#but it’s almost three am and I feel like sharing progress so far

[trippinsorrows]

with me + part eight

authors note: wow, you guys just keep on amazing me. all of the kind comments really do make my day, you have no idea. the beginning of this one is heavy, but i'm gradually working towards exposing more of reader and joe's backstories!!!

song inspo: with me by destiny's child

status: in progress // masterlist

warnings: angst (parental neglect, abandonment) language, suggestive themes

words: 6k

taglist: @pixiedust4000 @southerngirl41 @yolobloggers @msbigredmachine @wanderingreigns

“It’s been almost a year, babe.” His tone is the perfect combination of understanding yet frustrated, like he’s trying his best to be patient but his needs are getting the best of him. “You still not ready?”

You wanted someone to talk to for the drive, even if it was only an hour, but at this moment, you’re regretting choosing your boyfriend.

“I just….I want to be really sure, okay?” 

This has been the latest conversation between the two of you, more a point of contention. You care about Amir, you love him, but there’s something about letting him take your virginity you’re still a bit unsure about. Maybe it’s the fact that you just turned 16 three months ago and still feel like you’re a bit on the young side to take that next step. Or maybe it’s the fact that you guys have been rocky, almost since the beginning, having your fair share of arguments, even makeups and breakups. 

But, you also know that even with the ups and downs, a year deep for a high school relationship is almost unheard of. That has to mean something.

“I love you, and you love me, right?”

You check the rearview mirror and switch lanes. “Of course.”

“So let’s seal the deal.”

A glance at the navigation makes you aware that you’re roughly ten minutes away from your destination. Instantly, your stomach begins to twist and knot. And like many with anxiety, it comes out as anger.

“Look, can you please just stop pressuring me?” You snap. “I feel like that’s all you ever want to talk about.”

“Whoa, whoa, where’s all this attitude coming from?” He, understandably, becomes defensive. A small part of you feels bad, taking your nerves out on him, even if it’s not entirely undeserved. It has become an annoying, frequent hot topic. “Am I wrong for wanting to be close to my girlfriend?”

“Bullshit. You just want to get your dick wet.” 

“If that was the case, I wouldn’t be asking you,” he retorts, arrogantly. “I can get pussy anywhere.”

That’s the wrong thing to say, obviously, because you angrily fire back, “fine, then go do that and leave me and my pussy alone!”

He sucks his teeth on the other side. “I’ll talk to you when you not in one of your bitch moods. Must be on your period or something.”

“Fuck you, Amir.”

The phone disconnects.

He hung up.

Frustrated, for a lot of reasons, you squeeze the steering wheel and curse, loudly. This isn’t what you needed. You’re regretting not calling Mariah instead. You’re starting to regret this decision altogether but work to remind yourself why you’re doing it, why you want to do it. Amir and his shit be damned. He’ll always be there, and you’ll figure the shit out, like you always do. 

Right now though, you need to focus on yourself and your plan. 

So, you spend the rest of your time driving by feeding positive mantras into yourself in an attempt to bleed out the negativity. 

It’s especially needed when you finally arrive at your destination, parking your car as far back in the parking lot as you can. You blow out a big, deep breath, keeping your hands on the steering wheel as it really sets in that you’re doing this, finally doing something you’ve wanted since you got your license but have been too scared to follow through on. 

It’s going to be a daunting task no matter what, but it’s what you want, and you’ve come too far to back out now. 

Shaky hands reach to pull down the sun visor so you can use the mirror to assess your makeup and hair. You’d saved up your paychecks to afford this 14k gold necklace the local jeweler had gotten in stock and kindly agreed to hold until you could afford it. You just wanted to look your best.

You needed to look your best.

Blowing out another breath, you reach to spray another layer of your trial size perfume. It was some expensive ass designer fragrance that smelled sinfully sweet, but the trial one was all you could afford. 

Climbing out of the car with your best bag, you make sure to lock the door and start heading toward the entrance, offering a few small smiles to the cops you pass by.

Stepping into the precent, you march right up to the front desk with your head held high.

“Hi,” you breathe, pasting on that rehearsed smile. “I—umm, is Captain Wilson available?”

“Uhhhh.” She stands up and looks back, most likely where his office is. “I believe so, can I ask what this is in regards to?”

Crap. You hadn’t thought about what to say, how to explain how you knew him. Quickly, you settle on, “old family friend.”

She assesses you, probably wondering why their police captain is family friends with a high schooler.

Thankfully, she nods and moves from behind the desk to escort you. “Follow me.” 

You’re briefly relieved that the first part is done, far from the hardest but necessary for you to actually get to the hard part. 

She knocks on the open door. “Captain?”

He looks up, and your stomach drops. 

Years.

It’s been years since you’ve seen him, been this close in proximity. He’s older, obviously, but still very similar to how you remembered him all those years ago. He looks at you for a second, clearly confused and then at the woman.

“She said she’s a family friend.”

Nervous that this will mess up your plan, you interrupt, “I—I need to speak with you, please.”

The woman turns to you. “I thought you said—”

He lifts his hand, standing up. “It’s fine, Yang.” He motions to the door. “Leave us.”

You can feel her distasteful expression on you, but she follows his command, closing the door behind you. 

“Well, how can I help you, young lady?”

It's such a loaded question, but you came prepared, ready to jump right to the point. Don't want to waste any time.

"I, well, I'm—" Chuckling, you reach into your bag and pull out the old picture of your mom you kept in your locker. Opening and showing it to him, you watch his entire facial expression shift from friendly to shocked. "I'm your—"

“What are you doing here?” There’s a sudden change in his tone, even in his body posture, less friendly, more hostile. Clearly, he recognizes you.

“I—” The answer is simple yet difficult to get out, but you manage. “I wanted to meet my father.”

He suddenly asks, accusingly. “Did your mother put you up to this?” 

“What?” Frowning, you explain, “no, no, she—she doesn’t even know I’m here. No one does.”

“Good,” he mutters. “Listen—”

“I’m 16 now,” you interject, suddenly remembering the list of things you wanted to share with him, wanted him to know about you. “And I’m—I’m captain of my school’s cheerleading squad. Took my team to state last year. I’ve had a couple of scouts from colleges reach out already.”

“Listen—”

“And I just got my SAT scores back. I got a 1400. A 32 on my ACT. That puts me in the top 10% of the nation for both of them.”

“Is there a reason you’re telling me all of this?”

“I thought—” This is going the complete opposite of how you planned, how you hoped. You expected him to be confused and surprised, but you didn’t expect this level of disinterest and aggravation. Like you’re annoying him. Like you’re bothering him. “I thought if—if you saw me, if you met me and see I’m not a bad kid that—that maybe you’d want a relationship with me.”

 “A relationship?” He scoffs, actually fucking scoffs. “Why would I want a relationship with you? You’re not even supposed to exist.”

Of all the things to say—cruel, hurtful, mean—you’re not sure just what to label this. Because it’s almost inconceivable to you that he could say such a thing while looking directly at you, as if you’re not his blood. As if you’re not his daughter.

“I—” Any hope or confidence you had is all but squashed underneath the weight of his cruelty. “I’m your daughter.”

“No, you are a mistake that I paid your mother to take care of.” He turns away, one hand on his hip, the other running his hand over his face. “Biggest waste of money I ever spent.”

Devastated. It’s the closest word you can use to describe what you’re feeling right now, all over, in every crevice of your body. You never knew a person could feel so much pain at one time. 

That a heart could feel so heavy.

“How—”

“Honey—”

Turning your head, you see a woman dressed in fine clothes, adorned in real, 14k or more jewelry, and a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes when she sees the Captain isn’t alone. “I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

You’re unsure how to answer, especially when you notice the big rock on her finger. It doesn’t take much to realize this must be his wife. The same woman he cheated on with your mother and unintentionally created you. 

