#also just noting that I know that more and more research is finding evidence that autism and adhd are linked

[strawwritesfic]

Male!Loki x Female!Light Elf!Reader: With Dying Colors

Summary: Not everyone gets the chance to change their fate. Loki Odinson does so by accident, and finds the place he has been searching for all his life.

Rating/Tags: G (Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War; Not Canon Compliant with Loki; References to Loki's Gender Fluidity; Mild Hurt/Comfort; Mild Language; Florence Nightingale Syndrome; Homesteading; Depressed Thor; Background Platonic Relationships)

Word Count: 11,465

Requester: Anonymous

Request: "Hey could I plz request a Loki fem reader? Loki somehow manages to escape Thanos (cause we’re all still in denial of his death) but gets separated from the rest of the Asgardians on the way to Earth. Severely injured he chances it and uses magic to escape and lands in the forest somewhere. He wakes up in a warm cozy cabin all healed but remembers bits of his time here…being fed, washed and nursed back to healthy [sic] by a woman. Reader is an earth witch/half light elf who was banished for her human side and takes care of him but now he doesn’t want to leave cause he starts falling for her. Coincidentally her forest meets up with the forest near the Avengers Compound so she sends them updates on his health, but she also protects him cause Ross wants him locked away in the Raft. She’s more powerful so no one really dares trespass on her land."

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Notes: Wow, it sure has been, like, half a minute, right? This took me a long, long time to write. I had to add scenes; I had to research homesteading; I had to do some adjustments after discovering I was writing a completely different theme towards the end...I've been working on it so long that my own mother started throwing shade at me for it. I don't know for sure if I'm back-back, but I am making an concerted effort to get back to doing things I love. I did my best to complete every aspect of this request, and I think I managed it in a reasonable fashion, save for not telling the story via flashbacks. As the author, I do have some veto power, and I just didn't think the story warranted that.

Ao3 Version Here

With Dying Colors

Lights. Ever-swirling, ever-flashing, ever-sparkling lights. An array of dancing colors surrounded Loki Odinson. He could see the endless shifting of them even with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. The lights danced around him—no. A more apt description would be that the lights rushed around him. He could feel them all moving so rapidly past him that his long, dark hair blew out behind his head, though there ought not be any wind in space.

If this was dying, death was not so nearly as horrible as he'd feared.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Upon further rumination, dying was plenty painful. Thanos must have decided crushing Loki's windpipe had not been punishment enough. Now the Mad Titan sought to crack Loki's skull open with Mjölnir. For Odin's sake, Thanos had already cast Loki to the floor like refuse! Must he suffer further indignities before being allowed to pass?

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Evidently so. The lights having faded into a void of black, Loki pressed his eyelids still tighter as the pain lanced through his head.

—just get it over with already, you overgrown prune, is what Loki intended to say. But he didn't even get the first two words out in understandable form. Trying to do so made him feel as though someone had stuffed his throat with shards of broken glass. A metallic taste filled his mouth, accompanied by some sort of warm liquid. He coughed the molten stuff out from within his burning chest.

"Shhhhhh," someone nearby murmured.

Whoever they were, they weren't Thor. That the voice belonged to a woman made that obvious; Thor had never shared Loki's predilection for swapping genders like clothing. Another of Thanos's monstrous children, perhaps?

Something wet prodded Loki's pounding forehead, and he lurched away—or attempted to. Once again, he found himself with little control over his own body. His shoulders whacked against a hard object that similarly could not be Thor. Even his brother wasn't that flat and unyielding.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Oh, for the love of—" the same voice said crossly.

The cool, damp thing near Loki's face vanished. He heard a squelching sound, then rapid footsteps crossing a floor—a distinctly not metal floor.

Bang! Bang! Ba—

A door opened.

"Miss [Name]," barked a new voice—not an Asgardian accent, Loki noted, and belonging to someone wholly unfamiliar to him, "if you don't—"

"I would request that you keep your voice down, Mr. Secretary," said the woman from before, albeit in a much cooler tone than the one she'd used with Loki.

A thump. Boots on wood, if Loki was not mistaken. His head hurt so badly even the softest noise felt like another blow, but he thought he could identify that much. Whoever this man was, he was now in the...room? Home? Escape pod? Loki finally had to know.

Though his eyelids felt welded shut, he pried them open to find himself somehow miraculously no longer aboard either the Statesman or Sanctuary II. Instead, the sight that greeted him was that of a small room. Night dark as pitch pressed against the windows, leaving only a multitude of candles burning on seemingly every surface to light the place. Their trail his eyes followed all the way to a doorway where two figures stood: a pale-skinned biped with a mustache towering over another biped entirely swallowed in shadows.

"And I," said the mustached one, "request that when I summon you, you come to see me. And if I have to come retrieve you, I request that you open the door at once."

"Mr. Secretary, I would remind you that I am under no obligation to follow your 'summons' at all."

"The Accords clearly state—"

"I may have signed your Accords, but I am not one your chess pieces to be moved at your whim. There were provisions put in place for people like me."

"People like you. Not people like him."

The man pointed in Loki's direction without taking his eyes off the woman. Had Loki been able to speak, he might have had a snide response prepared. But he couldn't, and he didn't, and the smaller figure stepped in front of the finger to shove the man's arm down.

"Please try to remember whose territory you are on, Mr. Secretary. Those provisions do allow me to act in self-defense," she said.

"Self-defense! Aiding and abetting more like." The man let out a scornful laugh. "That man is an intergalactically wanted war criminal!"

"Some might say the same of you in the near future, Mr. Secretary." The woman made to step away, but the man reached out to grab her shoulder before she could get very far.

"I have every right to take him into custody," he said.

The woman wrenched her bare, [color]-skinned shoulder out the man's grasp. "He is in no condition to be moved, especially not to your godsforsaken rock. Do you also have the right to watch him die?"

Though the man said nothing in response, Loki could see a mutinous glitter in his eyes despite the flickering candlelight surrounding all three actors in this little drama.

"He won't receive proper medical care at the Raft. We both know you taking him would be as good as a death sentence."

"I couldn't care less if the little bastard dies!" the man burst out. "How many of our good men and women have died because of him? And you think he ought to be allowed to make a full recovery and murder more?"

"How many more might die without him?" The woman's voice had dropped, and yet she sounded so firm that there could be no question that she meant what she asked. The man stared down at her, speechless once more, but this time his eyes had gone wide. "They're already here, aren't they, Mr. Secretary?" she went on in an innocent tone. "The monsters looking for the Stones? How many of your precious Avengers have already gone missing?"

A shock of ice-cold lightning flashed through Loki's very core. Stones? Avengers? Could he really be so cursed? Whatever stroke of luck had seen him use enough dark magic to escape Thanos with his injuries had been no luck at all. He'd only gotten away as far as Midgard, where at least two damned Infinity Stones waited for their master to claim them. Worse, by the sound of things, Thanos's children had already arrived and already won.

As his heart and mind raced, a burst of white light filled the room. The glare of it burned Loki's already aching head and left a smear of purplish blue across his vision. Terrified, able to breathe only shallowly without bringing more blood into his mouth, he blinked as fast as he could to recover his vision. He could do nothing but accept his fate now, whether that be at Thanos's hands or those of the angry man's, but he preferred to retain some semblance of dignity either way this go-round.

When at last he could see clearly again, however, Thanos did not stand in the wreckage of the building. Nor did any of his children, Loki realized, nor the man from before. Only one person remained, and that was the woman. She had her back toward him as another white light surrounded the door she stood in front of.

Then she turned her face to him. Their eyes met across the dark room. Her angry expression melted at once.

“Oh,” she said, “you’re awake.”

Loki didn’t even manage to open his mouth to answer before his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out from pain and fear.

******

Next Loki woke, he found himself in an airy, well-lit room. Day had broken, and clear sunshine beamed through the many windows on the walls. It was the same place he had woken in previously. The extinguished candles clustered across every visible flat surface were proof enough of that. He could also see the same door from before. Only one other shut door led away from where he lie. Nothing moved around him. Birds chirped outside at such a decibel that he could hardly believe he'd slept through their incessant racket.

Except that he still hurt. Bor, he hurt. But Loki had not lived this long without knowing, generally, what sort of situation he had gotten caught in. Throbbing, stabbing, straining, burning, he pushed himself into a seated position against the stack of pillows behind his head. His gasp for air when he made it felt like a knife lodged deep inside his throat. There would be time to catalog his injuries later, perhaps, and less of a chance of that if he didn't seize this opportunity to take note of where he was.

What he saw surprised him somewhat. Though tidy, the one-room structure held a lot of clutter. In between all the candles sat hunks of rocks and crystals, some polished, others rough. Many were Midgardian in nature, but others Loki could tell at a glance weren't local at all. Piles of books in varying conditions littered the polished wood floor. Every window held at least one plant, each different, each in obviously robust health. Perhaps strangest of all was the mound of pillows and knitted blankets a few feet away from his resting place—the only messy thing in the entire place.

Not that it mattered. This homey little cottage would not last long with Thanos on the way, if he had not arrived during Loki's second bout of unconsciousness. Rather than sitting around and admiring the cleaning job, he needed to be finding a way out. His leg screamed in pain as he forced it out from underneath the sheet and put his foot on the floor. He ignored it. What was a little pain now compared to what he would feel when Thanos got ahold of him again?

"You're not strong enough yet for that sort of nonsense," someone said.

He sucked in a breath so swiftly that it triggered another coughing fit. The taste of blood flooded his mouth once more. His head spun with pain. Something rustled softly over by the door. Then Loki heard footsteps for a second or two before he felt a hard object against his mouth. Before he could gather his wits about him enough to shove the object away, a cold, bitter liquid flowed across his tongue and into his waiting throat. Loki spluttered as much of it entered his lungs, and yet even as he did the pain in his chest subsided somewhat.

Once his breathing evened out, the concoction stopped pouring into his mouth. The hard object vanished. Loki inhaled tremulously.

"I told you that you weren't strong enough," said the same voice from before. Now that he thought about it, Loki recognized the voice as belonging to the woman who had kept him safe the last time he'd been awake.

It was she that sat beside him now. His eyes met hers consciously for the first time—beautiful, sparkling, [color], and indignant. Definitely indignant. How women across so many realms and cultures could master the same look was a mystery for the ages. She didn't give him a chance to ask. With a snort, she stood and bustled over to the door through which the mustached man had burst before. After she'd gathered a weaved basket into her arms, she stepped over to a nearby kitchen hung with shining copper pots and bouquets of drying herbs.

"That was hardly my fault," Loki said into the silence. "You startled me. I didn't realize I had company."

The woman smiled at him over her still-bare shoulder. "You don't. You're company. And from the stories I've heard, Loki of Asgard ought to be a little more difficult to catch unawares."

"You'll forgive me if my near-death experience put me a little off my game."

Again, she said nothing. The sink turned on without a touch as you unloaded dirt-encrusted vegetables from the basket. Interesting. Though the room held many trappings of the bog-standard Midgardian witch, Loki had never seen a Midgardian perform any sort of magic, mundane or not.

"And to whom should I direct my thanks for saving my life?" he asked pointedly.

"Me. Mostly."

"Yes, and who is me?"

She paused in unloading her foodstuffs to give him a pursed-lipped look. Then her head whipped back away from him again she replied, "[Name]."

"[Name]." The sound of it tasted interesting on his tongue. "Thank you, [Name]."

"Don't thank me. I wouldn't say you're out of the woods yet."

Loki lifted a hand to his ruined throat. "So I've noticed. And may I ask..."

Well, now that he thought about it, he had a plethora of questions. A given name hardly got him anywhere. But before he could select a single query from the dizzying array crowding his mind, you supplied an answer him:

"I don't know."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't know what happened. The cards have been cryptic." Was that a note of annoyance he heard in your voice? "All I've got from them is something about Thanos and the Infinity Stones. I don't even think you’re supposed to be here."

He hardly registered that last sentence. The mere mention of the Mad Titan made Loki feel very cold even underneath the considerable bulk of his blanket. His voice sounded even raspier when he spluttered, "Are they—has he—"

"He's not here."

              "How would you know?"

"I'd know." You dropped your now-empty basket onto the gleaming wood countertop. Perhaps you spotted the horror in Loki's eyes as you turned to him, because you went on, "And if I didn't, my next-door neighbors would let me know."

"Neighbors?" Loki squeaked. Clearing his throat only made his vocal cords throb.

You didn't remark on that, just nodded slowly. "They're the ones that brought you to me a few days ago."

At last, something that Loki could latch on to! Even the vaguest of clues as to his location would aid him in working out a spell. He'd escaped from Thanos once; he could do it again.

"And where, exactly, might your neighbors have found me?" he asked.

You opened your mouth. Loki leaned forward in anticipation. Before you could utter a single word, however, someone knocked on the door. The noise was a far cry from the incessant, head-rending banging of earlier. Still, he noticed that your normally [color] skin paled several shades at the sound.

"That's probably them now," you said.

That didn't quite explain your change in color or the jittery way you rushed over to the door. Loki's eyes followed you there. Too late did he think to pull the blanket over his head to hide himself. In his current condition, it would have been a struggle to do so before you opened it to reveal —

"Steve? Natasha?"

At least you sounded as horrified as he felt by the sudden appearance of two Avengers on your doorstep. They could be no other, though they didn't look quite right. The former had dark hair now, as well as a beard, and the latter had turned blonde. But who else could it be? Who else would show up at Loki's weakest point?

His alarm increased as you threw your arms briefly around Natasha. The alarm swiftly turned into suspicion when he noticed she made no move to throw you off.

"I don’t understand," you said, as you released her and allowed the two to enter your home. "Why are you back? Where's Tony?"

"We're not sure," Steve answered.

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than did his and Loki's eyes meet across the room. Loki noticed that Steve's gaze had changed just as drastically as his appearance in the intervening years. Much of the sadness was gone. Now there was just some blazing hardness dampened not at all as he took in Loki's injuries. Loki knew that Natasha was looking at him, too, but he was too busy with his staring contest with Steve to pay her much mind.

Oddly, he felt no satisfaction whatsoever when Steve broke their stare off to return his attention to you:

"How's your patient?"

You didn't miss a beat. "Not well."

"Can you leave him?"

"No."

"Is moving him an option?"

"Absolutely not."

"Better question." Loki started painfully at the sound of Natasha's voice right next to him. She'd come to stand beside his bed, arms crossed, the look in her eyes even colder than Steve's had been. "Do we care what happens to him?"

Of course. Of course Loki had escaped the greatest threat the universe had ever seen—for a given value of "escape," he had to admit—only to die at the hands of the so-called heroes his brother had considered his friends. At least Steve's presence was likely to ensure Loki's death came swiftly. If Thanos's children were already scouting out the planet, perhaps Natasha would even be doing him a favor.

"Rhodey wouldn't have told us he was here if what happens to him didn't matter," Steve said.

"If he can't help us, I fail to see what benefit there is in keeping him alive."

"Help you with what?" you cut in, voice as sharp as steel.

Natasha stepped away from Loki. He let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Relaxing his muscles made the blood rush through his body so hard it made him dizzy—but it did not distract him from hearing Steve's answer to your question:

"We're going to Wakanda. They can remove Vision's Stone there without killing him."

"We hope," said Natasha.

"It will work."

"Sounds great." You didn't sound like you agreed with your own sentiment. "What do you need either of us for to do that?"

"They'll come, [Name]. We'll have the last of the Stones with us. They'll all come. Maybe even Thanos himself."

"You'd be a huge asset," Natasha added.

"We could use all the help we can get. And that includes Loki."

Suddenly, all eyes were on Loki. He licked his lips. "And why should I bother to help you all?" he rasped at last.

No one looked surprised by this question. Steve's eyebrows lifted slightly before he said, "It's your universe at risk, too. And from the sound of it, you wouldn't have made it very long if Tony and Rhodey hadn’t brought you here."

"Oh, yes, thank you.” His lip curled; he hoped that Steve could not hear his wildly beating heart. "Thank you so much for the rescue. And just in time to be obliterated along with the rest of reality! You shouldn't have."

"We're going to do our best not to let that happen. What about you, [Name]?" he asked as he turned back to you.

Loki felt rather than saw your gaze on him, searching and gentle. He found that he could not lift his head to meet your eyes. Then, in a soft tone full of regret, you said:

"I can't."

"If we lose this, there's a good chance he'll die anyway," said Natasha.

"He'll die for sure without anyone here to look after him."

She opened her mouth, but whatever nasty remark she planned to make next, Steve silenced her with a hand on her shoulder.

"We understand," he told you.

You nodded.

Without another word, the two Avengers left the cabin. You watched them go until Natasha pulled the door shut behind them. Silence buzzed through the room like electricity. You did not move. So long did you stare at the door that Loki half-expected it to burst into flame; the same could be said about the length of time he spent staring at the back of your head. He opened his mouth, found it dry, licked his lips, and tried to speak evenly:

"If you hurry, you could still catch up with them."

You shook your head, turning to head back to his bedside.

"Truly," he said. "I can make it on my own. Why, I only feel mostly like dying now instead of completely like dying."

"And you only feel that good because I've been here to take care of you." From the silver pitcher on the bedside table, you poured some smoking, purple concoction into the nearby cup. Then you sat down on the edge of the bed and held it out to him. "Speaking of, drink this."

A delicate sniff of the cup thrust toward him indicated that this was the same bitter brew you'd forced down his throat earlier. He did not take it. "I am a god. I can take care of myself."

"If I leave, you won't make it until tomorrow. This stuff doesn't keep, and you can't make it yourself." When Loki made no move to take the cup from you, you rolled your eyes. "Same thing if you won't drink your medicine."

He wrinkled his nose, but accepted the glass. Instead of swallowing the foul-smelling stuff, he cradled it in his hands. "Why are you doing this for me?"

"I don't think even one life should be given up if I have the power to save it. That's all," you said.

"Even if they could die anyway?"

"Even if they could die anyway." You cocked your head to one side, regarding him quietly for a few moments. Then you stood again. "Drink up, and get some rest. Hopefully the rest of the world will still be here the next time you're awake."

A sudden surge in pain obliterated Loki's desire to retort. Steeling himself, he lifted the potion to his lips and gulped it down as quickly as he could. The relief came over him almost at once, so heady that it made his head spin. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision. Before he could wonder if this was Thanos's victory, natural sleep overtook him. Perhaps dying this way would be easier, he thought, than what might face him later in that tiny cabin.

******

The potion’s effects only did so much for him after that dose. Loki slept fitfully, plagued by a leaden weight in his stomach that even sleep could not dispel. His dreams ended in exploding planets, in melting cities, in scorching pain. All the magic sedative coursing through his system did was drag him along from one cataclysm to the next. Try as he might, he could not tear himself into the hellscape of his reality—not until a loud clang issued from somewhere nearby.

“Owwww!” Loki snapped as he forced his eyelids open. At least this awakening did not hurt as badly as the last two had. The clear, watery light of morning only worsened his headache a little as opposed to a tremendous degree.

And he knew where he was. That helped. Though the panic searing the inside of his rib cage did not abate, he doubted that anyone observing him would be able to tell that at a glance. At least he managed to refrain from throwing himself out of the bed this time. This allowed him to maintain some dignity as he searched for the source of the noise.

And there you stood in the kitchen. One of those copper pots sat steaming on the island. As though you could sense his eyes on you, you looked up from your stirring.

“Congratulations. The rest of the world is still here,” you said.

How little he cared about this backwater rock when Thanos could set the entire known universe on fire should he succeed in wresting the last Infinity Stone from Steve's all-too-human fingers. Biting back this retort, Loki struggled into a seated position. He was pleased to find himself recovered enough to do so on his own.

“So I see,” he said at last, once he noticed you watching him. “So did your friends…” he didn’t quite know how to finish that sentence. He didn’t quite know which question he wanted answered, or what answer he wanted to hear either.

You shook your head. “I won’t hear back from them unless they get back.”

“Not even your precious cards could tell you?”

“Even if they could, I wouldn’t ask. All I can tell you is that you and I are still standing.”

‘In a manner of speaking.’ Loki took a moment to glower at his weak legs. “Yes. How much longer will that be the case, I wonder.”

“There’s no use fatalizing about it. Would you like some porridge?”

The gears in Loki’s mind took several seconds to adjust to the abrupt change of subject. Unfortunately, the moment he gave any real thought to the sweet aroma wafting from the pot, his stomach rolled so badly he couldn’t open his mouth to reply. Who knew what sort of muck might pour out of it, given all the strange things you’d forced down his throat during your short acquaintance?

“I’ll add something to your medicine to help with nausea.” A note of sympathy had crept into your voice. “We need to get something solid in your stomach before too much longer.”

Making breakfast, gathering food, healing him—what good would all of this effort do in the end? Probably you just wanted a distraction from the inevitable doom you both faced. Thor’s ragtag bunch of misfits had defeated Loki, but he was in no condition to consider himself a threat the same level as Thanos. The Avengers didn’t even have Thor anymore.

Loki’s eyes suddenly burned, and his throat felt all over again the pressure of Thanos’s enormous fingers. The thought of what might have happened to his brother in the aftermath of Loki’s escape would not bear thinking about. Time to focus on other things.

There wasn’t much else to focus on but you, however. He watched as you doled out a serving a mush into a waiting wooden bowl. You ate it quickly. Then you took your pot and carefully spooned the rest of the food into a line of glass jars sitting on the countertop.

Loki noticed that you moved differently than other Midgardians, now that he could stop and take the time to observe you at length—more graceful, more intentional, with no wasted movements whatsoever. Mortals could be taught to replicate such movement, but they could never achieve the same kind of ability as beings superior to them.

Only when you’d easily hefted the heavy object over to the sink did he finally say, “You’re not human, are you?”

You looked over your shoulder at him, expression guarded. “Half,” you said at last, then shifted some hair away from one of your ears. Doing so revealed that ear to end in a perfect, delicate point.

“You’re a light elf,” Loki said wonderingly.

“Half,” you said again, before returning to the chore of cleaning your dishes.

“What are you doing so far from Alfheim?”

“The whole half-human thing? Yeah, it didn’t exactly endear me to my family there.”

“But why here? There are light-elf communes in the realm.”

“Those jackasses at the North Pole declined to house me as well. One human per pole, apparently. And half-humans count.”

“There’s an entire galaxy out there. You could have gone anywhere.”

“By then, I’d figured out I was better off on my own.” Water continued to run over your hands and bare forearms, but these had stilled. Your gaze was fixed on some distant point in time. Then it snapped back to his face. “It was a long time ago. I went to SHIELD, traded a few goods and services for secrecy. And Howard Stark let me build a place near where he was stationed. I’ve been here ever since.”

“That sounds…lonely.” Lonely in a way that Loki understood; lonely in a way he’d always felt growing up, although he hadn’t understood why—lonely in the way he’d been after he had discovered his true heritage.

You shrugged flippantly. “It worked pretty well up until the Accords. Now I’ve always got Ross breathing down my neck.”

“The Accords?”

“It’s an Avengers thing, or at least Ross wants it to be.”

“So you—”

“Are not an Avenger.” Finished with cleaning, you tipped the pot onto the counter upside down, dried your hands on the waiting towel, then turned to face him. “I’ve never been one, and I’ll never be one.”

Loki found his body loosening somewhat after this revelation. Strange. He hadn’t noticed he’d been so taut to begin with. “And yet they came to you for aid,” he pointed out.

“I do aid them, sometimes. But not because some Midgardian law says I have to. Like I said before, if I have the power to save one life I’ll do it, whether or not my neighbors believe that life is worth saving. If anyone can get rid of Thanos, it’s them. But they couldn’t save you.”

“Is a single life worth saving if they can’t?”

“I guess that’s up to the person whose life it is.”

“And the life Thanos leaves them with.”

He noticed then you had gone very still. You cocked your head to one side and regarded him down your nose. “Do you regret it? Being saved?”

Loki inhaled sharply. How could he answer that question? For all the aggravation and fear he felt about his present circumstances, to reply in the negative would be terribly rude. Your bedside manner left much to be desired. Your skill in healing, on the other hand…

The sudden disintegration of half the plants in the room saved him from having to voice his thoughts. Your eyes locked onto his. Neither of you breathed a word. Somehow Loki still knew your thoughts to be the same: The Avengers had at last done the unthinkable. They had failed.

******

Some things Loki grew accustomed to over the years following what came to be called "The Snap." He grew accustomed to the new, permanent roughness of his voice. He grew accustomed to the slight limp from his injuries becoming more pronounced when the wind turned cold. He grew accustomed to eating food only available seasonally, to working for that food, to sharing a smaller space than he'd ever lived in before. He grew used to braiding his lengthening hair each day. He even grew accustomed to the smell of the chicken coop.

That day, the stench was worse than most others. An unexpected rainstorm had blown in overnight, and left everything damp or dripping, from the branches overhead to the edges of the roof. Loki shook his hood back as he made to the door, scuffed his worn boots on the welcome mat, and entered the cabin.

"Breakfast," he announced, somewhat breathless after his run for cover.

You stood already working at the stove. He placed the basket he carried in an empty space near your elbow. After a quick glance at his sodden figure, you reached under the piece of cloth he'd placed over the eggs, pulled two out, and cracked them over the skillet. Only once the food was sizzling did you offer him a warm smile.

Instead of saying anything, Loki swallowed and did his best to avoid your gaze.

"Thanks," you said into the silence.

"I had no issues with gathering eggs for you this morning. I wanted to check on Gunnhild myself."

"How is she?"

Loki hummed noncommittally as he went to a drawer for cutlery to set the table. He couldn't quite put words to the worry he felt nowadays over so much as Midgardian hens of all things. Perhaps he felt obligated to keep alive as many beings as he could after Thanos had taken so much. After finding one of his ladies so lethargic the evening prior, he'd spent a long, sleepless night fretting over her condition until he could trek to the pen under the pretense of helping with the morning meal. Truth be told, Gunnhild had seemed livelier then, but still, his thoughts continued to linger over her when he sat down in one of the two heavy wooden chairs.

The sound of a plate being placed in front of him snapped Loki from his musings. He did not know if he liked the understanding look you shot him as you slid into your own seat across from him. His stomach twisted painfully until he looked away from your face again.

Add that to the somewhat shorter list of things Loki had not grown accustomed to since the Snap.

"I'll put a little something extra in the feed today. She'll hardly know she had a respiratory infection."

More and more often lately, Loki found himself unable to meet your eyes, and when he did force himself to do so, his insides would suddenly feel hot. Had he been a younger or more ignorant being, he might have been inclined to blame the numerous concoctions you forced him to drink (some days with more arm-twisting than others) even this much time after his near-fatal injuries. You seemed to have magic for every aliment known, for chicken and Jotun alike. Why not a philter as well?

But he had been alive long enough—been in love often enough—to know the truth. These physical sensations had nothing to do with your talents, and everything to do with his...isolation? Rescue? Maturing?

