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#ill check for typos later
shkika · 7 months
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Do you have a post explaining your SoS = Saint headcanon (like the hows and the whys)? I think it’s a super cool theory but I can’t find anything you’ve written in depth about it :(
Yes sure!
I have realized it is extremely difficult to search through my asks related only to a specific topic oops..
My theory stems from a specific Moon dialogue. The one in the void where she explains that the solution was something beyond their understanding. A variable out of infinity that EVEN if they found, the wouldn't know to test. Basically this this finding one single thing out of an infinity of options. Not only that, but the only way to know the answer is to cross into the void and escape the cycles. Which would mean that upon discovering it, you would ascend.
Hey. Did you know that Sliver of Straw's name suspiciously much sounds like the saying "Needle in a haystack".
I've rambled about her name before it's extremely clever. I mean it literally translates to SOS while she's known for sending the triple affirmative signal and perishing.
In my theory I want to give the idea that Sliver didn't find the answer on purpose. She stumbled on it and forcefully ascended before she had enough time to explain, share or do anything more than send it out.
So then okay she's in the void. Why did she come back as Saint. What's going on?
Well the void is described as a dream. Which would mean it gives those who have departed the cycles a peaceful existence. Think of Hunter being embraced by NSH and Survivor finding their family in the home tree. Monk finding their sibling as well.
Well Sliver no doubt went through the same experience as well... however..
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You can tell it's a dream. Or at least the iterators can, because they are much more intelligent. Sliver would know that her dreams aren't real. Her loved ones she sees are still stuck in the cycles, somewhere she can't reach. And she's stuck unwillingly, it was all an accident she can't escape from. And she had friends! She often bet on animal fights like a dumbass, you cannot tell me she was fully devoted and did nothing else, but work with that silly hobby in mind. It's a very goofy detail to add to her character.
I think she suffered a lot in the void. Being all alone and stuck. It was unfair to be the only one free of the cycles, especially when her accomplishment wasn't even purposeful. So she attempts to escape. More or less swim up just how we see Saint doing.
But there are in fact void worms guarding the sea. I imagine they dragged her back down. Again and again.
What goes in the void can't leave. That's a rule!
So what she does is basically destroy herself. Take herself appart in any way she can, mentally and physically so that she can ascend as something anew.
Which is where the last challenge in arena mode makes more sense. It's non canon. Sliver didn't die, because of Saint. But it is more so symbolic! She is ascended so that Saint can take her place.
It is difficult and painful, but she manages. It is also beyond cool how the motif of the game, but inverted is use for Saint's swim back to the world. I did a lengthy ramble about it here I highly recommend you give it a read, because even the music used adds to this theory! > (x) < Here it is.
All the creatures in rain world are helpless from the big iterators to the smallest of slug cats.
Sliver takes her fate in her own hands refusing to follow the world's rules, becoming Saint. This was he can give the answer to his family. To every creature he can save from the repeating cycles. Comic about that here > (x) Even if Saint's goal is unachievable he chases it anyway. Which is what makes him an echo!
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As Moon and Pebbles understand.. he's the only one that can. And it is why his journey is so incredibly important. He's the only one who has seen beyond the void sea and can bring back that knowledge to others! And it's what Saint does. This is why Sliver can never return to a peaceful existence in the void sea.
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sea-buns · 10 months
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The overlapping themes that were woven through everyone’s stories. The strengths and weaknesses of age. Deli lost himself to the allure of youth. He pushed away everyone who tried to warn him, quickly growing into the man he thought would prove them wrong. Prove to them that he was destined for greatness. Just to be betrayed. Manipulated for having the nerve to act his age. Karna never had the chance to be young, aging far beyond her years. When she found someone that made her want in a way she’d never felt before, she latched onto it and refused to let go until life left her. Though she never had a chance to act the age she deserved, she spent her final years and moments alongside someone who gave her joy and love and companionship and the barest hint of what it might’ve been like to die young. Colin never truly had a childhood either. When he wasn’t scraping under the boot of his drunkard father, he was running as far and as fast as he could. Constantly looking over his shoulder. Never settling in anywhere for long. But where Karna took to cold violence in exchange for the life she’d been handed, Colin invested himself in looking out for innocence wherever he could. Always acting with the intent to see people as people, rather than stepping stones for his own gain. From day one, Amangeaux’s one goal, her reason for living and fighting, her justification for killing in the face of crippling guilt, was to protect her child. To create a world that would allow him to have the childhood she wished she could have given Karna. To keep him from having to experience the grief and blood that she’s soaked herself in. Raphaniel started misguided and already missing several screws. But as he aged and became more unstable, he only got wiser and wiser to the bigger picture. Ultimately choosing to give his life to destroy a great evil, rather than step through the door that he’d spent his entire life kneeled in front of. Begging and pleading to be let in.
The significance of titles and names. Deli was a thane and a chief and then a warlord, just to discard all of those when all they did was remind him of the tool he’d been. Karna was the greatest spymaster that Calorum will never know. She wore many names of those she killed. And for 5 long years she stood beside Deli as his Skald. 5 years that were perhaps the best of her life; the ones she’d be most proud of. She didn’t die a spymaster or an assassin. She was Skald Karna Solara of Scoville. The only title she chose. Deli invented the position of Skald for Colin, who held it up until he left. Leaving behind the truth and fear of his secret, his name, to join Raphaniel in a cause he could get behind. He took up the title of Sir Colin Provolone, a knight of the Bulbian Church. Though it only made him feel empty, pretending to serve a faith he held no belief in and the church that led him here to begin with. In the end, he renounces every title he’d ever been given and sticks to the name he chose. And he lives out his years as Colin Provolone, without fear of where he came from and with an unyielding determination to finish what he started. Amangeaux shifted from a high profile figure in society to a shadow. She ended up finding more freedom and power the lower she moved down the ranks. Raphaniel’s demotion from Bishop to Archdeacon was one of the first falling dominos that drove him to a madness that would have consumed him, had Colin not been there to give him the push he needed. 
You either start as “just a guy” or you end as one. In the end, there were no chiefs or assassins or warriors. Just people. Deli was a son swept up in the rush of power and young love. He is a partner, and a friend, and a protector. Karna lived as mouth to the Hungry One and the Skald to Warlord Katzon. But more than anything, she died as a sister and a daughter, a friend and a partner. Surrounded by the only aspect of her life that made it worth living, that gave purpose to her death. The family she carved out with her bare hands for her and her alone. Though Colin’s entire life was defined by the people he came from, he was never really a son, in the way that his father was never really a father. What he was most of all, in every circumstance, was a friend and protector. Of Deli as his Skald, of Raphaniel in his decline, of this odd group of strangers he’d come to trust with his life. People he’d come to know as family, even if he has no reference as to what that’s supposed to look or feel like. Amangeaux was a mother through and through. Kept alive by the sheer drive to nurture and protect her child. Raphaniel was brought lower and lower every episode. Reduced to an old man who spent his last moments committing a rare act of selflessness, a far cry from the malevolent man he began as. A father figure to both Karna and Amangeaux.
The nature and complexity of humanity that The Ravening War explores.
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windydrawallday · 21 days
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FEEL YOUR SKIN
One-shot comic from the past year about my experiences coping with gender dysphoria and assigned binary roles. Feat my birdsona Maggie and Acantho (early design, changed a bit since then).
… practically I'm baring my heart and brain here; also my views are not facts, I know talking about these themes in public can help others to realize and reflect on their own views. Something I find pleasant and one of my main objectives when sharing my comics!
From my side: I always felt uneasy about my gender because, since my teenage days, I saw how different girls were treated than boys. Because I was a "girl" I needed to look like this or that to be treated like one and UGH.
I felt sad and angry with myself for not falling properly into my assigned label so I practically rejected all of it to the point of hating everything "femme" coded… I was so wrong.
It wasn't the fault of the label, the clothes, aesthetics, colors, etc, or even the roles but of society for imposing them without any flexibility or room to question and reinvent them.
The script for this comic is from October 2022 during a time when I was questioning if I was non-binary and--. I thought: if someday I wish to use that label, first I need to make peace with this other part of me. And in the next months, that's what I tried to do and I found I didn't hate it as I used to do.
That doesn't mean I will go back to it by default just that now I understand and cherish its existence as another option for me to choose when I feel like it! And even… I want to let some traits of it be part of my new gender expression in the future.
And to keep admiring and loving people that surround me and identify with it.
And because I have gotta admit: IT FEELS SO GOOD TO JUST BE SEXY FOR YOURSELF.
Feel your skin: make it yours from the inside out!
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silenthillbunni · 23 days
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🧸🧃⛈️
#so like late last night i started to get rlly panicky nd upset#bc it's v much looking like im gnna fail my english class. i need to be done next wednesday which means i need to work rlly hard#nd go to school extra to have a presentation nd do tests etc etc#nd im still in pain after surgery nd im rlly depressed bc of my physical health so i just dont think i can be strong nd make it this time#in my almost breakdown i wrote a self referral to the clinic/psych department for personality disorders....#it usually takes them around 2 days to answer you but this time at like 8am they sent me a message AND called me#(i think. im not certain it's them bc i havent checked the voice message or the reply lmaooo. but it should be them)#the thing abt having avpd is now im immediately stressed af nd i regret sending it. i donr wanna check their reply#also it might be bc i wrote a lot abt killing myseld etc etc nd now im worried theyre gnna be like girlie get checked in!!!! lol T-T#i just needed to be very clear nd act frsutrted nd desperate bc i have never gotten treatment in 10yrs nd im TIRED!!!!#my initial reaction is to avoid at all costs nd just pull my covers above my head nd pretend like i dont have to check their reply lol#i dont wannaaaaaa. i take it back i dont want help!!! its fine i dont wanna try or work hard let me rot#why did i do this!!!!! fml. anyway... i'll check later today bc since its early i can still use the excuse of sleepinf thru the days#many ppl working w mentally ill ppl understand that it's normal actually to switch the day around nd sleep during the days sksksk#but also i have no idea how many typos r in here bc im not wearing my glasses whoopsie#yeah.. anyway im gonna try to go back to sleep nd not think abt it#hopefully it wasnt even them calling 🤡 i know i HAVE to check later but not now i can take a few hours#then today i need to figure out if im gnna make one last attempt w my eng class or give up idk what to do
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sunsfancyscooter · 11 months
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msp os creators really knew how to feed the audience (for now for ep 1 lmao).
oh? you loved the ballroom dance scene? here you go with your favorite three couples wearing tuxes and adapting to new choreo which has it's own symbolism to where their relationships in this au stands, oh and take this splash of pat×kajorn chemistry given how some of y'all didn't like seeing him cry in msp.
soundwin with their hand twisting, fighting and again falling in love except this time they share one of the cutest scenes in the show where win is whipped in his internal monologue over how stinking cute sound looks while studying.
oh and tiwpor dating before hotwave is REAL. oh and they also have a context and interaction midst that one scene where they cook together. also did we mention that tiw has a lion headband and that tiwpor have definitely been sharing looks and lpecks and have held hands through all the shenanigans?
oh, oh and how can we forget tinngun's I will stay by your side, I promise or soundwin's I will be your leg or maybe por's I can hold an umbrella for you, but you have light the candle by yourself.
btw you like the parents in this show? take mrs gim tapping the mic and full on clearing her throat before giving her speech. principal or not, she's still soft hearted. here you go with mrs photjanee being her regular sassy self clearly showing where her son got that quality from. let us show you how she isn't one of those moms in the series.
let us play your tear-jerking osts everytime your fav couple is in their feels, let us have tinn goof around with bullfrog rhymes and roaring; and here you have your beloved lionzhilla and their adorable hoodies, chinzhilla headbands and keychains, let us show you how to make a good product ad without throwing food around (sry vv) and get you being a giggly, nostalgic mess with a small surprise at every corner.
edit: just changed the hints of pat×yo to kajorn×pat
---
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anahq · 3 months
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alex lavishing your pretty tits 😵‍💫😵‍💫
Bro..😩 i just woke up but ill make it work;)
You can not tell me alex isnt a boobs guy, he loves playing with your tits.