“Not at all,” he answers with a chuckle. You watch with a twisted stomach as she walks over to him, kissing his cheek. He smiles at her with such adoration, such happiness, a complete contrast with the disgust and disdain he sent your way. “I was just telling this young lady there’s nothing we can do for her.”

Young lady. That’s all you are to him, and it was stupid of you to trick yourself into believing otherwise. If he could go sixteen years without once asking or inquiring about you, he could go another sixteen. Another 100. You weren’t a part of his world, didn’t exist there, and you never would.

“Dad, Elijah won’t get out of the car. I swear, you should have kept me an only—” Another person enters the room and also stops mid-sentence. “---child.” An identical set of brown eyes land on you, eyes that he has, that you have. The similarities don’t stop there. Nose, lips, even bone structure to some extent, age. “Oh, my bad. Dad, who’s—” 

You never give her the chance to finish or yourself the chance to hear the rest of her question. Rushing past her as well as the other cops in the precinct who surprisingly don’t try to stop you, you don’t allow your feet to rest until you’re in the safety of your car. 

And that’s when it finally comes out. 

The guttural, vulnerable scream that you’ve been holding in. You beat at the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding the horn. You beat at that thing until your wrist aches and fist grows tired. Nearly hyperventilating, the sob erupts from your throat, almost your entire body shaking from the intensity. You’ve never felt so awful in your life, so empty, so unwanted and unloved.

It’s the kind of pain that’s so visceral you can only understand if you’ve felt it, and no one deserves to feel this. 

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

You feel it, and more, for bringing yourself down here and making a fool of yourself. 

A family. 

He has a whole family. He already has children, has a daughter who’s close in age. A daughter he loves and whose life he wants to be involved in. 

And it’s not you.

It’s never been you, and it’ll never be you.

Finally, you understand why your mom always shot down or redirected any attempt you made to ask about your dad. It was for this reason. This is what she was trying to protect you from, and you idiotically ran right into the line of fire. 

Immensely grateful you had the wherewithal to park as far back as you could, you sit there for who knows how long, screaming, crying, heartbroken, avoiding what’s sure to be the longest drive home of your life.

There’s such an intolerable level of discomfort at this, this pain, this hurt. You don’t want to feel it, don’t want to sit in it. You can’t. You’re not sure if you can continue to function in this state.

You need a distraction. 

And you have the perfect one. Whatever development has occurred in the prefrontal cortex is nonexistent and inactive as you dig in your purse for your phone. 

With shaky fingers, you send him a simple text, knowing he’ll know exactly what you mean.

Tonight. Let’s do it tonight. 

________

Three days after her emergency surgery, Calista was officially discharged from the hospital, allowing her to be home with you just in time for Thanksgiving. Not that that ended up being anything to write home about. You opted to stay home with her, aiding in her recovery as your mom came over to drop off some food and assist in nursing your sweet little girl back to health.

It was much appreciated, especially as Joe had to leave the day before she was released, much to his and Callie’s chagrin. She loved the company of you, even your mom, but she especially loved being around and with Joe.

Not that he was any different. You could see how much it killed him to have to leave her when she was still admitted in a hospital, so you had to continue to remind him that the hardest part was over. Ironic considering how grounded he kept you in that terrifying experience. 

Joe’s promise of returning for Christmas was the only thing that kept Callie slightly less disappointed. She loves Christmas, and him being there for her favorite holiday will definitely mean a lot to her. You know she just hates having to wait so long to see him again. It’s safe to say she’s pretty attached to him, which warms your heart and makes you even more eager for her to finally realize that Joe is not just Joe.

He’s her dad.

And speaking of daddy, your dynamic with Joe has been both different yet the same. There’s always been this chemistry between you two, but it seems him finally admitting he wants to be with you and your finally acknowledging that it's something you’re willing to consider has given him privilege to up the ante.

He’s always been forward with you, but it’s been subtle, if at all present, since his return.

That's no longer the case.

He makes his comments and innuendos, always appropriate and respectful enough to not warrant pushback. But, it’s still there. 

And you like it, way more than you should for someone who doesn’t even know how she feels about any of this to begin with. 

“I have an idea.”

Th comment comes from the very person who you summoned to help with said ambivalence chimes with that mischievous smile that almost got you both kicked out of school at least two times.

Alexis Palmer stands on the opposite side of the kitchen, a bottle of vodka in one hand and another unidentified alcoholic beverage in the other. To say you summoned her may be a bit of an exaggeration. You emailed her, yes, but you didn’t except her to actually fly across the world to come visit you. Apparently, she was in Norway when she received your email.

“You couldn’t not expect me to come. You sent out the bestie bat signal!”

The first time you met Alexis, you hated her. She was your assigned roommate who you had the displeasure of meeting during move in week. A large part of your disdain for her was because she represented everything you’d always found utterly annoying: rich, entitled, privileged.

You’d quickly find out that was only partially true. Yes, Alexis came from money, but that was essentially all she came from. You’ll never forget the time you two were actually having a decent conversation and she casually mentioned that neither of her parents had ever told her happy birthday before. Ever. 

Even your mom, though not having much, made sure to make the most of all of your special days.

That was the first day you started to see our roommate in a different light, and now, over ten years later, you consider her a best friend. If Alexis didn’t spend her life randomly traveling to various parts of the world, living comfortably off her trust fund money, you’d absolutely be much closer. 

But until, or if, she gets tired of always being on the go, you settle for email updates and countless snapchat messages because WIFI is a wonderfully universal thing when compared to international texting and call fees.

Alexis's partially drunk ass skips out of the kitchen, clearly going to retrieve something as you take a moment to check your phone. It took a moderate level of convincing for you to agree to Callie spending a day or two with your mom, not that you didn’t believe she wouldn’t be in the best care. It was just some lingering anxiety from your baby being hospitalized, that mother’s fear of something happening in your absence and you not being there to comfort her.  

But, your mom brought up a valid point, that you’d spend almost nonstop time with Callie since her discharge, and that was fine. You loved spending time with you little girl, but you also needed some time for yourself. Some adult interaction, and Alexis' surprise visit created the perfect opportunity. 

So, that brings you to your current scenario, having an in-house girl night with your college roommate, drinking wine (harder liquor for her) and figuring out just what the fuck you’re doing with your non-existent love life. 

When Alexis turns with one of your poster boards, you protest, “Lex, those are for my students.”

She gives you the most disgusted look. “Girl, fuck them kids. If it’s not my sweet Cal Gal, I don’t care.”

Knowing good and well this is a losing battle, you let it go and watch as she lays the poster board on the kitchen island and pulls out a sharpie.

“What are you—”

She lifts a finger, silencing you as she continues to write. Shaking your head, you take another sip of your wine. 

Alexis is done in a matter of a few minutes and finally prompts you to look. “Okay, all done.”

It’s in reading what she’s created that you nearly drop your wine glass. “Lex, what is this?”

She rolls her eyes, pointing with the sharpie to the title. “Obviously, it’s the ‘figure out who I should be with’ chart. Created by yours truly!”

You blink a couple times. “Alexis, why is Kai’s name up here? He was a high school hookup.”

“Yes, but still a hookup nonetheless, so he makes the cut.” Lord as much as you missed Alexis, you’d almost forgotten how draining her eccentric ways can be. “Now, as you can see, each option has a pros and cons column. I say we start with the pros, and I’ll even help you out.”

“Should I be scared?”

She pauses. “Maybe.”

Shaking your head, you wait for her to quickly jot down whatever she objectively believes is considered a pro. But, when she turns the poster around, you actually laugh. “Oh my god.”

She’s written only in Joe’s pro column, but it’s more what she has written that has you humored.

“Obviously, at number one, we have 'big dick' because that's the most important thing in life. Never commit to a micro-penis.”

