#southern terminology

[internetgiraffekid1673]

I love southern culture.

So for those of you who don't know, Miss [First Name] is generally considered a polite way to address adult women who you know in a mostly informal capacity if you are a child. This includes the mothers of your friends, daycare people, babysitters, your teacher's teenage to adult daughters, the old unmarried lady in the apartment three doors down, etc.

I love this address and it has now been extended to me at church. I have been a girls camp adult leader (working with 11 to 16 year old kids) and am now the primary pianist (5-10 year old kids). I am also only 18, which means there is less of an age gap between me and the kids than between me and the other leaders. This means it feels very weird and overly formal to me to be called Sister [Last Name], which is the standard way to address adults at church. Especially because, like, that's my mom, not me.

So after introducing myself to the kids by just my first name out of habit, the very polite kids have all collectively decided to call me Sister [First Name], and it makes me so happy. Like, it's literally the perfect in between level of formality I need as an emerging adult. Thank you, Southern terminology.

[plaguedocboi]

Since you grew up in PA: creek or crick? Or both? (I'm a sucker for crick, haha.)

Creek but most of my native PA friends say crick

[cipher-the-sidhe]

Curious!

[ssmoki]

‘toboggan hat’

uhh whoever . idk enough people

last google search, go

um. Tag four people.

what do they make sewer tunnels out of

@ncc1701ohno @affixjoy @the-magpieprince @twinkboimler

[sleepymccoy]

Someone I follow is posting about Spock and McCoy after the Katra sharing, but they're posting canon thoughts and I'm all fanon so I'm making my own post lol

Post Katra headcanons!

Spock swears in Southern when he's tired. He really doesnt like this

McCoy understands a bit of Vulcan, but only when he doesn't know the person isn't speaking English. Like, if they randomly switch to Vulcan he can keep up until it's pointed out

They can feel when the other is experiencing strong emotions. They don't know what emotion, but it's like an itch or a tickle in their throat to say the other is feeling something

They know a bit of each other's specialised knowledge. McCoy is passable at astrophysics now, and Spock is an even more annoying patient since he understands the terminology

They also remember a few private moments of eachother's that they weren't present for. Both politely don't mention this, but do find confusing ways to allude to it

McCoy can cook some Vulcan dishes now. Spock developed a taste for bourbon in the evening that takes everyone by surprise

With great effort Spock can project messages to McCoy. With greater effort McCoy can give Spock a feeling that translates to fuck off

On Vulcan they're legally super duper married and Spock just doesn't mention this. McCoy notices next tax return when he's taxed like a married man, not a single man. Takes him months of asking around to figure out who the government thinks he's married to. He files for divorce without talking to Spock

Spock won't divorce him cos he did carry his Katra, but he'll agree to an annulment. McCoy about pops off with anger

Kirk buys them a wedding gift when he finds out

They don't get the annulment and neither can really put their finger on why. Something about respecting Vulcan culture, cos they'll still be married on Vulcan no matter what

McCoy gets a headache whenever Spock mind melds with someone else

McCoy can initiate a mind meld with Spock, which they both get kinda very into cos their brains feel so good paired back up again. McCoy drunkenly described it as being better than sex to Kirk and the idea of that sticks around something terrible

Their telepathic connection is stronger after a meld, so they start doing it in advance of missions so they can be in touch immediately if things go sideways

If they're apart for a long time the connection will tell them when each other is close by. They've run into each other at conferences or in hotels or once on a transport ship they didn't know the other was booking too. They find each other quickly and easily when they're nearby

This becomes an uncanny capacity to always vaguely know where the other is. McCoy is bad at remembering that he shouldn't know and will volunteer Spock's whereabouts sometimes without thinking

They get good at learning what the various nudges and hints from their connection mean. They can tell different moods apart and send messages that the other can open at their leisure, rather than breaking through and being front of mind

If one of them is injured or captive or just bored as shit they'll sometimes pop into the other's head and basically turn into the back seat driver from hell

With everything they know and learn, they're very fond of each other

[eveninggstar]

First Tattoo

Summary: Jake, your boyfriend, surprises you in a video to get your first ever tattoo.

Warnings: y/n used twice (sorry), horrible tattoo terminology, needles(?), fluff, no kissing(sorry ;( ), reader intended to be female

A/N l: Why is there barely any jake ff anywhere, like i even looked on wattpad. So enjoy, this could also be seen as a platonic thing ig between reader and jake except the end enjoy :)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“Please excuse my appearance,” Jake gestured to himself as he looked at the dashboard with the camera on top, with his arm draped over the wheel. “i didn’t have long, but that fine.” his voice went up as he put his hands out in an act of faux desperation.

The camera cut to him shaking a hand through his hair, attempting to style it. He paused and went to kiss the camera, then snapped out of it. “Sorry, sorry.” He put his hands up in surrender.

“Anyways,” he clapped his hands together. “Today, i’m getting a new tattoo and my girlfriend is getting one too. And y/n.” he giggled with his lips shut as he put a hand in front. “They’re actually taking forever, what the hell.” he leant forwards to look out the window for you and Johnnie. With the lack of the two of you, he sighed into the camera and lifted it and quickly left his car.

“Honestlay, mama bear ain’t happay with theyse two rascals.” He spoke in a southern accent and he walked back into the house. He walked into the house, hearing heavy footsteps and yelling. He made a scared confused face that slowly moulded into a smile.

“Johnnie! What do i wear?” You were yelling at the door of Johnnie’s room jumping up and down.

“I don’t know! Pink? You like pink!” Johnnie yelled back and joined you in jumping up and down. You two were smiling as you just continued to jump, you still in pyjamas and Johnnie with only one eye with his makeup finished.

“Guys!” Jake pointed a camera at you and Johnnie, both of you stop bouncing as slowly turned towards the camera.

“Ew! No, i’m not wearing makeup!” You ran off into your room with your hand covering your face and the other holding onto your messy bun.

Jake tilted the camera away from you as you ran into your room and focussed it on Johnnie. Johnnie just had a thousand mile stare as he slowly shut his bedroom door. Jake put himself back into frame and started singing, “Alone again~,”

The video cut to the three of you, ready, in Jake’s car. You had ultimately decided to wear a pink love heart halter neck top, clashing with both Jake and Johnnie’s outfits’ but in a cute way.

“What are we even doing?” You asked as you leant forwards through the front seats.

“Yeah, you kinda just woke me up this morning and started vigorously shaking me.” Johnnie looked at Jake then looked back to the camera.

“We’re getting tattoos!” Jake exclaimed into the camera accompanied with a wide, open mouthed smile and ‘happy hands’ in front of him. Johnnie reciprocated Jake’s ecstatic energy and you just looked scared at the camera.

“Wait, are you serious?” you looked pleadingly at Jake, terrified of the fact if you were actually getting a tattoo. He turned to look at you in the back seat, smiling and nodding.

The video cut to the three of you outside the tattoo parlour that Jake and Johnnie frequented a lot. Jake had sweet talked his way into you getting a tattoo, as usual. He had said it didn’t need to be big, a singular dot if you really wanted. You said to him that you would only get one if he got a matching one, wanting it to have a form of sentimental value.

“So, who’s going first?” Jake asked, both him and Johnnie turned to look at you. “The votes are in, y/n will go first.”

“Hold my hand during it?” you gave up on protesting, knowing Jake will just talk you out of it.

“Of course!” he smiled and pulled an arm around your shoulders as you walked into the parlour.

(i have no idea how tattoos work so just bare with please :) )

Sitting on the tattoo bench(?) you explained what you had wanted to the tattoo artist, just a simple red outline of a small heart on your hip. The camera was positioned over your head to see the expressions you were about to express. Jake was at your side with both hands wrapped tightly against one of yours, whilst Johnnie was looking at what to get for himself.

“Okay, i’m going to do a quick zap just so you can feel what it will feel like.” The woman explained sweetly to you, obviously seeing your frightened expression. “If you want a break at any point, just say and i’ll pull the gun off,” she looked into your eyes as you nodded, “Would you like me to count down?”

“Yes please,” you smiled at her consideration. You closed your eyes and waited for the fateful number one and the inevitable pain that would accompany it. Your face was scrunched up and you had a tight hold on Jake’s hands’.

When she said one, all you felt were a couple of deep scratches. The pain was there, but it was bearable. You face loosened up, still accompanied by the occasional hiss, as she did your simple tattoo. Then, she was done.

You had reciprocated the kindness and warmth that he had given you, when he was getting the actual tattoo he came in for that was by far more detailed than the small heart the both of you got. By the end, you were feeling good about the tattoo and that Jake had the idea of getting one.

The video cut for the final time, showing the three of you again in the same seating arrangement a couple hours prior. “So,” Jake said whilst clapping his hands once, “How do we like the tattoos?”

“Omg, i love mine! Im definitely getting more.” You smiled into the camera, having a definite change in your attitude towards getting a tattoo. As Jake looked back at you practically buzzing out of your seat as you explained more that you wanted to get, he had a fond smile on his face.

997 words

[ryanthedemiboy]

Quick note to trans men: if you have pain in your genitals, ask your GYN to use a small speculum for your pap smear. They might not think of it, but it may help.

Comic about trans men in the health care system I made for magazine Ottar last autumn! Please note that it presents a Swedish perspective unless stated otherwise, as it is mostly based on Swedish studies. I would however argue that it has implications on the state of healthcare for trans people in other places as well. Thank you so much Hedvig for translating this!

[ranilla-bean]

The Iconoclast: Appendix

This is the appendix for my fic The Iconoclast, in which I will discuss some of my cultural and historical inspirations for the worldbuilding.

Disclaimer: I'm certainly not an expert on or practitioner of all the cultures I took inspiration from. In outlining my influences I hope to show my admiration and give appropriate credit to them.

Contents

Intro

Religion

Martial culture

Talent show

Miscellaneous

The Iconoclast is set in the same world as ATLA, about 800 years before the era of the cartoon. I was inspired by 10th-11th century societies; the Fire Nation is inspired by the Khmer empire, Kyoshi Island is inspired by Heian period Japan, and so on. Of course, the aesthetics of Hari Bulkan are heavily inspired by Angkor—Virtual Angkor was a huge help in visualising the city. 

