asks came off as fetishy or romanticization, or gave off the impression that i was trying to use hypersexuality interchangeably with high libido. that's never been my intention and again; as someone with an actual medic diagnosis for hypersexuality; i try my hardest to be as careful as i can be to avoid coming off like that because of how harmful it is and i don't want to give off the idea that i'm engaging with bad intentions. i also want to apologize if i ended up pushing you out of your comfort zone with anything i said. i've been following your blog for a very long time and would be really upset with myself if i did anything to offend/bother you. while i don't remember sending anything explicit i do remember bringing the topic up so i wanna make sure you know that had absolutely no ill intent when i did. i never saw the rule against disorders and the thought that even slight mentions could cause issues never occurred to me, so i'll try to do better. you're free to ignore this if you want, but i felt i should write to you anyway just to be sure if there was anything i personally did to contribute to the problem.—🥞

You’re okay 🥞 anon! Thank you for reaching out to me!

No need to feel called out, that statement was posted in regards to a few asks I’ve been seeing lately (not you) that I personally think have been using the term “hypersexuality” as a way to describe their high libido. I just wanted to make the distinction clear so that my fishies are aware that hypersexuality is probably not the right term they are looking for, and it is important to inform them so they can use the correct terminology in the future.

As for the fact that there was no mention of disorders in my rules, I just checked and you are right! Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I’ve updated the rules to include the fact that I don’t write for disorders on all of my blogs, so thank you for mentioning it :)

[cb-writes-stuff]

Since you're wanting some system related asks:

What made you work out you were a system?

Does you have a headspace and does it look like anything?

Also your "me and me and-" had more colours than the three you posted about before, do you have more alters?

Obligatory I'm a singlet so I'm rlly sorry if I got any terminology incorrect please feel free to correct me /gen

First off, thank you for asking. I really appreciate it.

What made you work out you were a system? Um… I’m not entirely sure. I read something about someone discovering their own plurality once, and I later had an anxiety attack in which I suddenly and repeatedly acted like very different versions of me to deal with the anxiety as different coping methods failed, which was very distressing. I talked with my therapist about it, and he recommended reaching out and such. I didn’t much feel like doing that.

Then I came on [tumblr], stuff happened, and I finally decided to reach out. I decided to start looking for advice from people while I figured some things out, and now we’re here.

Does you [sic] have a headspace and does it look like anything? Sort of? I explained it in a post before, but I won’t make you go looking for that. Basically, we have the Void. It’s not that it doesn’t look like anything, but rather, it looks like nothing. My brain isn’t good at visualizing things, so an internal landscape with fully-formed people feels fake, or too forced. Instead, my brain conceptualizes—in my imagination, things are concepts by default. So the others, their appearances, their actions, even the Void itself, exist conceptually in my head, because that’s what comes naturally.

Also your “me and me and-” had more colours than the three you posted about before, do you have more alters? I don’t like to use the term “alters” myself, but yes. (I don’t dislike other people using it for me, so you’re fine. I just haven’t figured out what term I want to use yet.) There’s several more. I don’t know how many, if any, are comfortable being talked about, and I don’t see why I’d talk about it anyway if I’m still me and I don’t have to. As a little anecdote, one of them started out as just a name and a function with no appearance, but then she saw Siffrin with no hat and cloak and made them her facetroject (I think I’m using that term right? Someone who looks like a person/character but isn’t that person/character), even though it has nothing to do with who she is. She just likes it.

I’ll still be posting as myself though, as I can’t see any reason not to.

And really, thank you for making an effort. It’s always reassuring that I’m not scaring away my moots with all this.