Ignoring the latter part of her statement, you ask, “big dick? Really?” 

“Is it a lie?” She challenges. You open your mouth and immediately close it, taking another sip of wine. “I rest my case.” Yeah, you definitely can’t fight that one. “Wait, is he the one you tried anal with that one time?”

You nearly spit out your wine, for a couple of reasons. You'd never really considered yourself a feminist, but you were definitely someone who believed in women being free sexual beings. You never subscribed to that modesty bullshit. Sex was fun to you, and you liked it. You definitely considered yourself more on the freaky side. Outside of the really weird shit and threesomes, you were down to try whatever. Especially with Joe. Well, except for that. “Absolutely not. He’s too big. That shit already hurts, hence why it was one and done.”

Confused, she asks. “Who was it then?”

“Amir,” you answer, casually. Alexis, being Alexis, was pretty much the same as you when it came to embracing sexuality, hence speaking so openly about your sex lives.

She turns up her nose. “Yuck. Okay, back to Big Dick Joe.” After over 10+ years of friendship, you’ve learned, to some extent, certain things Alexis says just have to be chalked up to being a part of who she is. Like this entire activity that you’re for some reason entertaining. “Now get back to naming!”

You shrug, thinking about it, even if there’s not much to think about. “I mean, we have a child together already.”

“Oh damn, forgot about that,” she mutters and quickly adds Callie to the list of pros. “Sorry, Cal.”

This isn’t necessarily a difficult task. You’re pretty sure you could talk for 30 minutes straight about all of the reasons you like Joe. “He’s kind, smart, easy to talk to, an amazing dad to Callie.”

She downs the last of her concoction before shouting out, “oooh, don’t forget rich!”

Your eyes lift to the ceiling as you shrug, genuinely uninterested. “You know I don’t care about that.”

“You will when it’s time for Callie to go to college,” she ‘sings’, adding it to the board. “Fine as fuck,” Alexis talks aloud while writing the same thing. “Like very fine. As in you should have asked if his wife could fight fine because the way I never would have asked that man to leave—”

“Alexis.”

“Sorry.” She’s really not. “Why don’t we switch gears? How about we do the pros for Amir? Or even Kai?” You open your mouth to respond when she cuts you off. “Couldn’t think of any? Me neither. Back to Joe, it is.”

You run your hand against the side of your face, elbow on the section of the island that’s not occupied by the poster board. “Seriously, Alexis. There’s nothing there for Kai. At all. Hell, Amir neither.”

It’s like a light goes off, like all of her efforts have finally proved fruitful. The entirety of her eccentricity minimizes to something calm and considerate. “Exactly.” Laying down the poster, she comes and sits in the bar seat next to you. “You don’t like Amir. You definitely don’t like Kai. But, you do like Joe. Maybe more, though I’m not sure you’re ready to actually admit that out loud.” Much like a lot of what she says, though usually cloaked underneath her quirkiness, she’s correct. “So, what’s the real issue, roomie? It was his wife before, which I totally understood. You’re a moral person and shit. But now? He’s divorced, Y/N. You two have a child you’re trying to raise together. What’s holding you back?”

It’s a very, very valid question that you have no idea how to answer. You’ve tried, to some extent, to explore what your hesitations are. It hasn’t been high on the priority list due to your being focused on nursing Callie back to health, but as she’s on the mend to a full recovery, if not already at the eve of one, you know you’re gonna have to figure this shit out. Preferably sooner than later. 

Joe will respect your need for time and space, but you also know he can be a persistent bastard, especially when it’s something or someone he wants.

It’s how ya’ll even got together in the first place. 

“I’m gonna say something, and I don’t want you to bite my head off. Just hear me out. Let me put this expensive ass psych degree to use.” That makes you chuckle, but you remain quiet, allowing her to continue. “I think….I think whatever the situation is with your dad might be at play here.” Instantly, you're stiff, any hint of a smile or humor gone. “I don’t know exactly what happened outside of the fact that he’s not in your life, but something tells me there’s something there that you need to face.” And if she wasn’t already hitting you where it hurts, she adds on, “and I think it had something to do with why you didn’t tell Joe about Callie from the very beginning.” 

Alexis has always had this uncanny ability to make you wonder if there’s something possibly mentally wrong with her and in the same breath wonder why the hell she didn’t decide to pursue a higher degree in psychology because of her sage wisdom.

This is one of those moments.

You know there’s some element of truth to what she’s saying, some layers behind events you’d pushed so far back in your head, you tried to convince yourself they didn’t still impact you. 

But opening that box…..it’s hard for you to justify doing so. To understand why you need to revisit such uncomfortable, painful memories. You’re gonna be 32 years old next year. You’re too damn old to still be dealing with daddy issues.

Reaching for the bottle of wine, you pour some into your glass, noticeably more than the first one. “Maybe.” 

Alexis also knows you well enough to know that a dismissal was bound to be your approach to such a heavy topic. “Is that the sign to change subjects, even though that’s literally why you asked me to come?"

“Technically, you invited yourself.”

“Bullshit,” she snorts. “You send that wild ass email and expect me to not book it back here to make sure my favorite twerk partner isn’t Gucci?” She suddenly asks, “wait, do people still say that?”

“Probably not. We’re old and outdated now.”

“Speak for yourself, I had a 24 year old Frenchman eat me out last month, and it was C'est Magnifique,” she sighs, clearly reminiscing as you turn up your nose.

“Too young for me, girl.” Younger men have never done anything for you, even Amri, who was a grade above you, felt too close in age.

“That’s right,” she nods, and you just know there’s something on the tip of her tongue. “You like em’ older. Samoan, tatted, with massive arms and big dicks.” 

“Alexis.” You have to laugh, leaning into her side and laying your head on her shoulder. “I’ve missed you, girl.” You needed this, the time and space to be silly, to have difficult yet important conversations, to both think and not think. Alexis has always been that really great space for you, Mariah for even longer, but given your last interactions with her, you realize she’s not exactly the best candidate at the moment. 

And as if reading your mind, she asks, “how’s ole girl doing?”

Ole girl aka Mariah.

The relationship between Mariah and Alexis……well, there is none. Put simply, they hate each other. More hate on Alexis' part, Mariah has just always kinda ignored Alexis and her role in your life, which is significantly easier considering Alexis is always on the move. The reason for the dislike and incompatibility between the two of them will always be a mystery.

“It’s just something about that girl.”

That’s what she would always say, and it once reached the point where you and Alexis stopped speaking for a couple of weeks, because you were a lot of things, loyal at the top of that list.

Outside of the whole situation with Joe….you still don’t know what exactly happened there.

Nonetheless, it just became agreed upon that talking with one woman about the other would be kept to a minimum, preferably none.

You know Alexis is just trying to be nice by asking. She doesn’t really care. 

“I don’t know,” you answer, honestly. “She’s been….I think she’s just going through something.”

She rolls her eyes, clearly unsurprised. “I’m sure she is.” 

You sigh. “Alexis.”

“I know you don’t like it when I talk about her cause that’s your other ‘best friend,’ but I’m telling you, Y/N, that girl is not your friend. She’s jealous of you. She been jealous of you,” she blurts out, as if keeping it in any longer would be painful. “But, imma be quiet.”

And she does which you’re grateful for, even if her words are, for the first time, starting to trigger some unfamiliar thoughts. Alexis, Kai, your own experiences. You’ve always leaned on the side of where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and Mariah’s forest is ablaze.

You just have to figure out how to approach all of this.

Among the other 50 fucking things you have to figure out.

_______

You can’t remember the last time you propped up your phone to call Joe for any reason other than Callie wanting to see or speak to him. 

And yet, here you are, in your bathroom, preparing for your nightly routine, doing just that. 