The immense population of Angkor was sustained by intricate water management techniques. The Khmer built reservoirs to collect water and sustain agriculture through the dry season. However, the impressive structures of Angkor had a dark side: they were built by enslaved labourers. Enslaved labour was extracted through human trafficking and debt bondage. In The Iconoclast, I integrated the institution of slavery with the caste system.

The exception to my adherence to periodisation was in the Inuit traditions that inspired the Southern Water Tribe, as the 10th-11th centuries appear to have been a period of migration eastwards across the Arctic for Inuit people. In addition to this, periodisation in Inuit history is more difficult to reconstruct due to the colonial destruction of knowledge. As a result, I took broader inspiration from pre-colonial Inuit culture.

Religion

The Fire Nation is based on the Khmer empire, which in this period adhered to Hinduism before the uptake of Buddhism. The cult of the Devaraja (lit. “god-king” in Sanskrit) arises from the specifically Southeast Asian branch of Hinduism. The Devaraja is regarded as the avatar (in this case, a human incarnation) of Vishnu. The Khmer king was marked out by dress: he wore a golden crown, or a wreath of flowers. His palms and the soles of his feet were stained red. He wore a sampot patterned all over with flowers—the more flowers, the higher the status.  

I conceptualised Zuko as being seen as an incarnation of the sun. Following Hinduism, this would be Surya. Fanon tends to use “Agni”, in fact the god of fire. Either way, as a non-practitioner of this religion, I’ve personally avoided using gods still worshipped today in my worldbuilding. My inspiration has largely been in the philosophy of religion.

Such philosophical ideas include: dharma, avatara, ahimsa, and brahman vs. atman. I found the Bhagavad Gita highly informative in developing these concepts—themselves debated in Hinduism—as well as ideas about the dilemma of Arjuna and the imagery associated with Krishna. I had an enlightening conversation with my friend Tana, who convinced me of the need to address the legacy of caste and casteism arising from the text. Ideas of caste carry certain baggage in the western world that I wanted to pare back, hence the differing terminologies of “in-” and “out-caste” used in The Iconoclast.

The philosophies of Hinduism overlap with and develop in slightly different ways in Buddhism, which I explored through Choden. One instance is the Hindu notion of the Chakravarti, an ideal universal emperor (lit. “the one whose wheels are turning” in Sanskrit). A non-secular Chakravarti would in fact be a Buddha, someone who has reached enlightenment. Since Choden is the one who introduces this concept, I used the more literal term “the Turner of the Wheel” to disambiguate from “Buddha” (which immediately draws certain connotations), and also to draw a more direct relationship between the Arjuna imagery associated with Zuko.

This religious worldview stands in contrast to animism of pre-/early Shinto Japanese religion and Inuit spirituality, as reflected by Suki and Sokka. Princess Mononoke was in fact a huge inspiration! I conceived of the kami in the context of Shintoism before the major influence of Buddhism; Suki also worships at a kamidana shelf.

For the Inuit, all things have anirniq, “breath/soul”, which lingers even after death. Therein lies the tension: between the need to hunt for survival and the vengeful soul that the act of killing liberates. The website I used as my source has a great quote on this: “the great peril of our existence lies in the fact that our diet consists entirely of souls.” These souls must be placated through ritual and observance of taboo. 

Importantly, I was interested in how each practitioner of religion approaches that philosophy in their individual ways, so none of the characters are perfect “representatives” of an ideal embodiment of that religion. Zuko is wary of his god status. Choden’s obsession with Zuko as Chakravarti makes her an outlier among the airbenders. Sokka trusts his “material” technologies of survival (i.e. weaponry) over spirituality, even though he practises the rites still, such as the smearing of lampblack and ritual words.

Martial culture

Sokka’s weapons generally mirror the ones he had in the show, with some additional embellishment. The snow knife is used to cut snow, but applied into a martial context by Sokka. The metal is sourced from a meteorite and cold forged; my inspiration was the Cape York meteorite, which Greenlandic Inuit used to fashion tools. Sokka’s club is made of jawbone, the strongest bone and stronger still from a herbivore. I combined the caribou and wombat into the “caribombat” for this, a nod to both an important Arctic animal to Inuit culture and to Sokka’s antipodean roots.

Suki is based on early samurai. She uses the fans from the show, but instead of the katana (which we see her wield in “Appa’s Lost Days”) she uses a tanto, which is a kind of predecessor of the katana and can be used as an offhand blade or a weapon in its own right. Women could also carry a smaller version of this blade for self defence. Her armour is Heian period do-maru armour, which was a lighter development on older styles of armour, made of scales of lacquered leather. I was particularly in love with the idea of her having a helmet and a men-yoroi mask, which was used as facial armour.

Zuko’s fighting style is inspired by bokator, a Khmer boxing style. He uses the short sticks instead of the dual dao, which can become truly dynamic weapons!

Talent show

Suki’s performances are based on the Japanese tea ceremony and bianlian from Sichuanese opera. The preparation method of the Japanese tea ceremony—whisking powdered tea—is in fact borrowed from the Chinese Song dynasty, which fits the time period of the world. Bianlian involves a performer very quickly changing a series of masks to a secret technique. It’s way more fun to watch on video than to read, I admit!

Osha’s dance is… meant to be the royal Cambodian ballet. The dance evokes the apsaras, dancing celestial beings in Hindu culture (incidentally, they are depicted on the walls of the fire temple on Full Moon Island). And just like western ballet, it takes years of training and skill to master!

Miscellaneous

Druk is, in this conception, a naga instead of… whatever unholy mix of cultures’ dragons LoK drew him as. Nagas are found across South and Southeast Asian cultures, and in Khmer culture they are typically represented as serpents—sometimes with multiple heads. They are associated with water, prosperity, and various other positive connotations. There’s a whole rabbit hole I don’t really want to get into about why I’m putting a water-associated creature in the Fire Nation (East Asian dragons are associated with water too!) but I do want to point out that there is a natural phenomenon on the Mekong called “naga fireballs” so… I’m running with that. 

Full Moon Island is Crescent Island… before the eruption that turned it into a caldera.

Osha’s name is not a health and safety pun; I’m not American and I call it WH&S, it was a total coincidence. It means “shining” in Sanskrit—apt for a Fire Nation character, I think. 

[orion-nottson]

devil’s in the details | tfp!megatron x reader

A/N: i have tfp megatron brain rot. like i know he’s cray cray and deluded, but literally so am i we’re made for each other he’s mine

also this obvi deviates from canon, bc there is no way on god’s green earth that dreadwing and starscream could coexist semi-peacefully.

also, please be warned that i haven’t written transformers fanfic since i was like 14 💀💀 fought for my LIFE with the terminology (had to check my old WATTPAD stories to find some vocab 💀)

summary: lord megatron propositions you. it’s a rather bold request.

content: SMUT, 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, femme!cybertronian!reader, seeker!reader, sticky sexual interfacing, breeding kink, wee lil bit of choking, technically boss/employee relationship, power dynamic (it gets semi-resolved), implied past relationship/thought unrequited love, average decepticon emotional constipation, business arrangement procreation

word count: 6,367

~ * ~ * ~

The Decepticon warship lingers somewhere over the southern pole of Earth, resulting in a dramatic decrease in temperature, even with the efficiency of Cybertronian technology. You shift your wings for the umpteenth time, armor plates releasing air to alleviate the discomforting chill that’s started to bother you. Of course, it was far from being so cold that you needed to worry about your core temperature, but you are a Seeker from Vos, and Vos was always warm.

The thought makes your wings tremble again, so you hurry yourself to your quarters with a bit more haste.

It wouldn’t suddenly be warm and tropical, but at least you’d be able to curl up and shiver in privacy. Recharge sounds particularly nice too, considering you’ve been up for several cycles trying to appease Lord Megatron’s endless demands. Inwardly, you roll your optics— There seems to be nothing you can do that would satisfy him.

The corridor finally breaks into the wing that houses Decepticon high command, where yours and your fellow officers reside. Your room is down almost the entire expanse of the hall, the turn right before where Megatron’s personal habsuite lies. From where you’re walking, you can spot the sleek, black metal door. A chill runs up your back struts, and your processor convinces you it’s from the icy cold that’s overtaken the Nemesis.

“Curse this inhospitable, organic planet.” Muttering to yourself dissuades you from also blaming your Master, who was no help either, if you were to be honest. He could shove his “not wanting to expend precious Energon on unnecessary heating” decree up his tail pipe.

You resign yourself to some rather cold nights for the foreseeable future. Perhaps... If you played your cards right, as the humans say, you could convince Soundwave to pilot the ship north. Maybe somewhere near Hawaii...

A sharp, gravelly voice from behind you calls your name, and you spin around to see your Lord and Master a ways down the corridor from you. Immediately bringing yourself to attention, you straighten your back struts and bow politely.

“My liege.” You say, thanking Primus you’ve become so accustomed to Megatron’s thunderous shouts that you no longer jump, let alone flinch, when they occur. The silver mech strides up to you easily, displaying all the strength of a warrior in the confidence of his steps.

“Retiring to your quarters?” He asks austerely, as if he’s ever concerned himself with your whereabouts, let alone personal routine. Unease creeps up on you, so you shift on the thrusters of your peds and cross your servos over your chassis. Wings fluttering, you reply slowly, “Well, yes.”

“Allow me to accompany you there.” The silver mech says brightly, and it’s such an absurdly peculiar request for both the mech saying it and the situation at hand. You instinctively snort a laugh.

“I do believe I know the way to my own habsuite, my Lord.” You say before you can stop the words from coming out, and immediately regret them once they do. You meet Megatron’s hard stare sheepishly, wings dropping timorously. Forgetting your place in the grand scheme of things is not wise amongst the Decepticon ranks.

To your utter shock, you’re not met with a vicious reprimand and instead Megatron grins— this wickedly suave thing— and purrs, “Humor me.”

And all you can say is, “Of course.”

Megatron hums appreciatively, brushing past you as he takes the lead, like he always does. You step in time behind him, nearly colliding into his back struts when he suddenly halts, and you stumble backwards a few steps. The looming mech pivots, glancing down at you with a quizzical expression in his glowing optics.