Whenever your both just laying in bed or watching a movie he will put his hands under your shirt just for fun.
He absolutely adores your body and cant keep his hands or eyes off of you, he loves it when you wear a little more revealing clothes (just for him tho)
When your in the bedroom having some fun he’ll definitely leave your tits full of hickeys and love bites cause he cant have enough of hearing you moan his name.
When you get up in the morning and check yourself in the bathroom your in total shock, your boyfriend definitely marked you up all over your chest, neck and breast.
“Alex!!” You scream “hmm” he walks in and looks at you in the mirror “whats wrong sweetheart” he says morning voice raspy as he puts his arms around your waist. “How am I supposed to go to my meeting like this” you laugh at him while turning around “well now everyone will definitely know your taken” he smirks as he looks all over your body to look at his work. He cups your face kissing you goodmorning, hands already roaming all over your figure.
You can bet your ass there was a round two in the shower tho;)
(Using this one already since its my first request my own headcanons or stuff will be up later if i have time) english isnt my first language btw so lmk any typos, i also havnt really written any suggestive things in the past but im def open for stuff like that but dont exuro much from the start, i love writting and i fucking love alex quackity so im doing my best.
Fluf headcanons later!:)
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turbulentscrawl · 2 months
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Alva Lorenz General HCs
You'll have for forgive me for any typos--this man's been on my mind for two days and I have to get these out. I'm too impatient to check everything hahah
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-Alva did not actually betray Luca by passing off any pf Herman’s work as his own. Though he did always maintain some interest in the concept of a perpetual motion machine, Alva didn’t dedicate much time to working on it after Herman’s death. He did, however, start the fire which killed Herman in an outburst-fueled accident similar to how Luca later killed him. Alva, however, escaped suspicion of the event and was not legally punished.
-Alva knew Herman had a son and, though he never personally met Herman’s family, knew who Luca was through grapevine rumors. He agreed to take Luca on as his student partially out of guilt for his unexposed crime, and partially because he had no children of his own and quickly felt a certain parental urge for Luca. They shared a lot in common and got on very well, very quickly, and their relationship was great right up until the accident. The documentation that seems to indicate their relationship deteriorating is coincidental. (ex, Luca’s experiments slowly transitioning from both he and Alva signing off on them to just Luca was Alva giving Luca more independence because he trusted him, rather than them growing apart or secretive.)
-I think Alva may be autistic. He doesn’t require much in the way of accommodations, and he doesn’t have the sensory issues that Aesop does. However, his speech is sometimes overly flat, his view of the world a bit rigid, his social energy levels are low, he’s prone to bouts of depression, he fixates on his work a lot, and he often fidgets with things like pens and clothes. He enjoys touching various textures, and often expresses appreciation for the material of people’s clothes. Additionally, he’s made a living out of his special interest: inventive engineering.
-Alva is a solemn and polite man. He’s rather chivalrous, but reserved, and as a result was admired by many for his mysterious-gentleman air. “Hermit” is an apt name for Alva, however, as he rarely enjoyed the company of others. He especially felt overwhelmed in large groups. He has always preferred one-on-one socializing, and even that he had a smaller tolerance for than was typical for men of his class. Luckily, he doesn’t have much in the way of a temperament, so when he’s tired of socializing, he’s just that: tired. Sexy Old man.
-To specify, when I say chivalrous, I mean he’s the kind of man who holds doors open for others, offers his hand to help them up from a seat or down from some height, share his umbrella in the rain, and would even lay his coat in a puddle for a lady to cross over. He offers chivalry moreso to women than men, but if a man presents as meek or shy enough in his presence he will extend the gestures to them as well, hoping to make them feel more comfortable.
-Alva’s only family at the time of his death was his wife. She was barren, and they had no children, and all the rest of his family had passed due to age or illness. Luca therefore became something of a surrogate son to Alva over the years. Though he sometimes struggled to show it, Alva cared for him like blood and always looked out for him.
-Alva didn’t care much about his overall predicament, after being resurrected. His religious proclivities were more for show than anything, so being a chosen of some…eldritch-cat-god is hardly the worst of his concerns. Until the manor, he hadn’t been expected to do anything he considered reprehensible or very immoral, so he’s always been fine with just completing his orders so he could go back to his work.
-After joining the manor, Alva’s only real comfort is his work. In life, inventive engineering was his method of self-expression, the way he interacted with the world, his reason for living. That changed a bit when his wife came along, and then again for Luca, but with those gone he’s back to his reclusive nature. It takes a long time for Alva to make friendships in the manor. He’s familiar with Ann out of necessity, but they’re merely cordial. With time, he becomes friendly with a small handful of others, but his melancholy is still pervasive.
-Inevitably, with enough time at the manor, Alva craves reconciliation with Luca. He doesn’t entirely blame Luca for what happened. At the end of everything, Alva knows the accident was an accident as well as a misunderstanding. (And also probably some kind of ironic, cosmic retribution for him killing Herman.) The trouble is, Luca does not remember him at all, or what happened. He knows from a few conversations that the boy’s cleverness is still in-tact, but his memories are almost entirely gone. As far as Alva is concerned, this means he’ll never get the closure of genuine, mutual apologies, and he’ll never have his “son” back. Not really.
-When Luca was his student, they were a powerful duo in public. Alva, despite being respectful and courteous to individuals, has never ‘jived’ with society as a whole. He doesn’t care about public opinion and is easily exhausted from public exposure. Luca, meanwhile, is a social butterfly. They were both charming, and worked out a system for any public appearances Alva needed to make: Luca would handle most of the talking—unless Alva’s interest was specifically sparked by some topic of conversation—so Alva could do his best to actually enjoy the atmosphere. And when Luca was ready to go, you best believe Alva was ready with their excuse to bail. The two were always favorites at any party or event, and always had interested suitors close at their heels.
-Despite being overwhelmed by conversation and crowds, Alva does enjoy the set-up for a lot of public events and parties. He likes the artfulness of decoration, and always takes time to appreciate the hard work put into setting up things like that (and once again, he loves to touch, feels the textures). He especially loves flowers. He occasionally finds loud music to be a bit overstimulating. Similarly, he likes fireworks, but requires earplugs to enjoy them fully.
-Alva’s age (at time of death) was somewhere between 40-45. His undead body is no longer aging, so physically he’s the same. Sometimes Alva misses his longer hair, but unfortunately that’s not growing anymore.
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How (Part 1)
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[Part 2]
Nathan Bateman X F!Reader  Rating: 18+ pals  Masterlist | ao3 | want to be tagged?
Summary: After the events of the film, it’s decided that it’s best for everyone if Nathan has a babysitter. 
Warnings: swearing, typos, fragment sentences, soft!Nathan, mental illness, PTSD, overuse of italics, panic attacks, brief illusion to suicide. There’s no smut in this, but there will be in part 2.
A/N:  What is this? What is this? Self indulgent. That’s what it is. This was meant to be a short under 1000 words instead of this monstrosity that is now two parts. All I can say is this really got away from me.
Word Count: 5431
Taglist: @pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @cocodiem
_____________________________________________
If there was one thing you wouldn’t have believed prior was that Nathan Bateman: founder of Bluebook, recluse, and self-aggrandising arsehole, was a cuddler. And a pretty needy one at that.
You had noticed it well before the two of you had started a less than professional side to your relationship. 
Small things: his arm brushing against yours if you sat or stood next to each other, he would touch your hand (usually holding it for a second longer than necessary) if you passed him something, pats on the back and nudges with his shoulder in the kitchen as he said ‘good morning’. 
He wasn’t that much of an arsehole either. Annoying? Certainly. God complex? For sure. But you were surprised at how considerate he was. What did you want for dinner? What were your plans for the day? Would you have time to check something over? – even though it was technically part of your job to help him. 
You had started a small experiment of your own. Arguing internally that it was out of nothing more than professional interest. A hand on his shoulder when you spoke his name, resting your knee against his at the dining table, little things. But boy did they have a big reaction. 
A shudder, a slight softening of his eyes, a lean into your touch. And that was it, wasn’t it? Nathan Bateman was touch starved. End of story. 
And you couldn’t help but push it. 
You had laid your legs on him on the settee while he was watching television and you were pretending to read a book. Your calves resting on the middle of his thighs. 
You had expected him to tell you to ‘fuck off’. Expected him to push your legs away. And, in all honesty, you kind of wanted that. Wanted to piss him off. He’d been bordering on the very fine line of Acceptable Annoying Nathan and Genuine Bastard all day.
The cherry on top being the tiny sideways looks he gave you while purposefully turning the television sound up every few minutes as you did your very best to ignore him. 
But he didn’t do any of that. Didn’t even say anything, just froze and, for a second, a pang of fear dripped like warming ice down your spine. 
You’d gone too far, you should-
He placed his hand on your shin, the warmth of his fingers seeping through your trousers. It was a light, but reassuring touch. Grounding almost. After a minute he began to trace small circles with his thumb, after another, he turned the television down to a more reasonable level. 
Neither of you commented on it. 
A few evenings later you threw your arm over the back of the settee when you heard him come into the room. Quickly relaxing back into your best impression of carefree before he came into your line of sight. 
Again, you expected him to act a certain way. A sarcastic comment, purposefully sitting somewhere else and glaring. But instead he flopped down next to you, on the edge of a little too close, his arms loosely crossed and lent his head back, brushing his shortly cropped hair against your lower arm as he closed his eyes. 
Neither of you commented on it. 
The next day he got drunk. Not a completely unusual occurrence, but in the whole time you’d been staying with him he normally drank with you, or, at least, around you. 
This time he simply appeared in the living room, obviously more than a little tipsy but seemingly not as intoxicated as he was pretending to be.
You were reading, curled up at the far end of the settee.
He sat down, sighing loudly, and nursing a beer. And you thought you’d play along, at least for a bit. See where this goes. 
You watched him subtly for a while, as he tried not to obviously watch you.
He sighed again, wiggling the bottle along the edge of the arm rest. 
“What is it Nathan?” You didn’t look up from your book. 
“Bored.”
“Hmm.” You nodded your head noncommittally and turned a page for emphasis. 
There was a pause. You could see him staring out of the edge of your peripheral vision. 
“You’re not even reading that.” 
You looked up at him slowly. “I am.” 
“What’s the last word you read?”
“The.” You said without missing a beat. 
Nathan scoffed and took another swig of beer. He was quiet for a moment, running his thumb along the rim of the bottle, betraying, briefly, his lucidity. 
You went back to reading.
“Is it good?” It was like he had waited for you to stop looking at him. 
“Hmm?” Your tone was a little sterner this time as you raised your eyes from the page. 
“The book.” He gestured with his hand that wasn’t holding the beer. “Is it good?” 
You shrugged. “It’s okay.” 
“What is it?”
You held the cover up to him, keeping two fingers on your page. 
“I can’t see.”
“Where are your glasses?”
“Kitchen.”
“Go get them then.” 
He scoffed again, pretending to be offended but the hint of a smile pulling at his lips gave him away. “You want me to walk all the way back there, just to get my glasses, so that I can see what you’re reading?” 