He answers on the third ring, eyes lighting up with surprise when he sees it’s you and not Callie. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Your tone is much too cheery for your taste, so you attempt to roll it back. “Is, uhh, is this a bad time?”

“Never a bad time for you,” he replies, smoothly. Looking into the screen, you realize he’s sitting up in bed, one arm behind his head. “What’s up? I thought you were having a girls night with Alexis.”

“We were. Well, we did, but she’s white girl wasted, passed out in my bed right now,” you answer, peeking through your ajar bathroom door to make sure she didn’t wander off somewhere. She was always that mobile drunk friend who had to be carefully monitored or else she’d end up on a local new station. “You talk to Callie?”

He nods as you grab your face wash and dispense some into your hand to lather. “Yeah, earlier. She seems to be having a good time with your mom.”

“She usually does, cause like you, my mom never tells her no.” You’ve always allowed that space for your mom to have her own relationship with Callie, one that you have no interference with. Similar to how it was for you with your grandma. But now with Joe being in the picture too, you foresee having to be that parent that actually tells their kid no.

Cause Lord knows Joe ain’t shaping up to be the one. 

“She doesn’t do anything for us to have to tell her no.”

You pause in the midst of scrubbing your face. “God, I can’t wait for you to finally experience one of her tantrums. Next time you come, I’m gonna keep her up so you can see how she gets when she’s tired.” Joe has been blessed to really only experience happy Callie, even, unfortunately, sad Callie, but he’s yet to see your little girl when she’s angry.

“Don't do that to her.” He immediately grows defensive, and you giggle. “She’s a good kid.”

“She is,” you agree, rinsing your face and adding, “but all kids have moments, Joe. I would know, I work with them.”

“Well, you—”

“He don’t wanna be saved, don’t save him!”

You’re in the midst of drying your face when Alexis’s drunk, random ass comes stumbling by the door. “Alexis, what the hell are you doing up?”

Your words clearly trigger something with her wasted ass, cause in a matter of seconds, she’s crying. “My name is Alexis, but I’m not from Texas,” she begins to cry profusely at the word ‘Texas’, and it takes everything in you not to fall out laughing. You haven’t seen her this wasted since your junior year of college.

Hand on her back moving in circles, you soothe, “it’s okay, sweetie. You’re way better than her anyway.”

“Are you sure?” She asks, all soft and innocent, the complete opposite of the porn star she’s crying over not being. 

“Of course.” You place your arms around her and mouth to Joe you’ll be right back. “Now, let's get you back to bed.”

“Are we gonna fuck?”

“No, Lex, you’re gonna sleep, and I’m going to finish talking to Joe.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment is hilarious as she yells out, much louder than necessary. “Bye, Joe!”

“Girl, you are gonna get me evicted,” you scold with a small laugh, guiding her into your bed and under the blankets. “Now, you sleep this off, and I’ll roast you in the morning over your antics. Deal?”

Alexis is so drunk, she couldn’t consent to breathing right now, but she does manage to give you a crooked thumbs up. “Deal.”

Stepping back into the bathroom, you give Joe a look and shake your head as he asks, “Damn. How much did ya’ll drink?”

“You mean how much did she drink?” You correct him. He knows good and well that’s not your thing. Never was. You didn’t need alcohol to have a good time. You could shake your ass on any table just fine, good and sober. “A lot. I just had two glasses of wine.” Suddenly remember something, you start speaking again, eager for his perspective on an idea that crossed your mind the other day. 

“I think we should—”

“Go out with me.” 

You both speak at the same time, but his statement obviously gives you pause. You stare at him, momentarily confused and ask, “what?”

He repeats himself, just as confident the first time around. “Go on a date with me.”

For a second, you think he’s joking, think he’s playing with you for some reason, but one look at his expression, and you know he’s being for real. You’re not sure how to respond, asking again, “like an actual date? A real date?”

“No, like a fake date.” He rolls his eyes, and you resist flipping him off. “Yes, an actual date.” 

Still confused, you ask in a quieter voice, “why?”

His answer is surprisingly simple and unsurprisingly genuine. “Because I’ve never actually taken you out, and I want to. You deserve that much.”

This has been such a wild ass day. Hell, ever since Joe reentered your life, things have been wild. For the majority, if not entirety, of your relationship, you spent most of your time with this man holed up in your apartment and hotel rooms. Now he’s asking to take you out on a proper date. 

What a 180.

It’s like he can see the wheels turning in your head and reassures, still with all the boldness. “We can take this as slow as you want, but you should know I’m heading in one direction and one direction only.”

Fuck. There’s nothing unclear about that, but it’s not surprising. He’s made it clear what he wants from you. He’s just waiting on you to tell him what you want from him. 

After a few minutes of silence, you ask, "just a date?"

“Just a date,” he agrees. You should know him well enough though to know that’s not it. Sure enough, he smugly adds, “but if you end up riding my dick, then that’s just fate, baby.”

And there it goes, that charisma and charm that always kept you coming back for more.

Your smile is hard to conceal, so you settle for biting your lip, looking away. This man has no filter sometimes…not that you’re complaining. At all.

Feeling bold, probably from the wine traveling through your system, you play into his teasing. “Maybe I just want some dick.” 

“That’s fine too.” He shrugs. “You know all you gotta do is ask, and I’ll get you right. Every single time.” A beat. “How you think Callie got here?”

That’s the thing….he’s not wrong, not wrong at all. You can’t think of a single sexual encounter with this man that didn’t either bring tears to your eyes from how good he was eating you up or had you walking with an almost limp the next day from how good he beat your shit up. Often both.

It’s always a good time with the head of the table.

Finally, you settle on an answer that feels most appropriate. “I’ll only agree if you agree to behave.”

He looks confused. Understandable. “What does it mean to behave?”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you answer confidently, “it means keeping your hands and body parts to yourself.”

If you agree to this, it has to be well regulated and feelings or hormones can’t get in the way of things. If you and Joe are to progress into something more, you have to take it slow, even if just for Callie. 

At least, that’s the hope. 

Nodding, he asks, mischief in his light eyes. “What if you’re the one who can’t behave?”

You snort, using the oil to grease your scalp. “Unlikely.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll see about that.” He has that look in his eyes, the same look that almost always ended up with you bent over whatever the most sturdy object in the room was. It’s a dangerous expression. 

And you suddenly find your thighs clenching together. 

Not a good sign. 

“Well,” you clear your throat, leaning over the counter, praying his perceptive ass didn’t notice that. “As much as I would love to continue to chat with you, I have to call our daughter and talk to her before she goes to bed.” It’s not an entire lie; you do need to call her. Just not at this moment. He doesn't need to know that though. 

“You’re flustered, aren’t you?” 

This man….

Two can play that game. 

Pushing your arms together to press your breast together, you’re pleased seeing his gaze darken. “Does it look like I’m flustered, baby?” His jaw clenching is all the satisfaction you need. Mission accomplished. “Goodnight, Joe.” 

Refusing to give him a chance to come back with something, you end the call, only realizing what just happened once you’re left alone with your thoughts.

You’re going out on a date with Joe.

What the fuck?

[cheeriecherrymain]

papa!Viktor blurb, anyone?

A/N: slowly, slowly, recovering from the creative drought ive been in

it's nowhere near a waterfall again, more like a frustrating dribble, BUT. It's something. But anyways, here is a Papa Viktor Thought Blurb (listen, my sister is almost three months old now, and I am so besotted with her, she's my favourite tiny person, and i am full of Caretaker Feelings)

Content Warning: 18+ MDNI (not explicit, but very very suggestive), afab!Reader, pregnancy, labour and birth (again, not explicit, but still with some depth), papa!Viktor, no beta no editing we simply die

Imagine Viktor, and him believing he'll be alone for his entire life - working so hard to make some kind of legacy for himself, putting everything he has into his creations and his machines. Every calculation, every experiment a labour of love.