“Seekers are a rare breed, yes?” Lord Megatron asks, and whatever game he’s begun to play with you genuinely stumps any reasoning you attempt. Opening your mouth, your optics dart over his face, trying to decode whatever message your Master is sending and coming up empty. 

“Er... Yes, my liege? Even before the war, Vos was not a populous city-state. There are probably... even less now.” You reply cautiously, becoming very put off as Megatron takes a step towards you. He looks as impassive as ever, though you’re beginning to see a very curious appraising expression overtaking his faceplates. It begins with the upcurve of his mouth, derma pulled into the most wolfish grin you’ve ever seen on the mech.

Utterly bizarre. Your processors want to reset because this Megatron is starting to look like the studly gladiator of Kaon you’d hear be lasciviously giggled about, not the ruthless, merciless tyrant he’s supposed to be.

“I have a rather... avant-garde proposition for you, my most loyal Seeker.” Megatron purrs, his servos clasped easily behind him as you’ve seen him too many times before, often when he schemes. He’s also talking to you as if this is casual, expected business of him; matter-of-fact and cordial, with his usual cool drawl.

Before you can reply, Megatron turns sharply once more and begins walking down the corridor, stopping after a few steps when he realizes you hadn’t started with him. He turns his helm to look back at you, this time there’s this strangely unreadable expression on his faceplates.

“Follow me.” He says simply, and without a second thought, you do.

Even though you’re a Seeker with naturally long legs, his pedsteps are even longer strides, so you have to exert some effort in keeping up with Megatron. It adds to the growing franticness that’s begun to bubble up inside your chassis. 

While not exactly fear, though that’s certainly part of it, you’ve been a Decepticon and aboard the Nemesis under Megatron’s direct command long enough to know that when he becomes cryptic, it means trouble. Or at least a command that you’d rather not be the one to deal with. Bluntly asking what the frag he’s on about wouldn’t be the best course of action, but you know that he likes you enough not to offline you immediately if you did.

So you do.

“My Lord, what exactly are you asking of me?” You inquire, noting with slight abject horror as Megatron approaches the door to your quarters and types in your lock code with ease. Of course, he is the leader after all. Instead of answering your question, he makes you feel even more uneasy by throwing you a mysteriously sultry look and quipping, “Let me have you if only for a breem. Or longer should I entertain you.”

You catch the flash of his ruby optics, their intentions indiscernible, and then he disappears into your habsuite like it’s his own.

There’s something to it, an itch of a thought that’s begun to decipher the puzzle and put together the pieces. Lately, Megatron has been far more... involved with you, more eager at your presence, and it was blatantly obvious that he grew quite miffed when others got too close. It was no secret to anyone— From Soundwave and Starscream to a lowly technician— that Megatron had an optic for you (many did, frankly) and thus he was quite possessive of your wiles and charms as well.

This line of thought leads you to step into your room, slowly and evenly as if it’s unmarked territory and not the quarters that were assigned to you millennia ago.

“Lord Megatron...” You trail off, catching his stare just as he sets your old null ray back on your weapons rack, where most of your old, dismantled, and prized tools are located. Your null ray had been a favorite, until some blasted Autobot blew out the important bits that kept it working. That had stung, and even eons later you still curse that specific Autobot to the Pits.

Megatron flexes his claws, and with a flourish he clasps his servos behind him once again. His red optics scan the entirety of your quarters, lingering on your berth until they come back to rest on you. His gaze is equal parts unnerving and fascinating, as if he’s deconstructing you armor by armor, stripping you down until he’s watched your spark pulse.

His optics, like twin red suns, center you at their universes, and you feel oddly... flattered at their amorous disposition.

“It is no secret that I have watched you for some time.” Megatron starts, tilting his helm as he becomes pensive. You nod dumbly, hardly processing a word he’s saying. Megatron takes a single step towards you, looming like a shadow. In the dim lighting of your room, his silver armor catches all the chiaroscuro, his violet accents hued to black. Only his glowing, fiery optics remain bright. He continues.

“I admit,—” Megatron drawls your name deliciously, “— That I have found myself... captivated by your beauty. Entranced by your prowess, both in battle and mind.”

“I...” Your vents hitch, wings shivering at the praise. Blinking rapidly to ensure this isn’t some monumentally vivid dream, you clear your intake and say, “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, my Lord.”

Megatron laughs, that slight chuckle that sounds halfway between his engines roaring and something genuine that comes from the spark. The silver mech’s rolls his shoulders, armor hissing as it releases air. Wildly, he confesses something you never would have expected from him, “I believe myself bewitched.”

His servos have clasped themselves into fists at his sides, and briefly you wonder if he’s angry with you, then his entire frame relaxes like he’s decompressing after a long spar with Dreadwing.

“Tell me, my little Seeker, why have you denied yourself of me for so long?” Megatron asks it like a tease, like he’s some boon to be revered or a sacred sword to be wielded. Heat rises beneath your armor plating, and your processors race kilometers a nanosecond to find a suitable answer. Or at least one that doesn’t make you sound like some lovesick femmeling.

You couldn’t lie and say you had no... feelings for your Master, who was as handsome and dark as he was powerful and cunning. Megatron was once a gladiator of Kaon, and gladiators on Cybertron were what you had often admired, marveling at their strength, drive, and raw spark. Megatron had been no different, though you also found his commanding presence and impressive intellect to be even more attractive.

That was really why you’d joined the Decepticon cause all those millennia ago; Drawn to your Master’s fight to bring equality to the rigid castes and to seize control of the Energon supply to better disperse it by his charismatic allure.

And somehow, Megatron knew all of this.

“It would have been insubordination if I acted upon my... desires.” You reply, crossing your arms over your ample chassis with a shrug. Megatron matches your collected temperament with a hum, staring down at you with unreadable red optics.

“Indeed. Though I wish you’d had disobeyed, my little Seeker.” Megatron purrs, taking a step towards you that closes the space between your frames and boxes you in. His EM field magnifies the atmosphere around you, tingling at the periphery of yours.

“M-My liege?” You gape, faceplates feeling hot as metal left in direct sunlight. He chuckles, and sinfully the tip of his glossa runs over his pointed denta. Your spark skips a beat, owlishly watching 

“If I had known sooner that you wanted me as direly as I did you, then this song and dance would have concluded vorns ago.” Megatron growls, optics flashing with not anger, but lust. He takes another step, and you’re speechless.

“That being said, I am patient. I have no qualms with how long we have waited, nor will I if you choose to wait longer.” One of the tyrant’s long, clawed digits clicks at the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upwards. His touch is delicate, like you’d break if he pushed too hard. Honestly, you probably would if he did. Part of you wants to see him try.

“What did you want to ask of me?” You whisper, optics fluttering until they stay half-lidded and dewy under the carnal scrutiny of your Lord. Megatron grins, a sliver of sharp denta flashing in the lowlights of your habsuite. He takes a final step towards you, a half-shuffle that does well to close the gap between your frames, the air warming from the work of your combined engines. You hope he feels the way your spark races, hope he feels the heat emanating from your core.

“Give me an heir, carry a sparkling of my code and stand beside me as my queen.” With each word, laden with desire until it shows in his optics that drip with lust, Megatron has you against the wall of your habsuite, one servo tracing the sleek edge of your wing.

It’s entirely intoxicating, and against your better judgment and all remaining reason— and mostly because you haven’t had a good, hard frag in ages— you moan.

It’s a soft, angelic sound that barely catches on the audials, but it makes Megatron grin like a shark. You gasp, affronted, optics flickering, “My liege!”

“Have I offended you?” He breathes, and suddenly his mouth is against your neck cables, each word leaving the softest of kisses on your Energon lines. Your resolve nearly crumbles entirely, each brush of his dermas like a shot of high grade to the systems. You sigh, vents hissing, and place one servo on his chassis. Beneath the broad expanse of silver armor, his engines rumble like thunder on the horizon. It makes you pulse with need.

“No.” You whisper, wanting to sing as Megatron kisses the slope of your jaw, then pecks the side of your mouth, agape with shock. He pulls back, the heat of him evaporating as soon as he’s once again standing at his full height. You tremble, not from the cold, but from his absence. 

It’s not something you’d ever given much thought about, your feelings towards your Lord and Master, but it’s something that’s come rushing back. All the suppressed thoughts, the dashed dreams, the impossible futures... They come back to you and leave you weak in the knee joints, cooling fans whirring from the memories of the fantasies you’d entertained when you’d had long midnights alone.

“What say you then?” Megatron’s stare is hard, unshaking and fully serious. He wants to have a sparkling with you, wants you to bear him an heir— He wants you as his queen and equal, to stand beside him and lead the Decepticon cause. The expression on his face is a cross between a wild animal, wanting to ravage you the nanosecond you say Yes, and the warlord with enough resolve and self-restraint to accept if you say No.

It’s all so much at once. Eons of time made up in just a single question. Details and technicalities will have to be conferred over later, as for now you’re content with the conditions as-is.

“Well... You are a handsome mech, my liege.” You reply, teasing him by placing a chaste kiss directly on the Decepticon insignia on his chassis. He doesn’t say anything, only his engine rumbles more audibly. You look up at him and salaciously imply with a coy smirk, “I do believe we’d make a fine clutch of sparklings.”

And then you find yourself swept up into his arms, back struts and wings pressed against the wall, your Lord’s hips slotted perfectly against yours. The more base urges inside you squeal, your Seeker coding nearly overtaking you and having you present to him like a turbofox in heat.

Not one to be outdone, Megatron quips, “And you are quite the striking femme— Shall I ravage you against the wall or your berth?”

You laugh, cut off only when Megatron captures your dermas in his, drowning you in the roughness of a mech starved of Energon. He kisses like he owns the practice and has made it an artform; Dragging your dermas with his, glossa invading your mouth, denta nipping dangerously close to sensitive nodes and wiring. You moan and gasp, coming to the realization that one of your servos grips his wrist and the other is flat against his chassis.

You shutter your optics, reveling in Megatron’s power and dominance, wanting so desperately for him to devour you. The warmth blossoms, spreading throughout your core until you feel charges pulse at your interface panels that have you whimpering.

After what feels like vorns, Megatron parts and your dermas unlock with a metallic pop. Megatron’s mouth ghosts over yours, and he hums as he repeats himself, “Berth or wall, little Seeker?”