[kiruliom]

I really hope I'm not prying or anything, but what's up with anti neoagab discourse? I thought neoagab terms were made in mind for people who feel like they've always been a certain way? (Btw I mean all people, both perisex and intersex folk) you don't have to answer if you don't want to, and I sincerely hope I didn't make you uncomfortable or anything /gen

that is okay to ask, and any person more knowledgable on this is free to add on or correct me.

there was someone claiming that neoAGABs were disrespectful to intersex people, and that they were a rad//queer term, when it wasnt coined by one and was coined with people sick of being referred to as their agab in mind, rather than intersex people only.

neoagab, for all I care, can include people who feel theyve always been a certain way, but it was coined specifically to reclaim agab terminology enforced on us (like I feel like a disappointment by birth, because I was openly queer for so long, I call myself assigned f slur at birth, when someone asks me if Im amab or afab)

we didnt claim agab terminology from intersex people, it was enforced on us, by transphobes, cis people, etc, who misunderstood the point of agab terminology. I personally think we have a right to reclaim it because of that. I get intersex people being protective over their own terms because of shit like transintersex or whatever, but this is a different case and should be treated different accordingly. imo at least.

I hope this helps?

[larebiscornue]

(EDIT: This is getting visibility so reminder to do your daily clicks in arab.org (not only for the Palestine tab) and check this list of vetted palestinian gofundmes)

So, per typical Friday, we had a new page of La Grande Vague, but (at least when I checked), for the first time, the comments were... Pretty negative! And it's no wonder, we only have 2 more chapters episodes til this wraps up and, if you have read it, you know exactly how lackluster of an ending for the Wakfu story if this were the ending. (Sure, we'd have the upcoming Flo and Mad comic to cover one part of the cast, but LGV IS advertised as the great finale for the main story.) I really get the disappointed feeling, especially because whether you get the cheap or expensive pack, reading LGV at full is NOT free. And I'm not even touching, of course, the issue with season 5 being a webcomic.

But, if what other commenters said is true, Tot said LGV is actually going to have a hundred episodes or so! (I haven't been able to find the source. Maybe twitter? Feel free to send it to me. I'd be doubtful on authenticity but with many people saying it.. It sounds too specific)

However, I do still think some degree of criticism to how LGV is handled is still warranted for sure.

Like. The way it was marketed... Were we told there would be more than 10 chapters? Correct me if we have, but there being a bit of an ammount of fans in the comments not knowing tells me it was not well expressed.

The webtoon/webcomic(?) issue would be the pacing, I do agree.. Webcomics can have quite an iffy pacing to get used to as they do obviously need to be spread in time, often in short bits like lgv (though, at least it isn't as this one comic I read as a teen that was only a page per week. We were fine with it because it was a one person team but geez, it made action full high plot point chapters/episodes/(gah I find the names confusing..) tough to read with unchanging hype... (I'm not saying any webcomic author or even company should be pressured to upload even more than a page per *insert period of time * but we cannot deny the medium has its limitations. Idk if this also happens with comic books, since while they come in issues, they're longer book releases) For full transparency I'll say I'm not that much of a webcomic bluff at all aside from wakfu and the other one, so take it with a pinch of salt.

I think the problem is, we as a wakfu audience are used to get meaty 20 minute episodes, and while each lgv episode has content, because of the medium and the way it's structured, it definitely lasts less. Does this have any solution? I dunno. Webcomic was the only compromise to s5 not being able to be animated. And not to mention how passionate we are about this series.

On one hand, I feel some of the uproar should be saved til we see how does this progress and how Ankama handles the situation, cause if lgv is really gonna be 100 episodes long, we have to see how stuff plays out. On the other, I feel we as fans have the right to freely critique, (like the "ammount of chapters wasn't well advertised") healthily!

This isn't intended to be a proper essay, sorry if some of the wording doesn't make sense, and as you can see I have NOT touched on the plot itself cause I don't feel its that relevant for this post. Feel free to share your opinions with me!

EDIT: @/julith-jurgen and @/cocogum shared me a link to Tot and Cathiane (LGV's artist)'s statement in the replies, the 100 episodes/chapters (Again I still struggle with proper webcomic terminology lol) thing is real:

https://x.com/Totankama/status/1781321831263424875 https://x.com/Cathianedraws/status/1781379849606529479)