This is how the world will remember his name.

At least, he hopes.

But then he meets you.

You're charming, he has to admit. You make friends wherever you go, and you have a weird habit of bringing people out of their shells. There's just...something about you that makes others want to bare their souls to you. Something that draws people in.

Like you have a tangible sort of gravity, and wherever you go, someone ends up in your orbit.

He won't mean much to you, he thinks, after conversing with you a couple times. You're creative, like he is, and you're enjoyable to talk to. But nothing more. Sooner or later, you'll continue on somewhere else, making waves and drawing attention. And in your wake, he will be left to sink. It's what expects.

Except...

You don't leave.

Your chats start out small. Short and sweet, a How are you today? wondered whenever you pass each other in the halls a couple times a month, curious about the goings-on of his life.

He never has anything interesting to tell you about. No adventures or tales to tell, nothing beyond the walls of a cramped and cluttered office.

You must be bored, he thinks.

But then you start seeking him out. Instead of just catching up for a couple minutes whenever you happen to walk past each other, you hunt him down in his office - and god, he wasn't lying when he'd told you it was cramped.

You're amazed he even has the space to think in there, with how tight it is. Yet you still shimmy yourself into the tiny room, careful not to disturb any piles of papers, and find a careful seat on a spot of open floor beside his desk. There's no room for a second chair, and you've always made it clear that you dislike standing when you're having a long conversation.

It's nice to sit down and rest somewhere together, you'd told him one time.

You grow closer after that. From seeing him a couple times a month, to a couple times a week, to literally every day. You don't seem to care that he never has anything 'exciting' to share with you, even going so far as to chastise him for calling himself uninteresting.

Your experiments are cool, you'd insisted, while leafing through one of his old journals. It's incredible to get to see how your mind works, and how creative and inventive you are. You have so many ideas, Viktor, and I really believe that they could help people.

Something changes in him, after that. He'd always been quieter around you, listening to your stories, and dutifully answering your questions: never quite letting you in.

Now he looks forward to seeing you.

His heart skips a beat every time he hears you knocking on his office door, a chipper little pattern reserved only for him. You know that he doesn't always like dealing with students after hours, so you'd come up with a way to let him know that it was you who was greeting him.

Things progress...surprisingly natural.

He's not subtle by any means, even if he thinks he is. The moment he realizes that he has feelings for you, all bets are off. His cheeks dust pink whenever you're around, his palms get sweaty and he fidgets, and the staring.

Looking at you with ill-contained admiration and affection.

You can't not kiss him.

You spend the next couple years having the time of your lives. Moving from classes and overbearing internships, to actively working on experiments. Collaborating with each other, drawing up ideas and debating functionality and form. The two of you get so heated when you're creating things together.

Neither of you are surprised when it devolves. Wide gestures and hasty chalkboard sketches, impassioned explanations and wild eyes - you bite your lip as you let your gaze trail over him, in all his dishevelled beauty. Hair a mess, tie crooked and loose, shirt partially unbuttoned, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Many nights are spent like that, cooped up in his little laboratory, surrounded by sketches and blueprints and scribbles and stray notes. His fingertips digging into the soft of your skin as he kisses the breath out of you. The rhythmic clunking of his crooked desk most telling, as he draws forth your little squeaks and sighs of delight.

Absolutely ruining you, filling you, stretching you open. Feeling the way you tremble in his hands, held tight to his slender body as he reaches so deep into you that you'll feel him for days.

Sinking his teeth into the side of your neck when he finds his own release - to stay quiet, he tells you. But you both know it's his way of marking you.

Claiming you.

You're his. You're his person, his love, his partner. Your eyes only ever shine the way they do when you look at him.

Your body, splayed out and spread before him, quivering and gasping and covered in a thin sheen of sweat - his.

Your taste, sweet on his tongue - your mouth, your skin, your arousal that drips out of you whenever he so much as looks at you.

His.

And he knows, without a single atom of doubt, that he's also yours. So entirely entangled with each other, neither of you knowing how you'd managed to exist separately before now.

How had you possibly found beauty in every day, when you'd never heard his voice? Never caught a whiff of his sweet shampoo as he ambled past you? Never felt the warmth of his touch, or the puff of his sighs on your cheek? Never known the tickle of his hair on your bare skin as you slowly woke every morning to find him curled around you, his face smashed into your back and soft snores emanating from him?

No matter, you think. You have him now, and that's what's important.

...until everything changes.

You miss a period.

You tell him about it.

You're both on edge, but he tries to remain optimistic. Cycles can be upset sometimes, he tells you, as if you don't already know. (You're certain he's really just trying to reassure himself.)

But deep down, you know.

You can feel it in the all-encompassing tiredness you wake with every morning. In the random bouts of nausea, and the sudden food aversions. The back aches, and all the sudden new smells you can detect.

You know something is amiss.

And he knows, too, when he finds you one time in the middle of the night. Standing in your shared little kitchen, in the dark, illuminated only by the light of the open refrigerator.

Pulling pickles straight out of the jar, dipping them in mayonnaise, and sinking your teeth into them. Like they were to most delectable thing you'd ever ingested.

You're both terrified, of course.

You're not really surprised that you've managed to fall pregnant - not with the way you two lust after each other practically every night, and sometimes in the morning. Maybe even once or twice in between meetings, when you're both squished together in his compact office.

Neither of you ever thought you'd become parents.

And certainly not right now.

But...you want this, you realize. You want this with him. You want a family with him, you want the evidence of your love - you want a future with him, and you want to see what beautiful little person you'll make together.

Would they have his eyes? Yours? He hopes they have your smile, he tells you, eventually.

It takes you by surprise, his words, what with how quiet he'd been since you'd both figured everything out. You'd been worrying that he wasn't really on board with keeping the baby - with being a father. And you hadn't blamed him, really.

You'd been beyond stressed at the idea of raising a child alone. The thought of him leaving you, leaving behind something so intrinsically tied to him, had been slowly breaking your heart. You hadn't wanted him to stay simply out of obligation - you know you wouldn't be able to cope with the eventual resentment that such an action would breed.

But to know for certain now that he'd only been anxious?

That he wanted this with you, and was excited?

You're so happy that you immediately burst into tears, squeaking and sniffling and snotting uncontrollably while Viktor bites back a laugh and herds you into his embrace. Stroking your back and murmuring the sweetest things to you while you try to catch your breath, leaving gentle kisses all over your face.

Telling you all about what kind of person he hoped your little one would be.

Your smile, most certainly, he said, resolute. You have the most beautiful smile. You light up the room wherever you go. Maybe your sense of humour, too. And certainly your compassion.

Your tears slowly began to lessen, as you let yourself be lulled by the comfort of his arms around you.

Your hair, though, you insist, smushing your face into his shirt. You look so pretty in the mornings, all fluffed up and in disarray. It's the cutest shit I've ever seen.

That garners a laugh from him.

I want them to have your eyes, as well, you admit, albeit somewhat shyly. I've never seen a colour like yours, so intense and complex. Way back when we first met, and you looked at me for the very first time? I almost lost the ability to breathe. It was...it was like I knew, right then. That you were the person I wanted to spend my life with.

He squeezes you a little bit tighter, stooping down to tenderly slot your lips together. Slow, lazy, intimate. Sharing breath and warmth and love and-

He takes you again.

Right there, in the dim quiet of his office, not seeming to care if anyone passing by in the hallway might hear you. Spoiling you absolutely rotten, speaking praises against your skin as he brings you over the edge again and again and again.

Pupils blown wide as he sinks his fingers into you, crooking them perfectly as to reach the spots he knows will drive you mad. The papers strewn around the room don't matter - they don't even cross his mind, as you wriggle and squirm and quiver and cry out for him.