He had never believed himself to be one of those fools capable of falling head over heels for someone for no greater reason than that they had nursed him back to health. What a pathetic way to return the kindness you had shown him—all the panaceas grudgingly swallowed; all the staggering walks contemptuously taken; all the nights you'd slept in a makeshift nest of quilts when Loki disdainfully refused to leave your bed.

The sudden lack of people in the world had not put the responsibility of his rehabilitation on your shoulders. You had taken that on willingly well before the Snap. But he did believe that, had Thanos not succeeded, you might have happily ended up without such of a chore of a lingering houseguest. Every morning he woke began anew a day you could decide Loki had overstayed his welcome. His only consolation was that, surely, these feelings would fallow once he no longer came in contact with you.

But then surely, too, his body would fall apart without your aid. So Loki kept his mouth shut. Cohabitating with you while keeping his growing romanticism a secret was difficult; he shuddered to think of the alternatives left to him in this half-empty universe.

Once again, you interrupted his thoughts, this time with a wry observation of: "You're overthinking something again."

His rough gulp hardly helped his case any more than the following, "I am not."

"You are."

I should think I know my own thoughts better than you do."

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Loki of Asgard isn't nearly as difficult to read as he thinks he is. Your mouth gets these deep wrinkles at the corners, and..." Trailing off, you frowned before you leaned forward to grasp the hand he had resting on the table. "Is that what this is about?"

You must have seen his split-second grimace when you'd referred to him in that mocking way of yours. If you'd noticed that, he had no doubt you'd spotted the way he stiffened when you touched him like that as well. Be that as it may, you kept your fingers lightly resting against his as you went on:

"We need to talk about it."

“I don't have the faintest idea what it is there is to discuss," he answered firmly.

You laughed. The sound made Loki's chest ache. "You do."

"I assure you I do not. And if you're going to insist on this level of condescension, I'd much prefer to get some work done than sit around listening to your riddles. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"Why don't you go ahead and admit that you were eavesdropping when Natasha visited last night?"

If your iron grip hadn't been enough to keep Loki rooted to his chair, your question would. He felt blood rush to his face, try as he might to fight the urge to blush. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, knowing all the while that he would not hit quite the right note to express his feigned incredulity.

You did not answer. Neither did your hand loosen. A staring contest ensued, though it did not last long. Loki knew better than to argue when he spotted the familiar gleam there. What would be the point in lying anyway, when this Borforesaken rasp had so ruined his famous silver tongue? After another moment or two of internal debate, he finally wilted.

"If you already knew I knew, why not say something sooner?" he asked.

"You'll need to learn someday that those who eavesdrop often hear things they don't like."

"And those who refuse to eavesdrop often hear nothing worth hearing at all."

"You could simply quit lurking around and speak with us face-to-face."

"And risk the conversation turning to naught but insults targeting me? You'll have to forgive me for preferring to 'lurk' for what morsels of information your friends deign to offer you in secret."

"There was no secret."

"Oh?" Trapped as he was with his hands bound to the table, Loki's only escape was to avert his eyes to the rain-streaked window near the table. "If it was common knowledge, why not bring it up yourself without having to pry it out of me?"

You let go of him and held your hands up in a galactic sign of surrender that he could only see out of the corner of his eye. "I did not wish to upset you unduly."

"Upset me? Is that what you think? You think that I'm upset that my people have established a settlement in this Realm and are attempting to move on?"

"Aren't you?"

"Obviously not!"

Once more, Loki felt instead of saw your probing look. He folded his arms across his chest and carefully avoided so much as turning his head in your direction. This seemed to succeed in getting you to drop the subject; you said nothing else. Then you pushed your chair away from the table with an almighty screech and a firm, "Let's get you packed, then."

He couldn't help rising to his feet after you in his panic. "What?"

"Let's get you packed," you repeated. "New Asgard awaits the coronation of its king."

"Let it wait! Forever, if it must!"

"Why should it? Natasha's told me all about how badly you want to rule."

"Wanted. Wanted. That was a different time. A different me!"

Loki's heart had not hammered so hard since the moment of the Snap. Distantly, he realized that the exertion did not cause him as much pain as it used to. But would it be enough?

You did appear to notice his desperation, for you paused in some gesture that seemed to have caused his toothbrush to float out of its cup. Silence fell. He realized you were waiting for him to explain himself. Of all the cruelties you had enacted upon him, this perhaps might have been the cruelest of them all.

"New Asgard—" His breath hitched. Loki licked his lips and tried again, "New Asgard little needs yet another descendant of Odin on the throne. Let Brunnhilde keep the crown. I want it not."

Though admitting as much made him in ache in a way Thanos's assault had not, Loki knew the years since that assault had changed him. Between his inglorious defeat on this very planet, the series of humiliations leading up to Ragnarök, and his near-death among the Asgardian refugees, he had learned to see himself more clearly. Leadership did not suit him as he'd once convinced himself it had. And besides, what good would it do for what remained of the spirit of his childhood home? Being among his people again would only remind him more sharply of what he'd lost—their true ruler amongst the most grievous of those losses.

"Then what do you want, Loki?" you asked softly.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Thought hard about his answer to your question.

It came without as much thought as he'd expected. So few of his responses were even possible anymore. But those that were surprised even himself. He wanted to learn the subtle ways of Midgardian magic. He wanted to memorize the patterns of the stars in this Realm. He wanted to eat vegetables and fruits and grains grown by the power of his own hands. He wanted to look after his chickens until they died at venerable ages. And to do all of that, any of that, there could be only one reply:

"I want to stay here," he whispered, so quietly he did not even know if he wanted you hear him.

But hear him you did. A dazzling smile the likes of which he'd never seen before spread across your face. Then, without giving Loki a chance to grasp the meaning of such an expression, you rushed forward and threw your arms around him in a suffocating embrace.

"Then stay," you breathed in his ear.

The surprise he felt at your sudden closeness dissipated rapidly. Soon, Loki wrapped his own arms around you in turn. He did not know how long the two of you stayed tangled up like that before you finally released him. But when you did, you looked so smug that he couldn't help but add:

"It's not as though I have any choice in the matter. I'd die in a week without your care."

"Oh, that." The smug smile transformed into a smirk. "I've been giving you placebos for months now. You're as mended as you'll ever be."

His jaw dropped nearly to the floor, causing a glorious peal of laughter to tumble from your mouth.

"You whined so much. What else could I do?" you asked by way of explanation.

"You fox!" he said, though he couldn't find it himself to be truly enraged. It was the sort of thing he'd have done to his brother, after all. Who would have thought he'd have found a kindred spirit in the middle of nowhere on Midgard of all places?

You neared again, now gazing directly into his eyes. "But you love me."

"That," Loki said as he cupped your cheek and brushed his thumb over the [color] skin there, "I believe to be unequivocally true."

******

More time passed, on the Podunk little rock Loki had once schemed to make his own just as slowly as it did in the greater, emptier galaxy. Seasons passed. The half-obliterated woods around the cabin grew thicker and greener every summer. Native creatures once sparse in the area returned in larger numbers.

There were no servants to lay out his clothes, nor banquets with food-laden tables as far as the eye could see. But there were fruits and vegetables brought forth by his own hands, homespun tunics created with care, and fresh eggs in abundance from his ever-increasing brood of chickens. There was bright sunlight by day and warm candlelight by night. But best of all, there was you.

Well, most of the time you kept close to the cabin you both called home. Nearly five years to the day since the Snap, Loki stood alone in the kitchen. He hardly ever wandered far afield those days. What reason had he to do so? Surely Ross had not been the only Midgardian eager to see Loki pay for his crimes, and Loki was hardly a welcome visitor at the Avengers headquarters on the other side of the forest—which was the second most common place to find you, and where you'd traipsed off to during the still-dark hours that morning.

Loki found himself worrying over his pot of stew more than he'd have liked to admit now that it had grown dark once again. Not about the stew, not this time; he felt he had accomplished making a perfectly edible, if not very exciting, stew with produce from the garden you and he had canned that fall. Given that he'd hardly been offered much opportunity to create purposefully edible meals as Asgardian royalty, no one could deny this to be a culinary accomplishment on his part.

You hardly ever kept him waiting this long for you to return from the large, ugly compound. He could not begrudge you going to see friends. On the other hand, he knew how the remaining Avengers still felt about him. It was the same way he felt about them. If any of them had the silver tongue he had had once...

Before he could spiral into the possessive behavior he inclined toward despite your frequent admonishments, he heard the sound of footsteps—barely. Light elves moved so lightly he would not have heard your approach had he not been listening so closely for it. The door swung open shortly after this noise, and you stepped inside the room already filled with lit candles.

"I'm home," you said cheerily, and unnecessarily.

"So I see." Loki gave the pot below him a pointed stir. "Did you enjoy your time with your...friends?"

"If you're going to be a sourpuss, I won't give you your surprise."

"I hardly want whatever gift the lovely Natasha might have sent along with you."

"It's from me. Do you want it? Yes or no?"

He knew better what you meant by the appraising look you shot him: Play along, or pay the price. "Please," he said as flatly as he could. Though you never used your considerable powers to hurt, he knew that an outright refusal on his part would probably wind up with him sprouting a pair of donkey ears for the foreseeable future, or something equally annoying and hard to explain when your neighbors inevitably came by to mock him.

You grinned despite his obvious lack of enthusiasm. One of your fingers made a series of shapes in the air. Then, out of seemingly nowhere, your familiar basket appeared next to Loki's elbow. A simple blue-and-white checked towel covered its contents.

"Open it," you said when all he did was squint at you.

It wasn't moving, so Loki took that to mean lifting the fabric would not be dangerous. Nestled underneath sat a pile of off-white mushrooms with brain-like knobs atop the stems.

"We went a little over during the meeting. I knew you'd have already started dinner. When I stumbled on these little guys on my way home, I picked them up for you as a treat."

All fear of Natasha finally convincing you to give him up died away for the moment. Loki pressed his lips together in a smile. "They're the perfect addition," he said, pulling the recently-cleaned cutting board toward him and starting to chop.

Your smile grew as you walked around him to gather bowls. "You're welcome."

"So what went on that took so long? Rewatching footage of Captain America's glory days?"

Instead of chastising him for his snide tone, you simply answered: "I thought you said you didn't want to be involved in anything we got up to."

"I don't."

"Then let's not talk about it anymore."

Loki spilled the sliced fungi into the pot with something of a startled expression. You would normally find something of note to tell him after a two-hour conversation with the Avengers, and yet you had nothing to relay after being with them all day?

"[Name], what are you hiding?"

"Is the stew ready yet?"

"You're trying to distract me."

"No," you drew the word out as you sat the last utensil on the table. He caught a flash of mischief in your [color] eyes. You bared your teeth in a wicked grin. Then you sauntered forward and looked him up and down before you slid your hands up his shoulders to interlock them behind his neck. "This is me trying to distract you."

You pressed your mouth to his without sparing him a moment to retort. Loki did not forget the thread of the conversation, per se, but kissing you back seemed of greater importance than pursuing the matter. Who cared about the inconsequential scheming of those who had already lost everything? Certainly not him, not when, egged on by his enthusiastic response, you smiled against his lips and surged forward. He had no choice but to let you push him onto the nearby counter to allow you space to work.

"Still curious about what I got up to this afternoon?" you asked during a brief pause.

"Not in the slightest," Loki said honestly. He cupped your face to pull you closer to him again.

By all rights, it ought to have turned out to be a very good day: a stew with fresh mushrooms; your eagerness to touch him, even simply as a distractoin. Loki might have been perfectly content to remain distracted had something not slammed open the door just as something besides dinner began to heat up.

You whirled to face the intrusion—but you moved no further, frozen, it appeared, by the massive shape moving through the doorway.

"Thor?" you asked.

"Thor?" Loki echoed, bewildered.

The shape crossed into what little light the multitude of lit candles allowed, and still Loki could not believe it. Whoever had burst in could not be his brother. His brother was dead, not to mention Thor would never let himself go to such a degree. This being looked thicker and flabbier than Volstagg on his worst days. They also had stringy hair and a scraggly beard that obviously had not been washed in some time.

"You followed me?" You sounded outraged, which typically spelled trouble for the offending party.

Thor—or whoever the shape was—did not spare you a glance, terrified or otherwise. Their eyes remained fixated on Loki's face, and as Loki met their gaze, he felt a spark of recognizing flare hot and painful somewhere deep inside his stomach.

"I had to see it for myself," the apparent stranger rumbled.

And that was all it took. Loki slid off the counter and stepped around you. A torrent of emotions constricted his chest. The room around him spun. After a minute or so of thick swallowing and struggled, he managed to open wide his arms and step in Thor's direction.

"Brother, you're alive!"

Thor did not meet Loki's cheer with any of his own. "So this is where you ran off to hide."

Loki felt his smile slide off his face. "Pardon me?"

"I thought you were dead. I mourned you."

"As I did for you. I thought surely Thanos—"

"I should have known your vanishing was nothing more than yet another trick!"

"Well, I confess to using a smidgen of magic to get me here, but—"

"We needed you. The galaxy needed you. I needed you!"

With every statement, Thor's voice grew louder and louder. Rarely since his brother's exile had Loki seen him so enraged. He stared as the noise washed over him, and allowed his arms to drop to his sides. These stayed there when Thor took another step in Loki's direction.

"Perhaps it was a lie. Perhaps you always intended to aid Thanos in achieving his wicked goal."

You stepped forward to put yourself between the two men. "Hey. He was in no condition to fight. If he'd gone to Wakanda, he would have died for sure."

"As he had me believe he already had for five years. My brother chose his own life over half the galaxy." Thor's eyes flicked disdainfully between you and Loki, a gesture at odds with the bright red of his face. "But I should not be so surprised. Loki has always been a coward."

"Don't you—"

"[Name]."

Loki spoke the word softly, but his tone must have gotten through to you. Now you spun to gape at him. He merely held his hand out in a quelling gesture and told Thor:

"You're right."

It had taken a long time—eons, really—for Loki to accept the truth about himself—a long time and nearly dying more than once. If he could go back and change things, he would. How different would things be for everyone if Loki had never spent that time being coddled by the Grand Master, or masqueraded as Odin for so long, or agreed to invade Asgard, or even led Laufey through the secret passages to the palace? Always he had served himself. What argument had he that a different choice would not have saved untold lives just as Thor claimed?

But as things stood, Loki could not even change Thor's thunderous expression with his admission.

"You have changed, Brother, and not for the better."

"Perhaps I have changed," Loki conceded. "But is this not what you have always wanted for me? Living quietly, not causing trouble? Happy?"

"Happy at what expense, Loki? At least I am still trying. I am still fighting!"

"Are you? Judging by the state of your facial hair, I'd hazard a guess that's a more recent development."

"Loki," Thor growled through clenched teeth.

"You say I've changed for the worst? Fine. No one is inviting you stay for dinner and to get to know the new me or the person I've chosen to stay with."

Silence rang audibly through the dark cabin, punctuated only by the bubbling stew. Thor inhaled slowly. His shoulders migrated to up around his ears. Loki braced himself for a tirade that would have made their father proud. Instead, Thor's voice was flat and emotionless as he said:

"As usual, I will clean up your mess, Brother. And if in doing so, you are the one lost, perhaps this time I will not feel the grief of it."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than did Thor leave. He slammed the door behind him with such might that the whole cabin shook and several candles blew out. The sound of Thor's heavy footsteps faded quickly into the dark woods beyond.

"Loki?"

He had not realized he'd been staring at the place Thor had stood until you spoke his name. All he did in response was blink. Your warm hand enveloped his own, though this did nothing to quell his sudden tremors.

"Loki."

Words failed him. For the first time in his memory, Loki could think of nothing appropriate to say. Pain did not hold his tongue, nor injury, simply the fact that nothing would come to mind; nothing seemed to matter. But speak he must, or he risked standing there in the dark forever.

"How long?" he asked.

"What?"

"How long, [Name]?"

The fingers around his tightened.

"How long have you known my brother was alive?"

At last, he wrenched his hand free and turned to look at you. Tears sparkled in those eyes that had only a little while ago been gleaming with affection. That told Loki enough. He no longer needed you to answer.

"All this time," his mouth felt thick and clumsy, so he tried again with little improvement: "All this time, you knew. You knew Thor lived, and yet you allowed me to go on assuming otherwise!"

"If you'd just let me explain—"

"What is there to explain? I've spoken to you of the guilt I've felt over his death. You, of all people, knew what he meant to me. You could have freed me from all of that, yet you did not! What, did you believe I'd choose him over you? That I would flee to New Asgard the moment I realized my last remaining family member lived?"

The words were not as sharp as they once could have been. The tone itself was no longer smooth as velvet. They rose and fell like an overused axe. But the blow landed. You flinched.

Loki found he did not much care whether you did so because his words were true or his hysteria had been laid plain his voice. His throat throbbed where Thanos's fingers had once crushed it. Perhaps Loki should have let him. Dying that way would have hurt less than now, here, by the phantoms of everyone he had ever hurt.

You said his name again. He shook his head. Almost blindly, he stumbled through the shadows to the door, yanked it open, and stepped outside. Loki stood there on the step for a moment or two, breathing in the acrid smell of burning stew behind him before he pulled the door shut. Then he staggered off toward the quiet trees with little idea of where he was actually going.

The cold quickly leached beneath his tunic, but that he could handle. What he was not so sure of was his ability to handle any more heartbreak that night or, indeed, for the rest of his life.

******

Loki returned, for where else had he to go? The idea of turning to the Avengers for shelter he found laughable, and surely Thor wouldn't want him anywhere near New Asgard. Besides, Loki would miss his chickens—and he'd been in enough relationships during his life to know that an occasional nighttime walk did wonders to cool his head.

Wonders, yes; miracles, no. Although each sunrise since the Snap had felt like a miracle to him, the days following Thor's sudden reappearance twisted into a discomfiting slog. Each day followed the same routine: Loki would wake in an empty cabin with a neatly folded pile of quilts on the floor near the bed; he would eat the single roll on the counter; and he would gather his things and move mechanically through the chores that needed done even when he felt as though he were limping through a void. These would fill his time until he returned to the vacant bed to start again.

Two days he followed this routine before it grew too tiresome to ponder continuing for the rest of his life. What if his path led nowhere but to day after day after Borforsaken day of banal work and loneliness? Loki might have been prepared to accede to Thor's claims of his cravenness; he had not been so prepared to consider death at Thanos's hands may have been the better option for him.

And so he turned to the one activity that could stop him from thinking about the end of life: The beginning of it.

The cool spring midmorning appeared perfect for transplanting the pea seedlings he had picked up from their growing space on a windowsill back in the cottage. He knelt on a flat cushion of sorts in the midst of the mostly-bare garden to get to work. All he could hear was the chilly breeze blowing through the surrounding trees, their new leaves still too young to provide any noise of their own. His pale fingers worked the freshly-tilled dirt as he mentally measured the distance between plants.

Perhaps if Thor had had occasion to see Loki like this, elbow-deep in homemade chicken compost, he might have understood things a little better.

"Loki."

He did not turn away from his work at the sound of the familiar voice.

"Can we talk?"

"About what?" he asked evenly.

This was the first time you'd approached him since the argument. Obviously, you'd returned home a number of times, but only after he'd fallen asleep, and only to disappear again before he awoke. Loki half-expected you to leave again. A long pause followed his question before you surprised him by asking:

"Are you really going to make me say it?"

"I think that's the best way to open up negotiations, yes."

"Negotiations?"

Loki carefully piled a small mound of dirt around a recently-planted sprout. It waved back and forth as if to say thank you.

"I'm sorry," you said.

He adjusted the bamboo trellis embedded in the dirt behind his peas.

"I should have told you as soon as I found out about Thor. I didn't know for long. Natasha only told me when she knew he'd be coming to help them out, but it wasn't fair to you to keep it a secret."

Slowly, without moving his head at all, Loki sat up. His filthy fingers curled around his knees.

"I didn't want you to leave. I knew how much Thor meant to you, and I knew you'd go to New Asgard to see him. And what then? Would you ever come back?"

"That's hard to say when I was never given a choice in the matter."

Another length bout of silence. This time, however, Loki could hear something else over the wind: A soft sniffling that nearly had him moving to comfort you—nearly.

"You were right, Loki. I was scared."

"Scared of what?" he asked.

How could you be scared of anything? He himself had witnessed the power at your fingertips more than once, and Steve and Natasha certainly had tales to tell of your prowess. Surely nothing on Midgard existed to threaten the likes of you after all this time.

Now he risked a glance at you out of the corner of his eye. Never before had he seen you distraught. Flustered, yes. Angry, absolutely. Undone, perhaps fewer times than he'd have liked. But he could tell even from a distance that you hadn't slept since your fight a few days ago. Pronounced bags clung the bottoms of your eyelids, and you rubbed your hands together in obvious agitation. The urge to go to you grew stronger still.

"I've never belonged anywhere before you came along," you said in a rough whisper.

All his willpower shattered at the moment your voice broke. He half-rose, twisting toward you, unable to feign absolute disinterest any longer. Perhaps he might have drawn closer to you, had you allowed him. But you held out your hands with the fingers wide to indicate you needed him to keep his distance. Loki did, although he said softly:

"[Name], that's not true."

"I kept trying to find a place, but no one wanted me."

"You have the Avengers."

"They aren't—" You gripped your elbow tightly in the opposite hand as you turned your face away. "They aren't home."

Before he could speak—whether to dissuade you, or ask for more details, or even to put an abrupt end to this tête-à-tête, he had no idea himself—you barreled onward, apparently under the impression that if he did not let you say all this now, Loki never would.

"I've been here for a long time, a very long time. People move into that building. People move out. Sometimes they bother to get to know me. Most of the time they don't. It doesn't matter either way, because they all leave in the end. Steve, Natasha, Rhodey...they'll all leave permanently someday, too."

So intent on listening had he been that he flinched when you looked directly into his eyes.

"You're the only one who's ever stayed.

He could think of nothing more to say than, weakly, "If you're so desperate for company that someone too injured and cowardly to leave is appealing—"

"You are not a coward, Loki."

"This is not about me," he said, then added, "unusual though that may be. For now, we are talking about you."

"I don't know what else it is you need me to say."

Truthfully, he needed nothing. An apology had been all he desired, and you'd returned with that and an admission that he'd been in the right. So slowly, as though he were trying to sneak up on a snoozing Thane Regin with a pair of shears, he stepped in your direction.

"Pretending for one moment that your attachment to me is anything other than imprinting on an admittedly very charismatic invalid—"

You snorted.

"—why not tell me? Why not come to New Asgard with me?"

The hand on your elbow went pale with the force of your grasp. "I am not as Asgardian."

"Neither am I, as you well know."

"I am tired of trying to figure out where I belong. I tried just about everywhere. I will not be cast out again." You blinked at him fiercely. "If you want to go, you should go. Be with your people. Reconcile with your brother. I only wanted to let you know that you are precious to me, even if I acted poorly because of that."

The spell your gaze cast on him snapped. You both averted your eyes. It did not take Loki so long to recover. He found himself drawing in a deep breath of remarkably fresh air before closing the remaining gap between you. When he took the hand dangling your side, you inhaled sharply as you looked up at him. Encouraged, he squeezed your fingers.

"I will reconcile with my brother, when he is ready. But you're my people, [Name]. You ought to know that by now. Maybe I will desire to visit New Asgard someday. Know this, however: As long as you want me, I shall always return to you."

After another pause, you returned the squeeze. "I think it's safe to say I'll always want you. But I might be glad for an occasional break, now I think of it. It would be nice having my bed to myself from time to time."

"Without me to warm it, you won't sleep a wink."

Rather than reply, you broke into a smile as dazzling as the sun hanging over the forest. He felt the familiar warm hook of your palm at the back of his neck, then you pulled his lips down to yours for a long, lingering kiss.

"I love you, you realize," he murmured once you parted.

"Oh, my gods," you said breathlessly through a half-open mouth.

"Yes, I am rather impressive. It comes from centuries of practice. Why, my last partner—"

You cuffed him lightly on the back of his head. "No, Loki. Look!"

So he pulled away and did as you instructed—and what he saw took his breath away as well.

Where his sparse rows of tender pea shoots had been only minutes ago, now a multitude of plants threatened to crowd one another out. Extra trees and their roots intruded on the edges of the garden. Bees, butterflies, and birdsong filled the clearing in which you and Loki stood.

He felt his throat contract, but no words left his mouth.

You, meanwhile, lifted shaking hands to your mouth. "They did it."

"Who?"

"The Avengers."

"Did what?"

"They did it!" Now you shrieked, practically dancing in place. "They figured it out! They got the Infinity Stones! It worked!"

"The Infinity—is that what you were all doing that day?"

"Tony and Bruce made a time machine. We weren't sure that it would work, but..."

"It did," Loki finished for you, somewhat dazed himself.

It was back. It was all back. He did not have to leave this place to know that not only had Thor and his friends done the impossible to bring plant life back to this planet, but that beings of all natures would be returning across the entire universe.

But, of course, the galaxy never had been willing to give Loki Odinson a lingering period of peace and happiness. Every time he felt he stood once more on solid ground, the realms tilted on their axes. This occasion would be no different. No sooner had he realized the sparkling tears of joy in your eyes were reflected in his own than did a shadow fall—literally—across the entire woods.

Above, soaring through the once-radiant blue sky, winged a great, dark ship.

Thanos had returned.

In the span of a breath, you bounded in the direction of the Avengers' home. Loki felt all the blood rush from his face. That he remained standing was itself a miracle. He felt suddenly dizzy. His heart rushed. Black crept into the edges of his vision.

Just before you disappeared into the newly-thickened forest, he managed to croak, "Where are you going?"

You stopped to look over your shoulder at him. "You don't need me this time around. I'm going to go help them fight."

Loki pressed his shaking lips together. He could stay. He could stay, and be as safe as anyone could be when Thanos and his children arrived. With a shake of his head, he crossed to you.

"I'll always need you. We'll go together."

You smiled again. Then you both ran, hand in hand, towards the clangor of battle erupting from not too far away. What would come of this whole affair, Loki did not know. What he did know was that if this was dying, death was not so nearly as horrible as he'd feared.