“The berth, my liege.” You urge breathlessly, a delighted sound escaping you as Megatron heaves you from the wall and carries you to your desired destination. He isn’t gentle when he deposits you on your berth, doesn’t mind the wings, so you hiss when your back struts connect with the metal beneath you. Megatron manages to keep himself between the smooth metal of your thighs as he hitches one knee up onto the berth.

“I wonder,” Megatron stops to kiss you deeply once more, making your processors spin, “If this is an auspicious position for conception.”

A bite to the dermas stifles your wanton moan. Your Lord may not be fully aware of it yet, but each mention of being sparked, of bearing his heirs, has your more base urges spiraling out of control. While Vos was not populated by many Seekers, the need to breed is more hardwired into the programming than most other frame types. His words act like fuel to the fire.

“O-Oh— I can only hope.” You gasp, your whimpering cries smothered by Megatron’s dermas in yet another bruising, brusque kiss. This time, he lingers, slows down as if he savors the taste of you on his glossa. Your servos grip his shoulders, smoothing along his breadth before your pointed digits grip at the armor panels high on his back. Megatron responds most enjoyably, using one servo to anchor himself above you and the other to caress down your body.

His servo travels from the curve of your waist, talons scratching at your paint, down to the slope of your hip where it rests heavy and warm on the junction of your thigh. He teases the sharp point of his thumb digit on the transformation seam nearest your interface panels, causing you to arch your back struts like a cat. Megatron uses this opportunity to settle a servo on the low of your back struts, where he pinches at the sensitive nodes at the bases of your wings. That makes you cry out, your cooling fans whirring loudly as a charge builds up deep inside you. 

You’ve never been this close to an overload so quickly before, though you’ve had many sleepless nights built up to bring you to this moment. And Megatron proves his expertise in the berth, past rumors and gossip proven to hold more truth than you once thought. 

Your entire frame feels electrified, your lower body feels like it’s on fire, the heat centered gloriously on your interfacing parts. Particularly your valve and anterior node, which feel wet and pulse beneath the panel with each of your sparkbeats.

“You react so gratifyingly.” Megatron purrs, his gravelly drawl like fine high grade on the audials, uncharacteristically sweet and sensual. He glances down at your interface panels, where your glowing transfluid is beginning to seep out along the seams. With a devious grin, Megatron meets your gaze just as he presses his thumb digit to your overheated panel.

“Megatron!” You cry his name, forsaking honorifics, and nearly overloading on the spot. Almost unconsciously, you send a command and your valve panel slides open, revealing your weeping slit and throbbing anterior node. You cry out again when Megatron wastes no time and starts tight, small circles on the sensitive bundle of mesh wire and circuitry.

“Beautiful.” He hums, quickening his pace on your anterior node as he notices sparks fly as your charge builds. You grip his back, claws digging at his silver armor and leaving scratches in his already worn paint. Megatron leans in, steals your dermas in a kiss, keeps circling your wet node, and just as you see warnings for an imminent overload— He stops.

The charge doesn’t die, but it decreases to a staticky tingle, and you part from the kiss, scandalized that he’s prevented your overload. You gape at Megatron, giving him a glare that could rival the World Destroyer’s himself. He only offers you a sly look.

“My liege.” This time you growl the title past grit denta, bucking your hips against your Master’s still servo. He hums, your anger meaning nothing to him, though indulging you by brushing two digits along the transfluid-soaked mesh of your valve. You gasp, optics blowing wide as he pushes them in, mindful of his sharp claws, stretching you wonderfully.

There’s a slight burn at first, pain sensors sending alerts, alleviated as your frame adjusts to accommodate his thick talons. Megatron eases his digits back until they are almost out completely, then sinks them back in. Your knees come up, peds shaking as you hook them behind his back struts.

“Patience, my dear,” Megatron kisses your neck cables, “Is a virtue.”

And like he had your anterior node, he works your valve slowly, steadily building the charge that buzzes all the pleasure centers in your frame. Warnings for an overload screen your vision again, this time your optics flicker as it grows closer. Staccato vents escape your intake, fans skipping cycles and hitching, encouraging Megatron to go faster, digits plunging in and out of your valve with sopping, moist noises. The room smells like interface; the tinny tang of transfluid, the almost-burnt smell of metal-on-metal friction.

You moan, this time a long keen that crackles in your audials, and Megatron responds with the first pleasured sound you’ve heard from him: A low, throaty groan that he practically strangles in his intake like he doesn’t want it to escape.

“M-My liege, plea-please.” You whine, writhing, bucking your hips even as Megatron’s servo relinquishes your wings in order to still them. You sob, systems on the fritz as the charge crackles, your overload closing in due to Megatron’s working servo and digits. He laughs again, the breathy one that you adore, and surprisingly heeds your plea.

“I want you like this when you take my spike.” Megatron hisses, doubling his pace and making you scream. The wet squelch of your mesh grows louder, and with each thrust of his servo, his knuckle joint brushes your throbbing anterior node, whiting out your optics.

“I want you disheveled.” The tyrant presses close to you, tightening the cyclic thrusts of his digits, biting at the base of your neck cables. Your helm lolls to the side, voice crackling in constant whines as you squeeze your optics shut. He growls, sharp denta piercing an Energon line close to your shoulder armor, the pain mixing with pleasure and having you singing.

“I want you desperate.” Megatron snarls like an Earthen beast, the gruffness of his voice matching the hot stretch of your valve. Transfluid soaks the inner seams and mechanisms of your thighs, spilling onto your berth below. Megatron drags his dermas to yours, his glossa hot and heady as he shoves it in your mouth and dominates the kiss. You moan against him, gripping him tight and hearing the sound of metal screech as its torn.

The silver mech groans, low and rough, breaking the kiss and allowing his helm to fall besides yours. To the cables and wires of your neck, he leaves open-mouth kisses, condensation hot from his vents, then pulls himself up to your audials and whispers harshly:

“I want you as mine.”

The last word is punctuated by a hard push of his digits and his thumb squashing your anterior node, and your overload hits you like a system crash. You wail, wings fluttering and hitting the berth with metallic clangs as your body seizes, the charge overtaking your processors. Pleasure like molten lava consumes your frame, transfluid squirting out onto Megatron’s forearm like paint.

The overload lasts eons, like some supernova of a dying star. Your legs lock, armor plating shivering, wings hitched high and scraping against your berth.  Maybe this is what death is, you think illogically, Maybe I’ve joined with the Allspark.

“Beautiful.” Megatron breathes again, his optics glowing in awe, “Positively beautiful.”

It takes a click for your processor to compute what he said, then another for your optics to blink back on. Coolant tears leak out the corners, blurring your vision. Your mouth gapes, dermas damp with condensation, your cooling fans whirring in loud in your audials. The grip you have on Megatron loosens, servos slipping until they fall upon his shoulders.

The charge in your valve mesh and anterior node quivers and bounces, and you realize with a pleasant tremble that Megatron’s digits are still firmly inside you.

“Megatron.” You coo his name, “Megatron.”

He says yours back, like all you’ve done and are doing is exchanging designations in a routine meeting and it reminds you of a time when things were simpler between the two of you. It’s been eons since Megatron’s seen you the way his ruby red optics gaze upon you now, eons more since you’ve felt seen.

War has made you both volatile, too tough and too angry to do anything else but fight, and fight some more. But here, in the privacy of your berth, blanketed by the secrecy of darkness: War can’t touch you. Nothing can.

“How I have yearned for you...” Megatron cups your faceplates, his servo cool against your overheated frame. You smile, still hazy from your overload and the lingering sensation of his other servo very much connected carnally to you, feeling like you’ve overdone yourself on too much high grade. 

A switch flips inside you, the one that reminds you’re no fainting femme, but one that asks and will take regardless. You are a Seeker, after all— It’s in your code to want offspring.

“Give me a sparkling, my Lord.” Even though your voice wavers, it still sounds like an immutable command. The contemplative look on Megatron’s face morphs into the devilish one, and he snarls, removing his digits from your core. A thin line of gooey transfluid stretches between you and his servo, until Megatron brings it to his mouth and his glossa licks along the length of his digits. His optics narrow in as he hums.

“You presume you can command me.” And yet he obeys again, his interface panel unlatching with a hiss. His spike emerges, a long, thick one that fills in sections, ribbed along its length. Glowing transfluid oozes in droplets from its tip, rolling down the underside of his spike. Your jaw drops, both in want and slight alarm— Megatron is a large mech, you should have better anticipated a large spike.

“Know this, dearest: I will take you, ruin you, fill you up until my code takes.” Megatron promises, lining his bobbing spike up with your throbbing valve. He then grabs your hips, propping them up for a better angle. You quiver, writhing on your berth and bracing your servos on his forearms. His armor is hot under your touch, and your claws dig into the smooth of his paint. Then you match his stare, licking your dermas.

“Frag me like you mean it.”

Megatron suddenly thrusts his spike into you and you wail, unforgiving of your smaller stature. The delicate mesh and sensitive wires give and mold around the hot rod of his pulsing length, forming a slick suction around your lover. He groans, easing back then thrusting in with earnest. Your thighs tremble as you take him, each rimmed circlet of his spike passing into you, dragging deliciously on your valve’s walls.

It’s a tight fight, even with being loosened by Megatron’s thick digits. The transformation seams on your hips and thighs stretch, soft whirs and clicks as your frame adjusts to take him. He’s the biggest you’ve ever had, and the strongest too. The power in his hips drives you up the berth, and he pulls you back down.

You can’t meet his thrusts, but you try and buck your hips in time with him, erratic at first. Megatron’s servos are locked on you, guiding you when your movements skip or miss. All the pleasure centers in your frame are alight, charges sparking and fritzing along your circuitry. Another overload builds, a hot, deep bubbling in your core.

With each thrust of his spike, your valve squelches, the mesh slick and hot with transfluid. More drips down your legs, your aft, onto the berth, leaving everything tacky. Megatron hits a particularly sensitive node deep inside you, one you didn’t even know was there, and you keen. Coolant tears prick at your vision again, escaping the corners and rolling off your faceplates. 

“How badly do you want it?” Megatron seethes, and you could mistake his lust for anger. He seizes your neck cables, dangerous talons threatening Energon lines, as he demands, “How badly do you want me?”