“Yes.”
“You’re unreasonable.”
“Good.”
“And illogical.” 
You resisted the urge to make a Star Trek reference. “Great.”
“And mean.” He dragged the last word out a little childishly. 
You grinned wickedly, glancing back up at him and emphasising your dictation. “Perfect.”
Nathan sighed, leaning back in the armchair in defeat. For a moment you thought he might have fallen asleep and were in half a mind to take the bottle out of his hand before he dropped it and made a mess on the carpet. 
However he sat up and stood, placing the beer on the coffee table. 
You almost let your mouth hang open in surprise as you were sure he was going to actually go and get his glasses, or the far more likely, go off to sulk.
But he walked the short distance closer and flopped down next to you, jostling you as much as he could in the process.
He squinted, an over the top movement, and leaned unnecessarily close to your book, laying his chest on your bent legs in the process, putting one warm hand on your thigh. He made a show of muttering the book’s title as he read it, as if it was some great new revelation. 
After a few seconds of him not moving, you gave him a gentle nudge with your knee. He didn’t move.
“Are you going to get off me Nathan?” 
He looked up at you, trying his best at an innocent expression. His fingers twitched over your thigh. 
“You are crushing my feet.”
He smiled, relaxing purposefully so that his chin was now also resting on your leg. 
“Look,” you were trying your best not to smile back, his stupid expression infectious. “I don’t know what weird foot fetish stuff you’re into,” you swatted at him with your book while pushing him a little more forcefully with your knees, “but you can keep that to yourself and get off.” 
He pouted, but sat up. For a moment you thought you saw a flash of something else beneath his expression, disappointment perhaps, rejection. 
There was a pause, not entirely uncomfortable but niggling – a hangnail you couldn’t stop catching. 
You shifted, sitting up yourself and putting your feet on the floor. “Here.” You gestured to your lap. 
Nathan frowned at you. 
Oh maybe this wasn’t a good idea. 
You pushed down your uncertainty and patted your thigh, “lay down.” Your voice didn’t sound like your own, an authoritative layer deepening the words. 
And to your surprise he did. Moving quickly and partially curling up on himself, Nathan Bateman laid down, resting his head sideways on your lap, facing outwards. 
He sighed, contented this time, some of the tension in his shoulders easing as he relaxed into you. Your heart, on the other hand, seemed to have a different idea as it beat furiously in your chest. So fast and hard you were surprised it wasn’t echoing in your legs and shaking Nathan’s head. 
“You should read to me.” He said quietly, his eyes closed. 
“I’m sorry?” 
“Your book,” he gestured with his hand without opening his eyes. “Read it to me.” 
You let out a small surprised breath before you found your words. “What’s the magic word?” 
“Engage.” 
You tutted, breathing heavily through your nose, but you opened your book back up and found where you had last stopped. 
You rested your elbow on Nathan’s shoulder, digging it down a little too enthusiastically at first until he gave a small grunt of complaint, before you eased up and started to read out loud. 
With the book in front of your eyes, you didn’t see that Nathan had opened his and was smiling. Watching you with his full attention in the television’s reflection. 
.
The next morning you were perched on one of the kitchen chairs, eating breakfast. The cereal in question, not even pretending to be healthy with the amount of sugar it contained, had been one of the many food items you had requested on your submission forms. 
You chewed it slowly and stared out of the windows, lost in your own thoughts as you watched the city skyline.
“You think I have a foot fetish?” 
Somehow you managed to not jump out of your skin, or spit out your cereal at Nathan’s sudden appearance. 
He was uncomfortably good at being deathly quiet when he wanted too, so very opposed to his normal loud footsteps.
You swallowed your mouth food and turned to him. “I knew you weren’t drunk.”
“I watched the tapes.”
You smile and pop another spoonful into your mouth. “No you didn’t.” 
He paused. An unreadable expression on his face for a moment as you slowly chewed.
You broke first. “I do,” you shifted the spoon around the bowl, giving yourself a break from looking at him for a moment before returning to meeting his gaze. “You’re always walking around here barefoot.”
“Surely that means you have the fetish. Not me.”
“What?”
“You’re the one noticing my feet.”
You clenched and unclenched your jaw, trying to fight the little smile that wanted to spread itself across your face. 
A good reply wouldn’t come. Telling him to ‘fuck off’ wasn’t creative enough, saying ‘your feet repulse me’ (which had been your knee jerk reaction) seemed strangely… mean? Too much time had passed now anyway, so you stared at him for a second longer, blinked poineatly, and then turned away from him and back to the window. 
Nathan fidgeted for a moment, his hands on his hips, before he moved to the stove. 
His back now to you, but directly in your line of sight. 
You stared at him for a moment, leaning your chin on the heel of your hand. It was nice to watch him as he moved, opening a cupboard and taking out a frying pan. Nice to watch him without the scrutiny of his own eyes on you. He had a grace about him that was hard to place. 
You admired his back muscles through his just on the edge of being too tight t-shirt. Heat began to pinch at your cheeks. Had he always been so-
“Youwanteggs?” 
You nearly did jump out of your chair this time, your heart pounding in your chest in a bid to escape. 
Despite him being the only thing you were actually focused on, his muffled words made little to no sense.
“Erm.”
He turned to look at you over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised. The movement sort of reminded you of an old fashioned pin up girl. Wait... No, don’t think about Nathan as a pin up girl. Heat was burning your skin now. 
“Do. You. Want. Eggs?” Nathan repeated, and, finally you shook your head. 
“It’s better than that rubbish you're eating.” He gestured with a spatula to your cereal.
 “I’ll have you know,” you swallowed and shifted in your seat, settling back into the normal rhythm of your conversations. “That this has at least 200% of my daily sugar requirements.” 
Nathan snorts and goes back to making his own breakfast. 
.
The next morning Nathan is in the kitchen before you, sweaty from exercise, and cooking. 
You take an extra moment to admire him, no, not admire, that’s the wrong word, that would imply- No. You shake your head and sigh as you walk to the cupboard, still in your pyjamas. 
You barely have got the words, “good morning,” out of your mouth before Nathan gestures to the table without looking at you.
“Sit.” 
You scowl at him. “Heel.” 
He glances up at you this time, a dark look in his eyes. “Please.” He wrinkles his nose a little as he says it. 
You let the silence rest a beat too long between the both of you before you roll your eyes and take your regular seat at the empty table. 
Nathan turns back to the task in front of him. The hiss of the pan and scrap of the spatula the only sounds punctuating the quiet. 
“How long am I meant to sit here?” 
He doesn’t look at you. “Good things come to those who wait.” 
“Starvation?” 
That earns you a small glare and you grin. 
A minute later Nathan walks over and sets a plate of pancakes and a jug of syrup in front of you. 
You stare dumbfounded at them and then at Nathan. “What’s this?”
“Breakfast.”
“You made it?” 
He pulls a face. “I know rationalism says we can’t trust our senses, but you literally just saw-”
“You know what I fucking mean.” You laugh, and take the cutlery out of his hand when he offers it. “Thank you.”
Nathan gives you a small smile before walking back to the counter to grab a plate of his own. “It’s better for you than that cereal.” 
The pancakes taste heavenly. “What have you got against my cereal?” You say through a full mouth. 
He sits opposite you, pancakes on his own plate. But doesn’t answer.
You both eat in silence for a moment. 
“These are really good,” you wait until he looks up before adding, “thank you again.” 
He shrugs, but you can see him puff his chest out ever so slightly. 
“Before I got here, I thought you’d have some cooking robot or something.” You said, your voice light and jokey, but Nathan tenses. 
It’s a subtle thing, easy to miss. 
“Yeah.” He nods once. There’s no humour in his voice.  
You were lucky number 6, even though head office called you number five. The sixth person put on ‘Babysitting Duty’ or, on paper, Temporary Executive Director of Functionality.
Something had happened just under eighteen months ago. Some big scandal to do with the office contest that had been so successfully swept under the rug that not even the press had caught wind of it. (Or, more likely, anyone that had, had been bribed or blackmailed into silence. Bluebook's pockets were deep, and its reach was wide.) 
The lack of information didn’t stop the workplace rumours though, the two that had prevailed at the top were, 
A. whoever had won the competition (because all records on this mystery person had seemingly been wiped, though there was still a reference to a big payout settlement) had been a crazed super fan and had gone all Katy Bates on Nathan. 
Or B. Nathan had turned into Norman Bates from being a recluse for too long and had tried to wear the competition winner’s skin. (You had tried to point out that B was mixing two horror franchises together here, but it seemed the amusement at Katy and Norman sharing the same surname was too much for the analogy to change.) 
Either way, it was common knowledge that Nathan had nearly died. The only thing that saved him was the biometric heart monitor that was linked to an alarm system. 
He had spent months in hospital. 
Rumours changed on who was telling, but it seemed the board members, acting CEO and possibly Nathan himself had come to an agreement. Nathan was too valuable for something like this (whatever it was) to happen again. 
He would not return to his house in the middle of nowhere. And he needed a babysitter. 
Within a week the top fourteen floors of the Newfoundland Quay in London had been purchased, gutted, and refitted to Nathan’s specification. He could be as reclusive as he wanted at the top of the skyscraper, as long as emergency services could get there in five minutes or less. 
Finding the new Temporary Executive Director of Functionality was a lot more complicated. 
An email had gone out to every Bluebook employee, from the head of marketing to junior coders. 
Everyone was being accessed to see if they might have the ‘niche required skills’ for the job. (Though how it was being done was not made clear.)  Most people didn’t even need to think twice about it  because 99% of staff would not get through to the next stage. 
You had half read the email and then forgotten about it. Too stressed and wrapped up in your low paid job as a Junior Content Editor, that you hated but couldn’t afford to leave without another position.
Your manager, Michael, a fake charming man with a shrill voice and no people skills whatsoever, had called you into a meeting two months after the email was sent out.
You had been expecting his usual beratement of your ‘lack of skills’, your stomach twisting itself into knots, but had been surprised at the two smartly dressed people waiting for you with him in his office.
In one panicked moment you were sure you were going to get fired. 
“Ah, there you are.” Michael smiled and held out a hand. “One of the best members of my team.”
You nearly died from shock.
“She’s a real asset,” he continued before the smartly dressed woman held up her hand, silencing him instantly. 
“Thank you, we’ll have the space now.” She glared at him until he left the room. You didn’t watch Michael go, but you didn’t hide your small smile either.
Once the door was closed they both explained that you were one of 89 people in the whole company that had been whittled down to the preliminary short list for Temporary Executive Director of Functionality.
After signing an NDA they explained further. 
The deal was, for four weeks the Temporary Executive Director of Functionality would ‘assist’ Nathan. Live in his home and every week he would give a ‘brief rundown of what he had been working on’ and that was it.
For an eye watering amount of pay. Enough that you could comfortably live for the next five years with no job.
Nathan would then judge who, if anyone, he was happy to invite back and then they would become The Permanent Executive Director of Functionality (or, more likely Directors as Bluebook made it clear this position would most likely turn into a job share if the right individuals were found.) 
Nathan was allowed a one week ‘break’ between the four-week shifts, when he was ‘permitted’ to be on his own. 
You weren’t given any information on what the ‘incident’ had been. And had four whole days of interviews, personality tests, recorded behaviours, questionnaires, a physical, and another NDA to sign. It was gruelling, but it beat your normal 9-5. 
On the fifth day, just before lunch, you were told you were one of the twelve that had been chosen. 
(Much to Michael’s obvious displeasure.)