[overcaffeinated-aro]

hey this is gonna sound weird but whats yr thoughts on correcting behaviors without yelling

ok so like. full disclosure I got like 4 hours of sleep and then spent my afternoon in an emergency dentist appt so I really hope I can make this make sense. I also have a lot of thoughts so I apologize if this one gets away from me

(also for context, this is about a post on children misbehaving or causing distractions in public, and parents causing an even bigger scene trying to correct their behavior. it should be the post immediately after this on my blog)

it got away from me, adding a cut

also just to start, there’s obv a difference between raising your voice to be heard/get attention, and screaming at a child who’s already in front of you while in public. there’s also a lot of space between the two. and I really don’t think there’s a lot of justification for most of it beyond strictly getting a child’s attention.

yelling or screaming at your child, especially in public, isn’t that much better than hitting them. it depends a bit on the age, but what’s getting communicated to the child in that moment is a lot less of what you’re actually saying when you yell and mostly just the intense feelings of fear and disempowerment that come with being cornered and punished, and in some cases publicly ridiculed. hell, you don’t even need to yell to do this. and depending on the parent, this may or may not be intentional, using humiliation as a method of trying to reinforce some kind of ‘lesson’ or discourage a behavior.

it was, in fact, a pillar of my mom’s parenting for many years. I know first-hand how much it can wreak a child’s self esteem, and can make them fearful of further violence from you, even without any other precedent. I started to have nightmares about being hit or kicked out, even knowing that my mom would never go that far, and even years after she stopped. She pretty effectively proved to me that at least in those moments I was beneath her, I didn’t deserve to be treated with dignity in front of others (especially in front of others, as she never yelled at me in private) including in front of family and my friends. it broke a lot of trust that I should have been able to have with her, and even now at 25 and having been moved out for 4 years there’s a lot of trust we have to rebuild in order to have a functional adult parent/child relationship.

this will not be the case for every child, but as an example: I was most frequently yelled at in public for austistic behaviors that I couldn’t or didn’t know how to control. what I needed was help, to be taught coping mechanisms, quieter or alternative ways to stim, and emotional regulation. being yelled at made me quiet, fearful, and full of shame. it appeared to fix the issue, but really only locked it away with my ability to feel and process emotions. but ofc your mileage may vary, everyone responds to trauma differently.

a lot of parents yell because they’re overwhelmed. my mom yelled because she has adhd, my behaviors were overstimulating, being in public/socializing was overstimulating, and she didn’t know how to cope. in fact once I grew up I taught her what adhd actually looks like, and helped her find resources that have greatly improved her life. This Is Still Not a Good Excuse. shit happens, parents have problems, but losing your cool at your child is not excusable. forcing your child to grow up fast enough to teach *you* emotional regulation is Not Good. as a parent, it is your job to be in a place where you can consistently and effectively be The Parent. if you aren’t there, it’s your job to recognize that and work on it!

finally, for the point that you were probably asking for: what can you do instead of yelling? what if your child won’t stop?

honestly, a parenting book will probably be a better help than I. I’ve taken 1 college course on developmental psychology and some scattered research over the years so I’m by no means an expert, or really even a hobbiest. but for what it’s worth, here’s my 2 cents:

work on yourself, especially especially emotional regulation. never take your frustration out on your child. 9/10 times your child is not trying to upset you. literally why would they do that, they depend on you for everything. even in cases when you child is trying to upset you or push back, it’s not really about You. they might need help with something, or not know how to communicate or deal with a problem. as a parent, it is in fact your job to be the bigger person.

once you have a child’s attention, anything you can communicate by yelling you can also communicate in a normal tone. for older children, it will probably be more effective to intervene just enough to stop the behavior, and then discuss the issue in private later. it’s important to be focused on solutions and what could be done better next time, not on punishments. there’s so much research showing that punishment and negative reinforcement doesn’t work.

I haven done an excessive amount of research, but from what I’ve seen so far I really like the ideas behind the Montessori method. it really strives to treat children as full individual people, and meet them where they’re at developmentally while doing it’s best to ask age-appropriate consent for everything applicable. Jessica out of the closet on youtube has some great videos on how she and her wife have been putting the method into practice with their own child, and even going into her own struggles and solutions with parenting while multiply disabled—and still refusing to compromise on the way she treats her child

and while I have this soapbox: parenting is not for everyone!! some people should not be parents, or teachers, or otherwise in a position of power over children. it’s a hard job. and, it really shouldn’t be done alone. even the most patient person will have trouble keeping their cool 24/7. it’s important to take breaks, and find ways to lean on the people or community in your lives. And, if you’re a community member who interacts with children, it’s still important to learn these skills! with any luck you’ll simply be another kind and trustworthy adult in a child’s life. but for some you may be a lifeline

[givemaycoffee]

Oh my god. I just wrote an essay in the comments of a fanfic and I was like Wow, I sure had a lot to say.

And then I remembered I actually took my adderall this morning XD

[agathasfamiliar]

hi!! I just found your blog, can I request g!p detective!agatha railing reader in a missionary position and has a bulge kink (poking the bear🤭🏃‍♀️)

thank you so much for this request it was very fun to write, i hope you enjoy it!

fuck the police:

detective agnes o'connor x fem!reader

You fucked up and finally got caught for your long-running streak of graffiti artistry. What's worse than being arrested, however? Being interrogated by the one detective in town who causes you to question your all out hatred for the profession.

word count: 6.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, agnes is trans/intersex/has a penis, penis in vagina sex, power bottom!reader, service top!agnes (but agnes still needs a little control of course), handcuffs, breeding kink, bulge kink, agnes loves reader's tits, smut

author's note: trans butch agnes, my beloved. also i probably could've done more research into a more realistic set up/i know this isn't how someone being arrested/interrogated would work but it's porn so...hopefully you can look past that

You never thought you’d find yourself here, arrested and waiting to be questioned for your crimes. Perhaps you should’ve seen it coming, your graffiti art has steadily risen in popularity over the last few months, ever since one particularly evocative piece got featured on the local news and allegedly inspired a number of protests throughout the city of Westview.

Not that you had anything to do with that.

The police department has issued several requests for information on you, even offering a pretty handsome reward for the proven identity of “Hex”, the name you tag every piece with. A rumor has even reached your ears about a copycat artist getting arrested over in Eastview. Serves them right for using your signature, but it at least has kept the feds off your trail for a bit. 

Admittedly, you’d gotten cocky thinking you could get away with tagging the squad car stationed at the busiest intersection in town. In your defense, it had looked empty. How were you supposed to know the deputy on duty was napping in the back seat? You’d made it halfway through the looping pink pig face you were sprawling across the windshield before he woke up and chased you down four blocks.

If you were wearing your usual running shoes instead of having slipped on an old pair of slides in your rush out of the house, you probably would’ve outrun the middle-aged cop chasing you, another mistake you won’t make again.

  Now, you sit shivering in nothing but a sheer white tank top and sweatpants so spattered in all the vibrant colors of your, now confiscated, cans of spray paint, that you can’t even remember what color the pants originally were. You weren’t an idiot, you had a black hoodie on when you went out to do your work, but the rookie cop that booked you at the station also insisted on taking your sweatshirt for “evidence”.

You’re pretty sure he just wanted to see you suffer in the refrigerator-like temperature they keep the precinct at, clearly only recently having graduated the academy and already taking a shine to abusing his power. Pigs, indeed. 

The interrogation room they brought you to well over 30 minutes ago sits at the very back of the building, a windowless box that somehow looks and smells both musty and sterile. A large one-way mirror covers the wall opposite the door, the only noise in the confined space being the tick-tick-tick of the clock above it that reads just past midnight.

You rattle the short chain connecting your handcuffed wrists to a bar on the heavy metal table in front of you, just to disrupt the suffocating silence. Have you seriously been forgotten here?

Just as you have that thought, as if summoning another person into existence with it, the door, opposite the corner where you sit, opens briskly. 

Twin sighs of irritation drop from both your mouth and the supposed detective’s as she enters. You can’t make out too many details of her appearance at first because of the dim lighting that mostly just illuminates the table you sit at, as well as the fact that she has her head down looking over what you assume is your intake forms. 

“I want a lawyer.” Are the first words out of your mouth once the woman has turned to shut the door behind her.

“Ha!” She laughs dryly and it has you simmering with rage already, but something about it also sounds familiar.

 “Well, sweetie,” The still concealed detective continues as she finally steps into the light, “not likely to find a public defender that’s available at this hour, but if you insist on staying overnight…” She trails off amusedly, finally stepping into the light and causing your prepared reply to die in your throat as you connect the recognition of the voice with the blue eyes that meet yours.

“Detective O’Connor.” You greet, trying to keep your tone even. 

Fuck.

Of fucking course, of all the detectives in the goddamn city, this is who had to come question you. The same detective you’ve served coffee to every morning for the better part of three years at your shitty cafe day job. The same detective who barely acknowledges your existence, but when her fingers brush yours as you pass her usual over the counter, you think about it for the rest of the day. The detective you berate yourself for fantasizing about, because she’s everything you despise and your friends would never let you hear the end of it if they found out, especially with how often you’re spouting your “radical” political beliefs (not that you see them that way.)

Detective Agnes fucking O’Connor…

This is not how you imagined it would look if you ever got her in a room alone.

“Huh? Do I know you?” She questions, almost offended, and now you’re the one to let out a dry laugh.

“Here, let me help jog your memory.” You say, picking up the small, paper cup of water that had been left on the table for you in one bound hand, holding it aloft and reciting her order.

 “One large hot coffee with two sugars and half a pump of vanilla.”

She looks unaffected at your display, only raising both eyebrows once in sudden recognition before sauntering over to the chair on the other side of the table and sitting down casually. 

“Impressive, that how you’ve avoided custody so long? Charming Westview’s finest by memorizing their coffee orders?” Her questions are laced with condescension.

“Nope, just yours. Why? Is it working?” You smirk despite your better judgment. You hadn’t planned to try the flirting route to get out your charges, but hey, the best schemes have an element of truth to them. Plus, if this is the only chase you’ll have to speak to the detective alone, you might as well make the most of it. 

She doesn’t answer, instead leaning back in the rickety metal chair that lets out a squeal at the motion. Her long brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail that’s tied low at the base of her skull. Blue flannel sleeves are rolled up to the elbow and it’s all you can do not to think about tracing your tongue over the veins that snake over her strong forearms.

The jeans she’s wearing strain with the way she sits, legs spread apart, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop from letting out a gasp when you notice how it puts the delicious outline of what’s beneath the denim on display. Fuck, you do not need to be thinking about straddling the woman where she sits and grinding down against her bulge right now, but you are anyway.

Mercifully, she leans forward again in the seat to ask another question and the view is gone. You need to focus if you’re going to get out of this without incriminating yourself.

“What were you doing tonight?” She asks flatly, getting down to business. You know better than to provide anything resembling an answer, true or false.

“This whole thing seems pretty excessive, all things considered. I mean, an interrogation? Really, Agnes?” Her first name slips out before you can catch it, but you don’t really care.

“Just answer the question. And it’s Detective.” The flare of anger in her eyes only spurs you on.

“Sorry, Detective Agnes,” you correct yourself, purposefully using her name this time, just to see that flash of heat again. 

“If you were so curious about where I was tonight you could’ve just asked me out.” Now that you’ve opened the floodgates, the suggestive remarks just keep coming out.

For Agnes’ part, she remains still and draws in an angry breath. Her blue eyes blaze with irritation at your lack of cooperation more than the intrigue you were hoping for, but that just means you’ll have to turn up the dial on this improvised plan you’ve laid out for yourself. What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?

“Listen, if you’re going to keep wasting my time I’ll just lock you up now and wait ‘til morning.” She threatens with a glowering expression, voice raising every few words in an attempt to intimidate. It’s kind of cute, actually. 

You think she might hear just how her phrasing comes out and anticipate your next response, because she almost looks remorseful. The slightest pink tone that rises to her cheeks and the way she pokes her tongue out to wet her bottom lip when her eyes flick down to your barely covered chest don’t escape your careful observations either. 

“Ooo,” you start, falsely scandalized, “now you want me to spend the night?” A slight giggle escaping you at your own words and the way you lift your handcuffed wrists in front of you playfully. 

With the action, you’re sure to press your biceps against either side of your body to even more obviously display your tits, and she can’t help but look down with the movement, eyes raking over your nipples that stand at attention beneath the thin fabric in the cold space.

Heat is practically rolling off her in waves and you can’t tell for sure if it’s arousal or fury that is threatening to boil over, or what will happen when it does, but you have always been the type to take risks. Why stop now?

“Can’t you just get me off with a warning? I mean- let me off…” You ask before she can recover from your last question, attempting a simper at the intentional slip up in your speech. 

It seems that this is what finally pushes her over the edge as she slams her hands loudly against the metal table and stands up, causing it to vibrate with the impact. Her chair goes clattering to the ground behind her, but she doesn’t seem to care. The satisfied expression you wear drops for a second at the forceful display, maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

“Alright, that’s enough!” She shouts, leaning over so you can practically feel her breath on your face before she rounds the table quickly.

“Do you really wanna keep poking the bear?!” She asks, furious, now standing at your right side and heavily folding at the waist to shout into your ear. 

You have to lean away slightly at the volume that threatens to burst your eardrum and it provides just enough space to look the detective up and down where she stands. 

That’s when you see it. 

Unmistakable and pressing against the zipper of her jeans so forcefully that it’s a wonder they haven’t burst; Detective O’Connor is hard. 

You can’t drag your eyes away from the tented fabric, so obvious that it nearly casts a shadow onto the denim in the odd light of the room. As you are still seated, you’re practically at the perfect level to just lean over and mouth the length through her pants. It’s all you can do not to let your head dip where it wants to most, as if you’re a magnet being drawn by its opposite charge.

“I- uh.” You stutter, unsure of your words for the first time since she walked in. The amount of saliva that has accumulated in your mouth at the sight in front of you forces you to swallow before you speak again.

“I think I’d rather have the bear poke me.” You breathe, sounding wrecked just at the thought.

When you finally drag your gaze back up to hers, her face is burning red, but this time you can tell it is much more out of embarrassment than anger. She looks self conscious in a way you’ve never seen and it’s so, so pretty. 

“It’s okay I c-” You start, reaching out uselessly in your confines, but you’re cut off from your attempt at a rare comforting word when Agnes seizes your right shoulder and lifts you to your feet. She then immediately folds you over and presses you against the table on your stomach, handcuffed hands pinned beneath your chest. You let out a grunt at the forceful action as well as the freezing cold metal that almost stings your skin that has warmed at your flirting.

The position is much like the one you were put in a few hours ago upon your arrest, only now it causes you to ache with desire instead of seeth with fury. 

“You think this is funny?!” She questions, but it sounds strained and unsure. Your own hesitance at her intentions keeps you from muttering out that it’s actually not funny, it’s really fucking hot.

It dawns on you then that she probably turned you over like this so you aren’t able to see the blush that’s probably still spreading over her skin, or the bulge in her pants that’s no doubt only getting worse, especially with how you purposefully arch your back in her grasp.

She has you pinned beneath her hands, one still on your shoulder and the other holding your waist, the perfect placement for her to pull you back against her. Instead, a shaky breath sounds from behind you. It seems like she’s deciding what to do next and you can almost feel the heat radiating from between her hips that begs her to choose the option you’re hoping for too.

You start pressing back yourself, impatient and using any amount of leverage possible to reach your destination. To help her decide.

“Come on, detective. Let me help you out.” You nearly whisper in the most convincing and sweet voice you can muster. Her hands loosen ever so slightly at the soft sound and you use the opportunity to slide the last inch backwards, your ass just barely brushing her front, aware also that if she had wanted to stop you she would’ve easily been able to.

You feel the hardness and heat of her cock against you through both your clothing and nearly release a whimper at the sensation, at the idea of her finally being inside you like you’ve fantasized about so many times. 

Just as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again. Her hands release you entirely and she steps away without a word, leaving you feeling even colder than the steel table you’re slumped against. You drop your head to the metal in defeat. That’s it, you think. Your efforts haven't worked and you’re not only going to spend the night in a cell, but you’re going to do so while very uncomfortably wet and wound up. Plus, she’s probably going to try to add attempted bribery or harassment to your charge sheet. God, this was a dumb idea. Why couldn’t you have just gotten some old guy detective whose questions you would have dodged coldly and without a second thought?

All these thoughts flash through your head in the few seconds it takes Agnes to step away from the table and turn you by the hips to face her, the chain keeping you there being just long enough to allow such movement. 

You look down immediately, as if out of instinct, to find the large bulge still present, possibly even more so somehow. A bolt of desire strikes through your core at the small dark spot you notice has formed on the crotch of the already dark jeans. The evidence of your effect threatens to turn your legs to jelly. Finally, your eyes raise to meet Agnes’ with a curiosity, who stands less than a foot from you, hands still holding your hips loosely. The thrill of not knowing what she’ll do next makes your already racing heart beat even faster.

You find that she looks as weak as you feel, drinking you in like you’re an ice cold glass of water she’s found in the middle of the sahara. It’s clear that she’s used up every last thread of restraint she has to resist your offer, and it still has proven to be insufficient. Her blue irises have nearly been swallowed by blown black pupils that bore into you as she speaks her resignation to her rapturous fate.

“If I’m gonna fuck you,” she breathes the words out like she’s just run a marathon, “it’s gonna be while looking at those pretty tits.”

You lean back into the table in favor of collapsing straight to the floor at those words. How is this actually happening?

Seeing you stumble into the table, her right hand shifts down to your thigh and lifts, helping you to sit on the ledge as she steps closer to let your knees bracket her body. She looks so much more confident in this moment, and not in the same stone-faced way she had while you prodded at her before. It brings a soft smile to your lips and she looks away, somewhat coyly, at your noticing. It’s hard to decide if you prefer her shy or assertive.  

Blunt nails graze gently over your covered thighs, to your hips, then your waist, before finally settling over your scarcely contained breasts. Your own sharp intake of breath meets your ears as you lean into the warm touch and she squeezes them with a smirk playing on her lips.

  “I might not remember your face…” she rasps, leaning to speak directly into your right ear, “but I definitely remember these.” Both thumbs move to brush over your already pebbled nipples, causing them to harden further. You roll your eyes, both at the comment and at the thread of pleasure that tugs right from where she touches you all the way down to your pulsing clit.

For all the humor in it, you can’t help but notice just how sincere her comment sounds and flashes run through your mind of every low cut top you’ve ever worn to work, wondering which one’s are her favorite.

“Shut up and fuck me already.” You exhale with a chuckle against her cheek, momentarily forgetting your binds and trying to reach around her shoulders to pull her closer. The chain rattles loudly and you jerk with the reminder of your limited movement.

Agnes shakes her head and laughs at your needy but firm command as well as your inability to move.

“Here, let me.” She continues laughing gently as she reaches for the key ring you somehow hadn’t yet noticed swinging from her hip. 

“No.” You blurt before you can think better of it. 

“Leave them.” 

It’s a daring statement and you run your tongue across your teeth mischievously while the implication works its way through the woman’s mind. Her lower lip disappears into her mouth with how hard she bites into it, looking at you in disbelief and utter need. 

“Fuck,” is all she says, dropping the keys back to her side and moving instead to undo her belt with a clumsy haste. 

You would be scrambling to remove your own pants as well, not wanting to waste anymore time, but your own request has left you unable to do so. Instead, you’re left in awe as the black leather belt is unlatched and left hanging loosely open while Agnes works at her zipper. Even less is left to the imagination when denim is pulled aside to reveal cotton boxer briefs protruding with the tension of her arousal.

Her cock is pressing tautly against the soft, grey material and the way the underwear clings to her body causes you to gape at the implication of how much the secure garment is still concealing. 

The dark spot you’d noticed on her jeans is even darker and more centralized to its origin on the grey cloth. Saliva fills your mouth again at the sight, the only thing better than seeing her from beneath that last layer of clothing will be when it is finally removed.

As if reading your mind and wanting you to suffer a moment long, she pauses her motions of undressing any further. Before you can argue or make a snide remark, her hands are on your own waistband, tugging the paint-covered article down as much as she can while you’re still seated. You can’t very well lift yourself with your hands at the moment, so you slip off the table quickly to help get them the rest of the way down, hopping back up just as swiftly and letting her pull them off your legs, shoes falling to the floor one by one in the process. 

The cold table under your mostly bare ass draws the breath from you momentarily, only a black pair of boyshorts now protecting you from the metal.

“Do you ever wash these?” Agnes asks down at the rainbow vomit littering your clothing before dropping the pants to the floor, a real dry humor in her voice replacing the stern, mocking one from when she first entered the room.

“What’s the point?” You ask, because seriously, why would you wash them if you’re just going to get paint all over them again?

“Do you answer every question with a question?” She fires back, moving back between your knees from where she’d stepped back to help undress you. Her fingers play again at her own waistband, dipping into them slightly before meeting your eyes, waiting for your answer.

“Do you always stall like this when a girl wants you to fill her pussy?” You ask with an exaggerated expression of curiosity, as if you are genuinely awaiting the answer and not just communicating your impatience. 

Her cheeks pink again at the response, any clever comebacks quickly forgotten. You remove your gaze from her face and shift it back to her arousal to allow her to blush in private.

In your peripheral vision, you see her eyes flick up to watch your face as she dips her left hand into her underwear and grasps herself so gently, right hand pushing the material down to reveal what you’ve been waiting for.

You’re first met with a mess of dark curls that trail all the way up to her belly button, which you only catch a quick glimpse of with the way her shirt momentarily gets caught by her arm. You stifle a moan at the reveal of her thick cock; rock hard, reddened and still beading pre-cum, as you saw evidenced on the front of her jeans and underwear.

Now you slightly regret having her leave the cuffs on, as you long to reach out and take the length in your hands, or better yet, your mouth. Heat takes your face at the idea of getting on your knees before the detective and gagging on her length, and now you’re the one blushing and biting your lip.

Painfully tearing your eyes from the beautiful sight to catch Agnes’ expression, you find her still looking for your reaction. She finds exactly what she’s looking for in the way your eyes soften and you use one finger, your hands still bound at the wrists and settled in front of your chest, to beckon her forward.

Loose strands of brown hair that have escaped her messily tied back tendrils brush the side of your face as she leans in close to catch your message.

“I need your cock inside me, detective.” You husk, more than speak, into her ear, the lust dripping from the title she insisted on minutes ago causing a physical and auditory shudder through the woman. Looking back down, you see Agnes stroke herself once, as if your words have rendered her unable to resist.

Maybe she notices that you’re about to make a comment about it, because in one swift motion Agnes’ right hand flies up to your left shoulder, shifting you fully to your back on the table. You let out a gasp at the sudden movement, metal tabletop clattering at the impact and drowning out the sound. Just as quickly as you’ve adjusted to your new position, you’re being pulled by the thighs to the very edge of the table and towards exactly what you want, Agnes then guiding you to wrap your spread legs around her hips for support.

“You need this, huh?” She asks, hungrily looking over your body from her new perspective. You’re about to answer her question with your own when she slowly and teasingly drags the head of her cock from your clit to your entrance, over your underwear. Her timing is getting a little too convenient.

You groan at the feeling of your own wetness being pressed against you by her hardness. It makes you ache knowing it’s so close to being consumed by your heat, only a thin shield of fabric left between you. If you had full range of motion of your hands, you would have already ripped the rest of your clothing off, but the quick and dirty way you’re both still mostly clothed almost turns you on more. 

Desperate to maintain the dizzying contact, your hips grind upward as your legs become a vice, pulling her ever closer. The clear enthusiasm only spurs her on, gliding back up and down again, circling your clit three times with her cock on the last pass until you're squirming beneath her and hopelessly trying to contain your whimpering. You would rather wait a lifetime for your orgasm than beg a cop.

You’re so sopping wet, though, that when you look down between your bodies you can see the way her cock shines with your arousal despite not having yet made full contact. It’s almost too much to bear, your clit throbbing in time with your pounding pulse. Something has to give or you’re soon going to be a blabbering mess. 

“Just fuck me, Agnes!” You bark out, hips rising insistently and your voice verging on a whine.

The room goes still for a moment, even the clock ticking away on the wall seems to pause for dramatic effect as she quirks an eyebrow and tilts her head dangerously at your outburst. That same feeling from before washes over you, when you thought you might’ve really fucked up, but it only lasts for half a second before a hand is shoving your ruined underwear to one side and you feel the tip of her resting at your entrance.

Your eyes meet her blue ones, which are actually still mostly black, especially in this light. They burn into you like before and you don’t know whether her silence is a good or bad thing. 

You draw in your own shaky breath, waiting for her next move, and on the exhale she sheathes herself to the hilt inside of you.

Even she can’t contain her half of the guttural growl that comes from both of you at the perfect feeling. You don’t even have the wherewithal to feel embarrassed about just how fucking soaked you are that she was able to slide all the way in with one thrust, because the way her cock is filling you up so completely has rendered every other thought irrelevant.

A moment passes where you both breathe, adjusting to the stretch and squeeze respectively. You feel her throb once within you and think, at this point, with enough determination, you could come just from that small amount of friction.

You don’t need that determination, though. As if mocking that passing thought, Agnes skips any unnecessary build up and starts at a positively bruising pace. Just one moment ago she was panting over you, looking like she might not even make it two thrusts in before unraveling, and now she’s slamming into you with a literally breathtaking force.

No intelligible noises are able to come out of your throat at first, only broken, reedy gasps. Your eyes roll back in your head as the glorious, slapping sounds of your joining sexes fill your ears. Her length jabs over and over again at the perfect spot inside you, just where you need her. 

Doing your best to focus your vision, you look up to see the red face of a woman clearly holding on to her composure for dear life. Her finger nails are short, but still able to bite into your hips ever so slightly as she practically slides you up and down along the table while also moving against you herself, which deepens her thrusts even more.

This also seemingly provides quite the show for Agnes, who you observe is splitting her time between watching your face contorting with pleasure, her cock sliding in and out of your pussy, and most of all, the way your tits are bouncing considerably with her every movement.

“You like these? You should fuck them.” You make out between gasping breaths, nodding down at your own chest.

Agnes takes a moment to respond, her laser focus causing her to not even register your words at first. When she does however, and notices your gesturing, her thrusting falters only for a moment, as if the idea alone has made her nearly swoon with desire. Crystal irises scan you over again and you can tell she’s thinking about it by the way her eyebrows knit together in a desperate sort of way.

“Maybe next time.” She decides, smirking down at you and ramming herself into you particularly hard once before returning to her rhythm, while her left hand comes up to grip your right breast greedily.

“Mmn- next time?” You ask around a moan, trying not to sound too hopeful, but it’s also such an unexpected sentiment from the detective you can’t help but question her further.

“I’d bet good money this won’t be your last arrest,” is all she says to satisfy your curiosity. While it’s also a subtle dig at your evading skills, your imagination still runs wild with the unspoken promise of how a future slip-up might turn out for you. It almost makes you want to get caught again.

“Right, because you’d love to f-fuck, fuck! Oh my god!” Your response turns into a moaning curse when her hand shoots down from playing with your tits so her thumb can land firmly on your clit and press down with flawless pressure, never letting up consistently filling you in the process. 

“Oh fuck! Don’t stop! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me..” The mantra spills from your lips while your orgasm mounts within you and you know you’ll be toppling over the edge any minute now.

If your hands were free you would be locking your fingers behind her neck and pulling her even closer to you to ensure you get what you want, but the burn of the metal chafing your wrists is a delicious alternative. The pain only sharpens the pleasure you’re feeling everywhere else and you throb at the idea of waking up tomorrow and seeing angry red and purple bracelets of evidence.

At your emphatic request, she doesn’t stop. You’ve never been so full before and when Agnes’ cock throbs within you after every couple of pumps, stars explode behind your eyes. There’d better be a next time because you’re pretty sure nothing and nobody has or will ever make you feel like this.