“Desperately.” You wheeze, optics whiting out as Megatron squeezes your neck cables just so as he gives you a series of particularly rough thrusts. Your peds tighten on his back, urging him deeper. Your Master vents, harsh and hot, his engine rumbling loud in his chassis.

“You will look...” Megatron chokes on a groan,”... Excellent with a trine at your hip.”

That makes you whine, Seeker coding squealing and preening at the thought. A trine. Three little sparklings just like their carrier. You’d delight in carrying them in your gestation chamber, wanting to see yourself change and swell to accommodate them.

“I want... I want,” Your voice cuts out, broken by a sob, and you can only manage a tight, “I want that!”

“Good.” Megatron pistons his hips like a jackhammer, his rhythm not breaking once. Powerful thrusts meet the wet heat of your core, the tops of his thigh armor clanking loudly against your legs. The overload warnings start appearing once again. Megatron hisses when your valve tightens around his length, and it prompts him to pick up the pace.

“You are so pretty.” He growls, leaning in to recapture your dermas with his. As he kisses, he doubles his speed and the strength behind it. You moan and sob into his mouth, servos gripping him by the back of the helm. His glossa battles with yours, his sharp denta nicking you more than once. Then he switches to kissing you deeply, soulfully, like he’s found salvation in your dermas.

It’s as you’re so viscerally connected to Megatron that the heat in your core reaches a boiling point, the slow-building electricity coming to its peak. Your valve walls spasm, the giving mesh convulsing in the telltale sign of your overload on the horizon.

Somehow accomplishing it, Megatron kisses you deeper, his faceplates flush and hot against yours. A particularly hard grind of his spike on the sensitive nodes of your valve has you gasping into the silver mech’s mouth. Your optics squeeze shut, you feel like your core is about to explode with heat—

Your second overload hits, just as spectacular and wonderful as the first. Electrified charges bounce between the mesh of your valve and Megatron’s throbbing spike, transfluid soaking him and yourself once again. It’s only after your audials tingle that you realize you’ve screamed loudly enough to reset them. Your systems crash, processors overheated and cooling fans hitching and trembling. With a hiss and a long grunt, Megatron follows you over the edge as well.

Warmth blooms in your core, pleasure nodes and receptors picking up the hot liquid feel of Megatron’s transfluid deep inside you. It comes out in spurts, and he rides his overload by continuing to push into you. As your optics come back online, you catch him hunching over you, ceasing his thrusts in favor of pressing as close as he can, spike still weeping transfluid and coating your inside walls.

Megatron hisses and groans, his frame shivering just once as he finishes, lazily bucking his hips thrice to empty himself completely. He doesn’t disengage his spike, leaving it to soften in your overworked valve. You can’t feel your peds, not after the overload you just experienced, and your entire frame shudders when he nips at your neck cables once again.

For a while, he hovers above you, his EM field embracing your frame. Softly, your servos caress his upper back struts, the tips of your digits dancing along his seams. His servos finally release your hips, revealing he’s left shallow dents in your armor. No matter, you’d wear them proudly. 

“Do you have fiber cloths in your refresher?” Megatron asks, breaking the comfortable silence, his vocal processor crackling only slightly. A twitch of the helm is the best “Yes” you can offer, and brutally Megatron parts from you, drawing a soft whimper as his spike and warmth leave you. The thought of sliding your interface panel back on crosses your mind, but your anterior node and valve are still throbbing so tenderly you can’t will yourself to do it.

You hadn’t realized you closed your optics until Megatron’s approaching pedsteps makes you open them again. He stands before your sprawled, ruined frame, a sheer fiber cloth in his servo, reaching to clean you. Silently, he wipes up the glowing transfluid that’s stained your berth, then moves to clean what’s left on your body.

For a long few moments, the sounds of your cooling fans cycling down, wings softly scraping on your berth, and Megatron’s movements fill your habsuite. At some point, you hear the distinct click of Megatron’s interface panel closing and you tilt your helm up to see him putting his spike away. Also distinctly, the slight burn of soreness as Megatron wipes your exposed valve of excess transfluid.

You’d need to wash regardless, but it’s the thought that counts.

“That was...” And you have no words. Your voice sounds distant and far away, like you’re listening to yourself whisper from miles away. Megatron hums to fill your silence, then you hear the muffled sound of the cloth being discarded somewhere in your room.

“May I join you for the night?” Your Lord’s question is far more polite than it needs to be, considering the circumstances, but it’s 

“Of course.” Your answer is quick and sure, marked by the tremendous effort you put in to roll onto your side, even though you still can’t quite feel your legs. You watch Megatron around your berth and sit at your side. He stretches, silver armor plates shifting and whirring back into place, the length of his back struts revealing his hidden Energon lines.

Then he swings his peds up and lays beside you like it’s the most normal action he’s ever done. Though you do have to scoot over until your wings stick out past the edge.

“I would like for this to be a repeated venture,” Megatron teases after he settles himself, “And if you will accept, for this to be continued past a successful newspark creation.”

He glances at you out the corner of his optic, its glow dimmed. You smile.

He’s never been one for grand romantic gestures, never one to speak about softer, kinder things like “love” or “sparkbonding”. It’s unbecoming of him, the Leader of the Decepticons, former gladiator of Kaon, dark Lord and powerful Master. You don’t know if he’d ever pose the actual question, or if it will remain as nebulous, vague riddles and coded phrases for you to decipher and analyze. It isn’t in Lord Megatron’s making to be tender— At least not in the explicit regards.

“I want nothing less for the sire of my offspring.” You reply, your frame curling around the curve of his chassis, servo finding the same spot it always had: Right above his insignia, above his spark. His engine rumbles evenly, the steady drumming could bring you to power down, though you’re kept awake by the pleasant ache between your legs, the chill of the Nemesis, and the pride in bearing your Lord an heir. 

~ * ~ * ~

epilogue

Your berth is too small, much too small, for two Cybertronians attempting to recharge upon it. Megatron keeps an arm wrapped under and around you to prevent you from falling off, your frame halfway atop his. One of your servos rests under your helm, the other lazily traces invisible shapes on his broad chassis. Both of your EM fields mingle, the waves pulsing to each other in rhythm.

Earthen hours have passed since your coupling, and though you’re tired, you find yourself unable to slip into recharge.

“My Lord?” You catch his attention, Megatron optics flickering back as he pulls himself from the onset of recharge. Part of you regrets keeping him awake— Primus only knows how many sleepless nights your leader subjects himself to— and the other part of you quietly marvels at how he was nearly dozing in your arms. What show of trust is as great as that?

“If I am to carry, this means the Decepticon cause loses one of its strongest warriors—” You sigh happily as the warlord shifts so that his servo rubs your wings, tenderly caressing sensitive transformation seams and Energon lines. What more you wanted to say dies on your glossa, too caught up in the tender display of affection your Lord gives you.

“A temporary hindrance.” Megatron rumbles, shuttering his optics once again and stating, “The Decepticons will prevail.���

It falls quiet, fully so for a handful of clicks until you pipe up again.

“... And, we will need protoforms. And transitionary metals and alloys. And start the process of distilling Energon into low-grade, sparkling-safe—”

Megatron silences you with a deep kiss, one that has you purring in delight and cupping his faceplates. He lingers on your dermas for a few beats, his EM field heavy and warm on yours, lulling you closer to recharge. Megatron parts, settling down on his back struts, his frame creaking and hissing air as he relaxes. Then he sighs:

“We will discuss technicalities in the morning.”

[pumpking64]

Oh so it hasn’t really changed since the first definition? There aren’t species which are categorised as dinosaurs today yet are more distantly related to Megalosaurus or Iguanodon than those are to each other?

And also, do you know of a scientific distinction between dinosaurs and sauria? This has always confused me from a German standpoint, where the terms “Dinosaurier“ and “Saurier“ don’t include the same taxons (as far as I’m aware). Are dinosaurs then a scientific taxon within the non-scientific group of sauria?

I have a question - and I completely understand if you don't want to answer - but if birds are "full dinosaurs" then what the heck even is a dinosaur? (I would appreciate if you could explain like I'm a particularly stupid 5 year old)

You're good! I don't mind answering!

Organism = Living Thing

Prehistoric Life = life that existed before agriculture; a good summary term for "life of the past"

Evolutionary Relationships = what things are related to what other things

We define groups of organisms based on their evolutionary relationships. In school you probably learned that we define different groups of organisms based on their traits, but that was the old way of doing things. That was a system that we made before we really knew about prehistoric life, and it doesn't describe extinct organisms particularly well.

So, scientists have switched to just using relationships, which are determined based on what the most likely evolutionary pathways are (usually by putting everything we know about the organisms in question into a computer and having it generate the most likely family tree).

The first two dinosaurs (in the traditional sense) that were discovered were Megalosaurus and Iguanodon. So, we defined the group, Dinosaur, based on those first two animals.

How do we do that? Well, we say that those two animals form the two branches of the Dinosaur family tree. Which means the first dinosaur is the last ancestor those two animals had in common - ie, the point at which they were still in the same evolutionary line. After that point they diverged into two different lines, but they shared that common ancestor.

So, dinosaurs are defined as:

The Most Recent Common Ancestor of Megalosaurus and Iguanodon, and all of that ancestor's descendants.

Phrased differently: the first dinosaur was the last ancestor Megalosaurus and Iguanodon shared, and everything that can trace their lineage back to that ancestor is a dinosaur.

So, Dinosaurs are a particular family group. That group includes lots of things, all of which descended from that last ancestor. And among those descendants? Birds!

Hope that helps

[she-wolf09231982]

Chapter 1- The Age of Chivalry

Summary: You're reassigned to Easy Company when one of their medics was injured pre D-Day. You expect some sass from the Company since you'll be the only female soldier in 100 miles but never expected for any of them to befriend you.