The third NDA gave you pause when you read the paragraph about: ‘a guarantee that the Temporary Executive Director of Functionality’s personal rooms and bathrooms would, under no circumstances, be recorded or monitored’. 
You were given the dates of your month, which went out of the window when Temporary Executive Director of Functionality Number 2 only lasted eight days. Number 2 became Number 0 and you were ‘promoted’ from 6 to 5.
Three weeks beforehand you were given an intensive coding course, apparently this was a stipulation Nathan had insisted upon – just in case he wanted to talk about it. He had never mentioned it to you in the whole time you’d been there. But you were thankful for the training nonetheless. 
One day before you started you were given your ‘biometric keycard’, a small chip that was inserted just under your right collar bone. You couldn’t even feel it afterwards, though you tried to.
You had expected to meet him before you started, a video call, an email. But the first time you made his acquaintance was the first time you met him in person.
.
“How often do you exercise?” 
You had gotten used to Nathan’s out of the blue, and sometimes less than tactful, questions by now. 
“Never.” That was a lie, but you knew it would annoy him. 
“It’s good for you.” He said, sitting down next to you. His knee brushing yours. 
You paused, that wasn’t the response you’d been expecting. 
“You know I’m trying to work here?” 
“You’re playing spider solitaire.”
“Important work.” You raised an eyebrow at him. 
Nathan’s response was yet again not something you hadn’t been expecting. He leaned towards you, looking at your laptop screen and carefully rested the side of his head against your shoulder. 
“You can move the 6 to there.” He pointed, touching your screen in the process. 
A flush of heat ran up your neck and you swatted his hand away. “I know.” You hadn’t.
He smiled and stayed resting against you, his breathing slowing ever so slightly. 
You stared at the screen for a moment, but the feeling of him against you was the only thing you could pay any attention to. 
“You can move the queen too.” 
“Nathan-”
“Do you play poker?” 
You sighed overly dramatically and moved a four. “No.”
“Strip poker?” 
You gave him a look and didn’t answer as he stared up at you with faux innocence.
“I could teach you?” He said when you glanced away. 
“I’m not playing strip poker with you Nathan.”
“Normal poker then.” 
You turned to look at him fully and Nathan sat up a little reluctantly. 
“Are you that bored that you want to teach me poker?”
He just smiled. 
“I thought you were meant to be solving the great riddles of the universe?” 
“I knew you didn’t pay attention during the weekly updates.” He gave you the most self-satisfied expression and you barely resisted the urge to kick him. 
“Last week’s update was two minutes, in which you just said, and I quote: ‘I’m doing stuff.’”
He shrugged. “It’s important stuff.”
“Are you playing spider solitaire?”
He laughed at that and looked down at the side hem of his trousers. He picked at the material slightly. 
You swallowed. “You can teach me poker.” 
He grinned broadly as he looked back to you, his eyes lighting up. 
“But I’m not playing with real money.”
“That’s fine, we can-”
“I’m not playing strip poker either.” 
He pouted a little, but you could tell it was for show. “What’s on the line if I win?”
“When you win, you mean.” You shook your head at him and shut down your laptop. “Self-satisfaction of a job well done.” 
He snorted. 
“Well what do I get if I win?” You retorted.
“You’re very confident for a first-time player.” 
You gently shoved him in the shoulder with the heel of your hand. “I thought people played for chips or something?” 
“Yeah, we’ll do a few practice hands and then we’ll both have the same number of chips and play a few hands.  Whoever gets all the chips wins."
“All right.” 
“So, what do I get if I win?”
You closed your laptop. “What do you want?”
“A kiss.”
It didn’t faze you; it was textbook Nathan, just trying to get under your skin. You gave him a world-weary look, but were very thankful he couldn’t feel how your heart skipped a beat. 
“I’m not kissing you Nathan.”
.
He was, astoundingly, quite a good teacher. Calm, explained things well and was happy to go over something more than once. He even gave you a ‘cheat sheet’, a hastily written order of winning hands in poker that he placed next to you.
You had been a little surprised when he had pulled out the pack of cards and a bag of sunflower seeds. 
“Don’t have any poker chips,” he shrugged. “Just don’t eat the stand ins.” He said as he sat down opposite you and scooted his chair further under the kitchen table. 
“I thought you’d have a whole gambling room.” You teased.
He shrugged again but didn’t look up from shuffling the cards. 
Again, it was like you had stepped over some invisible line.
However he began to relax again the more you played. 
To no one’s shock, you lost. 
He gave you a shit eating smirk as he slowwwly reached into the middle of the table and pulled all of the sunflower seeds towards him. He let out a self-satisfied and overly dramatic sigh before leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. 
“And to the victor,” he paused, puffing his chest out. “The spoils.”
“You left some behind.”
He gave the table a glance. “What?” 
“This.” You stuck your middle finger up at him. 
Nathan snorted out a laugh and then waved towards him. “Give it then.”
You snapped your hand back before he had a chance to grab it. 
“Don’t feel bad, I’m just better at reading people.” He said.
“Better at counting cards more like.”
Nathan pretended to be offended for a second. “Now, I believe,” he stood up slowly, “I was promised a kiss.” 
You gave him the most deadpan expression you could muster. “You were not.”
He mocked thinking for a second. “No… I think I was.”
“You think wrong.”
“No, I made notes, and I think you’ll find you said, and I quote: ‘yes Nathan, of course I will kiss you when you win.’” 
You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out at the absolutely atrocious impression of your voice.
“So,” he stopped next to you, leaning one hand on the table. “Do I get my prize?”
Slowly, you stood, making a little more of a show of it than necessary before turning towards him, looking him in the eyes and trying to hide your smile. “I’m not kissing you Nathan.”
He took a small step forward, your chests nearly touching. 
“Why not?” He whispered, his voice soft. 
A shiver ran down your spine and you swallowed, the sound of it upsettingly loud in the quiet. 
The little smile on his lips grew. 
“I don’t know where you’ve been.” You meant it to come out jokey, light-hearted, but instead you sounded wrecked, you sounded breathless. 
“Here…” He slowly reached out, tracing his fingers up your forearm. 
Your heartbeat was too loud, your mouth too dry. 
“Always here.” He leaned a fraction closer and you stepped back without thinking, you couldn’t do this, you shouldn’t do this, it was just another Nathan game to wind you up and you’d never hear the end of it and- 
You bumped into the chair you’d just been sitting on, stumbling for a second before finding your balance, your right hand out in front of you. 
When you first started to fall Nathan reached out instinctively to help, but he froze. All emotion left his face in an instant as he looked down at your hand, hovering in front of his chest, just below his heart. 
The smile quickly disappeared from your lips. “Nathan?”
He staggered back. One had reached out behind him like he was expecting something, while his other clutched at his chest. 
He stared at the floor, his eyes glassy and wide with panic that did not reflect on the rest of his features. 
It was like he wasn’t there, watching some far-off scene play behind his eyes. 
“Nathan?” You took a cautious step towards him, this hadn’t happened before, this wasn’t in any brief or meeting or seven-hundred-page manual you’d been given. 
He didn’t hear you as he lurched backwards until he collided with one of the large floor to ceiling windows and sank down to the floor. 
He was sweating heavily, his whole body shaking, his breathing fast and uneven through his nose. 
For a moment you just stared dumbfounded, fear threading itself into your soul, before you found yourself slowly moving forward. Afraid any sudden movement would be too much. 
“Nathan.” You whispered, trying to make your voice sound soothing. 
He didn’t respond. 
You crouched down next to him, leaving plenty of space. “Nathan,” you said again, keeping your tone calm. “You’re okay. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here. You’re safe. Everything’s okay.” You repeated the words on a loop.
Suddenly he met your gaze. 
“Nathan, okay,” it was impossible to hide your relief. “Can you breathe with me, yeah?” You took in a deep, slow breath. “Can you try to copy me?” And let it out. In and out. In and out. 
He nodded, the shaking hiding most of the movement and tried his best to match your rhythm. 
“Okay, great, you’re doing great.” 
He was still shaking, still sweating, his breathing still too fast and too shallow. 
“Can you name five blue things in this room?” 
He stared wide eyed and panicked at you.
“Can you find five blue things, you don’t have to say them out loud, just find them.”
His line of sight darted around the room. The quick movement accompanied with the uneven breathing made it look like he was having a seizure. 
You continued to breathe in and out deeply, making the breaths as loud as possible. 
“The painting.” He muttered between gasps of oxygen. 
“Yes, yes, excellent.” You nodded enthusiastically.
“The... the book.” He pointed with his right hand, his left still held close to his chest. 
“Fantastic. You’re doing great.”
He searched the room, his breathing was evening out ever so slightly. “Your ring.” He touched your left hand lightly, it was a ghost of contact but still it seemed to steady him. 
“Yes, yes, my ring.” Without thinking you took hold of his hand in yours, his skin was freezing and clammy. For one horrid second a spike of fear jolted through your nerves, afraid touching him was the wrong thing to do, but his shoulders quickly relaxed as he squeezed your hand. 
“Is... is it an engagement ring?” He asked, his voice was quiet but his breathing was much closer to normal. The shaking hadn’t stopped though.
“It’s my grandmother’s engagement ring.” You smiled at him, trying to sound reassuring. Carefully you ran your thumb along the back of his hand. “I’m not engaged.” You added, unsure why you had the second it came out of your mouth. 
Nathan nodded, still looking at your hand. 
“What else?” You gently pressed. “What else is blue?” 
“The sky.” 
“It’s dark Nathan.”
He smiled weakly. He looked tired, more tired than you’d ever seen anyone. Weighted, like his bones were too heavy and collapsing into themselves. 
He breathed in deeply, the shaking had almost stopped. 
Carefully, oh so carefully, you raised your right hand to the side of his face; giving him as much time as possible to turn away. 
Nathan lent into your touch and closed his eyes as he took in a stuttered breath. His beard was softer than you imagined. 
“Are you okay?” It was a stupid question, but you had to ask. 
He nodded.
“Do you need anything? Water?”
He shook his head.
“Okay.” 
You bit your lip, worrying the skin between your teeth. “Can I,” you swallowed down your apprehension, “can I hold you?”
Nathan opened his eyes, looking at you once before staring back at the ground. He nodded once. 
Without letting go of his hand you manoeuvred yourself from in front of him to next to, your back against the cool glass. You wrapped your free arm around his shoulders and gently coaxed his body against yours, laying him down until he was wrapped in your embrace.
You stayed like that for a long time.
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Text
Inspired by @weapon-up-wallflower 's amazing Drift post, I've decided to compile a list of Red Alert facts. All of the facts are taken from More Than Meets the Eye, and the post contains a list of all of Red Alert's MTMTE appearances and mentions. Enjoy!