“I’m so, so close. Fuck!” You shout, unsure what possesses you to tell her, but her response only drives you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, yeah, fucking come for me. Come on my cock, come on my c-cock…” She huffs, the exertion that you were already impressed with her maintaining finally shows in her voice, but she still never lets up. It almost sounds like she’s begging, a “please” barely contained behind her lips, and that’s what makes you really want to come for her.

Chasing your orgasm, you redouble your efforts of rocking your hips up and it makes her length press even more fully against your front wall until you’re practically screaming with pleasure. The new angle caused by your rocking coupled with the way your walls are tightening around her in anticipation of your release is also clearly doing something for Agnes.

Her breaths are coming in short puffs and she is completely unable to stifle the loud whimper that bursts out of her when you clench around her even harder, your orgasm just seconds away.

That’s what finally does it, that mewl that you were able to pull from the tough detective. It sends you flying, every muscle tenses and wave after wave of pleasure causes you to buck against the table and Agnes, but she holds you firmly in place, fucking you through it and moaning herself the whole time as she marvels at your release. The aftershocks go on for what feels like forever while you float in your euphoria, never wanting it to end.

After your release, Agnes’ thrusts quickly become short and frantic, almost rutting into you with a fervor. The throbs you’ve felt are coming on every pump and you’re content to lie back in your blissed out state and let her take whatever she wants, until she starts to pull out of you, one trembling hand releasing your hip and clearly intent on finishing herself off. 

You’re suddenly more lucid than ever, quickly locking your ankles behind her from where they’d fallen limp, and shoving her back into you until she bottoms out. A surprised breath leaves her at the action, a sheen of sweat breaking across her forehead as she stutters out her reasoning.

“I-I’m gonna-” She can’t even get the words out and it’s the second time in so many minutes that you feel your heart squeeze at just how adorable this usually grave woman is. 

“I know, I know. Come inside me, baby.” Your voice is thick with desire and you’re still lingering bliss, the pet name slipping out like water, but you need her to know just how badly you want it.

Her eyes widen slightly as a deeper blush somehow takes over her already red face, unsure but so very full of want. You feel her twitch within you despite herself and her hips roll just at the words. 

You don’t break eye contact, making clear how serious you are to quell her doubt.

Tentatively, after a beat, she starts up a slower pace, pulling almost out of you before thrusting all the way back in, like she’s giving herself time to think again.

“You can do it baby, I know you want to. Fuck, you feel so good inside me.” You gasp out the words while she fucks back into your pussy and you think you could come again just from the way she looks at you when you say them.

You repeat your cooing encouragements and it doesn’t even take three more of those slow thrusts before she falters and stays sheathed inside you, rutting weakly. 

“Come on, baby.” You repeat, and you know she’s done.

More of those beautiful whimpers fall from her lips as you feel one stronger throb and then warmth explodes into your walls. You can’t help but moan yourself at the feeling of being filled by her. Spurt after spurt of her cum coats your insides while she holds you tighter and tighter, as if you’ll float away if she lets go. Her desperate moans die down eventually and she slumps against you, still inside, and draws in one big breath before releasing it slowly. Her eyes are screwed shut and her head is now resting against your restrained hands on your chest. 

It’s probably good they're restrained, you think, because if they weren’t you’d be having a very hard time resisting running your fingers through her long hair, tenderly scratching your nails against the nape of her neck.

Another beat passes where the two of you breath against one another and come down from your respective highs. The delicious mix of your and Agnes’ cum has started to drip out of you onto the table below and it’s a hot enough thought that your sensitive clit gives a weak twitch and you clench around Agnes unintentionally, causing her to crane her neck to look up at you.

Her eyes are clear again and softer than you’ve ever seen them; you let your coursing endorphins carry you away on a cloud of imagining leaning the six inches it would take to capture her lips in yours, but you don’t dare actually do it.

She starts to shift, maybe shaking herself from some similar thought, you can’t tell. Her soft sex pulls out of you slowly as she pushes up on her hands and waits for you to release her from the grip your legs still have her in. You unsteadily unravel yourself from her, shuddering slightly at the loss and trying not to think about how empty you feel without her.

Now free, she tucks herself back into her briefs and makes quick work of finally undoing your cuffs. Her hands rub at the raw skin absently, using her hold there to pull you into a seated position. She then reaches down for the balled-up mess you call a pair of pants and slides them back onto your trembling legs easily. After you’re relatively put back together, cum still leaking out and coating your already ruined underwear, she looks you over once more with hunger along with something else you can’t place. 

She looks thoughtful, like she wants to say something else but thinks better of it, instead letting a sly smile pull at her mouth and a different comment sneak through with a soft laugh.

“Consider that your warning.”

[maglorthecrab]

🌅 rainbowmiku Follow

Ok so who was going to tell me not ONE but TWO chief prosecutors for my district have been arrested for murder

💿 makosharko Follow

Hey op do you live in fucking night vale

🕰️ athelas Follow

I did the research for y’all in the notes going wild wanting to know where op lives (and also bonuses of being a law student yay) so the only area I can find where a chief prosecutor has been arrested for murder is L.A. then I reckon they said two because the present chief prosecutor for L.A. is Miles Edgeworth, who has been accused of murder twice but cleared of both charges

🔮 ghosthunters Follow

fellow LA denizen here, fun fact! chief prosecutor edgeworth is married to a defence attorney

🌅 rainbowmiku Follow

He’s WHAT

🎈skyrensics Follow

said defence attorney has also been accused of murder before.

🪜ladderhosen Follow

Oh yeah that defence attorney is Phoenix Wright btw- he defended me for a murder charge once

🎈skyrensics Follow

oh nice! he defended my sister once :) she got accused of murdering someone in her offices parking lot lmao

🛒guiltylove Follow

@skyrensics wait is your sister fucking Lana Skye

🫧 pearlescent Follow

The former chief prosecutor’s sister uses tumblr????

🦔 wrongbird Follow

*opens door of reblogs to whisper* the current chief prosecutor also uses tumblr folks

🐚 demaskmasque Follow

WHAT

🍄 magisteel Follow

apparently he likes the samuraiverse! I wouldn’t be surprised if he was lurking in fan circles on here. Evidence btw- he has a steel samurai figure on his windowsill + a signal samurai keychain.

🌅 rainbowmiku Follow

these updates just get wilder and wilder. I’m learning more about my city’s lawyers than I ever thought I would.

🔮 ghosthunters Follow

everyone really skipped over the fact that it seems like half of LA’s legal system is on tumblr. god forbid they find this post

⚖️ calidistrictattorneysoffice Follow

hey

🛒 guiltylove Follow

NO. THEY HAVE AN OFFICIAL TUMBLR???

🌻 wrightandcolaw Follow

Is this a good time to say hello?

🌅 rainbowmiku Follow

never did I think one of my tumblr posts would attract the literal state of California prosecutors office or the wright and co law officef ashnduhjsjkkshg

342,107 notes

[gabbytvclarke]

The dog and the postwoman PART THREE: I don't want you, I crave you

Part one here! ♥ Part two here! ♥ Part four here!

• Summary: Arthur Hill invites y/n to join himself, George, and of course Arthur TV on a platform roulette video. Arthur gets a little braver. • Pairing: Arthur TV x female!reader (Also friend!George Clarke and friend!Arthur Hill) • Fluff with VERY SLIGHT smut, friends to something more... I thought I'd splice in some slight jealous!Arthur too for fun • Warnings: alcohol, swearing, innuendoes, brief vomit mention, slight cheekiness/NSFW mentions • Word count: 12,889 words Note 1: Arthur Hill will be either referred to by his full name or just ‘Hill’ again Note 2: I picked the place at random and researched a few pub names and places, I'm sorry if some details are inaccurate!

♥•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥

It had been almost three weeks since Chris uploaded the pub golf video, three weeks since the shipping between y/n and Arthur begun, three weeks since #y/nTV began circulating on social media amongst the UK YouTube commentary fans. Y/n and Arthur continued to speak as ‘just friends’, or at least that’s what they told anyone who asked, but felt themselves getting closer and closer. They hadn’t seen each other in person since the morning after they met as their schedules were busy, but they played a couple of Minecraft sessions off camera together and began texting daily.

------

Y/n is only about four minutes away from the station where Arthur Hill, George Clarke, and cameraman James are waiting. She's running late, but late is never quite as perfected as Arthur TV himself.

In comparison to Chris’s shoot, y/n feels more at ease for today. She’s not quite sure whether it’s because there are fewer people and a lack of an uncomfortable uniform, or if her nerves are just deafened by the thrill of seeing Arthur again. Her mind buzzes with intrigue on where the adventure will take her today.

From a more predictable 27 minutes away, Arthur’s mind is also racing. Not just because he’s rushing, weaving around commuters like a chased gazelle, but because he is also just as excited to see y/n. Beautiful, hilarious y/n. The girl he’s missed since day two of officially knowing her. Her sweet soft voice plays on loop in his head from their Minecraft sessions, which had lasted late into the night and when hushed voices were a must. He too has enjoyed reading the viewers’ speculations and support.

His favourite recurring comments are oddly from the ‘y/nTV deniers’; who claim that he couldn’t possibly be into y/n as he touches her and jokes with her a lot like he does with his other friends. ‘If he really was into her, he’d be shy’ is their so-called proof. He finds it amusing how they think that that’s evidence, when in fact physical touch is his love language. Sure, he loves his friends and touches them a lot and sure, y/n is his friend, but his love for her is different. Love. He hasn’t said it out loud to anyone yet, not even to himself, but he’ll very soon realise that what he feels for her definitely love.

“There she is!” A beaming George calls as y/n scurries to the boys. He gives her a quick gentle hug before she scoots to Hill to give him one too.

“Hey bestie,” Hill grins, “We haven’t started filming yet. We usually start rolling when we see Arthur making his grand entrance through the crowd.” She pictures his wide eyed expression and athletic body gliding through her fellow train riders, finding the image hilarious. She introduces herself to James and vice versa in the meantime. “Do you know where we’re going yet?” She then asks the group.

“Nah, we wait until we start filming before we find out.” George replies, as Hill’s head dances around while he looks for the disorganised creator. “Ah, he’s just texted. He’ll be here in just a few minutes,” George confirms. Just a few minutes, y/n tells herself in her head. Those minutes feel like hours, that is until a wavy fringe can be seen bouncing amongst the flocks of people in his way. The recording officially begins.

“Fashionably late as usual, we wouldn’t have it any other way,” Hill starts. He turns to the camera and introduces the video as well as his ‘co-stars’, leaving y/n for last as the new guest. While he goes in depth about the concept of the series, Arthur greets the other two. He and George dap and bicker about the agreed meeting time. Arthur then turns to y/n and pulls her into a gentle hug. She can smell his aftershave again and he can smell her familiar perfume. “Hey you,” he utters quietly, a smile evident in his velvet voice.

“We meet again,” y/n replies as they move away from their short embrace, his stubble softly grazing past her cheek as he stands straight. They share a sweet gaze before both realising they are in fact not the only two people in existence. The rouletters learn their destination is Aylesford, Kent. With a dangerous 6 minutes before departure, they rush to grab their travel drinks and make their way to their first train.

Y/n enters the carriage first and nabs herself a window seat. The boys are still making their way down the aisle when Arthur calls shotgun for the other window seat, despite being behind Hill, making sure he sits opposite y/n. Hill instead sits to y/n’s left, George situates himself next to Arthur. They all crack open their drinks of choice as James sits beside the four, filming away. Y/n made sure she had a bigger breakfast before she left, knowing full well how hammered the boys get in these videos. They drink and chatter amongst themselves, which mostly means that George and Hill gang up on Arthur, while y/n laughs but looks at him with empathy.

The train passes a field full of sheep and the group begin telling as many sheep related jokes and puns as possible. “I’m woolly looking forward to exploring today,” Hill attempts.

"Really? I'm feeling a little sheepish" George adds, pulling a smug face towards the camera.

"Sheers everyone!" Arthur joins in, holding up his drink. George and y/n join in the cheersing with a 'waaaay'.

"I don't get it." Hill mutters quietly. George acts out using a razor, doing an impression of the motorised noise, giving Hill intense eye contact.

"Sheeps get sheered," Arthur says, accompanying George's actions, his eyebrows low as he too looks at Hill, almost with disappointment.

"I'm baaaaaffled that you didn't get that Hilly," y/n chimes in with a smirk. Arthur smiles proudly, a swift bounce in his eyebrows in amusement as he cheerses her again.

They approach their first changeover stop and follow Hill, who holds out his phone like it's physically dragging them to their next platform. They have plenty of time before this train leaves, so they don't rush this time around. James points the camera to George as he walks ahead with Hill, they mostly discuss Hill's already slightly tipsy state as the camera also catches 'y/nTV' behind them through their shoulders.

"I was wondering if you'd like to play a horror game with me on my second channel," Arthur asks, "everyone's begging me to have you on something of mine." Of course y/n accepts. They still have plans for y/n to guest star on the Bach and Arthur podcast, but they're still working through their current pre-planned episode schedule and Bach is on vacation. Arthur leans into y/n's ear, “I’m so glad you’re here by the way,” he whispers.

“Me too,” she replies with a genuine smile, internally bracing herself, “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me out for that coffee!”

“You’ve… what?” Arthur forgets to walk for a moment, before his wide eyes dart to her.

“This way you two!” Hill calls out, the pair not realising that they’re walking the wrong way. They awkwardly laugh and scurry closer to George, Hill, and James.

Before the pair can continue their conversation, James points the camera to them. Arthur thinks quick on his feet and pretends that they were discussing something else. “Personally I think Arthur’s going to throw up first.” He states about Hill.

“It’s definitely one of you two,” George replies with a grin peering over his shoulder at the pair, “y/n in particular was wobbly as fuck at the pub golf!”

“If I remember correctly, your team came last Clarkey.” Y/n quips, sneering. George pretends he's fainting in response, letting out a high pitched sigh.

“This one guys!” Hill interjects, pointing his phone towards their next train. James moves to the back of them to film the group boarding the carriage from behind. Y/n kindly offers the window seat to the others, which Hill takes. George just shrugs and sits next to him. Arthur gestures to let y/n take a window seat again and then plops down next to her.

“Right then,” Hill starts, plonking the carrier bag on the table, still containing beverages and passing a can to each contender, “Drink up darlings!”

Y/n examines the contents, “God, I didn’t realise the alcohol count is 5%, we’ll be dead before we get there.” She states with a nervous laugh.

“Turns out y/n is the one who’s sheepish,” George points out, with a wink to the camera before his eyes go wide, “editor, keep all the sheep jokes in so that makes sense!”

As Hill and George are in deep conversation with the camera solely pointed at them both, y/n gestures to the arm rest between her and Arthur. “Mind if I move this?” She asks him quietly.

“Oh, sure!” He responds with an equally low, but enthusiastic voice as he lifts the arm rest out of the way. She shoots him over a faint thank you as they both turn their attention to the boys. Y/n rests her hands on the seat, either side of her thighs. While they listen to the Elvis impersonations George and Hill make back and forth for some reason, Arthur too drops his hand down by his side. Placing his hand fanned out on the chair, his pinky finger gently touched y/n’s. She looks down at the small connection for a brief moment, then shifts her gaze up to Arthur’s face only to see his chocolate eyes are already on her. His loving smile confirms it, it was a deliberate move. She shoots him a small grin back but immediately looks away so he can’t see the redness burning on her cheeks.

“How far are we now lads?” She asks kindly, as if her mind wasn't racing. Hill narrows his eyes at the digital notice from across the carriage, his lips moving slightly as he reads.

“Two more stops,” he confirms, “then we’re at lovely… where are we going again?” he lets out an awkward giggle before George chokes on his drink.

“Aylesford,” he answers between a mix of chuckling and coughing, wiping the spill off his lips. Arthur just grins and shakes his head as y/n laughs from behind her hand.

Arthur goes to grab his drink to take a sip, being right handed, but he places his hand back down so he’s in contact with y/n again and reaches instead with his left hand. Luckily it goes unnoticed, except for y/n of course. She glances to Arthur and can see a red tint in his cheeks. It could well be the alcohol, but it’s most likely the touching. It’s barely a pinky-promise and already the two are melting in their seats.

As the train slows down for the gang’s last changeover stop, they can’t help but notice the large amount of people waiting on the platform. “I think that’s the platform we need for the next train.” Hill murmurs with dread.

“Is there an event on or something?” Arthur asks.

“Hell yeah! They’re waiting to see us four legends, and y/n.” George jokes with a smirk. Y/n turns to him with a sad face, poking out her bottom lip for extra effect.

“Might be a bit packed.” Hill worries out loud. As the train slows to a halt, they all collect their empty cans and bin them on the way off the carriage. They head over to the other platform and join the herd. “The next train’s in half an hour if you’d all prefer to wait.” Hill offers.

“I’m pretty hungry, not gonna lie, so I’d rather stand for a couple of minutes and get there sooner and grab food.” George complains. James puts the camera in his bag, as they all figure it’s too crowded to film yet.

“I didn’t realise you guys ate proper meals on these videos, I thought it was drink drink drink.” Y/n points out.

“We usually eat shortly after arriving,” Arthur gently explains, “that’s why we seemingly go from zero to a hundred drunk towards the end, because after a while our lunches wears off.” Y/n nods, genuinely interested.

Arthur places his hand on the small of her back, his lips right up to her ear. “It’s because George gets really pissy when he’s hungry.” George doesn’t hear as he’s too busy frowning at his phone, googling the nearest restaurant from the Aylesford station. Even though Arthur whispers to her a lot, y/n still feels flustered over his warm breath blowing down her neck.

Their next train pulls up and the hoards of people clamber on. The gang all manage to squeeze themselves on but are have no choice but to stand by the doors. No one else is stood with them there, thanks to other passengers using the space for a couple of suitcases and a bike. Arthur reaches his hand behind y/n to hold one of the stanchion poles, standing close to her to keep her steady as the train moves.

James whips a smaller camera out, filming the four as they awkwardly stand in silence. Hill jokingly shifts his wide eyes around, all of them purposefully not speaking or engaging in eye contact for comedic effect. The train jerks around at one point and y/n instinctively grabs onto Arthur’s T shirt to ground herself, one by on his belly and the other by his back. She can’t help but feel Arthur’s firm torso against her knuckles as she grips the fabric. She immediately apologises and re-steadies herself, letting go. “You’re all good,” he chuckles shyly, secretly wishing she’d grab him again. His grin shrinks into a small side smile as he leans down. “You can hold me anytime you need.” He whispers cheekily, his lips grazing her ear. Thankfully the camera was put away again by this point. She can’t believe her ears. Those drinks must be getting to his head already, he drank more cans than the others did on the last train, after all. He stands straight again, still smiling. She tries looking nonchalantly out the window, as if what he said isn't driving her crazy.

“We’re stopping here,” George grumbles as the train slows down. The camera is back out and filming as the four step off and make their way to the exit.

“Right, so,” Hill speaks to the camera casually.

“Riiiiiight soooo!” George interjects immediately, mocking Arthur’s YouTube intro. Hill then starts doing it too.

“Riiiight soooo, um, we’re here in Aylesford, um-”

“OK, I do not go ‘um’ THAT much!” Arthur calls out as they all follow Hill’s lead.

“You do sometimes” y/n replies while cackling. George nods in agreement.

“Oh, shush you!” Arthur huffs with a grin, poking her side while Hill tells the audience which pub they’re heading to first.

However before they actually go there, they first stop off at a fish and chips shop just 15 minutes from the station, to shut George up. George gets himself a large portion of chips, Hill and James get mediums, and Arthur shares a large portion with y/n. They all walk an eat off camera as they slowly make their way to the first pub: The Chequered Inn. The walk is mostly silent while they feast, until they're all finished and the camera instinctively comes back on.

"Watch this," George giggles to the camera, evil written all over his face. He rushes quietly behind Hill and steps on the heal of his shoe, making his foot pop out and his clean white sock stamping on the concrete floor. "Oh fucking hell!" He yells with his head thrown back, the camera zooming in on Hill's now stained sock, before zooming back out and capturing the other three laughing. "Come here!" Hill shouts as George immediately runs away, almost getting them both ran over as they sprint across the road.

"They're like children," y/n chuckles, her eyebrows raised in surprise at the display. The camera is on them now, as they stand like embarrassed parents watching their sons fight.

"Yeah, children with weird shaped and sized heads." Arthur adds with a closed mouth smile.

"What?" Hill calls out as the boys walk back to the adults, both out of breath.

"Nothing!" Arthur replies angelically.

They all enter the first pub, Hill ordering a Guinness for each of the four of them, as y/n and George find them a table. They spot a booth and slide in. James stands with the two Arthurs up at the bar, hoping to capture any awkward interactions with the barmen.

"Giving the people what they want, are we?" George whispers to y/n with a smirk.

"What d'you mean?" Y/n asks, genuinely confused.

"Don't tell me you haven't seen the swarm of 'y/n and Arthur' posts sweeping the nation!" He responds.

Y/n slowly nods and begins to giggle. "I honestly didn't realise we were being weird, I'll try and make things less awkward between us." As they sit in their booth whispering to each other, they're very unaware of how close they're sitting. George with his arm draped over the back of y/n's part of the rounded booth chair, leaning over and face close to hers, only so they can hear each other over the general clatter of the pub.

Arthur glances over from the bar as Hill pays for their drinks. He sees the close proximity between the girl he has feelings for and his best friend and he begins to doubt whether or not she actually likes him, or whether she's close with all her guy friends. "Ready?" Hill asks him, slightly firmly due to how long he's been waiting for Arthur to grab the other two pints. Arthur unclenches his jaw, mutters a quick apology and joins Hill in bringing the drinks over.

George moves himself around to the end of the booth, allowing y/n to follow suit as the Arthurs slide in, and James sits on the other end. As Hill explains what 'splitting the G' is, George moves his arm so it's on his lap and no longer behind y/n. They all watch as Hill is first to drink, the foam landing almost perfectly as they cheer. Arthur is next, but he just over drinks it. He tries protesting but the other boys won't allow it.

"So close Arth!" y/n sighs teasingly, patting him on the back gently. Arthur snaps his head round to narrow his eyes at her playfully as he pushes her pint closer as if to challenge her. She gives it a go but massively undershoots it, not drinking near enough.

"Sooo close [nickname]!" Arthur mocks, purposefully quivering his lower lip as he looks at her with exaggerated pity. He rubs small circles on her lower back, pretending it's part of the sympathy act when really he just wants the closeness. Y/n laughs as she buries her head in her hands, also overplaying her reaction. She's secretly enjoying the contact though, it feels natural and almost domestic.

As the attention is on George and his split attempt, Arthur is unaware of the slight frown in his face. Hill leans to Arthur's ear, "You can probably stop rubbing her back now," he whispers with a cheeky grin. Arthur, who didn’t realise he's still doing it, casually drops his hand down from y/n's back, resting on the seat instead. He keeps his composure the whole time however, as to not draw attention. George perfectly splits the G and raises his glass as the gang applaud him, Arthur only donning a small smile.

George gets a phone call and attempts to have the conversation inside, but he can’t hear very well and so excuses himself and heads outside. Now he’s out the way, y/n sees an opportunity to go to the toilet. “I promise it’s not to vomit!” She giggles.

“It’s not pub golf, feel free to spew as much as you need.” Hill explains with a sneer, a sentence that’s oddly comforting. Once she’s out of sight, Hill examines James as his full attention’s on his phone, after having recorded enough clips in this pub. Knowing the coast is clear, he then turns to his fellow Arthur. “What was up with you earlier then?” He asks, a worried tone with a hint of accusation.

“What?” Arthur responds, his gaze darting away from where he last saw y/n and snapping to Hill.

“You, earlier. Staring at y/n and George,” Hill continues, looking around to ensure neither of the two return, “there’s no way you think THAT'S happening. Come on man.”

Exhaling slowly, Arthur’s shoulders relax. “Fine, they looked a little cozy and I didn’t like it.” He murmurs, feeling embarrassed at his own insecurities. “Y/n is absolutely George’s type too and it would kill me if it turns out she likes him.”

“Arthur mate, you’re so smart most of the time, but hear me out on this. You’re being dumb.” Hill puts his arm around him and jostles him a little, staring at him sternly in his eyes. “She is so into you.”

Arthur looks to Hill, surprised to hear someone say those words in a serious tone. Usually he didn't believe others when they told him before, because it seemed like they were just teasing him.

“You’re probably just anxious because you have a crush on her, and he’s one of your best friends. Our thoughts can be cruel to us sometimes.” Hill adds as he squeezes Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur looks down to the table, slowly nodding as he feels almost ashamed for his worries before. He feels guilty for mistrusting y/n and George, and was definitely letting his worries get to him. “Thanks, you’re right, I think.” He chuckles sheepishly. Deep down though, he won't believe it truly unless she tells him or makes a bold move to show him.

Y/n returns to the table with her usual sweet smile. “You two look very serious,” she starts, “everything OK?”

Hill sees an opportunity to be a pain in the ass, “Arthur’s just worrying over silly things.” He responds with a smirk. Arthur burns his eyes into Hill.

“Worried? What’re you worrying about Arth?” Her happy expression sours as she dons a concerned look. Hill excuses himself and goes to the toilet, patting Arthur on the back as he leaves.

“I’m fine, Arthur’s just being a dick as usual.” Arthur shyly explains. Y/n’s smile creeps back.

“That I can believe, but you didn’t seem yourself earlier,” she replies, turning her body to face him more and leaning closer, “are you sure you’re OK?” Her voice low and laced with care.

Arthur thinks about being honest, about explaining that he got himself worked up over nothing, but he spots George returning from outside out the corner of his eye.

“I’m OK, thanks though y/n. Just a little tired I think, I’ll be fine after a few more drinks though.” He squints his eyes shut as he shoots her a smile, a weight further lifting from his shoulders.

“You alright Clarkey?” Y/n asks as he scoots back in next to her.

"Yeah, just my mum." He replies with a friendly smile. Arthur looks at George, then to y/n, and is internally slapping himself for seeing anything other than a brother-sister dynamic between the two. He finds a new found confidence, although that could be also due to the Guinness from earlier taking effect.

"Oh, was she telling you how great I was last night?" Hill quips with a wink as he rejoins them too.

"You disgust me." George retorts with a low grumbly voice, pretending to be disappointed.

As they exit the pub one by one, Hill addresses the group; "Hope you guys are wearing comfy shoes, as this'll be quite a trek." They all nod, not minding a long walk. However, the next pub, Little Gem, is only a one minute walk away. In fact, it was caught on camera in the background while Hill made the joke. They all burst out laughing 56 seconds later when the adorable little sign is spotted, and they all enter.

The downstairs area is quite busy, so Arthur and y/n head to find a table upstairs while George volunteers to help Hill bring the drinks over this time. They spot a cozy corner and Arthur pulls a chair out for y/n, then taking a seat next to her. "This place is cute." Y/n remarks, her voice beginning to wobble, wearing a smile as she looks around the place.

"You'll fit right in then." Arthur states, beaming with rosy cheeks. Y/n turns to him in surprise, not expecting another bold statement from him already.