Author Note: Mature audience, Joe LiebgottxFemMedic, WW2, Character introduction, Pre D-Day, She/Her Pronouns, Y/N, L/N, Cursing/Swearing, Derogatory Slurs, Womanizing Comments, Military Terminology, Inappropriate Nicknames, Band of Brothers References, Mentions of Weaponry, Smoking, Story takes place Episode 1- Currahee

*These stories may not fall entirely in accordance with the TV series timeline. I do not know the real soldiers the actors portray in this series, so please understand I show no disrespect. Some or most of historical events and character interactions in my fanfics are fabricated purely for the sake of the enjoyment of fiction*

~~~~~~~

October 1943

It was never a good idea to mix a single female with a Company of deprived men in the Army...but here you are. You found out you were assigned to Easy Company 2nd Battalion 101st Airborne Division in Fall 1943 when they lost one of their medics to an injury. Although you trained separately from the males at Toccoa in the Divisional medical unit and were one of very few females allowed to work alongside men, you got along quite well with most of the guys. You held your own never asking for special treatment or never played the ‘damsel in distress’ card, so Easy Company learned rather quickly that you can keep up.  

~~~~~~~

You remember the day you arrived at Aldbourne, England to make contact with the boys of Easy Company. With your reassignment order in hand, you approach a group of soldiers sitting at a picnic bench outside a building. All of them looking a bit rough, but nonetheless smoking and joking with eachother. They take a pause as they notice you approaching them. Some of them sizing you up and down as you carry your duffel full of medical supplies and wearing fatigues that have yet to see the battlefields like theirs have.  

“Hey, you lost there, lady?” Private Roy Cobb called out to you, sizing you up again as you continued to walk towards them without faltering. 

You shoot the mouthy Private a look of disdain before responding. 

“I’m looking for Corporal Roe. I was told to make contact with him as soon I arrived.” You speak to the group as a whole. 

They all exchanged looks and a few whispers. 

Corporal George Luz stood up. 

“Why, I’m Eugene Roe. But around here they call me, ‘Doc.’” He declared confidently with a cocky grin. 

The others started to snicker. One laid a heavy pat on his shoulder showing his appreciation of the joke. 

You rolled your eyes, releasing an exasperated sigh. 

Sergeant Denver Randleman stood from the bench, then walked towards you pushing Luz aside shaking his head as he passed him. He was a larger man. Like a bear. Never removing the cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth as he spoke to you.  

“He’s across the way this way, I’ll take ya to him.” He said, motioning you along in the opposite direction. 

“Thank you, Sergeant.” You reply. 

“No problem. And it’s just ‘Bull,’ ma’am.” He said politely in his thick Southern accent as he passed you leading the way.  

You turn on your heel and proceed to follow Bull, ignoring the distant whistles you heard from some of the men you just met behind you. 

~~~~~~~

“I hope the guys haven’t given you too much trouble so far?” stated the actual Eugene ‘Doc’ Roe when you crossed into the designated aid station. 

“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before, Doc.” You say with conviction.  

Bull chuckled, finding your response amusing. 

“Yeah, I bet.” Doc replied before continuing. 

“Well, let’s get you in processed here, and squared away. Thanks for bringing her here, Bull. I’m sure those other idiots would’ve just sent her to their barracks.” he said with a roll of his eyes. 

Bull nodded with a small wave.  

“See you at chow, L/N.” Bull called back to you before he left. 

When Bull returned to where the others were still gathered, they bombarded him with questions. 

“Did you catch her name??” Sergeant (Sgt) Don Malarkey prodded. 

“-is she coming to Easy Company??” Sgt Bill Guarnere interrupted before Bull could answer. 

“-did she say anything about me?” Luz questioned. 

As the interrogation got heavier, he threw his hands up and removed the cigar from his mouth. 

“GUYS!! Take it easy, will ya? You’ll see her later at chow, just don’t attack her with all of these questions right away, k? We don’t want to scare her off now, do we?” He explained as he replaced his cigar and walked away.  

They all swapped looks of excitement.  

“Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going to have me a shower before dinner this evening.” Corporal Joe Liebgott stated while flicking his cigarette butt, rising from the picnic bench, shouldering his rifle. 

“Ok, Liebgott, like you have a shot.” Malarkey teased. 

Liebgott turned to him. 

“Oh contrare, I feel you underestimate me, Don.” He shot back at Malarkey while walking backwards, then turning back around. 

The group scoffed at him collectively. 

~~~~~~~

You got to chow early before any of the other men started to show up. You tucked yourself way in the back at a long table in the corner. You made sure to keep your head down, hanging over a tray trying to swallow some of the Army’s finest slop.  

“Should’ve just stuck to a dinner roll with margarine.” You whispered to yourself as you grimaced from the last mouthful of mystery meat from your plate. 

“Not exactly a high-end dish from The Ritz, now, is it?” Sgt Carwood Lipton joked as he sat down across from you with his own serving of slop. 

“Yeah, not quite.” You respond while poking at a hard, clay-like mound on your plate that was supposed to be mashed potatoes. 

“You’ll get used to it.” Bull stated as he sat next to you with his tray. 

You ‘psh-ed’ at Bull’s statement. 

“I highly doubt that. But I’ll make do.” You convinced yourself. “Surprisingly not the worst food I’ve had.” You added. 

“Really, there’s something out there worse than this?” Lipton asked astonished as he stirred his cold soup that looked like ketchup and water. 

“Oh yeah! Pixley and Ehler’s Diner on Clark Street in Chicago has some questionable selections.” You explained. 

“Is that where you’re from?” Corporal Frank Perconte queried as he sat next to Lipton. 

“I am.” You replied with pride. 

“You Italian then?” Guarnere asked, inviting himself to the conversation, sitting next to Perconte. 

“Italian and Irish.” You clarified. 

“Ssshh, a goddam Mick-Deigo.” Guarnere sneered crinkling his nose in disgust. 

“Leave’er alone, Gonorrhea.” Liebgott interjected sitting next to Bull. 

“I’m guessing you're Italian?” You directed at Guarnere. 

“Sicilian, actually.” He retorted. 

“Hm, you know that Sicilians aren’t real Italians, right? Sicily is just like Australia. All the criminals of Britain were shipped there to be ostracized from the mainland. Sicily is just an island of Italy’s delinquents.” You taunted. 

The others “ooooo-ed” in unison. Even Perconte who was the other Italian of Easy company. 

“She got you there, Guarnere.” Bull teased. 

Everyone laughed. Except Guarnere. 

“You think you’re funny?” Guarnere challenged. 

You sighed and looked at him deadpan in the face without an ounce of fear to show. 

“Come on, Guarnere, she was only dishing out what you gave her.” Perconte defended. 

“Shut your trap, Perconte, you should be on my side!” he said slamming a fist onto the surface of the table then pointing at him.  

The rest of the table filled up with remaining members of Easy Company that could fit that wanted to see the fight unfold. 

You folded your arms in front of you on top of the table and leaned forward, making sure you got Guarnere’s attention, then spoke with distinct fire in your voice. 

“You think I’m some dame just showing up here straight out of basic training not knowing how to handle myself with soldiers? I’ve been whistled at, barked at, howled at, catcalled, pinched, ass slapped, and manhandled by the worst of them, pal. You labeling me because of my heritage ain’t gonna do shit to me. But I’ll be damned you disrespect me like I haven’t earned the right to be respected. Just remember, I’m the one that’s going to be tending to you if you get shot in the field, sergeant.”  

You glare at him, then rise harshly from your seat, leaving the rest of the table in a state of awe and shock. 

“Good job, Gonorrhea. You pissed her off now.” Liebgott pointed out with an audible tsk. 

“Fuck her.” Guarnere spit back. 

~~~~~~~

As soon as you left the chow hall, you found a spot out of sight to catch your breath and slow your heart rate. You leaned against a post looking up towards the night sky taking deep controlled breaths. 

“Corporal L/N?” You’re startled by the voice of Lieutenant (LT) Richard Winters. You snap to attention ready to render a salute, but he waves you down. 

“As you were. Are you alright?” He asked as you relaxed your stance. 

“Yessir, just getting some fresh air.” You reassured. 

He looked at you with skepticism, not believing you were telling him the entire truth.  

You continued. 

“A room full of men who haven’t showered in a few days can make a gal lightheaded.” You joked. 

The corner of LT Winters’ mouth started to curl into a slight grin, trying his best not to laugh outloud at your quick wit. 

“I see, L/N. Well rest up, we’ll need you to be ready when we move out for the next mission.” He explained. 

“Yes, sir. Have a good night.” You replied. 

Winters gave a nod and entered the chow hall. 

LT Winters bee lined for his company’s table. His men all greeted him cheerfully as he approached the table. 

“Lieutenant, got a seat open right here.” Bull called out, gesturing to your vacant spot. 

“No thanks, Bull, I’ve eaten already.” Winters responded. He paused before he continued. 

“Just ran into Corporal L/N on the way in-” He paused again to assess the men’s reaction. 

Some continued eating, pretending like they hadn’t really heard. Lipton, Bull and Liebgott looked up at Winters waiting for him to continue. 

“She seemed somewhat troubled.” Winters finished. He waited for anyone to speak up, looking at the group expectantly. 

“Maybe her panties got all up in a twist, sir.” Guarnere offered up sarcastically. 

Some of the men chortled in response. 

Winters, Bull, Lipton, and Liebgott weren’t amused. 

“Well, she only said a room full of foul-smelling males made her dizzy and she needed fresh air.” Winters relayed, while looking at Guarnere suspiciously. 

The men all started to smell their armpits self-consciously. 

“Corporal Liebgott.” Winters called out. 

“Sir?”

“Get out there and escort L/N to her tent.” Winters instructed. 

“Yes, sir.” Liebgott acknowledged. 

“L/N will not walk around alone at night, gentlemen. I don’t care who goes with her, but make sure she always has a battle buddy in the hours of darkness. Tracking?” Winters asked, raising his voice authoritatively. 

The table responded “yes, sir” simultaneously. 

Liebgott rushed out excitedly and hustled down the street to catch you before you got too far. 

~~~~~~~

You were aways a bit ahead before Liebgott found you. 

“Hey, L/N! Wait up!” He called after you. 

You turned around looking for the voice calling your name. 

You stopped walking, waiting for Liebgott trotting over to catch up to you. 

“Can I help you?” You asked with a little more harshness in your voice than you intended. 

“As a matter of fact, I’m here to help you. I have the honor of accompanying you to your barracks.” He responded with enthusiasm and a smile. 

You were taken aback. You raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Oh?” You questioned before continuing. “That’s quite unexpectedly chivalrous of you.” 