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Head/Director (terms used interchangeably) of Security on the Lost Light (MTMTE 1)
Not a fan of Swerve, Brainstorm, or Prowl (MTMTE 1, 56)
Despite this, he shared room 43 with Swerve when aboard the Lost Light (MTMTE 43)
Talks quickly and somewhat unintelligibly when anxious (MTMTE 2)
Has enhanced hearing and often uses this ability to listen in on people (MTMTE 2, 5)
Trusts no one on the Lost Light except Rung (MTMTE 5, 7)
Wants eyes installed in the back of his head (MTMTE 5)
"prone to wandering off" (MTMTE 9)
Aware of his own paranoia and takes measures to reality-check himself (ie recording the sounds he heard in the Lost Light’s basement for Rung to hear, telling Fortress Maximus to avoid further triggering his paranoia in MTMTE 57) (MTMTE 5, 56, 57)
Thinks communicators “interfere with your brain patterns” (MTMTE 6)
Has read every edition of Wreckers: Declassified (all 332 and specials!) and corrected their typos in search of hidden messages (MTMTE 46)
Discusses his delusions somewhat readily with people other than Rung (MTMTE 6, Drift knows about Red’s hang-ups with communicators)
Worked before the war as a Warden in Translucentia Heights, where he also was an “enthusiastic” Senate informant regarding things such as the Militant Monoformer Movement and the early Decepticon movement (MTMTE 9, 57)
It was this enthusiastic participation that put him on Sentinel Prime’s radar as a candidate for an early form of Shadow Play, allowing Sentinel to later take over his mind and use him as a sleeper agent. Though Red Alert did not consciously know what had been done to him, he was frequently anxious about being used or somehow controlled against his will in the years between the Shadow Play and the activation of the mind control, suggesting that early Shadow Play was clumsy and left marks on the victim’s mind. (MTMTE 57)
Suspicious of mnemosurgery and related fields (MTMTE 56)
Frequently distracted by seemingly insignificant things, such as the space bridge in MTMTE 56
“Patchy records” exist of his life before the war. Even Rewind has a difficult time tracking down information about him (MTMTE 57)
Suffers from frequent nightmares, sleep-talking, and “sleep-driving” (MTMTE 56)
Diagnosed with Paranoid Personality Disorder, a cluster A personality disorder characterized by, in Red Alert’s case, persecutory delusions and paranoia about being “used” or manipulated (MTMTE 56)
Red Alert has an extensive history as Rung’s patient, receiving (seemingly sporadically throughout the war) 600 years of Rungian psychotherapy beginning with a meeting under Sherma Bridge 6 months before Declaration Day, which progressed as follows: (MTMTE 5)
- Session 7: Red Alert gives Rung a fake name
- Session 97: he shows Rung his face
- Session 113: he tells Rung he’s stopped recording their sessions
- Session 288: he tells Rung his real name
- Session 332: he stops recording their sessions
Despite being thought of as severely mentally ill, many of Red Alert’s “delusions” are firmly based in reality. For example, the “Institute” he spoke of to Rung was very real, and it’s implied Red Alert worked for them in some capacity (MTMTE 5)
List of appearances : MTMTE 1-7, annual (mention), 9, 10, 11, 16 (video), 22 (mention), 29 (mention), 43 (mention), 46, 50, 56, 57
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yanderemommabean · 2 years
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A silly little idea here, bear with me- 
A creature that lives with the scientist who created them, being able to blend into the public for short periods of time, falling in love and becoming obsessed with you as they continue to meet with you and just adore the company you give them, even though it’s limited. 
They turn into their true form one day, unable to stop the transformation, and you’re a witness to the horror that they actually are. They panic, not wanting you to leave them - or worse, expose their creator and send them to be experimented on. So, what do they do? 
What their instincts tell them. They attack- well, really they corner you, but you see them as an animal or predator about to murder you, which is fair enough. They manage to subdue you, however not in a favorable way- you’re scratched up, bruised and managed to sprain your ankle running away from them and forcing them to pounce on you. 
They pitifully whimper and check on you as they carry you to their home, to which their creator clicks their tongue and checks you over, assuming that their creation was becoming too dangerous. 
Then, they tell the whole story, at least what they see through their eyes, and the creator now knows what’s best for the situation at hand. It’s simple and easy! You aren’t allowed to leave. 
They explain it as if it’s the most obvious answer. “My creation has chosen you, and you’re too much of a threat to just walk out of here. Plus, they need more than just me for a companion! It’ll be healthy for them, and research for me! “ 
They shrug it off as if you weren’t just kidnapped and almost killed, taking your silence and confused and horrified expression as you agreeing. “Great! Now I’m sure you already know this but-” they lean closer, their friendly tone turned dark, ominous and serious as they grab your face “-Do anything to jeopardize my creations safety, or try to leave at all, and I’ll be sure to show you that humans are the true monsters here”. 
They straighten their posture, crack another playful smile, and gesture towards the door “Well! Now that greetings are out of the way, why don’t you show your friend you’re alright? They’ve been up all night you know!” 
Anyway-dumb idea that I wanted to make into a game or short story but It won’t happen cause I have no idea where to begin with that lmao I hope you like the idea though! Thank you my lovely beans!
-Mommabean (Ignore the typos ill fix em later)
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merenwenformulauno · 4 days
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I was going for sth else but actually; from fan to fan top five PP chapters/scenes :p
@parallelplayers going to evaporate from emotions. Ok.
This refers to parallel players. glance. 466k. yes. not a typo. it is my roman. fucking. empire. go read it.
Ahem, cut. spoilers ahead.
1: chapter 13! Chapter 13 my beloved ! *barks, bangs floor ect* The miscomunication. The desperation! The way none of it needed to happen and yet TO ME the entire fic swings on this chapter. IT is PERFECTION. The texts section is just so well written. The way Rosie builds the emotions. Lance's irritation to desperation, his spiraling insanity. So many people want a 13 from his pov. To me, this chapter is perfection because I don't think we need it? His messages show it. I can see him pacing the room, checking when the flights are, tracking info. Arms flailing as he MAKES Alex, David, Armand talk to him. You can hate me later but where the fuck is GEORGE. Then George in turn realising all this. He fucked up. HE's hurt. He's hurt Lance worse. He's hurt his friends. Alex changing his whole voicemail. Fuck even Daniel ready to go feral. Max stepping in. It is such a beautiful loaded chapter and I. Roman. Empire.
2: So of course, the only answer to just below this has to be the inversion. The parallel. Chapter 25. We always stay with George yet somehow yet again this is about Lance. Seeing Lance crumble, let his guard down, doubt them after being so steadfast was beautiful. And the author had to be convinced they even did it. Which I spent many an hour banging into them so you are all welcome. The fight to protect George because he loves him and he can see just how much George loves him in turn with his presentations and such. That he runs. He runs the way George did but yet not. But where Lance knew in 13 not to follow, George has learned by 25 to go. Pack his shit and run and risk it all in a country that hates them for who they are and put everything on the line. Urgh. Don't even touch me.
3: chapter 24. singapore 23. The. Crash. the dogs, the life, yes all of that. The way Rosie crafts a story with detail and love and THEN hits you? My god. And we all knew it was coming. And to see Rosie's George react to the crash and I'm sorry, maybe it was a bit meta but it was fucking right! Jenson was there when Jules crashed. They should know better. No, let's not replay crashes. Let's make sure the drivers are alright first! The pasta thing. The way Lance hobbled into the room. The way it unleashed George in his admission of having a boyfriend. There were so many layers to this chapter! Yet what really made me cry (for real) was George in the medical center being encouraged/asked to leave to protect them both but still taking a selfie and sending it to Lance.
4: chapter 10
“Are you mine? Because I - I -” I want to be yours.
“You wanna be mine too?”
do. not. touch. me.
singapore 22. but them feeling each other out, Lance more sure, George not sure at all. It flips so beautifully knowing I've read the version a year later. George, just doubting but taking his shot. Lance knowing he can't push too hard. Rosie has done some beautiful Lance POV but they were not needed to know Lance was aware he had a wild animal on his hands. But given the prev chap, we know Lance knows he has to be careful. We know how he feels without George being aware (writing genius!) Then just on the ride, newly together, fucking around, Lance dragging George out of his comfort zone but still at all times respecting his limits.
5: chapter 9. I loved this chapter for how much the reader can see Lance going absolutely feral and George is like 'nice to be invited :D' We were being edged right alongside Lance! This chapter is just fun! Alex watching everything aware, Lando so very unaware but rebuilding his relationship with is friend, Carlos deciding to ignore it all. Lily O.O Portugal is special to me and then THEN the pain of Alex being ill, Lance being there, looking after George. He is going to be there whether George has worked out they are together or not. HE's George's guy, he will be there it is ok baby I'm here~
Just go read it. FFs Mar.
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zhongscara · 4 days
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can we see teyvatarrangements i need to see the dating app fuckery or zv idol au !!!!!!!! -@welcometoteyvat
ok teyvatarrangements has my middle of the night typo filled ramblings so ill just explain... JDNWJSAJJS
basically childe and scara are unfortunately friends. childe is bored and in his infinite wisdom hes like We should make profiles on this app. scaras like Youre fucking insane. but gets roped into it anyways bc hes not *that* above childe no matter what he thinks.
2 weeks later childes like Boo i just got bots ;( and scaras like lmfao you checked? bc he ignored it ever since LMFAO childe makes him check it and scara finds a message from zhongli except its a profile made by hu tao bc shes tired of him being a single old man in her house JDNWHSWJJSWJSJ (in this au shes like his niece or something. i also considered venti as the person who made the profile lol)
i do wanna show some snippets of zhongven idol au tho!!!
Kaeya scratches the back of his neck. “We’ve, well, we decided maybe the best thing to do would be to hire a new manager, y’know? Someone who can—”
“Someone who can actually get you to stop partying nonstop,” Diluc interrupts, typing out something with more force than necessary.
Kaeya has the decency to look sheepish when he shrugs. Diluc makes no such attempt though, looking at Venti angrily from behind his monitor.
“Maybe some Liyuen discipline will set you straight.”
another one
“You have 15 minutes to shower and get dressed,” Zhongli says, looking down at his phone, “You can eat your breakfast in the car.”
Venti blinks. “What happened to good morning?”
“You’ll be late for your schedule if you don’t get up within the next 5 minutes. I suggest you shower as soon as possible so you can get your hair at least half dry before we leave.” Zhongli replies, not even bothering to look at him.
Rude. Venti thinks, shuffling out of his bed anyways. This guy’s not a manager, he’s a fucking pain in the ass.
*
Once he sits down, Zhongli unceremoniously drops a paper bag in his lap. “Breakfast,” he says.
Venti opens the bag, finding an iced coffee and a wrapped sandwich. Huh. When did the old man get this?
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blubushie · 5 months
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how did the trip go blu? :3
FUCK FORGOT THE TRIP REPORT. Ta mate. Fun stuff under the cut, cuz this'll be long.
TRIP REPORT: 19/10/23
10:15am: 1.5g dry P. subaeruginosa. Onset ~11am. Peak ~12pm. Offset starts ~3pm. Trip end ~6pm. Enjoy the ride, mate.
10:59am: Come up starting.
11:21am: Head feels heavy and pressured but not in the headache way. Senses heightened and I can hear everything. Whirring of the laptop fan is really getting on my fucking nerves so that's going off. I'm getting on my phone instead. Starting to make a lot of fucking typos but I'm taking the time to fix them while I still care.
11:40am: Brian feels fast as fuck and I've stopepd arign about typos. Fuck typso I love typos woooo. Feel on top of the wolrd liek I can do anthig and come out on top. I fell like god
11:43am: Synthesisia started. Listnign to banjo musica as requested and watcihng thecolorus while i lie on the floor. My body feels veyr very heavy and thissong makesm e sadbut it's a good song ... The song is Arkansas Farmboy by Glen Campbell and it's eally good ... But it makes me mis soUtback NT
12:01pm: Peak is strgn and feeling fuckign great. But occuring mtom e I should'nt have dne this in the dark becaus the hallucinsaitons are storng. Light form laoptop is keeing the entitiesi away but I'nm sitll scared
1pm: The dopamine keeps climbing. It feels like you-know-what. You know the feeling, mate. I'm now typing slowly and checking for typos as I type so that I'm legible because this will be hard to transcribe later otherwise. Feeling very good as the peak's settled in. Eating leftover fried rice and the taste is very good. I chew and I'm getting little flashes of reddish-brown, like Outback mud but a tint or two darker. I'm not sure if the colour is because of the taste or because of the sound of myself chewing. I'm doing very good but my thoughts are going everywhere all at once. I can't focus on any one thought for longer than a few seconds. It feels like ADHD on hyperdrive. I feel very very smart and like I could solve and problem in the world, like my mind is going so fast that no one could ever keep up with me. It feels like all of me is floating. Body and soul and mind.