"Hmm?" She hums, her eyebrows high, the corners of her mouth slightly curving up as she slowly realises what he said.

"'Little Gem'. That could even be your nickname," Arthur adds. Y/n stares into his eyes, which are adoringly heavy as he leans in closer and continues, "because you're a rare find and your e/c eyes are beautiful, like gems."

Her mouth falling open slightly, her stomach flipping, all she can utter is: "Arthur..." under her breath. He chuckles in response, turning redder.

"So beautiful." He repeats quietly as he pecks a kiss to her cheek, right by her ear. His eyes still on her, watching her nervously stutter as she finds herself in a fit of small giggles. He figures that if he had misread the situation, she’ll shut him down nicely, but she hadn't and that’s why he can’t stop smiling.

“This is a quaint little corner.” George declares, snapping them out of their intimate peace. He sets their pints down as Hill follows, James filming from behind them. The guys take their seats. "Little Gem is the smallest pub in Aylesford." Hill informs his friends.

“To the Little Gem!” Arthur cheers, raising his glass, the others clinking theirs together as they echo him. “The most beautiful thing in existence!” He continues, shooting y/n a very sly wink before taking a few swigs. George and Hill figure it’s just Arthur being his odd self and don’t think too much about it. Y/n on the other hand can’t handle it, her face heating up.

“God y/n you’re bright red, you struggling already again?” George jabs, causing her to get the giggles again.

“Yeah, this is worse than your pub golf tolerance!” Arthur chimes in, making her cheeks burn more.

“I’m fine! There must be something in the Aylesford air or something!” She retorts, all flustered.

“Didn’t help that the first lot of drinks on the train had such high alcohol levels to be fair.” Arthur chuckles.

“And it’s very warm and romantic in this snug little corner.” Hill adds, wiggling his eyebrows.

After drinking their beers and engaging in general chitchat, Hill excuses himself and hurries off. The three speculate that he's soiled himself or wet himself, or both. George looks over the railings to see Hill has ordered a large tray of shots and watches him carrying it up the stairs. "Oh god, what's he planning?" George mutters to the pair as they watch Hill approach the table.

Once he's sat down, he announces: "I thought seeing as we're the only ones up here, we can play a cheeky game of 'never have I ever'!"

"Yaaaay." Arthur cheers quietly, the other two looking excited.

"OK I'll start," Hill begins, with a smirk, "Never have I ever... shagged a surfboard." George and Hill dart their eyes to Arthur.

"Y-You can't do ones that are only aimed at one person!" Arthur whines, half laughing, half surprised. Y/n stares at Arthur with a mix of shock and amusement, annoyed that she somehow hadn't heard this story yet.

"Oh yes we can!" George interjects with a cheeky giggle.

"Arthur, your turn." Hill directs.

"OK," Arthur pauses for thought, "OK, never have I ever filmed a video with someone I didn't like." A couple of 'oooh's murmur across the table and everyone takes a shot.

"Y/n! Really!" Arthur yells, the drinks already ramping up his volume, "I can't imagine you hating anyone!"

"I don't! I don't hate them, we just didn't gel!" Y/n cries in defense.

"You'll have to spill the tea later" George chuckles, giving her a gentle nudge with his elbow.

"OK, never have I ever..." Y/n starts, "... Gave a girl the ick because I was IDed on a date." She grins at Arthur.

"Oi! We said no obviously targeted ones!" Arthur shouts, pointing his finger at her as he watches her laugh.

"Who's we?" Hill asks mischievously.

"Yeah, you're the only one bitchin'." George teases in a condescending tone, his arms crossed.

"How did you know about that?" Arthur whispers to y/n, a playful smile across his face.

"I saw you talk about it, I think in a video with Cam." She explains, still amused.

"Anyway!" George calls, eager to take his turn. He looks at the other three players, a certain glint in his eye. "Never have I ever really liked someone I filmed a video with."

Y/n takes a shot without hesitation. The two Arthurs both ask if he means having a crush on someone, which George nods before downing a shot himself. Arthur hesitates, then also takes one.

"Really?" Hill enquires, clasping his hands together like a movie villain. "Anyone want to fess up?" The three all yell 'no', almost in unison.

The game continues for a while, turning into a game of 'who can get the others drunk the quickest', all picking specific declarations to target the others, but none of them taking the game too far or revealing actual secrets. Once the shots are all gone, the recording stops while the four give the alcohol a chance to sit in their systems, before heading off to the next pub.

As they head out, all but George are slightly beyond tipsy. "OK guys, this pub is actually quite a long walk away." Hill warns, before winking at the camera. He leads the group, George right behind him scrolling through his phone. Y/n and Arthur walk side by side. "I can't believe how many weird experiences you've had," Arthur chuckles as he looks at her, more interested in her than ever. The game revealed some truths that Arthur hadn't learned yet.

"I guess I'm a wild one!" She chuckles as she shrugs.

Arthur wraps his arm around her and pulls her closer to him as they walk, he leans down with his lips right by her ear. "I'd love to see your wild side" He whispers, then easing his grasp.

Before she can react, Hill makes a sudden turn to The Bush, the third pub, which is only a two minute walk from Little Gem. "Where are you- oh my god." George groans. Hill laughs, holding his arms outwards as if he'll get an applause.

"'The Bush'?" Arthur asks with a hint of immaturity.

"Please don't use this pub as another nickname for me." Y/n quips, just loud enough for Arthur to hear, making him throw his head back with an unapologetically loud laugh.

The noise of the pub paired with the copyrighted music leads the group to head out to the pub garden. They take their seats at one of the tables under a large parasol, out of the English sun, just a few hours before it begins setting.

Hill asks y/n this time to help him carry out the drinks, some fruity ciders. They head back inside where there's already a small queue.

"So, you enjoying your platform roulette debut so far?" Hill asks.

"I'm loving it so much, thanks again for the invite."

"Good good, though I doubt you're enjoying it as much as Arthur," He teases.

She narrows her eyes, confused. "What?"

"You and Arthur, the flirting. It's cute honestly," Hill explains, y/n looks down embarrassed, completely unaware of how obvious they were being, "I don't think I've ever seen him this chirpy."

"Really?" She asks, a smile growing.

"Well, apart from your pub golf video and its unseen bits," he continues as y/n shyly picks at her fingers, "Arthur's the happiest person I've ever met, and you managed to make him even happier. Wow."

Meanwhile outside, George taps Arthur on the back while he scrolls through emails on his phone. "Mate, you need to ask her out." George states, point blank.

"Who?" Arthur attempts, even trying to look confused by frowning. George rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"You know exactly who I mean," George snaps back, Arthur exhales and drops his shoulders, "what are you waiting for?"

"I don't know, I'm just nervous that she's not into me. I don't want to ask her out and she says no and doesn't want to even be my friend-"

"You really think she doesn't like you back?" George scoffs, smirking as he looks into Arthur's eyes through furrowed brows. "You don't see the way her eyes sparkle when she looks at you, or the way she blushes when she laughs at your jokes. She didn't tell you off when you kissed her cheek even-"

"You saw that?" Arthur yells, his voice breaking. He clasps a hand to his mouth as George shushes him.

"Yes and I've known y/n longer than you. Trust me, if she didn't like you, she certainly wouldn't let you do that." He pinches Arthur's cheek and lightly jiggles him. Arthur swats his hand away. "I've never seen her with a crush before, until she met you."

As they spot y/n and Hill slowly walking to their table with the drinks, George and Arthur sit up straight in an attempt to look like they weren't just discussing anyone.

Y/n sits opposite Arthur. For the first time, she notices how Arthur's gorgeous chocolate eyes light up when they share a gaze. Arthur spots the flush on her cheeks that George had mentioned just earlier.

With the camera rolling, George decides to make the others play a game of 'name that tune'. He starts by humming the instrumental part of 'Late for the Reservation', kindly giving Hill some free advertising.

"Oh! Late for the Reservation!" Y/n guesses excitedly. George nods while Hill bows his head with a shy smile. He turns to the camera.

"This sounds planned but it wasn't, but you can listen to Late for the Reservation now!"

The group carries on the game for a little while, Hill surprisingly being awful at guessing despite his field of expertise. Arthur downs the rest of his drink and suddenly clears his throat.

"Sorry guys, I've just got to make a quick phone call. I'll be right back." He explains, before rushing through the pub to get to the front door.

The other three continue their game. Y/n begins humming 'Lily'. She can see in George's eyes that he gets the song right away, but he pretends not to to see how long it takes Hill to guess it.

After a further 10 seconds, George bursts out laughing. "There's no way you're not getting this!" He snorts, while y/n continues humming with a grin.

"I genuinely don't know!" Hill cries while laughing awkwardly, causing the other two to chortle.

"It's YOUR song!" They both yell.

"Oh, Lily..." Hill mutters as he slowly puts his head in his hands, chuckling with shame.

Suddenly, y/n's phone buzzes. "Oh, it's Arthur," she states to the guys, "it says: 'Come to the front, you NEED to see this!'" She takes the last couple of sips of her cider before standing up, her head rushing.

George's phone also buzzes, he reads the text in his head and elbows Hill to show him. He reads it too and nods. "You guys coming?" Y/n asks the pair kindly.

"I would but my head's swirling." Hill lies.

"And I'd better stay in case he falls into a cider-induced coma." George adds. James puts is camera down and enjoys his drink as y/n shrugs and heads to the front of the pub.

"Hey Arth!" Y/n says joyfully, startling Arthur as he puts his phone away quickly.

"There you are!" He beams, putting his hands in his pockets. She steps fully outside and leans against the wall, next to him.

"What are we looking at?" She asks sweetly, looking around the street for a cute dog or something.

"Oh, um actually, I wanted you to come out here to have some alone time away from the guys and the camera." He explains, struggling to maintain eye contact.

"Ah, OK," y/n responds, a little confused but not judging, "is everything alright?"

A smile creeps up on Arthur's lips. Even when he's being weird and awkward, y/n isn't fazed and just shows care for him.

"Everything is great, absolutely fine," he replies, his eyes soften as he looks at her, "in fact, my life has greatly improved ever since I-"

"OH MY GOD IS THAT ARTHUR TV?" A random voice screeches from across the road. The pair snap their heads to the source of the noise and see a small group of teenagers. The girls giggle as they shove each other before running up to them. The boys of the group stay back and watch. "Oh my god I watch your videos all the time!" One of them calls out. Amongst the girls' excitement, one of them pushes y/n out the way as they ask Arthur for a selfie. Y/n stumbles a little but steadies herself against the wall.

"Woah, careful!" Arthur chuckles, trying to keep a peaceful vibe whilst secretly being annoyed that y/n got shoved. The pushy girl takes a selfie with Arthur, just the two of them. "Hey, um, can you take a picture of us with him?" One of the other girls asks y/n.

"Of course I can," y/n kindly obliges, taking the phone off the girl and snapping multiple photos. One of the girls posing with Arthur suddenly goes wide eyed.

"It's y/n from yt/n! Oh my gosh!" She calls out. Her and another girl who’s standing with Arthur suddenly rushes to y/n's side for a photo. "I loved you in pub golf, you and Arthur had such funny moments!"

Y/n gets flustered, as she's not as big as the other guys and still isn't quite used to being 'spotted'. Arthur offers to take a photo for the girls, beaming at y/n's humble reaction.

"Wait, is George inside? George Clarke?" One of them asks, looking at herself in her phone's front facing camera and adjusting her hair. Y/n and Arthur nod.

"And Arthur Hill," Y/n adds with a grin, "they're in the pub garden." They girls squeal and all rush inside. Y/n and Arthur look at each other and exhale at the same time. They then hear the excited screams from the other side of the pub.

“What were you saying?” Y/n asks politely. Arthur prepares to answer but spots the teenage boys coming over, presumably to fetch the girls. They send y/n and Arthur some awkward and apologetic looks as they enter the pub too. Shortly after the teenagers are all seen again exiting the pub, with Hill, George and James emerging from behind them. The girls all call out their good byes and wave as they head the opposite direction to the gang’s next destination.

“OK, this time the pub is quite a while away.” Hill explains to the group.

“Is it the Village Club? Because I can literally see it from here.” Arthur chortles, spitting a little.

“Oh fuck sake, you ruined my joke!” Hill yells halfheartedly, but loud enough to echo.

As they all walk, George murmurs to the camera: “Y’know one of these days it’ll really be a long walk but no one will believe him,” in a false serious tone.

Y/n, hearing this, jogs to join George and James. “Yeah, like the boy who cried walk.” She adds with a grin, and she hears Arthur laughing from behind her.

However when they get there, they soon realise that it’s a social club and was full of members. Although they’re all tipsy, they’re sober enough to decide to give it a miss as to not ruin the members’ fun.

“Well then, let’s have a look at what else we can do while we’re here.” Hill announces as he scrolls through his phone. “Aha! OK, so there’s an Aylesford Friars just 14 minutes away from here and it’s like a historical landmark.”

“14 minutes away or 14 seconds?” George mutters.

“It’s… thatta way!” Hill exclaims enthusiastically and directs the gang to walk back on themselves.

Arthur and George walk side by side while the camera is on them, y/n joins Hill at the front to help with directions.

“How’d things go with Arthur just now, outside the pub?” He asks her, keeping his voice low, then chuckles to himself at the name ‘The Bush’.

“Well, he seemed kind of nervous or something, but then those fans came over, so I never found out." She replies quietly, “Why?”

Worried he’ll reveal too much, he tries to think fast but no thoughts were coming, just ‘The Bush’ or the truth. Luckily for him (and Arthur) James joins them with the camera.

“Uhh, I need a woman’s touch with directions,” he explains, passing y/n his phone while making direct eye contact with the lens.

“The Chequers Inn is just here,” she calculates, gesturing to the pub beside them, “so if we head straight for about 9 minutes we’ll be there.”

“See? Aren’t those eyes amazing?” Hill asks the camera, like a quiz show host trying to flatter his guest.

Y/n suddenly feels a buzz in her own phone. She hands Hill’s back to him and checks her notifications. It’s a text from Arthur:

'Yes 👀✨'

She immediately looks over her shoulder and locks eyes with him, to see he’s already looking at her with a dorky smile. He nods at her to confirm it, she does have amazing eyes. She then watches as he types another message on his phone, a couple of seconds later it comes through:

'Beautiful little gems 😍'

Fighting a blush, she decides to respond, completely ignoring the camera while Hill talks nonsense to it. She sends:

'Mr Frederick, are you flirting with me?'

She turns her head again to watch him read it. He frowns as he concentrates, the words a little blurry to him from all the drinks, but a cheeky smile soon creeps up on his face. Quickly facing forwards again as to not look too needy, she hears George moan: “You’re not seriously texting each other are you?”

“No.” Arthur lies with a half smile, not convincing anyone. He’s not even trying.

George whispers, but y/n still overhears: “Oh please, who else do you smile like THAT for?”

She beams to herself, before her phone vibrating catches her attention. From Arthur:

“Let’s be real, when am I not flirting with you”

Wow, this man is filled with liquid confidence. Or regular confidence, it’s hard for her to tell.

The Friars Aylesford Priory is a beautiful place. Surrounded by gorgeous gardens and holding a cute tea room and gift shop inside, the group slowly potter around. James captures scenic shots and clips of the four, Hill making a mental note to pair the montage with one of his songs.

Arthur takes his time to read a lot of the information dotted around, having to lean in closer and furrow his brows as he struggles to read with is beer goggles. This however, makes for a perfect photo opportunity and y/n snaps one without his knowledge. She can send it to him later for his Instagram. She takes a few more pictures of the place in general.

While they’re in the outdoor gardens, she walks alongside Arthur in a peaceful silence. Unbeknownst to them, George takes a photo of the two of them walking side by side and immediately sends it to them both. Y/n is first to check her phone. “George took our photo,” she says, smiling up at Arthur. He decides to check his phone too, figuring it’s the same message.

“Aw yeah, that’s a lovely photo of us,” he replies with glee, his voice raising in pitch.

“We have a collection now, the first being our cuddle on Chris’s sofa.” Y/n jokes as she saves pic to her photos.

Arthur giggles, feeling his face burn. “That reminds me actually, did Chris show you his pictures from the pub golf?” He then asks. Y/n shakes her head.

They both stop walking as Arthur holds a finger up, signifying to hold on for a moment while he scrolls through his photo album. “They’re the rejected ones of the group pictures he made us take halfway through,” he explains, “look at this one then scroll to the next. Notice anything?” He hands y/n his phone and smiles from ear to ear as he watches her look.

In the group photos, Arthur was on the far left but at the front, whereas y/n is on the far right and stood further back. In the first photo, Arthur is looking over his shoulder and smiling across at y/n as her eyes are on the camera. When she swipes across, the next photo shows her looking sweetly at Arthur while he smiled at the camera. Arthur chuckles quietly as y/n bites her lips between her teeth.

“We can’t keep our eyes off each other, what do you suppose that means?” He asks genuinely, tilting his head. He reaches for his phone and takes a long inhaled breath as he brushes over her fingers with his.

Her heart skips a beat as his hand lingers on hers for a couple of seconds. “I… I don’t know,” she replies, now struggling to keep eye contact. “I can’t speak for you, but for me personally I-”

“Sorry to interrupt baes,” Hill interjects awkwardly, “but George is hangry again and I thought we could head to a bakery and chill for a bit before checking out the night life.” Arthur’s eyes were wide, but soften into a more polite look, trying to hide his disappointment. Y/n on the other hand is relieved because she isn’t sober enough to find the right words yet.

They all head to a cake shop nearby, Hill talking Arthur and James’s heads off while George keeps y/n company.

“I’m sorry if my greed ruined any hashtag y/nTV moments back there,” George whispers, “it was looking quite serious, but my stomach is literally rumbling.” He isn't kidding.

“It’s OK really, I suck at serious conversations,” she mumbles back. She goes on to tell him what happened.

“Arthur gives hints really well, but he sucks at taking them,” George explains with a shrug, “if you can’t find the words, maybe you can show him with actions?” This gives y/n food for thought. Her mind starts racing with what she can do rather than what she can say.

“Thank you Clarkey.” She quickly gives his forearm a grateful squeeze.

George is the only one who orders at the bakery, the others not feeling up to eating anything sweet at that moment. It becomes pretty clear how George can throw back so many drinks but remain relatively sober compared to the others. It’s a smart tactic.

While George munches away, Arthur plays a game of chess on his phone. Y/n watches over his shoulder, both of them in total silence. Meanwhile, Hill scrolls through his phone, looking for karaoke bars and nightclubs, feeling in the mood to sing and dance.

"There isn't much available in terms of night time fun..." Hill murmurs, "But we could catch an 8 minute train to Maidstone, which seems to have more to offer for us youngsters."

George wipes his lips, "Yeah I'm down for that mate."

"Same here," y/n chimes in with a smile. They all look to Arthur, but he's too engrossed in his match. Sensing the silence, he peers up to see everyone's eyes on him. He blinks for a couple of seconds before nodding too, although he's not entirely sure what he just signed up for.

They make their short walk to the station, the train arriving at the perfect time. Sitting in a six-seater area, Hill explains to the camera: "We are heading to Maidstone now, they seem to have more things for us to do there."

Arthur, who is sat next to Hill and opposite y/n, whips his phone back out to play more online chess. George and y/n try tallying up their drinks so far and talk about the best part of Aylesford.

"I liked Little Gem, it was really cozy and cute." Y/n stated with a smile. It's the only moment on the short train ride that makes Arthur look away from his phone. George crosses his arms with a smug look on his face.

"I enjoyed that place too," he adds, "yeah, I saw a really cute couple share an intimate moment there. It was nice to see." His grin grows wider. It's the kind of statement that's only innocent to those who aren't aware of the context, the clever prat. Arthur, back to staring at his phone at this point, widens his eyes for a brief moment. Until now, he didn't know that George saw him peck y/n's cheek.

"I liked scoping out the MILFs at the social club." Hill adds, smiling playfully.

"Oh my goodness..." Arthur mutters, shaking his head.

They arrive at Maidstone and head straight for the Wetherspoons nearby, being only a two minute walk away.

"Ah, another one of your famous hikes ey Arthur?" George quips to Hill as they all walk, his voice laced with sarcasm.

"Yep, I'm thinking of renaming this series to 'long-walk roulette'." He replies, matching George's tone.

Meanwhile, James captures shots of the four walking together, with y/n and Arthur closer to the camera. "Did you win your match?" Y/n asks him.

"Yeah, although I think it'll be my last game of the day now we're drinking even more." He chuckles in response.

Reaching the pub, named The Society Rooms, Hill heads to the bar with James as the other three find a quieter spot outside. Hill orders a bunch of shots on a tray again, and carries them out to the group.

Donning a mischievous smirk, he declares: "Who's up for a game of 'say it or shot it'?" George pinches his nose bridge.

"We basically played this in Aylesford." He grumbles.

"No Georgie baby, that was 'never have I ever'." Hill scolds in a soft motherly tone. "You can go first then." Passing a shot to George.

"Fine by me, sugar tits." He mumbles back, holding the shot ready.

"George," Hill begins, "who, out of the women you've collaborated with, do you think is the most attractive?" George thinks for a second, before taking his shot.

"Y/n," Hill turns his attention to her and hands her a shot, "what's the name of the creator you collaborated with that you HATED?"

Sighing, she shakes her head. "I didn't hate them." She mumbles, but takes her shot anyway, her eyes getting heavy.

"Right then, Mr Television... Would you give up chess for sex?" Hill asks, the sudden randomness catching the others off guard.

"Oh my god!" Arthur yells in shock. He looks at his shot and pauses, "I do love chess, but yes. I would." His face begins to burn up again as he avoids looking at y/n.

"OK then Hill," George says, having a think of an annoying question to ask, "what's the name of the last girl whose DMs you have a'slid?"

"Fuck that." Hill immediately replies, downing his shot.

The game lasts quite a while, almost getting enough footage for an entire separate video, the sky now dark. George slides one of the last remaining shots to y/n, he stares at her through narrowed eyes, "Y/n."

"Yes George."

"Out of everyone here, who would you rather bang?"

Arthur's mouth falls open as Hill lets out an "Ooooooooo"

Y/n laughs and miraculously thinks fast. "Out of you three or everyone on the premises?"

George lets out a chuckle. "This table." He doubles down.

Y/n exhales slowly, looking around at the three men as if she doesn't already know. Arthur watches her intently, he swallows when she locks eyes on him. She teases them. "I think..." She starts, taking a long pause before downing the shot and smiling smugly. The boys all react disappointedly, just as she hoped.

Hill picks up the remaining shot and places it in front of Arthur. "Arthur, is there anyone you've collaborated with that you would love to make sweet love with"? He leans back in his chair, proud of his question.

Arthur folds his arms, wearing a casual smile. "Yes." He simply answers. The other three go wide eyed.

"Who?" Hill asks.

"I've already answered my question, it's someone else's turn now." Arthur states, moving the shot away, pleased with himself. The disappointment nearly smacks Hill across the face.

Hill, slightly annoyed he didn't get a funnier reaction our of Arthur, passes the shot to George. "Clarkey, how big is your willy?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." he replies with a wink.

They head to a nearby cocktail bar name Social Chill Bar, to get 'white girl wasted' as Hill puts it, although it's safe to say they are all already quite drunk at this point. Within the 4 minute walk, George manages to walk into a lamppost, Arthur attempts to climb up a different lamppost, and y/n trips over her own feet. All of which is caught on camera.

Spotting the bar up ahead, George tells the others to look sharp, so they don't get turned away for being too drunk already. It works, although Arthur gets IDed again, another fantastic moment for the video. George immediately heads for the toilets, whereas Hill heads to the bar with James to buy a couple of pitchers. Y/n and Arthur pick a table that's tucked more away from the others.

"IDed again Arthur, now I've got the ick." Y/n jokes. Arthur rests his arm on the table, twisting his upper body to face her.

"Hmm," he taps her arm playfully, "that would mean you were into me beforehand." He quips before hiccupping. The pair start giggling.

"Touché," is all y/n can muster as the laughter dies down. Hill and James join the table.

"Where's Clarkey?" Hill asks, "Having his famous Clarkey shit?"

"Probably, he is in the toilets." Y/n replies, amused. However as if on cue, George emerges.

The group all giggle and make jokes as they share two pitches between them. Due to a loud hen party that also enter the bar, they don't spend too long or record too much.

"There's a karaoke bar like a minute walk away from here." Hill informs the table. They're all keen and work on their 'sober' look to ensure they get in that pub too.

Standing out side the Royal Albion pub, Hill decides to do his outro there as the bar is blaring copyrighted music. The four say good bye to the camera, followed by a good bye and thank you to James, who kindly declines the offer to join them and gets an Uber home.

They successfully enter the pub, which is quite lively as they four nab themselves a table near the karaoke area. Y/n and Hill go to the bar to order drinks, y/n ordering her go-to and a Southern Comfort for Arthur.

Meanwhile at the table, Arthur is sat next to George and can't contain it anymore. "I'm in love with y/n," he blurts out.

George laughs at the sudden statement. "Steady on Arthur, you've only met her once before."

"Yes," Arthur holds his finger up in a 'well actually' way, "but we've been texting nearly everyday since we first met, and even played games online together."

"Fair enough mate," George shrugs, happy for him, "but what are you gonna do about it?" Arthur curls his finger and dabs it against his mouth while he ponders.

While waiting for their drinks to be made, Hill turns to y/n with a snigger. "You ready to watch Arthur dance? It'll be make or break for you."

"I've seen plenty of clips online already, he sure can throw that ass back." Y/n replies as they both chuckle. The bartender hands them their drinks as they search for their table.

A drunk woman approaches the mic and sings a very original rendition of Celine Dion's 'My Heart Will Go On'. The four sway at their table, while random couples slow dance. "I'm gonna put some songs and names down, who's up for singing?" Hill asks. Arthur is quick to put his hand up, whereas George and y/n shake their heads.

"I'd need to be at least thrice as pissed." Y/n explains apologetically, "But I'm up for dancing." The two Arthurs go up to the table where they write down their songs, Hill explains to the karaoke host that one of the songs he wants to sing is his own and he'll use the instrumental saved on his phone and hold it near the microphone. The host is intrigued and allows it.

When they rejoin the table, y/n asks what they're going to sing. "It's a surprise." Hill grins before Arthur can answer. They spend the next few minutes being entertained by the mixture of singers, some good, some bad. George takes a fancy to a cute girl who sang 'Love Story' by Taylor Swift and after some encouragement from the three, he approaches her when she's at the bar.

"Next up with have Arthur Hill with 'You're Beautiful'!" The host calls out. Y/n and Arthur cheer him as he approaches the microphone. As the instrumental plays, Arthur stands up, adjusts his shirt, then extends a hand to y/n. "Wanna dance?" He asks, his face donning a sweet smile.

Of course, y/n accepts the invitation. She takes his hand, the contact still feeling as electric as it does sober, as they join the other pairs that are already dancing. Arthur's not quite sure where to put his hands, so y/n gently takes them and places them at her waist, she then rests her hands on his broad shoulders. He chuckles shyly at her and begins swaying with her, copying what the other couples are doing.