“Well, you have Winters to thank for that, it was his idea.” He responded quite bluntly. 

You rolled your eyes.  

“Hm, I see.” You reply briskly.  

Liebgott realized he sounded like an asshole right then. 

“Of course, if you approve, I’ll appoint myself your permanent battle buddy from now on.” He extended with his signature smirk as you resumed walking together. 

You felt your face heat up. You averted your eyes to the ground so he wouldn’t see you blush. But Joseph Liebgott doesn’t miss a thing. He grinned wider. 

“If those are the LT’s orders, then have at it, Liebgott.” You replied coldly. 

“Nah, that last part was my idea.” He stated proudly. 

You shot him a confused expression, then he winked at you. 

You laughed nervously, looking away quickly to break the awkwardness you felt in the pit of your stomach. 

He smiled at you affectionately.

“And call me Joe.” He added.

“Y/N.” You reply looking up at him through your lashes.

“Look, sorry if I’m making it weird. And don’t listen to Gonorrhea. He’s just a jackass with a height deficiency. The kid always has some stupid shit to say.” He explained. 

You nod trying to suppress a giggle. 

“This is me.” You announce as you approach the entrance to your sleeping quarters. You turn to face Joe. “Thank you for the chat, and the company, Liebgott…I mean Joe.” You say dotingly. 

“Forget it. So?” He asked. 

You were genuinely confused. 

“Sooo?” You reply. 

“Am I your permanent evening escort?” he asked with a grin and a wink. 

This time you laugh outwardly at his attempt at a flirty sexual inuendo. 

“If by ‘evening escort’ you mean my nightly walk to and from one location to another, I’d have to say....I’ll think about it.” You respond flirtatiously with a wink in return. 

His face lit up. 

“Well alright then. We’ll take another test run tomorrow night.” He proposed. 

You shook your head smiling, astounded by the level of confidence this man had. 