3:40pm: Coming out of the trip now. Feeling very good. Had a brief cry during a breakthrough peak and felt like I was floating. A lot of sudden guilt came through with introspection on bad decisions I've made. Came out of it ok to folks in VC talking to me and asking if I was alright. It remedied whatever illness I was feeling. ... According to others, I at one point said that I was "melting" and also told VC that I loved them and that we're all very lucky to have met each other now in the present because we all met each other and got along and were having a "daisy chain of bullying" (but in a good friendship way).
6:45pm: Coming down from the trip. Dopamine tingle is still here. Feeling very affectionate and interconnected with the people around me. I love the world and I love humanity. I love everyone. Body feels like it's starting to come back together at the seams. I still feel like I'm melted and can feel everything touching me like when you're underwater and can feel the water all around you everywhere constantly. It feels a little uncomfortable, like too-tight latex, but manageable now. Also I was at some point convinced I was a fish because I kept forgetting how to breathe, and at the behest of friends this then lead to me checking myself for gills and, when I couldn't find the presence of gills, then coming to the conclusion that I was in fact an amphibian who had to return to the water to breathe through my skin. I am not an amphibian.
6:10am: I wake up from an 8hr sleep after finally going to sleep around 10pm last night. I feel well-rested. Part of me still feels high—a faint "floatiness" that's pleasant, and I didn't have nightmares last night—but a check of my pupils confirms that the high itself has fully passed and I'm just in the aftereffects. As always my dreams were weird, mostly geometric patterns and faint whispering and murmuring, but none of it was distressing. I feel very safe and content and slept on my stomach last night and fell asleep quickly. I'm still feeling very interconnected and like I want to hug everyone on the planet and tell them everything will be ok. There's a piece of god inside everyone and we should love each other for it and it's what the universe wants. And I love everyone.
[END OF REPORT]
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bonescribes · 1 month
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What is your writing process? Do you go in one fell swoop? Do you leave and come back? Do you use a thesaurus? Do you re-read and swap out words? Do you try to match/beat your partner's length? Do you care about length at all? Do you look for fancier words? Do you get straight to the point? As artists, we only ever see your finished product. How do you craft your work?
it's pretty fuckin messy !! lmao
i mostly knock each draft out in one fell swoop -- that is, if i start to write a reply, i generally finish it. that isn't always the case, but like...9.5 times out of 10. i subscribe to the ' just write something down and fix it later ' school of thought, so a lot of re-reading and editing happens after the first draft (pay no mind to how i still have hella typos)
i tend to match my partner in a lot of ways, i think. length definitely, although i tend to lean on the shorter side compared to many -- but in style, too. i like it when a thread is really cohesive, and when switching between replies doesn't feel too jarring, so i'll usually be more verbose or prose-y with writers who are the same, while using more direct language with writers who lean that way
personal preferences : i try hard not to use the same words too often , and ill check not only between paragraphs but between replies to make sure that im not being too repetitive. i also care about flow a lot. i'll go back and look at the length of each sentence to make sure that i have a good variance, although i definitely have a bias towards long sentences. i love a good semicolon.
my ability to metaphor is a strong work in progress LMAO
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Hi darling!!!! If you are taking requests there is this fic idea I have that won't leave my head (I can't write anything to save myself)and I just adore how you portray the moon boys! So basically..... It's a Marc × Y/N ,Steven ×Y/N , jake × Y/N and the reader knows the boys since they were young but bc she was struggling with sh her parents put her in phych ward at 15 and she couldn't see mark when she turned 18 she managed to leave but Marc was already gone and they meet years later.... I guess it's up to you how it turn out in the end.... Sorry if I'm rumbling I just can't get it out of my head 😅😅😅
Once Upon A December
Pairing: Marc Spector / Steven Grant x fem!Reader (mentions of Jake)
Word Count: 2.5k 
Content Warnings: Explicit talk about self harm, mentions of mental institutions, mentions of medication, Marc’s mum being a massive b****, a whole metric fuckton of angst, mentions of substance abuse, mention of mental illness, major hurt/comfort, pet names, due to the nature of this story: 18+! MDNI!
A/N: Is it 2:30am and I chugged nearly 6 cups of coffee while writing that? Yes. Have I, yet again, hurt my own feelings? Also yes. To the anon who requested this... I'm absolutely in love with the idea and as you can see I couldn't hold back pulling an almost all-nighter. On a side note: I blame all typos on the unholy amount of caffeine.
Please consider liking, reblogging and commenting! It means the world to me 🌸💞
Feel free to check out my Masterlist!
Tagging who might be interested:
@screechingsweets @luke-o-lophus @littlefreya
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Far away,
Long ago,
Glowing dim as an ember,
Things my heart
Used to know
Things it yearns to remember
-Once Upon A December from the “Anastasia” Soundtrack 
‘Out of sight out of mind’ - You had heard that stupid saying so many times in your life by now and you never really got it. You couldn’t name one thing that had left your thoughts just because it was out of your imminent sight, although you wished for so many things to just disappear into thin air….especially memories of days long gone.
Memories of your parents screaming at you after they found a bloodied scalpel in your nightstand, a scalpel your mother was missing from her handicrafts supply. Memories of your parents going even harder at you after they had searched your entire body and found healing scars alongside fresh cuts coated with a delicate layer of slowly hardening scabs. After that incident a seemingly never ending avalanche of memories from bleak white rooms, doctors and nurses in loveless white coats and equally white, tiny, little paper cups followed. The only two things not entirely white in your memory from that time were the many pills they made you swallow and a pair of vibrant yellow socks embroidered with small, blue scarabs.
“Marc.” You whimpered in remembrance of your childhood best friend, the only person you’d ever trust again in this world. That much you’d sworn to yourself. 
It’s been at least ten years since you last saw him, looking out of your room at the psych ward, hammering and screaming against the thick glass window, as you watched his father picking him up. His mother was nowhere to be seen that afternoon, as rain-bearing clouds hung heavy in the sky, of course she wasn’t. Not a single day since then went by without you thinking about him…. about Steven and Jake too.
“Fuck.” Your voice, that was but a mere raspy whisper, echoed back from your bedroom walls.
He’d been able to leave this hellhouse of an institution one year before you could and in that time your best friend got ripped out of your sight completely. Laying in the dark room, with your trembling body wrapped around your pillow it came back to you so clearly as if it happened yesterday: You were dismissed from your white prison on a freezing December morning, thick snowflakes getting lost in your hair as the personnel threw you out in the open, with nowhere to go but back to your dysfunctional family. But that’s not where you went first, no. With your old duffle bag you took the next best bus into the city. The money you had safed up since weeks before your 18th birthday was roughly enough to buy a one-way ticket, but it took you where you so desperately needed to go. Marc’s parents' house. You were still able to hear the ringing of the doorbell in your ears, the painful memory of Marc’s mother opening the door, laughing in your face in cruel amusement.
“Well, look…if that isn’t Marcs’ psycho girlfriend, huh?” The woman had spat in your face, self-righteously swirling a glass of wine in her hand. To this day you regretted not slapping it right out of her grip.
“Tough luck, missy, he took off months ago to god knows where.” The smell of alcohol on her breath seeped through the icy air leaving you wanting to gag. 
With that she had slammed the door back shut in front of your nose, absolutely eradicating any hope of seeing Marc again. 
The pain from back then hadn’t faded just the slightest as it bit itself through your ribcage once again. In a helpless motion you curled yourself even tighter around your already tear-soaked pillow that really wasn’t giving any solace to you. For tonight you had already spilled all your tears so the only thing that left your sore throat were silent wails of misery until your burning lungs couldn’t take any more.
Your arms were still tightly wrapped around the damp fabric as you managed to toss yourself on your back, your weary, bloodshot eyes darting towards the ceiling of your tiny apartment. You thought you’d be free and safe in the walls of your own place, but everything that had happened still held you hostage within your own head. Tonight it was so bad that you craved something to shut all the thinking down for good. You needed a strong drink - or most likely at least four. 
The pure depression inhabiting every fiber of your body made it nearly impossible to get off of your bed, but you dragged your exhausted body towards your wardrobe anyway. An oversized hoodie and a pair of black pants would do, you thought to yourself, as you hid into the saggy piece of clothing. You didn’t even care how done and rough you were looking while you grabbed your wallet and keys from your nightstand and slipped into a pair of worn out chucks. Clearly not the ideal equipment for the snow-covered streets, but to hell with that. Yet again it was December and the outside world so cold as you felt on the inside. A good shot of whisky would break the ice lacing your heart, you chuckled to yourself with no trace of joy in your tone. 
The gummy soles of our trainers barely kept the moisture from soaking through to your socks as you strode towards the pub a few streets down. It was a weeknight so not exactly much pushing and shoving in front of the counter. It suited you just right because tonight you left your patience right at the door.
Before the bartender even had the chance to ask what you wanted, you threw him a stern glance and said: “Double whisky on the rocks.”
The man behind the counter grumpily mumbled something along the lines of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ apparently being out of stock today, but tended to prepare your order nonetheless. 
Without even looking, he slammed the glass down in front of you, nearly spilling larger parts of it onto the wooden surface. As fast as he had served you the drink, the caramel-coloured liquid went straight down your throat, the alcohol burning its way down into your stomach. 
“Another one.” You huffed, the smoky taste spreading in your mouth.
“Sorry?” The bartender turned back to you, raising his eyebrows up into a certainly confused arch.
“I said, another one.” You reached into your back pocket, pulling out your wallet from which you drew a 50£ note and pressing it on the counter to sign him that you had the money and that the rest was none of his business.
“Got it…” The man responded, taking the bottle from the shelf again and pouring you another one.
You were tempted to flush it down one go again, but you knew that it wouldn't be the best of ideas if you still planned on getting back home walking upright. Nonetheless, you took a deep drag from the glass, this time allowing the taste to work its way deeper into your tastebuds. 
It took but a handful of minutes for the first effects to set in. Subconsciously your jaw stopped clenching and your shoulders slumped down a little, the weight of the world slowly gliding off of them. You started to feel somewhat close to okay, although ‘numb’ was your version of okay. The demons in the back of your head were still raging at full force, but now it was easier to shut them out, to ignore them until you’d wake up tomorrow, most likely sporting a massive hangover. None of that was any new to you. A paracetamol or two for breakfast would do the trick.
Your fingers were toying around the edge of the glass, circling it in an almost caressing manner, as a voice from behind uttered something that led your heart to stop for a split second.
“Pumpkin?”
You nearly knocked your drink right off the counter, turning your entire torso around with so much force that your spine creaked in agony.
“....M-Marc?...” The name fell from your lips with a weight that was ready to crash the wooden tiles underneath you.
“Pumpkin?!” The man with dark, messy hair not far from you repeated equally in shock.
“MARC!” You called out again, jumping from your stool and stumbling forwards.
With every step you took your knees felt weaker, progressively giving out under the flood of emotions that waved through you without a warning, until you crashed front first into a pair of wide open arms. Before you could even realize it, a violent stream of white-hot tears burst from your eyes, running down your cheeks and soaking the fabric of Marc's sweater underneath your chin. He held you, wrapped his arms around your shaking body so tight as if he wanted to press every broken part within you back together.