'She smiled at me on the subway She was with another man'

Spending a lot of time looking at their feet so he doesn't tread on her, Arthur's cheeks begin to ache from smiling. As they slowly rotate, y/n locks eyes with Hill. He winks at her while still singing effortlessly.

'But I won't lose no sleep on that 'Cause I've got a plan'

Arthur looks back up to y/n as he quietly sings along, his glossy eyes peering lovingly into hers. "You're beautiful" the sweetness causing y/n to giggle as she starts singing along too.

'I saw your face in a crowded place And I don't know what to do'

Arthur not wanting to sing the next lyric, pulls y/n flush against him as they continue to slow dance. A little winded, she instinctively hugs her arms around his waist. He then readjusts so his arms are wrapped on top of hers and lowers his chin onto her shoulder.

As the song continues, Arthur clasps his hand around y/n's wrist and gently pulls her arm out so he can hold her hand, still holding each other with the other arms. They sway like this for the rest of the song, Arthur singing along to "You're beautiful" again into y/n's ear in a low, soothing voice. She can feel his heart thud against her as he draws small circles against the side of her hand with his thumb, and she's certain he can hear her heartbeat over the speakers. They dance like this for the rest of the song, both with their eyes closed contently.

George, while still sitting up at the bar with the swiftie, records Hill as he sings, then records a separate video of the lovebirds dancing together. He uploads the clip of Hill to his story, captioning it with 'never heard him sing this before', but sends the other video to y/n and Arthur privately. "They're in love, but they haven't confessed to each other yet." He whispers to the sweet girl, while casually leaning on the bar top. She likes this hopeless romantic side to him and gives him her Instagram handle.

When the song ends, y/n and Arthur pull away from each other, gazing into each others eyes as the rest of the pub guests applaud Hill. Arthur puts his hand to his chest and makes an exaggerated 'phew', his dorky way of joking with her about how nervous he was. Her left hand still clasped onto his right, she giggles at his wholesomeness.

The host congratulates Hill on his rendition of the song. "And next up we have... Arthur... TV, with 'She's So Lovely'!''

Arthur is snapped out of his daze, "Oh! It's my turn!" He shrieks, his voice far too loud now the song is over. He gives y/n's hand a squeeze and jogs to the 'stage' area.

He clasps the microphone and clears his throat. "Hi, this song is dedicated to someone amazing I met a few months-" he's cut off by the song starting, he shrugs and laughs. The girl George was talking to joins her friends to dance, so he jogs to y/n to dance with her, as does Hill. Arthur's eyes switch between looking shyly at the floor and peering over at y/n as she dances with two of his best friends. A smile evident in his voice every time he watches her laugh as they twirl her around and sing along. Y/n can't believe how good he sings, his voice soft as ever and hitting every key, except for the odd occasion where his voice breaks.

George steps away to record Arthur singing, to put this on his story too. No caption this time, just tagging Arthur and the pub. Hill grabs y/n's hands and swings their arms side to side. Before the song is even finished, George shows y/n the number of replies to his story with speculations about she's there and if Arthur's singing about her. In the video, it's obvious he had his eyes on someone, except for when he looked at George's phone, but y/n was out of view the whole time.

When the song is over the pub give him a round of applause, with y/n, George, and Hill cheering him extra loud. Arthur takes an awkward little bow and rejoins his friends. "That was amazing!" Y/n screams, the clapping dying down.

"I'm glad you enjoyed, really." He gently pats her on the back, unable to draw his eyes away from her. Another person begins singing another Taylor Swift song, so George quickly peers around for his 'pub girl'. He spots her running back to the dance floor with her friends and she waves him over. He's gone in a flash. "Ohh I span too much," Hill groans as he sits back down at their table, his face turning pale.

"Do you want some water Hilly?" Y/n asks him caringly. He exhales out a risky burp and nods his head.

"I'll grab it, you keep an eye on him. D'you want another drink?" Arthur kindly offers. Y/n wobbles a little as she takes a seat next to Hill and rests her hand on his shoulder.

"I think I've had enough for tonight, maybe a water for me too please?" Y/n replies, patting her stomach with her free hand.

"Good point, three waters it is then." Arthur grins as he weaves around the dancers to get to the bar.

Y/n checks her phone to see the notification from George. She opens the video of her and Arthur slow dancing. As his face pivoted into view, her heart melts at how happy he looked. His head tilted and rested against hers, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly upturned at the corners. She then watches how safe and secure she looked as her face came in view. "He's a really good guy," Hill slurs, peering over at her screen, "if you don't date him, I will." Y/n laughs as she hearts George's message.

"Oh Arthur," Y/n replies, sighing.

"Seriously though, girls have screwed him over in the past. And these are girls he only liked a little bit." He hiccups then clears his throat, taking y/n's hand and gently swinging it around. "With you, he's just... different. In a good way."

"I really like him." Y/n mumbles, chuckling as she watches Hill continue to pull her hand around. "But I need to hear it from him, and soberly preferably. I mean, I might just seem good through the beer goggles." She sniggers.

Hill shakes his head. "No, no, no. He talks about you all the fucking time y/n, drink or no drink. Trust me, he really likes you."

They spot Arthur awkwardly juggling three glasses of water towards their table. "Speaking of the devil!" Hill croaks, immediately downing half the glass.

"Oh no, what were you guys saying?" Arthur asks, his voice riddled with a nervous laugh as his eyes dart between the two of them. Y/n gestures as if it was nothing, but Hill has other ideas.

"Just about how much you like y/n." He bluntly states with a shrug. Arthur and y/n's eyes go wide.

"W-what? What d'you mean?" Arthur stutters, spraying a little water.

"Yeah," Hill smirks, shrugging again, "you know, you think she's a great content creator. That's all." He then gulps down the rest of this water and exhales loudly. "Thanks guys, I feel much better." Sliding his glass to the far end of the table, he then gets up and excuses himself.

“That was weird,” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow. He takes a seat next to y/n as another singer takes the stage. “How come you want to stop drinking? Are you not having fun anymore?”

“Actually it’s the opposite,” y/n giggles, “I don’t want to forget how fun today’s been and if I drink any more, I’ll probably black out.”

“That’s fair enough.” Arthur relaxes and a smile grows back on his face.

George returns to the table. “Hey you two, on the water already?”

“Yep, I was just telling Arthur that I’m having too much fun and don’t want to forget the day.” Y/n replies.

“Oh yeah, I remember you told me once, that alcohol doesn’t wipe your memory but stops you creating them, right?” George queries.

Y/n nods, “that’s right.”

“You are aware that most of today was caught on camera though.” George replies, to which y/n starts laughing into her hand.

George peers to the empty seat next to y/n. “Where’s Hill?”

“The other Arthur has gone to the toilet I think.” Y/n replies.

“Shit. I better make sure he hasn’t passed out or something, I think it’ll be his turn to sing again soon.” George hurries to the toilets. Arthur shifts his chair closer to y/n.

“So, if he’s the ‘other Arthur’, does that make me ‘Arthur number one’?” He asks, wearing a cheeky smile as he drums her arm with his fingers.

“Of course, you’re always number one.” Y/n wholeheartedly replies. Arthur’s eyebrows arch upwards as he lets out a quiet ‘aww’. He squeezes her hand.

“I know I’ve said this already but I’m so glad you came today. I was worried all the comments and posts about us would put you off, honestly.” Arthur explains, his words still slightly slurring.

“Oh no, not at all! I get shipped with everyone.” Y/n awkwardly chuckles in response. “Although not as much as with you.”

“Indeed.” Arthur slowly nods, his heavy eyes focusing on her lips. “It’s because you’re so good to everyone.”

George rejoins the pair. “The karaoke host is kindly letting Arthur plug his phone into their laptop, so his backing track will play on the speakers properly.” He explains.

“That’s really generous!” Arthur replies enthusiastically.

George nods as he takes his seat. “That’s where he’s been, not dead on the bathroom floor like I thought.”

The host reintroduces Hill to the stage, explaining that he’ll be singing his own song, which greatly interests the crowd. “I’m gonna find my sweet swiftie.” George shouts as he darts off.

“Shall we dance again?” Arthur asks y/n, standing to his feet and offering his arm.

She stands too, looping her arm with his. “I thought you’d never ask!” She yells in a jokey tone. Arthur leads her to a secluded corner by one of the speakers, hoping to have a little privacy.

‘I started learning piano Just so I could write songs about you’

They arrange themselves into another slow dance position. Arthur’s left hand on her waist and with the other, gently holding her left hand up and out to their side, y/n rests her free hand on his shoulder again. They sway in total bliss to Hill’s beautiful love song. Arthur mouths the words to y/n, gazing deeply into her eyes with a soft look. She feels a warm swirly feeling in her chest, which both surprises her and soothes her at the same time.

Never would y/n have ever pictured her adult self bar hopping and getting drunk with friends, only to end the night with slow dancing, especially with someone like Arthur. But she’s never met anyone like him before, and neither has he with her.

Y/n spots George with the cute girl he’s been chatting to throughout the night, they look really sweet together as he peers down at her with rosy cheeks, them in a similar dance position. Y/n gestures towards them with her head, and Arthur looks over his shoulder. The pair slow to a halt and watch for a while, although they still have an arm around each other.

“He looks so smitten and happy!” Y/n calls out over the music, her eyes still locked on them proudly. Arthur turns his head to look down at his dance partner.

“Yeah.” He whispers with a soft smile, although y/n can’t hear him over the speakers. He hesitates before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, his lips buried in her hair. She beams, her pulse quickening.

They resume their dancing as the second chorus comes on.

‘I don’t want you, I crave you I fucking need you’

Arthur stares at y/n through hooded eyelids, the ‘need you’ part really hitting home for him. Y/n returns his gaze, noticing a slight change in his facial expression, but isn’t entirely sure what to make of it.

‘Your face is at the forefront Your name grips onto my tongue’

His eyes a little glossy, he looks deeply into both her eyes, darting between the two. His face drops slightly, donning a nervous expression as the next words are sung:

‘But I’m too scared to ask If I’m buried at the back’

Sensing his hesitation, y/n lurches up and plants quick a kiss to Arthur’s lips. He reciprocates, and when she stands flat again, he stares at her for a couple of seconds, a half smile fading onto his face. It felt exactly how he dreamt it would.

‘I don’t want you, I crave you'

He lets go of her briefly only to cup her cheeks as he crashes his lips down into hers.

'I fucking need you’

Their lips slowly but passionately work in rhythm as y/n wraps her arms around his torso. One of his hands slides up to grip the hair at the back of her head, the other wraps around her shoulders, holding her tighter. He turns his head slightly so he can pull her even closer as he deepens this kiss, his nose digs into her cheek and his stubble tickles her skin, but she welcomes the feelings. She tastes his Southern Comfort and he tastes her drink, creating a cocktail of their own. The flashing colourful lights of the pub reflect the fireworks in her head.

The song finishes, as does their kiss. They pull away from each other, breathless, still in each others embrace. There’s a shared look of adoration in each others eyes, mixed with something else. Want. Arthur’s eyes appear darker than usual, peering down as his mouth is still slightly open. Y/n looks up at him through her eyelashes.

The applause from the other pub folk snaps them back to reality, a soft shy smile creeping on Arthur’s lips as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind y/n’s ear. Y/n can’t help but giggle, goosebumps lining her skin.

They make their way back to the small crowd. George’s babe says good bye to him as she leaves with her friends, not before she gestures at her phone to him.

Once they’re gone, George turns back to y/n and Arthur as Hill rejoins them.

“Finally!” George bellows, a grin on his face.

“Aw George, did you get a kiss?” Y/n asks sweetly, heart still racing as Arthur puts an arm around her waist.

“No,” George smirks, “but I know who did.” He holds his phone up to show a photo of y/n and Arthur. The picture looks so romantic, like it was from a romcom.

“Oh my!” Hill shrieks, his eyes wide but accompanied with a smirk.

Y/n and Arthur look at him with a mix of surprise and embarrassment, and a small hint of pride.

“Don’t worry guys, I took it. I spotted you making out when my girl went to grab her drink.” He says as he forwards the picture to them both. “Just remember to give me photo cred when you hard launch to the world.”

Arthur and y/n look to each other and share a laugh, the tension seeping out.

“Proud of you mate,” Hill says as he slaps Arthur’s back. “Wish you’d done it during recording so my video could go viral, but whatever.’

The group decide to head back to the station soon after, with Hill’s queasiness creeping back up on him. The train rides are pretty quiet, most of creators exhausted from the day, except Arthur. He talks the majority of the time, with y/n listening intently and nodding, all the while scanning through the photos she’d taken throughout the day. George is scrolling through his story replies, Hill has fallen asleep with his head gently rattling against the window.

Sitting beside her, Arthur leans across. “When did you take that?” He asks, pointing at a photo of y/n from outside the Aylesford Friars.

“George took that, I think while you were learning Aylesford trivia.” She giggles in response.

“It’s beautiful.” Arthur replies with a smile. He then watches her scroll through the rest of the day’s photos and videos, landing on the pic she’d saved of their sweet kiss.

“Wow.” He mutters, leaning even closer to her. “That was amazing.” He then whispers, almost seductively.

“Get a room.” Hill groans, his eyes fluttering open.

“Yeah, or at least a different carriage.” George mumbles.

Arthur huffs and sits up straight, a sheepish smile spreading across his face.

“Saw you dancing away with your pub girl.” He says to George.

“Yeah, tell us all about her.” Y/n chimes in, leaning forward on the small plastic table and resting her chin on her hands. Hill grumbles and seemingly dozes off again, as George tells what sounds like the beginning of a modern love story.

When they arrive back home, George and Hill say their good byes to the pair, after Arthur kindly offers y/n a walk back to hers.

Y/n, seemingly a little more sobered up, feels the cold of the British night hit her fast. She tried to hide it, but Arthur can tell. “Oh, here.” Before she even looks at him, his hoodie is off and he hands it to her.

“What? Won’t you be cold?” She asks bashfully.

“Absolutely not,” Arthur kindly replies, looking at the floor as they walk, “I have enough alcohol in my system to keep me warm.”

Y/n stops for a moment while she slips it over her head, that familiar aftershave once again embracing her senses. “And besides, I’m still a little heated from earlier.” He chuckles, wiggling his eyebrows as they continue.

She swats at his arm playfully as she laughs. “I’m glad you enjoyed it as much as I did.” She states.

“What’s not to enjoy?” He looks at her, “the hottest girl in the world giving you the best kiss in the world?” The evening just gets better and better.

“You’re too kind. It was really good though.” She hugs herself a little tighter, butterflies fill her stomach as she remember this kiss vividly.

They continue walking in a comfortable silence, Arthur reaches for her hand and squeezes it. “We’re quite close to my place actually,” he starts, his voice low and pensive, “if you’d like to come over?”

Y/n hums as she thinks about it. “I don’t see why not, I kept my schedule clear over the next few days in case I needed to crash at someone’s. Or recover.”

“My… my roommates are out of town too, so it would be just us.” He shyly adds, peering down at her with darkened eyes. Interesting.

♥•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥

[PART FOUR]

A/n: Thank you for the support and for reading again hehe, I'm sorry this took so long but I've been so swamped with work recently If you're from Aylesford or Maidstone, I apologise in advance if I butchered your town... part 4? 👀 ♥ Tag list: @ooostarwarsfandom501st @themdera @rougetv @essieswurld - Gabby xo

[another-goblin]

I've seen a lot of interesting opinions about Dr. Ratio. Some of them I disagree with. So I decided to compile a little list of why I disagree with them. The first part will be about things that seem factually incorrect, and the second part is about things that are rather a matter of interpretation and context.

As always, I might be wrong, so feel free to correct me.

1. Things that seem factually incorrect. 

"Ratio is an egoist and does everything for attention and recognition" - I don't remember him ever saying or doing anything that would indicate that. He saved these researchers secretly and made our TB take all the credit. He later even calls himself a "supporting character". He gets angry if we ask him for an autograph.

"He doesn't care about people" - yes, if you skipped his passionate speech to Screwllum about how much he cares about people. But also, everything he does in the game is helping people (saving these researchers on Herta station, offering us his help later in the express dialogues and messages - offering us to enroll in university, participate in devates, turn the express into a weapon, later helping Aventurine with his plan, helping him to find information, and so on).

"He hasn't achieved anything in science" - the list of his scientific achievements is easily available, I wouldn't say it's nothing. But I'll also leave this here:

Even his dedicated hater disagrees with this.

"Ratio's note did nothing to convince Aventurine to stay alive, it was all Acheron" - from how I see it, he was fully determined to end his life up until he read that note. Otherwise, why would they introduce the note at all? Why did Acheron feel the need to remind him of it?

"He never wanted to draw the gaze of Nous" and "He still wants it" - we can deduce that it isn't true from different parts of the game (he actually wanted it in the past but doesn't anymore), but that is a direct confirmation:

(I trust Screwllum's opinion.)

"Everybody hates him in-universe" - this is interesting because I even heard this from his fans. And it might sort of feel intuitive, but I don't remember any evidence of that. He literally has an in-universe fan club. People who knew him closely talk about him warmly in his character stories. The only person I remember ever expressing any negativity towards him was some shcolar in the Simulatred Universe, but I don't think it counts. I'll talk more about his students in particular later, but short version: I don't think they hate him either.

"I hate it when he tells me 'Zero points, get out' and throws chalk at me, that's mean" - that's so weirdly specific, but I've seen it a dozen times already. And, like, why??? He tells it to his enemies, not to us. I mean, nobody's angry at Serval for electrocuting her fans with her guitar just because that's what she does in her fighting animation.

Speaking of combat voice lines, if we wait too long, most characters get irritated and try to hurry us up. Meanwhile Ratio:

'That's okay, take your time, it's a turn-based game after all.'

"He's physically abusive to his students, he throws chalk at them" - similar to the previous point. I don't remember any mention of him doing that. The only case of him using physical force against a (potential) student was when, as a TA, he threw away a rich asshole who tried to buy a degree. And yes, in the boring real world, I wouldn't approve of that, but in the world of the game - well done, good ridance!

"He doesn't tolerate people disagreeing with him, he thinks he's always right"

"He's responsible for the crisis at Herta Station" - how though? I saw this opinion several times, and I'm really curious what people mean by that. Did he himself endanger these researchers by teleporting them who knows where, then faked the video from Duke Inferno, and so on? But why stop here while we're at it , maybe he also impersonated Ruan Mei, left the bug on the station, abandoned the poor cat-creatrures and drugged us with a cake?…

"He's worse than Dottore from Genshin" - technically it's a matter of opinion, but I think nobody will mind if I put it in the 'just wrong' category. But yeah, that's an opinion I've heard. I've got no idea what they meant, but it made me think, how many people did he help and save, both in the game and in his past? Probably more than most of the characters we've met so far. And he doesn't seem to discriminate, it's not 'I'll save my people'. He cured that disease for everybody's benefit, he saved Herta's researchers, he helped TB unravel the events on the station and then proceeded to pester them offering his help, he cosideres some troubled IPC executive 'his responsibility' and so on.

"He actually betrayed Aventurine" - no comments. Come on, play the game, read the dialogues.

1.5. A little intermission.

The thing that's hard to deny is that he definitely doesn't mince his words. Whether you see it as him being a rude asshole, being justifiably angry, brutally honest, sarcastic, or snarky, or showing tough love, or just being incapable of expressing himself in an adequate and socially acceptable way, it's up to you. I can understand how some people might be uncomfortable with that. I personally find it an interesting character trait. (I mean, he isn't even capable of expressing positive feelings in a normal way, what did you expect of him?):

There is also a very interesting (but rather confusing) thing that can be missed if you are unwilling to see further than the initial shallow impression, but it is impossible to unsee once you've noticed it. He sees himself as a teacher in two very different ways. It can be missed at first because both ways are described in very similar words. These ways are: 

a teacher in a traditional sense (let's call it 'academic teacher'); 

and as something akin to a 'life coach', just helping people and making them realize that they shloud (and can) rely on themselves.

The thing is, we never see him in his 'academic teacher' role. As far as we know, he only acts this way with his university students. We never see him teaching anybody any scientific stuff, or berating people for their lack of knowledge and education. Yet he says that he considers everybody his students. But what does he mean if it's not about knowledge? He means it in the second 'life coach' meaning. Therefore, he sees literally everybody as worthy of his help and support.

BTW, I feel like his main problem as a character is that people tend to settle on the first impression they get of him and are unwilling to see further than that. Meanwhile, the game continues to explore his personality, revealing that most things about him are actually the opposite of what they might seem at first. That's why so many people think that he calls everybody idiots for being less smart than him, that he's egoistic and unfeeling, that he values knowledge above all, and so on. So if you actually have interest in him as a character, I'd encourage you to look at him more closely.

2. Now to the things that are more open to interpretation.

"He uses mean words" -to be honest, I'm not a big fan of writers making him use these words (idiots, fools, stupidity, and so on) because, first, they are usually used as just empty insults. (I'm curious whether he uses similar words in Chinese or something more nuanced). So I can understand how it can put some people off. And the second problem is that it feels like he means different things every time he uses these words. It's quite confusing. Here is a post where people helped me find different cases of him using these words; you can check it out yourself.

Let's look closer at some of these cases: 

-'While geniuses wander among the stars, the ordinary can't even trace their footsteps. Those less gifted have no choice but to walk alone, enduring a lifetime of tumbles and triumphs. But even a life marked by failure is a life worth living — it is only in moments of solitude and despair, when help is absent, that fools grasp how to pick themselves up' He seems to contrast geniuses with fools here, so fools are everybody who's not a genius. So if you are inclined to see him this way, if you squint, you can technically see it as him insulting people based on their intellectual abilities, right?… Except, he includes himself among these fools, so no:

So it's basically 'all who are not geniuses are fools, including me'. Which is an interesting way to put it, but it definitely doesn't mean ''you are all fools for not being as smart as me''.

But he mostly uses these words when he talks about his fellow scholars:

-'First, with the headpiece on, isolated from my five senses, I can think without interference. And second, I don't have to set eyes on stupid people' - we only see him wearing the plaster head on Herta's Station, a place full of the most brilliant minds in the universe. We never see him using it again with normal people, so the word 'stupid' here can't be about people's intelligence.

There is also an interesting little detail:

He admires her intelligence (although in a sarcastic manner) in his 'about Herta' voiceline. He doesn't wear his 'anti-stupid' mask when he's with TB or Aventurine, but he always wears it with Herta. Which is very telling, and indicates again what he means by 'stupid'.

Some other examples:

-'(…)the fools from the Guild with ambitions beyond stars should be banished from my sight and thereby mind' -'Don't invert priorities like these dolts from the guild' -'I cannot stand fools, idiots, or imbeciles. Seeing them fills me with dread. Regrettably, this space station is just like the Intelligentsia Guild — devoid of geniuses and filled with mediocrity' -'Ah, the Technology Department. Charming little place, isn't it? Madam Yabuli does possess some semblance of competence, but her subordinates? Oh, they're a riot — brimming with enthusiasm yet utterly devoid of intellect. It's as if evolution halted prematurely for them'

He is absolutely RUTHLESS when he talks about scientists, because he expects a lot from them.

So no, I don't think he'd call you an idiot for not being an A student, or having learning difficulties, or just lacking an interest in learning. He absolutely would though if you were a brilliant scientist, priveledged with great education, resources, and a personal lab, squandering your talents and funds on a useless vanity project, or hoarding potentially life-saving knowledge for yourself, to use as a commodity.

"But he does call people idiots!" - I've noticed that most of the time he uses these 'insults' he talks about some groups of people.

I could only think of 3 times when he called an individual an idiot. He calls Aventurine an idiot because he 'lost' the stones (but it doesn't count because he plays a role and pretends that he hates Aven). A scholar in an event in SU complains of Ratio calling him an idiot (I'm not sure it actually happened, it's just a story in SU).

But there is one case of him calling somebody an idiot and actually meaning it. And who is this poor victim of his terrible verbal abuse? It's himself. Whoops. (speaking of how he's supposedly full of himself and thinks that he's better than the others.)

"He would call me an idiot because of my supposed lack of knowledge/education/intelligence" - I showed in the previous point why I think he wouldn't (he never seems to use these words to mean that).

But also consider this. During his interactions with Aventurine on Penacony Ratio mostly plays a role for Sunday, pretending that he despises Aventurine. That's why we can't draw any conclusions about his personality from most of their dialogues. But the moments when he breaks the role are extremely telling.

Let's look at one of them from the beginning. They argue; Ratio calls Aventurine an idiot for 'ruining their plan'. And then Aventurine mentions that he didn't go to school and lacks formal education. If there ever was a good time to call someone an idiot for being uneducated, that's it! That's what Sunday expects to hear (because his plan hinges on Ratio valuing knowledge above all else).

And what does he do? He fucking apologizes! Even for the role and for the sake of their plan, he can't bring himself to insult someone for being uneducated.

"He's mean to TB" - it's a matter of interpretation, but his behavior with us didn't strike me as mean or demeaning. He was just being sarcastic and snarky as always (and I understand that it's not everybody's cup of tea).

The situation was time-sensitive and precarious. We don't know how much control he had over it. He tried to make us realize what's going on as fast as possible, pretending that he himself is clueless. Because his goal was to show the recearchers that despite the presence of 2-3 geniuses on board, none of them were able to save them. If he just publicly saved everybody, it would be just another genius appearing out of nowhere and saving the day, which would go against his goals and his philosophy.

And later, our TB seems to regard him with a mix of respect and amusement (calling him Professor, asking for an autograph), no resentment here. So TB didn't think he was mean either.

"He values knowledge above all, he's obsessed with teaching people stuff, and he doesn't understand/accept that other people might have other priorities" - I'd argue that literally the opposite is true. He doesn't impose his knowledge on anybody against their will, and we never see him berate anybody for their lack of knowledge or education.

Sunday isn't the first person to misunderstand him that badly, and he's not having it. Even though at this point in the story, his and Aventurine's plan hinges on Sunday's misunderstanding. But I think his position is very clear: pursuit of knowledge above all is a matter of petty pride.

He says it when we ask him why he doesn't nag us about getting our act together, before a party. So basically "if learning makes you feel bad (doesn't enhance your living) then you are doing it wrong, go and have fun".

This probably isn't considered canon, but it illustrates how he sees knowledge. Here is an analogy. If I had an apple orchard, and I thought my apples were awesome and they'd make a great gift, and you should feel free to ask me if you want some. It doesn't mean that I shove my apples into people's mouths against their will and then call them idiots and spit on them when they don't like it.

"He's a bad person because he didn't help us fight the big bug" - he knew who we are. It's not in his habit to directly involve himself where he's not needed, it would go against his philosophy ('you should count on yourself; you can do it'). It's not like he left us to die; he must have known how capable our TB is. BTW, he was still looking after us, seemingly ready to come to our help:

Besides, currently nothing indicates that (outside of the turn-based gameplay) he's anything more than a normal human being. He would be a hindrance in a fight. 