How could they, when all he can focus on is the way you look when your body tenses up, another wave of ecstasy coursing through your veins, culminating in your lovely little noises, and the addicting feeling of your pleasure dripping down his fingers and over his palm, soaking him thoroughly.

He would be happy to have you like this, as frequently as you would let him.

He knows how sensitive you must be by now, not only from his ministrations, but also from the way your body is changing. He's done his fair amount of reading since discovering your pregnancy - he's aware of all the ways you might be feeling.

The hunger, the exhaustion, the aches and pains.

The all-encompassing, single-minded lust you might go through.

He's ready to please you, however you might want - his fingers, his mouth. And whenever you might want. You could wake him up in the middle of the night, for all he cares. You could nudge him from the sleep that he so desperately needs, and he'd ask not a single question besides What do you need, darling? How would you like me?

What he doesn't expect is his own desire.

You're beautiful. You always have been beautiful. Even as things change, he was absolutely certain that you would never stop being beautiful.

It's you, so of course he's going to want you.

But seeing you now, whining and looking at him like he's hung the moon in the sky, specifically for you? Your tummy already growing round with the life that you've made together, visible proof of your love? Desperate whimpers falling past your lips, begging him for more, for him to fill you up again and again and again?

He can't resist you.

Even when he starts to ache, and his arms start shaking, and his throat is raw and dry from breathing hard and calling out for you.

He can't resist you.

You're insatiable.

So is he.

He's a little more careful as the months progress. Manhandling you less, digging his fingers into the soft fat of your hips a little gentler. He's cognizant of how you're most comfortable, watching in awe as you tremble on top of him, grinding down on him and taking his entire length into you like you were made specifically for him.

Nearly every day, you beg for him.

He loves you.

And when the time eventually comes for you to waddle carefully into the labour centre, meeting your midwife along the way, Viktor tries to keep his worrying quiet. Tries to stay by your side as a supportive pillar, regardless of how well or not he might actually be able to hold you up.

Holding your hand, kissing your knuckles. Trading his fingers for a stress ball when you squeeze a little too hard (and then another stress ball, stronger this time, when the first one explodes in your fist after a couple minutes. It shocks both of you, but to his surprise, you start laughing).

He tenderly dabs the sweat off your forehead as the hours go by, keeping your hairs from pasting themselves to your face and neck. Staying nearby as a source of comfort, but not so close that you feel smothered by him - allowing you the space you need to wiggle around as you see fit.

Telling you stories to distract you, listening to your complaints and observations as his words become unable to mask the pain of your contractions. Doing his absolute best to bite back a fond grin as you breathlessly curse him for doing this to you.

I didn't mean it, you tell him, as soon as the words leave your mouth, your eyes wide and tearful with sorrow.

I know, he promises, leaning forward to press his lips to your dewy skin.

You sigh happily.

It's not for another couple hours that your baby finally decides to enter the world.

You're beyond exhausted, and Viktor is starting to get fidgety with his worry. Is it supposed to be taking this long? he wonders internally, keeping his questions to himself so as not to stress you out even more.

The midwives, to their credit, are incredibly skilled. Staying by your side throughout the whole process, carefully monitoring everything they need to in order to make sure you're healthy. That the baby is healthy. He knows that they would say something, if anything was truly wrong.

And when the little one finally arrives, she does so kicking and screaming, making an absolute ruckus in the quiet room. The door is shut tight, keeping the sounds of the busy establishment at bay, and the curtain is drawn for your privacy so no one can see in when the staff come and go.

But when your girl begins shouting her absolute displeasure into the air, Viktor swears he can hear some quiet clapping and cheering from the hallway. He doesn't know if it's for your success, or for something and someone else entirely - but for a moment, he likes to believe that there are some strangers out there who are happy for him.

They don't know his story, and they don't know yours - but they've heard a great cry from somewhere hidden and full of struggle. An all-encompassing wail that confirms the presence of life, shouting to the world I am here, I am alive, and I have absolutely no idea what's going on!

He doesn't know when the tears start trailing down his cheeks.

Perhaps it's when he first lays eyes on your girl, pink and cranky and a little bit squished. Putting up a fuss on your base chest, scrunching her little face up as you speak softly and tenderly to her.

Perhaps it's when one of the midwives hands him a very soft towel, instructing him on how to carefully pat away the blood and fluid still clinging to your child. His eyes growing wide when he oh so gently cleans her off to reveal more of her tiny features.

She's still new, and needs time to decompress (so to speak), but he stares at her with such rapture. Taking in every inch of her, burning her face into his mind so that he might never forget her. Ever.

She's still new, and yet he can already tell that she has your nose. And your lips. Your smile, he realizes, with a palpable joy spreading through his chest.

His tears eventually dry, if only so he's able to better see you and the newest member of your family. Laying kiss after kiss to whatever part of your skin he can reach. Stroking the tips of his fingers over your girl's hair - her tiny arms and shoulders, her chubby cheeks, the bridge of her nose and over her brows.

But some two hours later, when you're finally allowed to rest in your comfortable hospital bed: when your baby is now dry and fed and swaddled up happily in Viktor's arms?

The tears begin again.

Privately, in the dim of the room, while you snooze a couple feet away from him, he weeps. Silently, and without so much as a sniffle. He cannot stop the wetness that rolls down his face, even if he wanted to.

Your girl is finally relaxed, after her grand, dramatic entrance. On the edge of sleep, warm and with a full tummy, making funny little expression while she dozes.

Much to Viktor's delight, she has a head of fuzzy brown hair - dishevelled and sticking in every direction, not matter how the midwives had tried to tame it. It'll settle down in a few days, they'd promised. But he didn't care.

The wild mop on top of her head rivalled the chaos of his own. The same shade of chestnut, though perhaps less coarse in texture. Maybe it will grow to the same thickness eventually, he thinks, a fond smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he imagines how much he's going to have to help her with it as she grows.

Brushing the inevitable tangles out with a soft brush. Pulling the strands back into braids so she can run around and play easier - or maybe little buns on the top of her head, he realizes, the image conjuring up in his mind.

All at once, pictures pop through his head, so vivid and bright that he can almost see them appearing in front of him.

Watching your daughter grow. Sleepless nights of taking care of her, catering to her every whim. Making sure she's fed, and comfortable - entertaining her with silly little toys that make silly little noises, bright colours painted across them. Reading her books with bright, enticing visuals for her to stare at, despite the fact that she doesn't know what words are.

Making trinkets for her as she gets a little older. Things that help her learn, but that also keep her excited and enticed, encouraging her exploration of the world around her. Teaching her to walk, by helping her strengthen her little legs. Sitting on a footstool, a wide smile on his face, as you hold her by her arms and support her as she figures out how to use her legs while upright. Leading her right over into his waiting arms.

Until she's able to balance on her own, after a number of weeks of practising together. Pushing herself up into a wobbly stance, doing her absolute best to try and balance. Maybe she stumbles a couple of times, but she's persistent -stubborn, like he is- and continuously rises back up until she's able to make it over to him on her own. Giggling and wiggling when he scoops her up and praises her and showers he in affection.

Teaching her about anything and everything, the bigger she gets. Answering every question she has, no matter how confusing or senseless - encouraging with his own suggestions, and prompting her to discover some answers for herself. Putting together little experiments for her, so they can learn together and so he can watch her eyes widen with the joy of new information.

Fixing her toys for her whenever they break, as she brings them to him with misty eyes and a wobbly bottom lip. Papa, it fell apart, she says sadly. To which he pulls her onto his lap, regardless of what work he was doing, and helps her repair the damage. Letting her watch and observe when she's still too small to hold a screwdriver, and carefully explaining things to her when her motor skills start to develop more.