“Marc…” You wailed out, your sobs muffled by his shoulder.
Through your teary vision you barely took notice of the people around you staring at the both of you and, honestly, you couldn’t care less about what they were thinking or if you were about to get kicked out of the pub. In this very moment nothing mattered but the man pressing you so close to his chest that you felt his heart hammering right next to yours.
“I’m right here.”, The familiar and so dearly missed voice softly whispered to you “We’re all right here.”
A new load of tears was about to break its way, but you tried to hold it back as good as you could, tried to catch your breath. The need to see Marc’s face stronger than the impulse of rising tears.
About a thousand questions filled your head as you rubbed your face over his sweater, trying to wipe your stinging eyes before you carefully leaned back in his embrace. You almost didn’t dare to look at him because you feared that it was all just a dream, an illusion that would burst into nothingness as soon as you’d lay your eyes on his face…. but it didn’t. There he was, a pair of watery eyes beaming right back at you as if you were the most precious thing in the entire world.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Marc stated as if it was the most logical thing anyone had ever said.
You answered with a nod, no questions asked, not now, not here. 
Grabbing you by the hand, he strode forward, the both of you leaving your half empty glass and the 50 quit behind. You didn’t even think about that because no money would be worth turning around right now, taking the risk of losing Marc again just because you turned your back towards him for a split second. 
With your thoughts short-circuiting on every possible level you barely recognised leaving the pub, a breeze of frosty winter air hitting you from the side. All you knew was Marc holding your hand as he led you across the street, guided the way however many blocks down and eventually up a flight of stairs. A door fell into its lock and you were once more not far from simply collapsing if it wasn’t for Marc holding you like dear life depended on it.
“All this time….so close?” You croaked, your racing thoughts desperately trying to make any sense of what had happened in the past 30 minutes.
“That doesn’t matter anymore. Now I’m here… you’re here!” He murmured into your slightly damp hair as he carefully carried your nearly completely limp figure towards his bed, gently sitting you down on his mattress.
You couldn’t help yourself but to stare at him, watching his every move in case he might just disappear into thin air after all.
“Hey, pumpkin…”, His soft voice tried to break through to you “Let’s get you out of those wet shoes, hm?”
You nodded, hardly recognising the movement of your own head. With a soft, too-good-to-be-true smile Marc crouched down in front of you, his hands starting to untie your shoelaces. In a slow motion he pulled your wet feet free from the entirely soaked trainers before he did the same to the cold cotton socks clinging to your skin.
“Oh, love, you must be freezing!” The tone of his voice had changed entirely, his voice suddenly laced with a telltale London accent. 
“Steven?!” It burst out of your mouth in a mewl.
“Long time no see, love.”, He chirped softly, “Stay right there, I’ll grab some dry clothes for you, yeah?” 
If you weren’t too overwhelmed with literally everything you would’ve laughed at his words. Of course you’d stay right there. Where else would you want to go?!
Steven, his features now visibly softer and less tense than Marc’s, rose from the floor and turned towards a messy rack that served as a make-shift wardrobe. Sifting through unorganized stacks of shirts, shorts and a pile of socks, he threw pieces of cloth over his shoulder before coming back to you.
“Can’t let you sit here soaked and shivering like that.” Steven muttered more to himself than to you as he kneeled back onto the floor.
Without him having to ask, you peeled yourself out of the now rather soggy hoodie and equally sopping pants, thankfully accepting the dry and snug set of shorts and a white t-shirt. Throwing your wet clothes to the side, you nearly flinched as you felt Steven slipping a warm pair of socks over your feet. In a surprised motion your eyes shot back to his hands and your already critically overstimulated heart threatened to burst right out of your chest as you saw which pair of socks he’d chosen: Bright yellow, dotted with tiny blue scarabs.
“You-... you still have them?” Your tired eyes widened subconsciously.
“Of course! They are your favourite!” Steven replied, taking a seat next to you on the soft mattress.
“Yes…. they are…” You confirmed, your hands reaching out to him, needing to feel him close to you. 
Without hesitating for just a second, he scooted closer to you, leaning into your embrace.
“I missed you so much!” You wrapped your trembling hands around his torso as tight as you could, deeply inhaling his smell that felt like home to you more than anything else ever had ever done.
“I missed you too, love.”, He raised his hands up to your head, gently brushing over your hair while peppering loving kisses all over your forehead, “We all missed you so terribly much and this time we won’t go anywhere….at least not without you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise!” 
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aesopsharpmybeloved · 2 years
Text
Of Care And Comfort
I am alive! Also, it occured to me that i never actually wrote a sickfic before, so I set the basic idea, thought itď be short and sweet and then I went crazy on the keyboard. Some of the things I wrote were most definitely NOT in the idea, but they just came so naturally and after I went over it to fix typos I actually really liked it. So I hope you will too. (ps: poor meow meow)
Please, check out my other stories from this no vampires alternate universe - A Simple Case of Love
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Of Care And Comfort - 3.9K
tw: illness (influenza), vomiting
It was to be a regular Sunday mass. You were sitting with Erin in your usual pew, waiting for Father Paul to arrive for the homily. Except today he was nowhere to be found. You looked at your watch for the umpteenth time today - he was twenty minutes late already. Turning around, your eyes connected with those of Warren Flynn. You questioned him with your gaze, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and continued standing with the other altarboy, Ooker, by the church entrance. You were getting rather worried for the priest and when Bev finally proclaimed that she'd check up on him, you were nearly glad she was here.
Not five minutes later, Beverly returned to the church, stood at the top of the stairs in front of the altar and spoke: "Unfortunately, we'll have to cancel mass today, Father Hill is not feeling well. I'll have to stay with him, of course, but if anyone could get a hold of Dr Gunning and bring her over to the rectory, that'd be great, thank you." You immediately looked at Erin and she could only nod, before you stood up and left at a quick pace. As your legs automatically led you towards the house of the Island's doctor, you prayed Paul's predicament wasn't anything serious or life-threatening. The citizens of Crockett Island just got used to having Father Paul as their pastor, and after Leeza Scarborough miraculously regained the feeling in her legs, he was becoming well beloved by the people. He was a fair, kind man and it'd be horrible if something happened to him.
Before you knew it, you were knocking on Sarah's door, not too roughly, but rather insistently. Sarah opened after a while, looking confused as people didn't usually come around to her place while Sunday mass was in progress. "(F/N)? Hi, how come you're not in Saint Patrick's?" she asked, looking you up and down curiously. "Sarah," you said, a little out of breath, "I'm sorry to bother you, but Father Paul is ill and needs a doctor." "Oh, gosh, give me five minutes, I'm gonna get dressed." Only then did you notice that Dr Gunning was actually wearing her dressing gown and slippers, probably having only woken up a while prior to your arrival. You nodded and waited outside.
True to her word, Sarah was dressed quickly and you both set off back towards the rectory. Upon reaching it, you knocked on the door, a bit softer this time, and waited for someone to allow you entry. "Come in," came Bev's voice and you braced yourself and opened the door. Your gaze immediately fell on Father Paul, who was sitting on the tiny sofa, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. He looked up when you and Sarah entered and, oh boy. Paul was dressed in his usual church attire, so it seemed he actually tried to go and serve mass, but one look at him made it painfully obvious he was in no state to do so. He was pale as a ghost and his skin was clammy. His hair, which was normally styled back, was a mess too. Few strands of it fell into his eyes and got stuck to his sweating forehead. Paul's eyes were red with dark circles underneath them and Bev only completed the look of a completely ill man by bringing a bucket into the living area and setting it near the priest's feet.
You stood back while Sarah got to work, asking Father Paul questions and checking his vitals. After drawing his blood, she sat back. "Well, I'm going to run some tests on this," she said waving the vial of blood , "but I'm fairly certain you got yourself a nasty flu. High temperature, nausea, headache, etcetera, etcetera. Well, I'll know for sure in a day or two. Any idea of how you could've come by it?" Father Paul, who looked very pitiful still and was wincing at every louder sound finally opened his mouth to speak: "I think I know," he croaked and eyed you momentarily, "when I was on the mainland because of the meeting with the dioceses; Reverend O'Neil was present and he did sneeze a lot. He blamed it on hay fever." Sarah stored her equipment while Paul was speaking, carefully putting the blood vial into her case so it wouldn't break. "Well, Father, you best take some ibuprofen for the fever, drink plenty of fluids and rest. I'll run some tests at home and will check up on you in a few days." She turned to leave. You offered a soft 'Get well soon' to the priest and went to leave with her, planning to go check up on him yourself soon.
You couldn't have been more shocked at what happened next. As you and Dr Gunning slowly walked away from the rectory and towards the road, Bev Keane called after you: "(F/N (L/N), please wait." You stopped in your tracks and witnessed Sarah give you a pitying look before she said her goodbyes and parted ways with you. You and Bev hadn't spoken since the (one-sided) confrontation in church weeks ago, when Father Paul told her off in your defence. Since then, both of you became rather excellent at ignoring one another's existence, save for a few cold looks. "Can I help you?" you asked neutrally. "Actually you can," said Bev with a tense smile, "It's Father Hill." That got your attention, alright. "It's rather obvious he’ll need someone to take care of him on the weekdays while he's unwell, or at the very least check up on him every now and then. I unfortunately cannot fill this role, as I am teaching the entire day. You on the other hand," she vaguely moved her hand in your direction, "don't really have an actual job, do you. That's a lot of free time you have on hand and perhaps you ought to use it to do your Christian duty. Seeing as you and Father Hill... get on well, it shouldn't be a problem for you. That is if it doesn't inconvenience your life too much."
As much as you'd like to not help Bev Keane, you very much wanted to aid Father Paul in any way you could. Therefore you swallowed your retort about writing being a real job, and that taking care of a dear friend did not any way inconvenience you, and tried to put on the most polite tone you could muster: "I'll come tomorrow then."
---
You kept your promise and the next day, once you were sure Bev had gone to school and wouldn't come back, packed some food and ingredients into a bag and set off towards the rectory. You didn't even knock and entered quietly, fully expecting Paul to be sleeping in his bedroom. You were in for a surprise. There, on that tiny sofa where two people could barely fit, laid the priest. You had no idea how on earth did he fit there considering his height, but you really had no time to ponder that question. Father Paul was curled into himself, breathing hard and releasing a small whimper every now and then, he was very obviously in pain. 
You immediately dropped everything and moved up to the couch, kneeling beside it close to the man's head. You put your hand on his shoulder and gave a light squeeze. "Paul?" you asked slowly. He uncovered his face a little and you immediately noticed that he looked much worse than yesterday, his eyes were more red and unfocused and heat was radiating off his pale skin. "(F/N)," he said in a hoarse voice, "I think I'm going to-'' You knew exactly what was going to happen and were thankfully quick in your reactions. Grabbing the bucket you saw Bev put there yesterday, you shoved it next to the sofa and quickly pulled Paul's head over it. The poor man proceeded to promptly empty his stomach into it. You caressed his back and head, and made gentle shushing noises, comforting him throughout his ordeal. 
A few minutes later there was only dry-heaving coming from Father Paul, and then it all stopped. You carefully rolled him on his side and, after making sure he wouldn't be sick again, went to empty the bucket and bring a wet flannel, a glass of water and some medication to help with the nausea and fever Sarah gave you after you told her you’d be taking care of Paul. "Do you think you can sit?" you asked once you came back with all the items. Father Paul made a non-committal groan. You set the bucket back next to the sofa, just to be sure, and put everything else on a table. "Here, let me help," very, very slowly you helped Paul into a sitting position. You took the flannel and started dabbing him with it, his forehead, his cheeks, his neck, finally wiping his lips with it. He barely reacted to the cool cloth, his eyes were glossed over and not really looking at anything. "You're wearing the clothes from yesterday," you observed, speaking softly, aware he probably wasn't listening to you, "we should get you into a set of pyjamas, get you comfortable in your bed. This crappy old thing will only make your back ache too." ‘Did Bev just leave him here like this?’