"He's a bad teacher" - (first, here is an interesting post about this from the point of view of an actual teacher)

So yeah, it's about the 3% passing rate. Yes, it can mean that only 3% of his students end up learning something. It's possible that he's such a bumbling idiot of a teacher that he doesn't even understand how bad he is. It's possible that he's somehow still allowed to teach despite being THAT bad.

But I think it's much more possible (and consistent with his philosophy) that he just has very high standards. A 3% rate doesn't mean that only 3% know anything. Students might benefit enormously from his classes, even without passing. They still have all their valuable skills and knowledge.

But also, let's not forget that he doesn't teach children. He teaches at the university. And I don't think it's some 101 basics; it's likely something related to his research and discoveries, some extremely advanced cutting-edge stuff. So his students are already extremely well educated adults, who want to achieve more. He would probably see lowering his standards as a betrayal of his students.

"His students hate him" - I didn't get that impression. On the contrary, they seem quite interested in him (some times in really creepy ways):

The only indication that they might have something against him is this:

It's either a literal roll-call of actual adults who shed literal tears during his classes, or it's just students being their normal cheeky selves, being overdramatic about a strict teacher. 

An example that came to mind: I can whine about how ruthless my gym trainer is and how I couldn't walk for a week after the last leg day. And his other clients would agree. But everybody understands that it's an expression of approval, not contempt. And maybe a bit of a humble brag.

Besides, if we decide to take that post at face value, then we'll have to take this literally too, meaning that his students consider him an actual God. And I don't think it's true:

-------------------

There are still a lot of hot takes I disagree with that I haven't mentioned, but I'm too tired. This took WAY too long. Other cases are mostly quote-mining and deliberatly taking what he says out of context, which isn't very interesting to argue against (just read the full dialogue and consider the context). And also different variations on 'he's an asshole, he hates people, he thinks he's better than others, he'd call you an idiot for this or that, he's elitist, he only values knowledge and intelligence' and so on, but I think I addressed it sufficiently.

So yeah, that was my little character research. This wasn't written for his haters (I dislike some characters myself, and I wouldn't probably read 3K words about how I should change my mind). It was rather for the people who kind of like him, but who feel sad thinking how he'd probably call them idiots or something. I hope I was able to help you see him in a different way. He wouldn't call you an idiot, he'd support you.

[cripplecharacters]

What might be a good way to design a wheelchair in a medieval fantasy setting? The issues being that it seems to generally be a no-no to make a walking chair with legs as a wheelchair replacement, and the fact that terrain in that kinda setting is not all that friendly to wheelchairs, with dirt/mud paths, cobblestones, etc.

Hello, thank you for your ask! Please note I’m not a historian, just someone who’s done a lot of research. If anyone on Tumblr wants to add anything they know about the subject that I didn’t cover, feel free!

I’m going to start with the terrain before I get into the wheelchairs, and to start, a wheelchair can definently get over dirt and cobblestone. Even back before paved roads people needed smooth roads in order to transport carts, and even Rome had very well maintained cobbled roads in 300 A.D. to make transport as efficient as possible. There are, of course, uneaven or poorly maintained cobblestone paths, and those would certainly be an issue. If your story takes place in an area with uneaven stone roads, I’d recommend looking into manual hiking wheelchairs for design inspiration. Dirt paths shouldn’t pose as much of an issue either, unless they’re like covered in roots, plants, mounds, etc, but a well traveled dirt path should be packed well enough to not be an issue. Mud can pose an issue, but even dirt roads with hard-packed dirt from heavy foot traffic should have much more shallow puddles and less loose mud than regular loose dirt would. If your character likes in a particularly wet/rainy area I’d recommend looking into beach wheelchairs and manual all-terrain wheelchairs. Otherwise, your character should be fine on ancient roads! Now, onto ancient chairs.

The medieval ages span quite a long time, from the 5th century A.D. to the 14th century, and wheelchairs have been being created for that entire time. While many other disability aids were also being used during that time, I’m going to focus on wheelchairs and wheeled aids so I don’t make this too long, and because that’s what was asked. A quick note is that the first self propelled wheelchair was made by a watchmaker named Stephan Farffler in 1655 [pictured below], so if you want your character(s) to be able to propel themselves you’re going to have to take some creative liberties. [Note: Stephan’s chair was probably very useful for getting over uneaven terrain, with its three wheels and low center of gravity making it harder to tip.]

Records show that Greece was one of the first countries to develop wheeled-aids. The first instance of the Greeks using something similar can be found on a vase from 530 B.C. depicting a child on a bed with wheels being taken outside. Now there isn’t much surviving evidence of ancient Greek mobility aids, but there have been Greek temples found with both stairs and ramps, which imply people were being wheeled into temples fairly often [source]. There have also been vases imagining Triptolemus on a wheeled chair since 400 B.C., though it seems like imaginative work rather than something accessible to the public considering the chair doesn’t look like it could stand upright? But then again I’m not a historian and it’s possible a wealthy disabled person at the time took inspiration for what their chair would look like, or vise versa.

The first record of a wheelchair in China is found on a stone carving from 525 A.D. showing a wealthy man in a custom chair. For those with less money, records show they had been using wheelbarrows to transport disabled people since 200 A.D., and this form was definently more common for the average person who didn’t have money for a custom chair. [I unfortunately couldn’t find artwork depicting someone being carried in a wheelbarrow during this time, every picture I found was from the 1900’s and sooner, but feel free to look them up for inspiration.]

Wheelbarrows were then brought from China to Europe in the 12th century and were also used to transport people, as well as having the design changed.

In 1595 King Phillip II of Spain received the first clearly recorded wheelchair after becoming bedridden with gout. Unlike the other chairs it had the ability to have a reclining headrest and adjustable footrest. This chair was definently designed more for confort than practicality, as the king probably wouldn't need to travel any unkept roads like a poor person would.

Wheelchairs developed way more during the 18-19th centuries, and you can always look there for ideas if you want your character to be more independent.

I hope this was all helpful!

Mod Rot

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

Tom catches Evans trying to sneak into the Restricted Section for the third time that week a couple days later.

He knocks on the door frame – the element of surprise did him no favours last time – and leans against it casually. “Hard at work, Evans?”

Evans looks up at him with a glare that could strip paint, before turning the glare back to his book.

“It must be serious, to demand so much of your focus.”

No response.

“Perhaps I can help you with your research,” he offers. “I’m quite good at it.”

“What do you want, Riddle.” From the frustrated tone to the tense body language, it’s clear this is not really a question. More of a muggle sirens-and-lights warning.

“Why are you so convinced that I want something from you?” 

“You’re a Slytherin, of course you want something.”

Tom doesn’t bother to point out that Evans is also a Slytherin; he gets the sense it’s a sore spot.

“And yet you don’t exhibit such scorn for either Malfoy or Black. What makes me so deserving of your suspicion?”

Evans snorts. “Those two couldn’t disguise what they’re really after if their lives depended on it. And neither of them is trying to get into my pants.”

“Well, more fool them.”

Evans sputters, flushing up to his ears.

“Piss off, Riddle!” The boy stands up, flinging the book closed (time magic, Tom notes – something to consider later) and almost falling over in his rush to leave as he gets tangled in his chair.

Tom darts a hand out and grabs onto Evans’ wrist before he can escape.

He narrows his eyes and considers the evidence. It’s a disproportionate reaction to an innocuously flirtatious comment. Tonight's efforts to take Evans to bed (or the table, or against the wall – he’s not picky) might be a wash, but perhaps he can learn something to improve his chances in the future.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Evans scoffs, looking increasingly distraught. “Everything’s wrong! And you being weird doesn’t help.”

“Weird?” Tom says, a little offended. “If my advances are unwanted, just say the word, but there’s nothing weird–”

“Stop playing with me!”

“Why do you think I’m playing with you?”

Evans snorts derisively. “As if someone like you would be interested in someone like me.”

That brings Tom up short. Is something so trivial the only obstacle?

“Do you think so little of yourself?”

“My self-esteem is neither here nor there,” Evans says irritably. “And jesus, how big is your ego – I don’t want you, so there must be something wrong with me?”

“I didn’t say that. What did you mean by ‘someone like you’ and ‘someone like me,’ then?”

“I’m a nobody, Riddle,” Evans says after a brief pause. “No fortune to speak of, no connections in high places, no real future prospects. There’s nothing exceptional about me. And you,” he hesitates, weighing his words. “You are exceptional – you would accept nothing less for or from yourself. People expect great things from you, and I have no doubt you could achieve them.”

The boy looks straight into his eyes. “But I do doubt your ability to tell the difference between ‘great’ and ‘terrible.’” 

Tom feels a shiver slide down his spine, his breath catching in his throat. He wants to peel Evans open and find out what he knows, why he thinks that, who the hell he thinks he is to say such a thing to him. At the same time, Tom wants to get as far away from the suddenly strange boy, and that’s far more manageable at the moment.

He casts a quick obliviate and returns to his dorm. Sleep is long in coming to Tom that night.

(Tom Riddle’s Guide to Repeatedly Failing to Get Laid in the Restricted Section)

[centrally-unplanned]

I know, I am really on a "mocking Tyler Cowen" kick, I will move on from this soon. I just think the ways he is failing these days is very symptomatic of the zeitgeist faux-intellectualism and the ways thinkers are struggling to slot into an openly anti-intellectual movement.

He starts with "USAID is probably good", but in a very compliment-sandwich way. You taught me what a Straussian read is my dear Cowen, so when your "it is good" section is two lines of link dumps, and the rest of the piece is criticism, I am getting the message. So let us set that part aside and dig into those criticisms:

To be clear, I consider this kind of thing to be scandalous.  And I strongly suspect that some of the other outrage anecdotes are true, though they are hard to confirm, or not

The link is to the think tank The Urban Institute putting out a donation call because 1/3rd of its budget is from the Federal government. Which is scandalous...because...uh, why? It is the Urban Institute. They analyze government policy for hire. Their biggest customer is the government. What the fuck? Their latest research - just chosen randomly, top of the list - is an impact evaluation of a program to help at-risk youths graduate high school. Is that bad now?? Does Tyler Cowen no longer think impact evaluations of policy are good??

Imagine describing consulting firms this way: "Oil Well Advisors has hit significant headwinds now that Exxon Mobile is suspending all outside contractors", is that a scandal? Or just absolutely normal behavior for industries with large institutional clients? What is the alternative here? Does he want - in a post subtly praising the Trump Admin - the government to in-house all impact evaluations? I don't disagree that they should do more but, uh, read the room buddy?

I know I am harping on this point but I really wanna emphasize how much of a bad writing call this is - taking an actually insane position (orgs specializing in government contracts shouldn't exist lmao) and because it is so indefensible you instead just handwave it as obvious so the audience maybe doesn't notice. Very cringe.

Okay, moving on:

It does seem Nina Jankowicz and her work received funding, and that I find hard to justify.  It seems to be evidence for something broken in the process. 

The money went to her work with the Center for Information Resilience, which does investigative reporting on war crimes like in the Ukraine War. Maybe her project sucked, I don't even know, but come on. This is incredibly normal behavior for USAID.

 Or how about funds to the BBC?

You mean the BBC Media Action charity, which trains journalists and helps build out mobile & communication networks in developing countries? Should the US build 100% of its own orgs and never fund effective, international partners from US allies? Is that a coherent foreign policy goal I can just wave my hands about and never explain because it is so obvious?

He then goes into the "reforming USAID" angle:

The Samo piece is excellent.  For one thing he notes: “The agency primarily uses a funding model which pays by hours worked, thus incentivizing long-duration projects.”  And the very smart Samantha Power, appointed by Biden to run AID, “…is in favor of disrupting the contractor ecosystem.”  Samo also discusses all the restrictions that require American contractors to be involved. Here is a study on how to reform AID, I have not yet read it.

Which is totally fine, I agree if I ran USAID I could totally like boost efficiency by 50%. I bet a lot of spending is inefficient. But why are you pretending that the current admin is, in any way, aiming for technocratic reform?

Why bother bringing this thread up? That isn't what they are doing! It isn't relevant.

I love this classic trick:

According to the very smart, non-lunatic Charlie Robertson: "My data suggests US AID flows in 2024 were equivalent to: 93% of Somalia’s government revenues, 61% in Sudan, just over 50% in South Sudan and Yemen" While I do not take cutting off those flows lightly, that seems unsustainable and also wrong to me as a matter of USG policy.  Those do not seem like viable enterprises to me.

You can think whatever you want is wrong, your call. But unsustainable? All of USAID is half a percent of the federal government. Payments to Somalia are a rounding error. This is the definition of sustainable! You could run this forever and never even notice.

But okay, maybe you mean like it is creating a culture of dependency or somesuch, not the same thing but I will humor you. Let's look at the latest USAID impact assessment of their work in Somalia:

Oh whoops, looks like our ability to even evaluate programs has been stripped away by the current admin's mass purging of databases like impact assessment reports! Fortunately I have the Wayback Machine, so I can get around this:

"Culture of dependency" this money went to food and clean water for starving people. You can say whatever you want about priorities and all that shit. That it is "unsustainable". But if someone doesn't do this then some of these people die. I notice "let them die" does not appear in your bloodless discussion of "aid dependency". Maybe we should cut aid because they will be forced to get their state together and be better off in the long run. I understand that logic, I really do, you can make that case.

But fucking say it. Say "let them die" to my face. Man the fuck up.

Alright, last one since this is going on too long:

There are various reports of AID spending billions to help overthrow Assad. I cannot easily assess this matter, either whether the outcomes was good or whether AID mattered, but perhaps (assuming it was effective) such actions should be taken by a different agency or institution?

I love this one because it is a peak "attack of opportunity" moment. At the beginning of this very post he says this:

Here is a Samo analysis...The Samo piece is excellent. 

The linked piece, by the Samo Burja, is this:

The piece, to clarify, explains that USAID is not an aid agency, but fundamentally an extension of US foreign policy and conducts itself to achieve foreign policy goals. That this is its explicit, stated purpose. And Tyler Cowen says it is a great piece.

And then proceeds to say that pursuing those goals in Syria should maybe be at a different agency because that isn't "aid".

Bro you don't give a rat's ass about that! You just wanted to score points, you don't care about this at all. It was just on the list, you didn't even think about it, you just said something that sounded plausible. It is pathetic, you don't have to comment on every headline if you don't have a hot take. Just post a meme instead like a normal person.

But he does have to comment, because this post exists to ingratiate himself to the vibe shift. It as transparent as it is embarrassing - it is so limp-wristed, saying things like "the 'Elonsphere' on Twitter is very much exaggerating the horror anecdotes" when their most viral claims are just naked fabrications. Come on, man. You used to be better than this.

[currently-exsisting]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁Alchemy and Anarchy . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

(Jinx x Fem!Reader)

Part 1 Part 2

Summary: So we all know Jinx is a genius. Even without school she is able to engineer such high tech things. Making her own bombs, fixing broken things, creating a mechanical arm for Sevika, etc etc. Well what if she runs into the reader who is an alchemist from Piltover who has come to Zaun to get some illegal ingredients for her experiments. But their first encounter isn’t a particularly pleasant one… nor is their second or even third. One day Jinx realizes she hasn’t seen the reader in a while and is bored- definitely not missing the banter she would have with reader- so Jinx sneaks up to topside only to find reader isn’t home- or anywhere for that matter.

Warnings: minor talk of sedatives, explosion, mentions of deadly material (bombs, potions, poisonous plants, etc). lmk if there's anything I missed!

Note: This is my first Jinx fic so please be nice! The reader identifies as a female and she/her pronouns will be used. Also, this is part 1 of a multipart series (I’m thinking between 3-5 parts but we’ll see how it goes). 

Word count: 1.6K

You were absolutely exhausted by the mundane, lackluster lectures of the Piltover Academy’s alchemical department. The professors had a knack for making you study for hours just to grasp the most basic concepts in the most roundabout way. On top of that, your time in the actual lab was painfully sparse. When you finally got lab access—once every two weeks—the experiments were excruciatingly slow and yielded results so obvious that they felt like an insult to your intelligence. Sitting through those endless three-hour lectures, you often questioned why you had chosen this field in the first place.

That frustration was the catalyst for your decision to take matters into your own hands. You found an abandoned classroom and transformed it into your personal lab, a space where you could tinker with your own concoctions, free from the constant scrutiny and prying eyes of the professors. This turned out to be one of the best decisions you’d made since coming to the academy. Your independent research allowed you to take scientific liberties that were otherwise forbidden. At first, you limited yourself to ransacking the chemical cabinets in the student labs, careful not to disturb the order of the vials or take more than you could conceal. But even the academy’s supplies soon proved too rudimentary for the ambitious experiments you wanted to pursue.

Potions that erupted into bursts of flame with just a pinch of powder, sedatives potent enough to render a person unconscious within seconds, and vials of liquid smoke that blanketed entire rooms in seconds—these were the kinds of alchemical creations you aspired to make. But the university wasn’t equipped to support your level of innovation. So, you made the decision to venture into the Undercity.

Every student at Piltover Academy had heard the cautionary tale of Jayce Talis. The former student had sourced materials for his experiments from the Undercity and paid the price—expelled for his illegal activities, despite his so-called “good” intentions. His story was the kind parents used to scare their children into obedience. But you weren’t Jayce. You had no intention of getting caught.

You packed your bags and threw on some ragged, worn-down clothes in hopes of not standing out in the undercity. As you stepped off the lift and into Zaun, however, you realized how naive you had been. To be a Zaunite wasn’t the clothes or the avoidance of eye contact- the undercity had imprinted itself on the very souls of its citizens. It was evident in how they held themselves, always with an air of caution and skepticism, everyone around you had been living in the closest place to hell and it was damn clear to see that there was no way you were fitting in.

Yet, you still attempted to, just wanting to get your business finished and head back to your lab. You were itching to complete this potion meant to cause temporary blindness to those who breathed in its fumes. The final chemical you needed was sold in a small shop at the back end of an ally in Zaun. How did you hear of this secret location? Let’s just say some professors, frustrated by the academy's limited chemical stock, had been less discreet in their private grumblings—and you knew how to listen. 

Keeping your head low and your heart pounding like a drum, you navigated the narrow, dimly lit alleyways until you reached the shop. By some miracle, you managed to purchase the outrageously overpriced chemical without incident. Relieved, you thought the hardest part was over. Now, all you had to do was retrace your steps to the lift and head back home. It seemed simple enough. The shopkeeper had been stingy, but the Undercity itself wasn’t as terrifying as you’d imagined. Less than ideal, sure, but manageable. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all.

Lost in your thoughts, your mind wandered to the experiments waiting for you back at your lab. You were so preoccupied that you didn’t notice where you were going. Without realizing it, you walked straight into something very sturdy. 

Looking up, you saw the figure turn around, long blue braids swaying as her sharp pink eyes locked onto yours. “Hey! Watch where you’re going, asshat!” she snapped, her voice brimming with annoyance. Clearly, she’d had enough, and you were just the unfortunate straw that broke the camel’s back.

You attempt stuttering out an apology, but you too were caught off guard by the interaction, “oh- uh sorry- my bad.” You keep your head down and try to maneuver your way around her. But she was faster, sidestepping to block your path.

“Well, well, well you’re not from around here are you?” she said, her tone laced with suspicion. Shit. She found you out. Was it that obvious? She leaned forward slightly, arms tucked behind her back as she assessed you. “Soooo… whatcha doing here?”

Realizing there was no way out of this, you decided to meet her gaze. “Nothing much, just on an errand for, uh… deadly ingredients.” You said this with such a deadpan expression that the blue-haired girl took a moment to process what you said and then laughed. She laughed in your face. You were so over this city. The disgusting streets, the terrifying atmosphere, and now the crazy people. You shook your head and tried to go on your way back to Piltover, back to your cozy lab- to finally continue your experiments. Shaking your head, you tried to sidestep her again. “Whatever. I’ve got stuff to do,” you muttered, heading for the lift.

“Well shit toots, you won’t find anything deadly in some plants and dirt,” she called after you. 

“If you want deadly, I’ll show you deadly.” You stop at her words but by the time you’re halfway turned back around to face her, she had pulled out one of her bombs and disengaged it. She nonchalantly tosses the bomb off to her right. The explosion sent a rush of heat and wind that caused her long blue braids to whip dramatically in the air.

“Oh my gods, what the hell are you doing? Are you trying to get us killed?” Your eyes were wide open in shock and you clutched your bags with your ingredients close to your chest. 

She shrugged, a smirk curling at the corner of her lips. “Relax. If I wanted to get you killed, you’d already be dead.”

You stared at her, dumbfounded. This girl was completely insane. “You call that deadly?” you said, exasperated. “That’s just… chaotic and uncontrolled! Chemicals can be deadly and precise. You can get them to do different things—different kinds of deadly.”

Her smirk turned into a pout, her entire posture slumping as she groaned. “Ugh, that’s so boringggg. Deadly is deadly, there’s nothing faster or funner than bombs.”

“First of all,  “funner” is not a word.” She rolled her eyes at your correction, but you couldn’t help the smirk tugging at your lips. The absurdity of arguing with someone so casually dangerous was almost entertaining, and you found yourself wondering if she always defended her bombs with such childlike stubbornness. “Secondly, potions are much more controllable, can you sedate someone with your bombs? I don’t think so.” you put your hand on your hips and gazed at her in a judgmental manner. She could insult you all she wanted but she wasn’t going to say anything bad about your life’s work.

She raised an eyebrow, her pink eyes gleaming with mischief.  “Why would you bother with “sedating” when you can just knock ‘em out cold with one of these?” She patted the satchel slung over her shoulder, the sound of clinking metal confirming it was loaded with explosives.

You roll your eyes. “Right, because bludgeoning someone with a bomb is so subtle. If you need to get out of a situation quietly, my potions are better. Or, do you enjoy being loud and drawing attention to yourself all the time?”

“Yeah, well duh. Subtle is boring. Loud is exciting! All those plants and concoctions, it’s all boring nerd shit.” Her blue braids swayed to one side as she tilted her head, to edge you one. She looked almost like a puppy. Almost-puppies aren’t as bothersome or volatile as this Zaunite was.

You noticed your shadow growing longer as the sun began to set and decided that your argument should be saved for another day on account of your safety. If the undercity was this hectic during the day, you didn’t want to stay around and discover what the nightlife entailed. “One day I’ll show you how awesome this “nerd shit” really is.” 

The blue-haired girl smirked at your words, clearly not taking you seriously. “Pfft. Sure, nerd. Maybe one day you’ll grow a spine and ditch those snooze-fest potions for something with a bang.”

You sighed, already regretting engaging her this much. The faint flicker of street lights turning on further contorted the shadows, the chaotic streets taking on an even more ominous feel.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sticking around here to debate with someone who thinks explosions solve everything.” You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, carefully avoiding her gaze. “Enjoy your bombs, loudmouth.”

She scoffed, leaning against the wall with a smug expression. “Enjoy your boring potions, nerd. Do yourself a favor and try not to spill anything and melt your face off.”

Without another word, you turned and walked away, forcing yourself to focus on retracing your steps. The weight of her gaze lingered on your back, but you didn’t look back. There was no way you’d let her see how much she’d gotten under your skin.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

I really enjoyed the sorting questions that you went through for the golden trio + draco. What do you think Voldemort's would look like? I can see him as a slytherin with a gryffindor runner-up as an inverse to Harry's.

Thank you! Glad you liked my sorting method (I actually use it when making OCs for non-HP projects too since it's a useful character breakdown).

Previously on this series:

1. How I sort characters and how the Golden Trio are all Gryffindors for different reasons

2. Draco Malfoy is a Slytherin with very few Slytherin traits

Now, onto Tom Riddle Jr. I can definitely see him as a Slytherin with a Gryffindor runner-up. It's kind of how I always saw him, but let's break it down:

I will add that most of what I'm saying here would make more sense if you knew how I see TMR/Voldemort and I have a whole masterpost for Tom Riddle essays here since I'm not delving too deeply into the evidence and analysis in this post, which is more of an overview.

1. Problem Solving - what is the go-to method of said character to solve problems in a situation that isn't a life-and-death threat. Both without a time limit and on a time crunch.

So, when Tommy has time to plan, he organizes a show. He's dramatic, over the top, and meticulous. He 100% practiced saying "the boy who lived, come to die" before Harry heard it. He studied for his exams, he experiments, he researches. This guy is a dedicated Ravenclaw when he has the time and means.

The Infri cave with the locket is something this nerd felt proud of making. It's kind of an escape room if you think about it. You gotta solve the magical riddles to get through.

He likes inventing his own potion of despair, making up all the wards and spells on the boat and the curse he placed on the ring was probably of his making too. Point is, he's creative, dedicated, and goes about it with an academic air.

So that's a point for Ravenclaw.

I will note though, that Tom cares about how things are done. He doesn't like unnecessary death. He needs to defeat Harry in a proper duel and not just poison him like a Slytherin would. Even when he has all the time in the world to plan, Tom's methods will be ones he considers "the right way" to go about something — which is a point to Gryffindor.

When on a time crunch, he is bold and rash. He makes extreme choices quickly and on the spur of the moment. Like, "oh, Myrtel accidentally died, no matter, I'll try out this new Horcrux spell I found before anyone finds out". His idea to frame Hagrid was also spur of the moment. He didn't actually think it through and in retrospect, he thought it was stupid and he couldn't believe anyone believed him:

but I admit, even / was surprised how well the plan worked. I thought someone must realize that Hagrid couldn’t possibly be the Heir of Slytherin. It had taken me five whole years to find out everything I could about the Chamber of Secrets and discover the secret entrance ... as though Hagrid had the brains, or the power!

(CoS)

But it was the choice he made when he had no time to think things through and was acting on impulse. Tom, isn't cunning when he doesn't have the time to plan, but he definitely makes bold moves and fast.

So that's another point to Gryffindor.

2. Problem-solving under threat of death - when the situation gets really dangerous, how do they deal with it?

We don't see Tom honestly scared often, but when he knows the game is up at the end of book 7, when his Death Eaters are dying and Harry tells him he's the master of the Elder Wand, what does Tom do?

He attacks.

He is unwilling to show he is defeated. He stands proud and brave. He doesn't even try to think of a cunning solution or a way out. He doesn't try to run away (even though he could've apparated away! I mean he could break the anti-apparition wards on the ministry) he stays and fights to his death.

So this is another point to Gryffindor.

Though, I'll give him his first Slytherin point for pride and not being willing to show weakness ever.

3. What they aspire for - what do they want to accomplish for themselves. Be it an ambition towards a job or something they want to just be better at.

Here Tom gets another Slytherin point.

Tom wants to be revered. He wants to be praised and looked up to. He wants to be the greatest. The best. At everything. He wants to be known, he wants a legacy, he wants to never die.

He wants to never be poor, helpless, forgotten orphan Tom Riddle ever again.

He has so many ambitions, he wants a lot and works towards all of it. He is honestly kinda greedy in the way he wants it all.