“Good night, Joe.” You finalized as you disappear beyond the threshold of the tent entrance. 

~~~~~~~

[thatoneluckybee]

Curious about something...

NOTE: Everyone has an accent. If you speak, you have an accent. But I do know that it can be difficult to recognize yourself! So I've added that as an option.

For me I don't notice I have a "Southern" accent unless I'm online, because some of the grammatical quirks are different from what people overall picture as American English.

Just wanted to test this out because I've noticed some conflicting answers. For me I will forget grammar rules and start using terminology that makes no sense because I Can't Sleep, but I've noticed it's the opposite with some people I know!

[tokyosmega]

the atla universe if languages existed

hey there! ever wondered what avatar would be like if the nations actually spoke different languages? me too! here's my idea of how it would go:

(set during avatar: the last airbender, might add more during korra times another day)

quick disclaimer: i am an american who speaks american english and conversational france french. all of my language knowledge comes from youtube or school. this is just a silly little headcanon i needed to write down.

WATER

Within the water tribe’s language system, there are two main languages: Northern Water and Southern Water. Northern Water is spoken by the Northern Water tribe and Southern Water is spoken by the Southern Water tribe. Despite having similar names, the two languages are very different. When the Water tribes lived as one on the water lionturtle, they all spoke the same language (which we will call Olde Water), but after separation, they evolved independently. Think of the relationships between the two water languages as the relationship between French and Spanish. Their words can be similar (sol/soleil, luna/lune) because they share roots from Latin (or in this case, Olde Water). Northern Water and Southern Water share roots to the point where a Southern speaker and a Northern speaker would not be able to understand each other but could probably pick out a few key words from their speech. Similar words are things that are native to their area, while less common things that did not exist/were unknown during Olde Water times have differing words (the word for “polarbear-dog” is probably similar in both languages, but the word for “badgermole” is probably different). If the tribes met often for peace/community reasons (perhaps annually), then both languages would contain loanwords from the other tribe. For example, if sea prunes are a Southern Water tribe staple, then the word for “sea prunes” in the North is probably the same as it is in the South. Neither language has any sort of written component- it is completely oral.

Another, more niche language also exists within the Water language family, and that is Foggy Swamp. This language also originates from Olde Water, but has a great amount of Earth influence, since the swamp itself is in the Earth Kingdom (influence specifically from Omashu). Someone who speaks Olde Water would understand Foggy Swamp to the extent that someone who speaks American English would understand Pidgin English (that is, they would have to focus intently and would be able to get the jist of their speech). A Northern Water or Southern Water speaker would not be able to understand them at all, since their languages have developed so drastically from Olde Water. However, one could trace roots of words in Foggy Swamp back to Northern or Southern Water. An Earth speaker would not understand them at all either, but would be able to trace back loanwords and modern terminology (the word for “swamp” or “cat-gator”, for example, would be a lot more similar to Earth than it would be to Northern Water or Southern Water). Foggy Swamp also does not have a writing system.

EARTH

Because it covers such a vast space, the people of the Earth kingdom used to be incredibly linguistically diverse, with almost every city speaking differently than the next. During Kyoshi’s reign, Chin the Conqueror took over most of the kingdom and standardized the writing system (similar to the Qin dynasty in China), and therefore heavily influenced spoken language in the Earth kingdom. As an after-effect, Common Earth, also known as simply Earth, is the most widely spoken language in the world, to a similar extent as English or Mandarin Chinese. It is taught as a second language in every nation and it is hard to find a city where there are no Earth speakers. Everyone in the Earth kingdom speaks or understands Earth. Omashu Earth is an accent that is spoken primarily in the city of Omashu, and has tonal differences from Earth, similar to the difference between New York English and standard American English. Aside from Omashu Earth, the other areas of the Earth kingdom that were taken over by Chin do not have distinct accents. There are some slight variances, especially in the Southern islands between the Air temples, but all speakers of Common Earth can understand each other perfectly. Common Earth has a stable writing system that does not vary.

Despite Chin’s attempt to standardize language within the Earth kingdom, the places he did not conquer held fast to their respective languages. Ba Sing Se Earth, which can also be called Upper Ba Sing Se Earth, is the language that differs the most from Common Earth due to Ba Sing Se’s impenetrable walls cutting them off from the rest of the kingdom. Since both languages are derived from Olde Earth, they share similar writing systems, but neither language can understand each other (similar to the relationship between Cantonese and Mandarin). The walls between the Upper and Lower ring also created Lower Ba Sing Se Earth, where grammar is more simplified, due to the hasty lifestyle of a lower-class worker. Both Upper and Lower Ba Sing Se Earth speakers can understand each other, but Upper Ba Sing Se speakers might not be able to understand Lower slang. Their writing system is exactly the same. Kyoshi Earth is spoken solely on Kyoshi island, and is very similar to the former language of the people of Yokoya. It is not understandable to any other Earth speakers and functions similarly to the relationship between Japanese and Mandarin Chinese, with a different yet similar alphabet to Common Earth. The Si Wong tribes, who inhabit the Si Wong desert, speak various independent languages, but are collectively known as Si Wong Earth. Their languages have many loanwords from Common Earth due to trade. Their written language is syllabic and simple, similar to Cuneiform. 

FIRE

Most of the Fire nation speaks the same language, but there are three main dialects within the Fire Nation language system. The most commonly spoken dialect is aptly named Fire, but is also known as Common Fire. This language is spoken within the Fire nation capital, Caldera, but is mainly used within the greater land mass of the Fire nation. It evolved from Olde Fire and is the most basic form of Fire nation speech. The most similar dialect is more of an accent with some different slang terms and is known as High Fire. It is spoken by the citizens of Caldera, especially the nobles. It is completely understandable to those who know Common Fire and vice versa. The relationship between the two languages is similar to the relationship between Canadian French and Quebecois. The main difference between High Fire and Common fire is pronunciation of words and tonal patterns within sentences and phrases. The last dialects all get looped into one group and are collectively known as Provincial Fire. Provincial Fire is spoken on the outskirts of the mainland and into the chain of islands off of the Fire nation. It varies greatly depending on what island or area of the mainland it is spoken in and has differences from Common Fire that are similar to Korean’s differences from its provincial dialects (speech pattern and tones, different slang terms). The further out one gets from Caldera, the stronger the dialect. Written language within the Fire nation is the same across all of the dialects and characters are similar to Mandarin Chinese as they are pictorial and syllabic (from canon). 

The Sun Warriors are the only ethnic group of the Fire nation that speaks anything other than Common Fire. The Sun Warriors speak Sun Fire, which originates from Olde Fire as well, but has changed greatly since it was spoken within such a small group of people. Someone who speaks Common Fire would not understand Sun Fire at all, but could probably pick out a few words that have similar roots to Common Fire. Sun Fire has two written languages- one is reserved for spiritual leaders and spiritual texts, while the other is used by all people. Visually, it is similar to the differences between Japanese’s Kanji and Kana writing systems, where one is more simplified and one is more traditional. Spiritual written Sun Fire is more similar to written Common Fire. 

AIR

The people of the Air nation only have one language: Air. Due to a high need of proper communication, as well as people constantly moving from temple to temple, or growing up at one and working at the other, Air nomads developed only a single language from Olde Air. Air nomads have a robust writing system to allow writing of incredibly complex ideas and air nomad journeys. Most nomads learn multiple other languages as they age, so they can succeed no matter where they find themselves in the world. Due to the destruction of the Air temples, Air is almost a completely lost language. Remaining speakers include Aang and his children, as well as a few Earth kingdom elders who learned the language from friends and passed it down to their children.

MISC.

Cities born out of the 100-year war, like Cranefish Town (Republic City), are another story. The Fire nation mandated that all colonies only speak Common Fire in hopes of destroying the culture of the city, but despite that, a hybrid language developed: Earthen Fire. To a non-speaker, Earthen Fire sounds like Common Fire, but the grammar structure is very Earth based (a Fire speaker can understand Earthen Fire in the way that a Dutch speaker can understand Afrikaans). It also incorporates many loanwords from Earth. The writing system involves the exact same characters as written Earth, so it almost sounds like Fire spoken with an Earth accent. 

[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.

[llyfrenfys]

Sooner or later I've gotta make a better post regarding the appropriation of indigenous terminology by proponents of (certain kinds of) Welsh nationalism. But for now here's a very whistle-stop version of that post. I have a degree in Celtic Studies so these topics are very near and dear to my heart.

[Note: I wrote this post originally during a migraine. I'm revisiting the draft while I'm ill but hopefully can fix this up into something somewhat understandable. As always, this is only a very brief description of the history and I strongly reccomend reading about these topics in your own time to develop a deeper understanding of them. These are topics not even well known in Britain, but if you can spend a short time just to read this, you can help to combat misinformation about British (particularly Welsh) history - and that could aid in preventing the misappropriation of history in the long run. Diolch eto for reading!]

Very often, (certain) Welsh nationalists use terminology that positions the Welsh as if they are an 'indigenous' population who have been 'colonised'. They use language (which in this climate) heavily draws upon the language typically used for peoples who are the victims of British colonialism (of which Wales was an active participant). There's multiple issues with this and many of them lie in whether its appropriate to use this language (regardless of its accuracy or not) as a country which was actively involved in the colonisation of much of the world. What I mean in short is that additional language is needed which doesn't step on the toes of endangered cultures and groups directly affected by British colonialism.

Wales not only participated in British colonialism as a whole (alongside Scotland, Ireland* and England) but itself colonised parts of patagonia in Argentina.

I can't think of any similar terminology to 'indigenous' or 'colonised' which would also get the idea which is meant across. 'Native' in certain contexts is permissible, e.g. 'native speaker' in the context of a Welsh speaker. But in other contexts other than langauge, things get tricky when you argue 'nativeness' (this is a topic I will come back to - especially re. Celtic as a language descriptor vs Celtic as a so-called ethnicity). When (certain) Welsh nationalists talk about being 'indigenous' , being 'native' or 'colonised' what is meant by that?

(Map of the expansion of the Bronze Age Bell Beaker culture circa 2400 BC in Britain and Ireland) - from this map

What makes a Welsh person 'indigenous' to this island that doesn't immediately disqualify other peoples who also have a deep history here? Historically, the island of Britain has been lived on by many, many peoples.

In the Bronze Age you had the arrival of the Bell Beaker people. Then in the Iron-Age, you had tribes speaking (mostly) Brittonic. I say mostly, because we have direct evidence that in the Iron Age Gaulish speaking tribes also moved to parts of Britain but later became integrated with the rest of the population (which, I will add, were not a united peoples but a scattering of different groups who often went to war against each other). Then the Romans invaded Britain (and much of Western Europe) and over time integrated into the local population. So now Britain is Romano-British. Eventually the Western Roman Empire collapses and Britain enters into the sub-Roman Britain phase of its existence. Kingdoms begin to form, with the population speaking Brittonic and British-Latin. So you have different kingdoms in (what would become Wales) and in (what would become Northern England and Southern Scotland) you have more Brittonic-speaking kingdoms.

These kingdoms were also not a united peoples. They shared a language - but it's like claiming that Ancient Greeks were a united people simply because they all spoke Greek. Sparta, Athens, Cornith etc. were independent of each other and the same is true of the kingdoms of the Hen Ogledd (the Old North) and the kingdoms of Wales. They all had a common language but also went to war with each other sometimes. Eventually, the Brittonic language began to diverge into different languages. Namely, Old Welsh and Cumbric (the language spoken in what is today Cumbria, Lancashire, Northumberland and Southern Scotland). The two languages were still very closely related but had diverged by a certain point.

At the same time this is happening, Anglo-Saxons begin to arrive in what is now Kent. They form kingdoms and the Britons living there are either displaced or become absorbed into the Anglo-Saxon populace. Then the Norse rock up and conduct viking raids around the coast before finally settling in parts of the country and forming their own territories.

So now Britain has several groups living on the island (keeping in mind even before settlement from the Anglo-Saxons and the Norse that the British kingdoms were already composed of different groups themselves). Northern Scotland was also having a time re: Picts, Gaels and Britons - but we'll gloss over that for brevity. Also, Ireland was also raiding the Welsh coast at this time too.

Then the Normans rock up and in 1066 William the Conqueror, well, conquers. More history happens after this point but I will try and keep this as brief and as non-messy as I can.

So, to recap:

One of the earliest cultures in Britain was the Bell Beaker people in the Bronze Age. They had their lands settled by the Iron Age Britons ('Celts'). Then the Romans came and the 'Celts' became Romano-Britons. After the Western Roman Empire collapses the remaining population forms kingdoms with distinct political identities. These kingdoms eventually find themselves fighting the Anglo-Saxons and the Norse. Then the Normans turn up and so on and so forth.

So- which group is the original native group to Britain? (Trick question - this question cannot be satisfactorily answered in favour of one group without leaning into claims of historicity which the other groups can also claim).

Which brings me to modern Welsh identity and those who came before.

Something I see in Welsh nationalist groups is a claim to the legacy (or even claims of direct descendance from) the Iron Age Britons (commonly called Celts for shorthand, but as I said before I'm gonna get back to that point). And this narrative is what the "Welsh people are native to Britain" argument is based off of.

It may seem like #praxis to argue the Welsh people are the true inhabitants of Britain and the English are evil invaders. But you have to make *several* logical leaps to get to that point if you're genuinely arguing that point.

For starters, many more people than just the Britons (read: Romano Britons/early Brittonic kingdoms) have called Britain home since the Early Middle Ages. For example, there's the settlement of Scotland by the Gaels, the Irish settlement of certain parts of costal Wales. You have (much later) Roma and traveller groups, Jewish diaspora and many more diverse cultures and peoples existing in Britain at this time. The Romano-British population, which developed into the Early Middle Ages kingdoms of Wales and the Hen Ogledd, was also multicultural. Many black Romans started families with white Britons. By the sub-Roman period, Britain was ethnically and culturally diverse.

But those who argue in favour of a such thing as 'Celtic ethnicity' in order to support the idea Britons (and only Britons) were native to these islands typically imagine that history as white. White Brits, white Romans, white Gaels. When we know this isn't true. Did you know that the Northernmost Ancient Egyptian temple in the world is in Yorkshire because Roman Egyptians in the military brought their religion with them? Mary Beard did a fantastic documentary about a Roman Soldier from modern day Syria who was stationed at Hadrian's Wall who started a family with a British woman. Point is, that some people like to imagine a purely white Britain that they can pine for. And I'm afraid it simply isn't true. The version of history many white supremacists look to simply didn't exist.

I'll quickly bring up one last point before I draw this to a close. And it's about Celtic as a linguistic term vs Celtic as a so-called ethnicity. You see, any first year Celtic Student would tell you that there is no such thing as 'Celts'. Crazy, I know from people studying *Celtic* studies. But hear me out - there is good reasoning why (beyond language groups) Celtic is not a good term for describing an ethnic group. Much of it relates to what I've already mentioned, but we categorise Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Mann, Cornwall and Brittany as Celtic not because of the ethnicity of the people living there (which I've mentioned is pretty diverse) but because they are all places where Celtic languages are spoken. It wasn't until Edward Llwyd (d. 1709) that the term Celtic was coined to describe these languages. Up until that point, nobody was thinking of Irish and Welsh as related because the languages do not sound like they have a common origin. By extension, people didn't think of the Welsh and Irish as being the same peoples (or Celtic) either. Its only in the modern day there is a sense of Celtic identity. The Iron Age Britons were not going around calling themselves Celts. There was no common Celtic identity. But very often people argue Celticness based on a pseudohistory which insists on a false and misleading interpretation of history. Whether or not Celticness exists now is a different matter entirely. But it sure does not rest upon race or ethnicity as a qualifier. This is quite foundational stuff to first year and above Celtic Scholars, but is not generally well known outside of academia because the misinformation is quite strong. So if you read is far, diolch mawr and please share this with anyone you think might be interested in it. Any amount of knowledge of these things would greatly improve understanding of what it means to be Welsh and what it means to speak a Celtic language.

Lastly,

all of that begs us to ask the question:

What does it mean to claim nativeness in a Western European context?

More under the cut

What does it mean to claim nativeness in a Western European context? Especially in a Western Europe post-colonialism.

It means, to me, to claim what isn't our right to claim. To argue and make our points with language that isn't ours and isn't designed to be ours. That this language of indigeneity may sound appealing, but is it improper to use this terminology when our country was directly responsible for the atrocities in which this very language became relevant?

What do we do in response to the misinterpretation of our culture instead of relying on language of indigeneity? These are the questions I want to leave you with and invite you to share your thoughts on. How do we build a Wales which advocates for itself without relying upon inaccurate language which betrays a reliance upon the ahistorical to make its point?

What kind of Wales do we want to live in?

[mapsontheweb]

Pellegrini's map of the languages of Italy, 1977.

via u/Normal_Kaleidoscope

There are a lot of maps around. One posted quite recently in this community. However, most of them contain incorrect information. This map was done by an actual linguist, yes it's old, but scientifically sound. Here's how to read it. Each color represents a group of mutually intelligible languages. It does not mean that one color corresponds to one language. Every town has its own languages, but they can be divided by mutual intelligibility and common features. More or less, it is like giving the same color to French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, and Romanian, because they are all Romance languages. Starting from the deep south:

violet is the area of extreme southern Italo-Romance. Sicilian, Southern Calabrian, and Salentino belong to this group.

pink is the area of continental southern Italo-Romance. Apulian, Campanian, Lucanian, Northern Calabrese, Molisano, Abruzzese, and Southern Marchigiano belong to this group.

light pink is central Italo-Romance. Laziale, Umbro, and Marchigiano belong to this group.

green is the area of Tuscan.

yellow is northern Italo-Romance. It's divided in yellow (Emiliano-Romagnolo, Ligure, Lumbard, Piedmontese) and light yellow (Veneto).

orange (north east) is Friulan.

light grey is Slovenian

dark grey is German varieties

coral (north west) is Franco-provençal

light brick orange is Sardinian

Within each area, you can see red lines (isoglosses). These lines constitute language borders. So for example, if you zoom in you'll see the isoglosses separating Piedmontese from Lumbard, Campania from Apulian, etc. As you can see, the map uses different terminology from the maps that you can usually find on the internet. Just to give an example, amateur -made maps describe Neapolitan as being spoken everywhere in continental southern Italy, while in fact this is not the case.

Tiny letters represent alloglot languages (Griko, Slavomolisan, Arbereshe, etc.)

You can find the original here. Enjoy!