Well, getting him to bed was easier said than done. Despite his lean frame, Father Paul was rather heavy and he leaned his entire weight into you as you helped him stand. The height difference didn’t make it easy for you either. You had to half drag, half carry him to his bedroom, all the while holding the bucket in your left hand in case the priest was about to be sick again. You didn't even know how you did it, but in the end you really did manage to bring him to his bedroom. Sometime later, you sat Paul against the headboard of his bed, content to just leave him there for a while while you fetched everything else you deemed important into the room. Rinsing the flannel, you once again wiped down his sweaty brow and then put the cold cloth on his heated neck. This time, there was a reaction. Father Paul sighed with relief and closed his eyes and you saw his muscles untensing a little. Now came the most difficult part.
You searched the bedroom for some pyjamas - the priest would hardly be comfortable in his trousers and clerical shirt with collar. You finally picked a plain short sleeved t-shirt and sleeping shorts, all the while preparing yourself. If you claimed you never imagined taking off Father Paul's clothes, you'd be lying through your teeth, but this was definitely NOT the way you wanted it to go. Still, you couldn't just leave him in his current clothes, as they were completely soaked with his sweat and sticking to his skin. You took a deep breath and got to work. Almost clinically, you unbuttoned Paul's shirt piece by piece, until you could slip it from his shoulders and onto the bed. Taking the cloth again, you dabbed at his collarbone and chest and under his arms. He was in no shape to take a shower and it was better than nothing. It was actually much easier than you thought it would be - tender feelings or not, you were here most importantly as a friend helping a friend in need. After you were done with washing him at least a little, you helped Paul into the t-shirt. To save you both the embarrassment, you made quick work of his trousers, cladding him in the shorts hurriedly. However, it seemed Paul was quite out of it again and seemed to barely take notice that he had just been completely undressed and re-dressed by you.
"Hey," you spoke and patted his cheek softly to get his attention. He turned his bleary eyes at you. "I'm going to need you to take your meds and drink some water, ok? Can you do that for me?" Paul thought for a moment and then nodded. You ever so carefully put the pill against his lips and he took it in. Then you helped him wash it down with water, instructing him to take small sips and ready to reach for the bucket any time. It ironically reminded you of seeing people accepting communion from him. To your delight, he actually managed to keep the medicine and small amount of fluid down. "Listen," you got his attention again, "I'm going to help you lie down now." You did just so and soon he was on his right side again, facing the door to the living room. You moved the bucket close to him again and made to go to the kitchen. A large but severely weakened hand suddenly enveloped your wrist and tried to stop you. You turned around to see Paul looking at you desperately. Sighing, you kneeled next to the bed, took the hand that reached out and put it to his chest, holding it within your own: "Hey, don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. I'll just be in the next room." Paul seemed hesitant. "I'm not leaving you. Promise. If you need me, just call, I'll be right back. But please, try to get some sleep now, ok? Can you try? Please, for me?" You were caressing his cheek with your free hand without realising it, but it seemed Paul was aware of it, for he closed his eyes and leaned into it. After a while, you released his hand and moved away, no protest coming now as the priest really did doze off.
You managed to quickly locate the bag you brought with you and immediately set to work. Everyone knew that the best food you could eat when you’re ill is hot rich chicken soup. You had no idea what the science behind it was, but there was never a time when you wouldn't feel better after eating a bowl of it; were you fighting a flu, a cold, a nasty break-up or a massive hangover. It was getting dark once you were done and so you decided to check up on Father Paul before going home. He was still in his bed, sleeping. Turning on a lamp, you gave him a quick look over - some colour returned to his face and when you put your hand on his forehead, you could feel the fever has climbed down slightly. It was not gone, however, and it was time for another dose of the meds. Once again reaching for Paul's shoulder and squeezing it, you whispered his name into his ear. He stirred and then opened his eyes, looking at you. He seemed way more there than in the morning and looked at you with slight confusion at finding you here. "Hey," you said, still whispering, "You've been sleeping for some time. Are you still tired?" He blinked once, twice, then: "Yeah..." "I figured. Don't worry, I won't keep you awake, but you need to take your meds and some more water. Then I'll let you sleep again, okay?" This time it was much easier, as Paul was much more responsive and actually almost managed to sit up on his own. He also drank more water now.
For a while, he just sat leaning against the headboard with closed eyes, breathing slowly. "Are you ready to lie back down now?" you asked softly and he hummed in agreement, settling upon his side yet again. "Are you going to stay?" asked Father Paul as you were reaching to turn off the lamp. You originally planned to go home for the night, but hearing his hoarse voice and then looking into his sad puppy eyes wouldn't allow you to do so with a clean conscience. "Yes. Of course I'm going to stay," you said and stroked a single finger along his jaw, "I'll be in the living room, whatever you need. Goodnight, Paul." 
---
You sat on the sofa in the rectory, after wolfing down one bowl of the soup you made - you brought no food for yourself, since you didn't know you'd be spending the night. No matter, though, you made enough soup to last for some time and one bowl wouldn't make a difference at all. You half expected Bev to show up and check up on Father Paul, maybe criticise that you're not taking care of him well enough, or complain that your soup stinks or something. However, it was nearing ten o'clock and she was nowhere to be seen, so after checking up on the sleeping Paul one last time, you made yourself comfortable on the sofa. Or, well, you tried to. How on earth did you manage to fall asleep on this hellish thing before was beyond you... Not really, you knew that the only reason you'd fallen asleep on this couch was the man who now slept in the next room, plagued by fever. You really were doing your best, but you still wished you could do more. The state you found the poor man in this morning was honestly terrifying. He did look better in the evening, but he truly should've drank more of the water. You had to get an actual meal into him in the morning if possible, or else he could get worse again. 
You didn't notice falling asleep until you woke up in the morning. It was still fairly early, as the sun wasn’t done climbing above the horizon and you immediately registered what had woken you. There was a sound from inside the house, somewhere behind you and as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes you realised it was the sound of running water. You got up from the sofa, wincing as your muscles protested. You probably would have been better off sleeping on the floor, you thought bitterly as you moved towards the bedroom. You leaned against the doorframe and gazed into the dim room - the bed was empty and, delightfully, so was the bucket. The door to the bathroom was closed and you could now clearly identify the sink faucet running. A short while later, the door opened and out came Father Paul, his legs slightly shaky, but carrying his weight.
He just leaned against a cabinet for support when he noticed you. "Hello," he murmured, "you... You actually stayed?" His voice sounded slightly better and he was obviously aware now. The prolonged standing seemed to tire him though, so you walked over to him to help him back into bed: "Of course I stayed. I promised you I would, didn't I?" When you sat him down Father Paul smiled at you. His smile was nowhere near as radiant as it usually is, but it was just as soft. He definitely looked better than yesterday, his cheeks had some pink in them now and there was a spark in his eye where yesterday had only been dull mist. You sat down right next to him, unbothered by the close proximity for once and touched his forehead with the back of your hand. Satisfied with the temperature dropping a bit again, you let your hand fall. "You hungry?" you asked after a moment. "Starving," replied the priest quietly. You sat up again and made your way to the kitchen, speaking up a bit so he heard you: "That's good. You probably shouldn't eat too much at once, so your stomach doesn't get upset again, but it's important for you to eat something, or the medication itself could make you sick."
You heated a smaller portion of the soup on a stove and put it in a bowl onto a tray to bring into Paul's bedroom. Paul ate slowly, as you advised him, but seemed like he wanted to shovel the food into his mouth after the first spoonful hit his tongue. Which you found greatly flattering of course. After he was done, you supplied him with another glass of water which he emptied soon, small sip after sip, washing down another pill in the process. You then remained sitting in his bed, talking and while Paul's spirits seemed high, you could see the exhaustion setting in quickly. "Forgive me," he said at one point, suddenly sounding sad. You looked at him confused: "What for?" Paul rubbed his eyes with his hand and sighed. "I'm sorry you had to see me like.. that. That you have to take care of me. I feel so stupid, I kept you here all night because of a flu. I didn't want to be a burden," he said at last, voice hoarse again. He wouldn't look at you and you couldn't help but wrap your arms around him and put his head to rest on your shoulder, holding him tight. "Don't be silly," you said, gentle yet firm, "don't say silly things like that. You're not stupid, and you're not a burden, and you don't apologise when you're ill. I'm here, because I want to be here and I'm taking care of you, because I want you to get well again. I really care about you, you know." 
Father Paul was returning your embrace softly, forehead pressed into the crook of your neck. You could gradually feel his arms faltering in their hold and so you let him out of your arms and smiled at him: "I mean that. Don't you talk like that again. And don't think like that either, please. Promise?" The priest gave you a smile in return and nodded. You excused yourself to clean up the bowl and move the rest of the soup into the fridge and made him lean against the headboard again. After you were done, you snuck a peek into his room to find him asleep again. You silently walked over to the man with a smile and carefully brushed the hair that fell into his forehead to the side, letting your hand linger for just a moment. When he subconsciously leaned into your touch again, you let your fingers slowly comb through his silky raven locks, mindful not to wake him. As he slept, his face got so calm and relaxed, even more open than it normally was. He was beautiful, in body and in spirit. You enjoyed the feeling for as long as you could before pulling your hand away. He made an unhappy little sound but remained asleep. Slipping out of the bedroom you collected your bag. You really needed to take a shower at home and, seeing as you would probably be staying in the rectory until you nursed the priest back to health, you had to grab some necessities. Sleeping bag, for one, no way you were going to spend one more night on that godawful sofa. After double checking that you had everything, you entered the bedroom one more time. A minute or two passed. Then you quietly approached the bed again and leaned in, pressing your lips to Father Paul's forehead, right above his expressive eyebrows.
---
Father Paul woke, feeling much better than he did two days ago. Slightly faint still, but since he was no longer bent over the godforsaken bucket, he considered it a win. The rectory was silent and he looked around for any sign of (F/N). What he found was a piece of folded paper on his nightstand. He slowly took a hold of it. "I’ll be back soon, x (F/N)" it read and the priest smiled into the page. He laid down onto his back and looked up into the ceiling, as if there was a night sky above him. And on his forehead, there was a phantom of a kiss.
Hope you liked it. As always, you can check this story on AO3. I’m dying for feedback c: Looong Author’s note bellow.
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Author’s note - Beverly isn’t exactly fond of Father Paul in this universe (to the point of leaving him suffer on the sofa) and I will explain why: I think in the canon, Bev wasn’t too ‘Keane’ on Father Paul until she realised it was Monsignor Pruitt. After experiencing no consequences for what she did to Pike, maybe she even saw it fit to get rid of the new priest (cue the school closet poison scene). She started to suspect something after seeing the photo on the wall, of course and probably thought like: either - he’s not going to die because he’s monsignor pruitt and he’s young again and that’s sus enough to not die, or - he’s going to die, but it’ll be okay, cause everyone knew he had been sick for a while. And when she realised Paul WAS Pruitt, she started to be ultra ‘caring’ cause that’s how she used to manipulate pruitt before too and it worked. SO while she doesn’t attempt to poison him in this universe, she simply doesn’t care for him, hence just leaving him in pain on the sofa and not checking up on him was no biggie for her.
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