And then helping her figure out in what way her toy broke, when she's a little bigger. Asking specific questions, so she can work to connect all the dots herself. Helping her gather the materials that she needs in order to fix things herself, and praising her to the high heavens when she presents the finished product to him.

The little thing is slightly lopsided, but he fully believes that it adds to its charm - tells her as such, when she sighs about it not being the same as before.

It's a little uneven, just like me, he says, with a laugh.

And, much to his complete shock, she wraps her little arms around him, and gives him her strongest possible squeeze.

It adds to your charm, she parrots back to him with complete honesty. I like you, Papa.

And once again, for the umpteenth time throughout his daughter's life, his eyes well with tears and he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

She could go anywhere she wanted, once she grew up. Learn anything, do anything, be anything. Perhaps she'd enjoy the sciences, like he does - machinery, and building, and designing, and inventing. Maybe she'd get into art, and spend her days painting or sketching, or writing, or making music - inspiring other people with the things she makes.

It doesn't matter, though. Because no matter what she ends up enjoying, or where she goes in her life, Viktor will support her with his entirety. Even when she grows all the way up, and inevitably leaves home to begin her own life, whatever that may be.

He knows he's going to cry then, too. So many years together, and yet it will still never be enough.

But for now, he sighs, staring adoringly down at the tiny infant in his arms. For now, they have time. He vows silently to never waste a single moment with her, and never pass up the opportunity to spend time with her. No matter how busy or frustrated or tired he gets, he won't let her grow up feeling unwanted or unloved or unimportant.

He'll give her a better life than he grew up with, and that is both a promise and a threat.

After all, he would do anything, for her.

His greatest creation.

[nerdanel01]

Exquisite

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 2.5k+ wc | SFW Agnes tries to find a way to express to Emmrich how much he means to her. EXCERPT: Behind her, Emmrich was speaking lowly to Alfred, paying her no mind. She heard the clink of beakers and flasks, and the low hiss of reaction as two elements came together. Before Agnes could reconsider, she drew the small box she had been carrying from her skirt pockets, and set it delicately on the table next to Emmrich’s cup. 

Almost as soon as she had set it down, everything within her was screaming to take it back, to snatch it up and shove it back in her pockets before Emmrich caught sight of it. Somehow, incredibly—despite how deeply she had grown to care for Emmrich (could barely admit to herself: had fallen in love with him ) and despite the fact that they worked alongside each other almost every day, Emmrich seemed just as unaware of her true feelings towards him as he had always been. What did she have to gain, by putting that safety at risk now? What if it backfired on her? 

9:40 Dragon

Agnes could not remember the last time she had felt this nervous. 

It was after dinner, but the night was yet young; not so late that it would have been inappropriate to call upon Emmrich. That she would visit him at such a ripe hour in the day was not, in itself, unusual or out of the ordinary. Though he had been her mentor first, and her charge second, in the time since he had also grown to be her dearest friend, her confidant. Agnes liked to think that Emmrich thought of her as a close friend in return. They had spent many a pleasant evening together in his study, sharing kettle after kettle of hot tea, their discussion of death and the arcane continuing far into the small hours of the morning.

Tonight, however, as Agnes walked down the long narrow corridor to Emmrich’s study, she felt the small wooden box in the pocket of her skirts striking against her thigh with each step. Her stomach was twisted in knots; Agnes might have feared being sick, if it were not so clearly the symptom of her anxiety. She wrung her hands, then lifted them to smooth them over her black hair, which was braided and twisted neatly back behind her head. 

As she arrived at the study door, Agnes straightened her shoulders, tried to calm her racing heart to no avail. Then—before she could reconsider, before she could flee—she rapped her fist on the door, three quick knocks of her knuckles on the wood.

Agnes stood there. Holding her breath, practically forgetting to breathe. When no answer came from beyond, she frowned, and raised her hand to knock again—and then, at last, she heard Alfred’s characteristic moaning within, followed by Emmrich’s muffled encouragement:

“Excellent Alfred, very good, just like that—now turn it in your grip, the other way…”

The brass knob of the door gave a pathetic little jostle, but the door did not budge. Another plaintive moan. “Oh, don’t be such a defeatist, Alfred, you’ve nearly got it!”

But the knob only gave the faintest twitch, less vigorous than the first. 

“It’s alright, nevermind, let me get it…”

Emmrich answered the door wearing his dragon leather apron and gloves, his green-lensed safety goggles lifted to rest on the crown of his head. a fine waft of arcane-smelling steam billowing out from the room behind him. On the laboratory tables, flasks and alembics were madly boiling away.

“Agnes!” he greeted her, delightedly. “Good evening.”

“Hello,” Agnes replied, then glanced pointedly at the experiment in progress in the room beyond. It was a cowardly move, to be sure, but now that she was facing Emmrich, she found herself second guessing all the decisions that had brought her to his door. She would not refuse so readily an excuse to retreat, not when it was sitting there practically staring her in the face. “I hope I am not interrupting anything. If this is not a good time, I can come back.”

“Not at all, not at all! Alfred and I are nearly finished.” Emmrich held the door for her, beckoning her inside. “Come in, have a seat. I will join you in just a few moments. I apologize for keeping you waiting—I thought Alfred might be able to greet you while I continued our work, but, well…”

“Still struggling with his grip, is he?”

“He’s getting better,” Emmrich said, although he sounded less than confident. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please. Is the kettle still hot?”

“Cold, I’m afraid, and half empty.”

“Finish up with Alfred, then,” Agnes said, with a small smile. “I’ll manage the tea.”

“Thank you, dear,” Emmrich answered, gratefully. “I’ll be with you before it’s fully steeped.”

Agnes was thankful, then, that he had turned back to the laboratory tables and whatever bubbling concoction he was preparing, as a familiar warmth began to creep up the sides of her neck. ‘Dear.’ A recent development—Agnes wasn’t sure she would ever get used to it. It made her flattered and wistful all at once. Though she supposed she ought to be grateful she was dear to Emmrich at all, rather than disappointed she was not as dear as she may have liked to be. 

Emmrich’s kettle had been left to grow cold on the serving tray beside his equally cold cup of tea. It looked like had managed no more than a sip or two before abandoning it, probably distracted by whatever experiment was at hand. Agnes carried the kettle to the spigot on the wall, emptying first the cold, bitter tea down the drain and removing the sieve before throwing the lever and filling it with fresh water. Then she carried it back to the heart, and set it hanging from a hook above the roaring flame. As the water warmed, she fetched two fresh, clean tea cups and saucers. These she set on a small table, sandwiched between two plush armchairs arranged comfortably around the hearth’s warmths, before settling into one of those chairs herself. 

Behind her, Emmrich was speaking lowly to Alfred, paying her no mind. She heard the clink of beakers and flasks, and the low hiss of reaction as two elements came together. Before Agnes could reconsider, she drew the small box she had been carrying from her skirt pockets, and set it delicately on the table next to Emmrich’s cup. 

Almost as soon as she had set it down, everything within her was screaming to take it back, to snatch it up and shove it back in her pockets before Emmrich caught sight of it. Somehow, incredibly—despite how deeply she had grown to care for Emmrich (could barely admit to herself: had fallen in love with him ) and despite the fact that they worked alongside each other almost every day, Emmrich seemed just as unaware of her true feelings towards him as he had always been. What did she have to gain, by putting that safety at risk now? What if it backfired on her? 

But worse than the fear of being found out was the fear of losing him. Of something happening to Emmrich, or Agnes herself, without her ever having expressed at least some fraction of what he meant to her. Though she had only been a child when her mother had died, that did not mean she had no regrets—that Agnes did not wish every day that she had told her mother more often that she loved her. And Emmich was too good. He deserved better than that. 