4. Motivations - why do they do the things they do? What gets them up in the morning?

Arrogance and spite.

Tom wants everything he wants becouse he honestly thinks he is better and greater than basically everyone else. He sees very few people as close to equal to him, be they muggles or wizards. He considers himself the best. Very Slytherin pride, on his part.

And he's petty and spiteful. He likes to say about himself how merciful and above mundane pettiness he is, but he actually isn't. He's lying to himself.

I mean, he dislikes Peter, so he forces him to essentially be Snape's servant. He wants to humiliate the Malfoys because Lucius disappointed him and he is so petty about it every second he sits over Lucius' head in his own manor and humiliates him and his family. Tom is obsessed with Harry because Harry is that one taint on his otherwise perfect record. And Tom Riddle doesn't do grades below an O. He can't fail.

He is an arrogant and spiteful perfectionist. This drive and ambition to perfection in everything he does gives him a point for Slytherin.

5. Defining trait - if you need to choose one trait to define them, what would it be?

Self-hatred.

I know it sounds weird, I mean, this is Voldemort, super proud dark lord who has people bow down to him, how can this be his most defining trait?

Well, it's becouse it's at the core of everything that makes him him. It's why he became a dark lord, in a way.

Why is Tom as spiteful as he is and strives for greatness and perfection as he does? Becouse he wants to be known. He wants validation and praise. He wants other people to see him as great.

This need for validation and praise is a Slytherin point. But there is more to that.

When I say self-hatred, I mean it. For all of Tom's supposed fixation on never dying, he actually has very little self-preservation. He tears up his own soul in experimental rituals to make Horcruxes. He keeps endangering himself in battle because of his arrogance, yes, but also because he really doesn't mind putting himself in a lot of risk. When he wants things done (killing the Potters, facing Harry & Dumbledore in the DoM, chasing after the elder Wand in Germany) he does it himself, danger be damned.

Yes, he thinks everyone else is beneath him, but he doesn't think that highly of himself either. This leads nicely into the next question and a point to Gryffindor for his surprising lack of self-preservation instincts.

6. Valued trait - if they had to pick their favorite trait about themselves, what would they pick?

Intelligence/skill.

Remember what I said about Tom not thinking that highly of himself? Yeah, well, he sees his own intelligence and skill (the only stuff he ever got praise and attention for) as the only aspects of himself of value. He never really appreciated his own personality traits (even though you could say something about his determination or resilience, but he doesn't really care for it that much. I think he doesn't fully consciously think of his own traits this way, really). He doesn't actually like his looks all that much either and was glad to shed them for an inhuman appearance to show how much more he is than everyone else.

But he does truly appreciate his own intelligence and skill in magic above all else.

Which gives another point to Ravenclaw.

7. Values - what traits do they completely despise in others? What traits do they appreciate in others?

He despises traitorous cowards.

Think how he treats Wormtail — he derides the fact he betrayed James and Lily even though it helped him. He hates his sniveling and cowardice. He appreciates bravery and boldness and above all loyalty.

So, that's another Gryffindor point.

He also appreciates skill, cleverness, and cunning in others.

There's a reason he likes Snape as much as he does. Snape is ambitious, talented, intelligent, and clever. Tom likes clever people and he dislikes stupidity.

So, that's another Ravenclaw point.

8. And finally, which house do they want?

I'm not sure how many notions Tom came to Hogwarts with, when he sat on that stole with the sorting hat on his head, which house did he want to go to?

I think it was Slytherin.

Not just becouse Dumbledore was the head of Gryffindor, but because of what the hat probably told him. I mean, the hat told Harry this about Slytherin:

“Not Slytherin, eh?” said the small voice. “Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that

(PS)

And little Tom wants to be great, he wants to be known and praised (Even the older Tom wants these things, if, he isn't as desperate). He wants to live up to what Ollivanders said about his want:

“Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember. ... I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. ... After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great.”

(PS)

And if Slytherin is the path to greatness, that's where he'd want to go. And that ambition, choosing a house for his ambition and desire for glory, that is a point for Slytherin.

Tallying up the points:

G - 5, S - 5, H - 0, R - 3

So this actually gives us a Slytherin and Gryffindor hat stall for Tom. So, yeah.

As a refresher to my other sortings from my former posts for comparison:

Harry: G - 5, S - 4, H - 3, R - 0 (Gryffindor with Slytherin runner-up)

Hermione: G - 9, S - 2, H - 0, R - 1 (True Gryffindor)

Ron: G - 6, S - 4, H - 1, R - 1 (Gryffindor with Slytherin tendencies)

Draco: G - 3, S - 5, H - 3, R - 0 (Slytherin (The hat did make the call instantly))

I honestly found this one interesting to do. Tom is a bit of a messy character who is very contradictory. He thinks he is the best, but he still hates most of who he is. He talks a lot about Slytherin's legacy, but he isn't exactly the epitome of cunning and his behavior is very Gryffindor-ish. I will give him ambition though, he got that down.

[project-sekai-facts]

Hiii I'm a newer fan and I have a few questions about how the SEKAIs work

1. When you leave the SEKAI, does it spit you back out the same place that you entered it? Or can you use it to teleport?

2. On that note, in the Wonderlands x Showtime main story, Emu and Nene hold on to Rui while Tsukasa transports them all. This means you do not need one phone per person to travel. Can he do this because they also have the Untitled songs on their phones? Or can this be done to ANYONE? Could it work on those from a different unit?

3. Do we know if there's a limit to the number of outside things someone can bring into the SEKAI? For example, if the Empty SEKAI is essentially limitless, could it be used essentially like a bag of holding from DnD? Could it store the Mediterranean Sea? Could you steal something and put it in the SEKAI to erase the evidence?

4. Do things brought into the SEKAI ever disappear? If they do, do they return to where the objects were in the real world, or do they simply vanish?

5. If you give something to someone inside the SEKAI, can they take that thing with them outside of the SEKAI? Can it be used to teleport objects? Or will the object return to the person who originally brought it? Or will it stay in the SEKAI until the original person takes it out?

6. Why do they have to hide the Vocaloids on their phones? What do they think will happen if people see a hologram of Kagamine Len? Wouldn't it just be assumed that they're looking at a vocaloid video or some kind of sophisticated VTube program? Why would someone automatically assume magic?

Thank you for your time! I have no idea if these questions have even been thought of; it seems more like the SEKAI are supposed to be metaphorical than treated as proper aspects of science fiction. So if you have/find any answers, I would greatly appreciate it!

1. It sends you back to where you were when you went in. This is shown most notably in the wxs main story where kigurumi-san says he saw Tsukasa and Emu disappear and reappear.

2. Sekai only allow certain people into them (the people with the specific untitled file on their device). This might change later this year.

3. This is something that they've never really gone into detail about, but you can probably put as much in as you want. They're pretty much endless or at least very very large.

4. No, they just stay there until you take them back out

5. The way the game seems to work is that whatever you are holding goes in/out the sekai with you (things like chairs you are sitting on seem exempt from this). So yes this technically means you can teleport objects, but only ones that came from the real world. Stuff that was created by the Sekai can't be taken out.

6. Probably just basic sci-fi rules of not trying to freak out the general public. Emu mentions that normal phones are able to display holograms in-universe, so in theory it shouldn't weird people out. But then again if anyone found out any level of detail about you having an mp3 file that warps you to an alternate dimensional plane where Hatsune Miku is legit real and based on your emotions would probably make you subject of government research. Like WxS use the vsinger holograms in the Wonder Magical Showtime event because they can use the excuse of "it's a show we just have the technology" and they never get sued by crypton and you could probably just say "cool app" if anyone saw it briefly but if people find out any actual info it's a problem.

Hope this is helpful!

[sinkjustlikeastone]

could you expand more on ur thoughts of darry having a auditory processing disorder?

Yes. Yes I can.

so this is honestly entirely a personal HC and I mean if I looked hard enough I could find textual evidence but. I don’t know how much there is. This is just me being like what if my favorite guy had The Thing.

So my thoughts on him specifically with this

he has a hella hard time understanding people talking fast. Like. If you speak quickly to him he’s just gonna stare at you. He won’t tell you it’s too fast (result of the ultimate anxiety) he’ll just look at you until you ask what’s up. The whole gang knows to slow it down for him tho, so if he’s giving them a blank look they know why.

HOWEVER. He himself is a fast talker. Like APD a lot of the time includes talking slow but not him. He talks so fucking fast and then tries to look back on what he said and goes “what the fuck did I just say” like if he were yelling at Ponyboy for something and pony said “why would you say that” bro would genuinely have to think hard to figure out exactly what he said because he was talking too fast and he didn’t let his brain hold the words before letting them fly out and be lost for eternity.

if someone gives him directions or tells him something he needs to remember it He Will Not Remember. He absolutely does not retain verbal information. School was a bitch for this, and it makes him feel guilty that he doesn’t miss school at all because of it. If that sentence made sense give me a sign.

and ofc The Thing which I mentioned earlier.

Soda: Darry what’s for dinner?

Darry: What?

Soda: What’s for-

Darry: OH! hamburgers.

(I would like to note that I myself do/have a lot of these things but idk if it’s actually APD or not cause. Yeah. But a lot of this is taken from my google info of APD from when I was crazy in love with learning about like. What word would I use for this. Like hearing disorders? I was hyper focused on that research. And also it is taken from things I do myself. Because why not)

Edit yall can add with ur thoughts on this plz do

[rubberduckyrye]

You know I've seen quite a few people say they're wanting to make v3 rewrites lately--and as someone who is actively working on one by myself, I feel like I should give some advice. I know I'm nowhere NEAR done with Twins AU, but I've made a ridiculous amount of progress and I think these things have greatly helped me out personally

So here are my tips for making a V3 rewrite and actually making it stick/not to burn out before the first chapter!

This is important. Don't try to please everyone. You will never please everyone. Write this for yourself, and you will find an audience. People can and will hate your fic no matter what you do. Don't try to please them, they are not your target audience-- so Write this story for, first and foremost, yourself. It'll feel so much more rewarding if you do I promise.

V3's main theme is extremely muddied due to how the narrative was and how open ended the game was left, and from my own research, no one can agree on what V3 was trying to say about truth and lies, or Reality and Fiction. If you want to rewrite this story, you're going to need to narrow down what you want your rewrite to say about the themes presented.

PLAN THE EVIDENCE AND MURDERS AS THOROUGHLY AS YOU CAN. I think not knowing what I was going to do for the cases and trials really scared me for the longest time until I essentially sat myself down and fleshed out all of the cases for Twins AU. Make evidence lists, do research on how your murder cases might go, the works. It's a lot of work but I personally followed this post and also made an evidence list to help me out plot out the murders for Twins AU. This is also a great way to flesh out your protagonist as well, since you get to explore their note-taking style and what kind of language they'd use for taking notes and if they have opinions about certain things.

Write a summary of each character in the story. DR games have a big cast and V3 has an even BIGGER cast than usual, so it's good to write down summaries for all of the characters. I also suggest really studying each character too, even if you plan on changing a character to better suit your tastes (or to get rid of offensive material.... looking at you Angie) you still want to keep the core of their character intact for fans of that character.

Speaking of characters, make sure to try and remember to write each one as a human being, even if they aren't human (Kiibo for example). Develop them, give them quirks and flaws, motivations and wants and desires and dreams. Even if you hate a character, doing this much character study will help you keep them in character and keep their motivations reasonable and understandable.

If you don't have a good grasp on a character, study harder. Don't go looking for other people's interpretations or try to be a crowd pleaser. Make your own interpretation, and that interpretation becomes special to your rewrite.

If you plan on changing a character, for the love of GOD do your research first. Don't go accidentally making Angie into a worse racist caricature of Pacific Islanders Please and Thank You. Actually, just do a ton of research in subject you think might be relevant to a character or the plot--like Gonta and how ableism prevails in his story. Like how Shuichi has anxiety up the wazoo and how Maki has learned helplessness. Study and research hard.

Pace yourself--I don't think people realize how GIANT a V3 rewrite project is--remember that this game is extremely long and you cannot write this in a single month. Once all of your planning is done, write a reasonable amount for it each day. For me, I'm able to crank out 2k a day because I type absurdly fast, but most people would probably want to start at maybe 500 words a day.

If you're not having fun, step back. You might be burnt out and need a break, or maybe the scene you're writing is just not working. Take time to assess your own feelings and do what is appropriate to resolve them.

Don't feel too discouraged if you need to rewrite a whole scene--it happens to the best of us and sometimes things are just not working. It's not lost progress to retry--consider the scene you are replacing as a rough draft you need to remake. I've had to erase huge 1k chunks due to this.

Reward yourself for big accomplishments! When I finished the prologue, I threw myself and my editor ( @trans-shuichisaihara ) a pizza party, and I plan on doing something like that again, albeit probably cheaper. Reward yourself for huge milestones! Hell, I owe myself at least one treat for two chapters I've written, but tbh I've been having so much fun just writing that doing so is rewarding within itself. That doesn't mean external factors can't help, so if you finish a chapter and you're proud of it, buy yourself a treat for working so hard!

If you got a friend who likes editing/beta reading, invite them to beta read for you! They can help you find errors and typos that you might've missed. If you plan on editing your fic, I highly recommend reading your writing out loud to help you find weird sentence structures and awkward phrases. This should have the bonus of making it easier for people who use screen readers/just prefer audiobooks to enjoy your fic as well!

EDIT! Here are two more:

It's okay to be scared writing something new! Getting out of your comfort zone is going to happen with a giant story like this, and maybe you're going to flop at the best parts. That's perfectly fine!!! You can always edit it later--or even just call it "good enough" and move on! This is fanfic for fun, not a professional project you're making money off of. It's okay if things are less than ideal and incredible imperfect. An imperfect story is at least written. That's better than not writing it at all.

For the love of everything that is holy, remember that the characters should be people--and remember that their talents do not make up their entire personality. Their talents should not solely dictate what they wear, how they act, or the worst offender in this fandom--how their executions go. When writing a character Execution, think instead of what would be the worst way for that character to die--that is to say, what would bring them the most despair upon their death. DR1 and DRV3's executions all play with the despair of the blackened in each execution (with DR2 being noted to heavily miss the mark and to be the set of executions that are the most disappointing to Kodaka, from what I've been told.) So if you're stuck on writing a new Execution, try to think about what each execution from DR1 and DRV3 does to play with the despair of the blackened. What about their executions are giving them despair in their final moments? Do they at all relate to their talents, or are they completely separate from their talent? Study them, and you'll be able to use that information to write your own unique executions that are miles better than most of the fan made executions out there.

And I think that's my advice for now! Happy writing, everyone!

[yaut-jaknowit]

How about high tension between a male yautja and human. Where one gets drunk and finally yells that they want to fuck them already.

Tensions Run High

Pairing: Icheall-Dua (male Yautja) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2555

Summary: It was at a gathering for Yautjas and humans alike on a different planet than Yautja Prime. You had been constantly trying to hit up Icheall-Dua and he couldn’t get the idea! So, one night, during a feast of celebration that Icheall-Dua was going to become leader of the clan, you get drunk. A very bad thing. You have loose lips. When you tried again with Icheall-Dua and he doesn’t get it again, you straight up yell it in front of the clan.  

Author Note: I realized this has taken me two months to get to. Sorry that production has slowed down. I've been grinding away at my game. Also, I didn't know if you wanted spicy or not, so I decided to leave it out just encase. Enjoy!

Masterlist

Ao3

Sonorous voices that boomed across the clearing filled the air. Joyous in nature. Prideful for the years to come. Every rise and fall of the suns to bring a life and challenges to the clan. You held up a cup of a drink that was considered alcohol. Between a Yautja and human mixture of potent alcohol, deluded for yourself.

It reminded you of whiskey with the slight burn with each sip you took. A drink not meant for shots. Rather just to take sips here and there. It’ll still knock you on your ass three drinks later. So, you took your time to consume the interesting taste of the smokey concoction.

Despite living among the predators of the universe and showing we are equals rather than enemies, the two species have come together. Some clans as you’ve heard are more reluctant, or rather downright say no, to allowing humans into their ranks.

Others, like the one you live in, are more accepting if you pull your own. You will not be babied. If you die, you die. A kill or be killed world on this planet. This isn’t even Yautja Prime. Yet, its dangers rival Yautja Prime.

You breathed in the marshes stagnant air. Though the division is still evident; Yautjas with Yautjas and humans with humans, you couldn’t help but find yourself drawn to Icheall-Dua. Marsh green and cream bellied. His scales are basic compared to those you’ve seen throughout your time through a few clans.

What Icheall-Dua lacks in different physical aspects, he makes up in his skills. From the words whispered amongst the clan, he’s a prodigy. He’s the next best thing. A male anyone would kill to be but could never get to his level. Yet, no matter how many times you try to send the right signals in Icheall-Dua’s direction, he doesn’t see it! The skulls, the meat, the Yautja way of courting!

Weeks of research were put into this before you attempted the first time. It should’ve been clear as a peacock spreading its tail feathers. No though. He accepted the gifts but never said anything after that.

At first, you drew back to ensure what you read was correct. Skulls of creatures are the first step. You did just that. Yeah, it wasn’t the dangerous creature on this planet but it nearly killed you! His obliviousness didn’t deter you though. You took a slow sip of your drink again, eyes sliding over to the beast that filled your thoughts.

A large cup filled with a similar concoction to your own was cupped in one of his large hands. Two of three fingers missing on that hand. You knew there was harrowing story to explain what happened. A story you would love to listen to with his deep, grating voice. The sound crunchy like stepping on a gravel road. Another sip downed the rest of the liquid.

With a sigh, you stepped around the larger species that filled the space to the bar tender. A night like this was to be celebrated with alcohol always being included.

After living around these guys for a quarter of your life time, you have learned it’s best to slip between them. Some will shift their weight allow you easier access around them. Yet, many have the mindset not to move for anything. You’ve learned to be slippery rather than it becoming a dick measuring contest. Not submission but avoiding unnecessary fighting. Why get wounded if it all could be avoided? Somethings in this culture you’ll never come to understand.

Once you reached the bar tender again, you set your empty glass on the counter and tapped twice. Ci’tha grunted and immediately got to work. Your drink was set in front of you with a tangy tasting fruit on the rim. You thanked the yellow based Yautja with a dip of your head then leaned against the count with your back to it. People watching.

Other humans were amongst the crowd, mingling with mainly other humans. Only a select few were chatting away with the friendlier Yautjas in the clan. None of them dared to go close to Icheall-Dua nor his father who had a permanent scowl etched into his worn features. A life lived through the ways of a Yautja of hunting and gaining scars along the way.

Icheall-Dua went to sip at his cup only to find it empty and shook his cup. You instantly noticed and spun around to face Ci’tha. “Do you remember what Icheall-Dua is having?” you rushed out and jerked your head over towards Icheall-Dua direction. The poor yellow Yautja jolted at the sudden move then glared at you. You sheepishly smiled an apology at him.

Ci’tha rolled his eyes and nodded. “Yeah, I do. Why?” he grunted and raised a brow at you.

“Can you make it? Yautja sized?” you sweetly asked the lanky Yautja who stood in your way of impressing Icheall-Dua some more. Though, the two of you didn’t talk on the regular, he could see what was happening. He rolled his blue eyes again before got to work.

The large mug was set before you. You threw a thanks towards Ci’tha before snatching it racing through the sea of bodies. At points, you nearly shoved your way through but reframed from starting a fight. All you had was a mug and a small knife not long enough to hit anything important on a Yautja.

After breeching the main crowd of people, you were able to make your way up to Icheall-Dua standing in all of his glory. His father only a couple of steps away from him, speaking to another Yautja. Icheall-Dua, himself, was crowd watching until you stopped before him.

“Hello… I saw your cup was empty and retrieved one for you,” you spoke up and presented the cup to him. His sky blue eyes looked down upon over the jut of his small snout. Icheall-Dua blinked slowly in boredom, gaze glancing to the cup in your hand.

He reached out and took it. A critical eye peered and inspected the contents. You gnawed on your bottom lip, in hopes he would accept the drink but nothing else was working. Maybe a drink would win him over.

The Yautja raised his shoulders in a shrug and gulped from the cup. You silently cheered to yourself, praying this was him finally noticing your advances towards him.

Next to him, Zutouh, his father, leaned over and scoffed at you. It didn’t deter you though. Through his one good eye, he analyzed you. Not all Yautjas still accept humans into their ranks. The older generations such as Zutouh are part of that. You’re used to it at this point, even dealing with clans who would kill you on sight.

“Great party,” you tried to start small talk in hopes to get Icheall-Dua to open up a little more. “What’s it for?” A closed mouth smile was directed towards Icheall-Dua.

Icheall-Dua kept his nonchalant expression plastered to his face. “I’m becoming the clan leader,” he stated as if it was an everyday thing. You tensed up mid sip of your drink, eyes darting over to his marsh green hide.

Well yeah. Zutouh is his father and the clan leader. Yet, each Yautja usually has a bunch of children. You didn’t know Icheall-Dua was next in line to ascend the throne. By Paya’s grace, you truly didn’t stand a chance against any of the females who would flock to him. Clan leader got you lots of perks. A title Icheall-Dua had to have earned out of all of his siblings.

“That’s amazing! Are you excited?” you kept up with the small talk, using questions to get answers from him. You gulped down a mouthful of your drink again as it started to affect your mind and rational thinking. “Of course, a male such as yourself with that physique definitely deserves that position.”

Drunk words were sober thoughts.

Alcohol gave you loose lips.

Zutouh snorted and shook his massive head in disbelief. You didn’t care though. What you said was true. Icheall-Dua was built well, the prodigy everyone saw him as.

One of his upper manibles quirked up for less than a second yet you caught it. “This is my destiny.” His answer short, barely even sweet. You nearly deflated at that but an idea came to him.

“Well, does your destiny have me included in it?” you flirted with him again like all the times before. You hoped he would finally get the big picture you were waving in front of him.

This caught Icheall-Dua off guard. The Yautja nearly choked on his drink you graciously provided for him and snapped his gaze to you. Hope flickered in your eyes as you noticed you had more of his attention on you. His hand tightened on his cup, claws slightly scraping across the glass wear.

Except, it all faded away when he pulled back that nonchalant expression and shrugged again. You could almost scream at him for that. Your nose flared with a snort, lips pressed tightly into a line. The alcohol in your system not helping one bit. A near glare was settled on the stupid marsh colored Yautja who you’ve pinned for the last few months.

Like a volcano, there’s only so much you could hold in.

“For the love of everything unholy, I want to fuck you!” you shouted at the top of your lungs, fire blazing in your veins while you stared this male down. “I’ve been trying for months the Yautja way to get your attention. And-and nothing! You hadn’t acknowledge my attempts or even told me to stop! I don’t know what I can do anymore.”

It all came out. Ranitng out your horrible experience trying to court a Yautja their way. All this research was false, wrong. It led you on for months and left you to feel this angry… in front of a crowd.

Your shoulders heaved with each lungful breath. The crowd around you had gone silence due to your shouting. The realization struck you, dosing you in freezing cold water. Your shoulders tensed up, eyes wide, glued to the spot. Nothing could make you move until Icheall-Dua took a step towards you.

Then, you spun on your tail and darted between humans and Yautja alike, a stumbling, drunk mess. They didn’t part for you, even when you ran into them but when a shadow gave chase, they instantly let him through. Your arm was snatched in a vice grip that would bruise tomorrow. Heat slammed into your chest, forcing you to pressed to his torso. Tears pooled the lips of your eyes as you looked everywhere but him. You couldn’t see the rage of you interrupting his celebration, of you ruining the night with this silly crush.

Your entire jaw was swallowed up by a hand and forcefully tilted your head back. Through blurry tears, you find his blue eyes on you.

“Say that again,” he demanded with a voice he used to lead. You tried to struggle against him, nearly turning your head enough to bite his fingers. Nothing worked to get him off of you. Icheall-Dua easily far stronger in close quarters… yet, you didn’t want to hurt him anyhow.

“Why? So you can embarrass me in front of everyone. Show everyone how much of a fool I was? To think I had a chance with you?” you snarled then paused for a pregnant moment. He squeezed his hand tighter on your jaw in a short warning. Icheall-Dua wasn’t one to be around humans often, he didn’t understand their fragileness. “Should’ve brushed me off the first time I gifted you a skull.”

None of this would be happening if he had.

“And why would I do that? I was following the advice given to me by your fellow humans for your courting rituals.” If he didn’t have such a tight grip, you would’ve jerked your head back. Instead, you raised your brows instead.

He was following dating advice… What had they told him? Also, dating?! Your heart started to thump loudly in your ears, like war drums. He had gone out of his way to ask for advice.

A lump in your throat made it hard to speak. “What, what was the advice?” you questioned and untensed your muscles. The Yautja responded by easing up his grasp on your jaw and wrist. Icheall-Dua didn’t let you go fully though. Not that you could outrun a Yautja in the first place.

His gaze deviated over to a group of humans who were staring the two of you down. Everyone part of the party was. “Samual said to ‘play hard to get’. It get’s people needy.” Oh, you were going to kill Samual when you had the chance. All these months of torture because that dumbass told him horrible advice.

You couldn’t help the breath of relief that escaped your lungs. Then, you began to laugh and shook in his hold. “That’s the worst advice anyone could give you. No, ‘playing hard to get’ is the worst way to show someone you’re into them.” Your laughter died down. “And I thought my research was a fraud when you didn’t react to any of the gifts I gave you.”

Icheall-Dua growled lowly in his chest and spread his mandibles in a display towards the humans. The group jolted and instantly scrambled away to be hidden away in the crowd. With them gone, he returned his attention back on you. “You did well and everything right. I apologize I wasn’t properly conveying my feelings towards you. Will you forgive me?”

All that tension in your shoulders you’ve been holding for months finally fell off. “Yes, yes. I forgive you and whatever stupid advice Samual gave you. I would say to do research but… that has also bad information as well.” His hand on your wrist released you to cup your waist. Goosebumps immediately rose on your arms. A tingle running down your spine.

“And what were you saying early? If my memory serves correct: you want to fuck me?” Oh god, he just had to bring that up! Heat instantly rushed your cheeks.

“That’s-that’s just the alcohol talking. I’m drunk. Had some drinks… I don’t know what you mean,” you did everything in your power to get him off of that.

“Daring little thing,” he mused and ran his thumb claw across your lips. Just a little more pressure and he could slice the feeble skin apart. “Taking more than they can chew.” You knew you had chosen right. He was still going to fuck with you though.

He leaned down so only the next words were spoken directly at you. “Once this party ends, would you like to start the night back in my tent?” he whispered. Your brain blanked. Not a single thought entered your mind for a long, unknown amount of time.

When some of the fog cleared, you rapidly nodded your head, eager. “My naughty little ooman.” He returned to his full towering height and offered his hand to you. “Come along, I know of seat you wouldn’t want to leave.”

Curses filled your head, the only thing to make sense in your fray of mental words to yourself. The things you could do to him.