It wasn’t the first time she had tried to tell him. Once, several years past, she asked him for his birthday, that she might express her appreciation for him on that occasion. The strong Orlesian influence on Western Nevarra, where Agnes had been raised, was evident in the fact that she had even thought to ask. And Emmrich—fully Nevarran to the very core—had refused to tell her. He hewed strictly to the orthodox traditions in that respect.

“Remember and honor my Death Day, instead, once I am gone and interred in the Memorial Ossuary below,” he had told her, plainly, as if that were the most normal thing in the world—not some bizarre, morbid tradition practiced only to their homeland. “I will be much more in need of the company then, I suspect; and much more grateful for it.”

An awful, repulsed shiver had shook through Agnes at the thought. The Memorial Ossuary was a marvel, a true wonder of the Necropolis in its own right: the place where those who served in the Mourn Watch were laid to rest after living their lives in service of it. 

But not immediately. They were interred, first, in a smaller chamber, one meant to accelerate the decay of flesh. When all that remained was bone, those bones were gathered, and stacked in extravagant, mind-dizzying formations within the Ossuary. The skull alone retained the distinction of individuality, the only indication of to whom the remains belonged: each one was inked along the brow with the deceased Watcher’s name and a blessing to Andraste, the crown of the skull decorated with a motif meant to honor the deceased for their deeds in life. Arbor Blessing for valor, perhaps. Prophet’s Laurel for unwavering faith. 

Agnes found the whole idea horrifying. In fact, the thought of one day descending into the Necropolis to set out offerings and a remembrance meal for Emmrich—staring into the hollow sockets where his warm eyes used to be, at teeth that would never again offer her his charming grin—filled her with a primal dread that was unmatched by any other fear. 

Still, at the time, she had managed to reply to Emmrich, dryly: 

“Do not worry, Volkarin. I will not let your dusty, painted bones grow too lonely down there.”

To her great shock, at her answer, Emmrich had taken her hand between his—a thing he had never done previous to this occasion, nor since—and squeezed it, gratefully. 

“Thank you.”

Agnes was nearly crushed beneath the weight of sheer relief in his voice. Did Emmrich really imagine that no one would think of him, after he was gone? That he would be so quickly forgotten? The vulnerability in his gratitude could have broken her heart. And she knew at that moment that her answer (given half in derision, half in jest) was now as god as a promise. An oath.

‘I will not leave you, even in death.’

The whistling of the kettle pulled Agnes out of her reverie. She stood from the armchair and pulled on a set of mitts to keep from burning her hands, then removed the boiling kettle from the hearth, setting upon a rounded trivet of green, silver-veined marble. She took the perforated sieve she had removed from the kettle earlier and refilled it with the smoky blend of black tea that Emmrich favored, then lifted the kettle’s lid and submerged it in the boiling water to steep. 

“What’s this?”

Agnes stiffened. Emmrich (apron-less, waistcoat-less, shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows to reveal his fine forearms) was settling into the second armchair, examining with great interest the small wooden box Agnes had set out on the table.

Her stomach flipped. Well, this was it. 

Agnes turned back to the tea. “It’s for you,” she answered, not as loudly or as confidently as she would have liked. 

“For me?” he repeated quizzically. Then he read aloud from the handwritten label: “‘To Emmrich, from Agnes.’ Emmrich! How unusually intimate for you.” Which was a fair accusation. After all this time, Agnes could probably count on one hand the amount of times she’d called Emmrich by his given name. A few years ago he had given up insisting. “What is the occasion?”

Out of deference and habit, Agnes poured Emmrich’s cup of tea first. She could feel another embarrassed flush beginning to creep up her neck as the steam rose from his cup, and was thankful for the high, black lace collar of her blouse that concealed it. Thank Andraste she had not signed the inscription ‘Yours, Agnes,’ as she had toyed with at the time. 

“Nine years ago to the day,” Agnes told him, pouring out her own cup of tea and keeping her gaze fixedly on the steaming amber brew, “you gave me a gift, to celebrate my first completed year in the Mourn Watch.” 

A low huff from Emmrich, perhaps disbelief. “Maker, has it been ten years already?” 

Agnes nodded, returning the kettle to the marble trivet and perching herself on the edge of the available chair. She barely settled into it, keeping her posture perfectly straight, tension running through her body. “Ten years that I have been a Watcher, ten years that we have been working together.” ‘ Ten years that I have held my love for you, secret and sacred and safe, pressed deeply into my heart.’ “I do not think, in those past ten years, that I have adequately expressed my gratitude for all that you have done for me. My hope is that this gift may rectify that, somewhat.”

“Agnes, that was wholly unnecessary,” Emmrich said, kindly. His fingers worked at the catch, popped the small box open. “You owe me no gift at all; not even the gift of your continued partnership, though I welcome it. You—”

Emmrich froze, his eyes fixed on the opened box in his hands. Agnes could hardly bear to look at him, but it was worse not to. She tried to read the play of emotions on his face. 

Shock, certainly. Soon gathered under a put-upon stoicism. He pulled his lips back, baring his teeth, shifting uncertainly; his free hand came up to his face, and forefinger and thumb began to worryingly smooth along the line of his pencil mustache. 

“Agnes, this is…” Rush of exhalation while he gathered his words. “It is exquisite. And entirely too much, I am not sure I can accept it.”

All the same, he pinched the ring out of the little velvet cushion it had been set up, lifting it out of the box to better examine it. Yellow gold embraced a labradorite scarab, the shoulders of the setting carved to look like lotus petals. The blue scarab flashed as Emmrich turned the ring over, capturing brilliant blue gems of light within its facets. 

“Lovely vintage details in the late Van Markham style,” Emmrich spoke aloud, turning it over in the firelight. “It dates from the Steel Age, doesn’t it?” Another little huff of breath, something not quite merry enough to be a laugh. “How transparent I must have become to you in ten years, that you were able to devise a gift so entirely inappropriate and yet so absolutely irresistible to me.”

Agnes thought she might faint, she could hardly breathe. “You like it, then?”

“That is an understatement,” Emmrich said, gravely. “It is a breathtaking piece.” 

“Would you put it on?” Agnes asked him, hoping she did not sound too eager. “Please.”

But Emmrich knew just as well as she did that once he yielded to the temptation to put it on, it would be very, very difficult to take it off. He had few weaknesses, but fine jewelry was certainly one of them. “Agnes—”

“I have no family,” Agnes told him, seeing the imminent refusal on his face and cutting him off. “Or at least, I no longer have any family that cares for me. You know that. Just as well as you know that I never had any intention nor desire to join the Mourn Watch when I came here.” She dropped her eyes to her teacup, still steaming, counting the grinning black skulls that had been painted into the porcelain around the rim. “But I have cherished every hour I have worked with you since I arrived. Everything we have experienced together, everything you have taught me. You are my dearest friend.” The truth of the matter was, “Who else in my life would I give such a gift to, if not you?”

Emmrich was gazing at her; Agnes could not meet his eyes. She did not think she could bear it if he was looking at her with pity. But out of the corner of her eyes, she saw his fingers shift their grip on the gold band. And then she did turn—her insides giving a sick, drunken, giddy lurch as she watched the ring slide over fingertip, first knuckle, second, until it came to a rest, snug at the base of his left middle finger. 

It looked so fine on him. Looked as if it had been made for none other than him. That was partly why she had been unable to stop herself from buying it.

Emmrich held his hand away from his face, thumb curving to stroke the inside band of the ring while he admired it. “You are incorrigible,” he said at last, barely above a whisper. “I take it this is your way of getting back at me for all of those absurd, missed ‘birthdays.’”

“Indeed,” Agnes said, in a dry tone that often made it difficult for others to tell that she was joking, “if you had simply let me buy you a cake once a year, we likely would not be in this situation.”

Emmrich shook his head again, a smile twisting his lips. For a moment, Agnes thought he was going to remove the ring, and refuse it after all. Instead, he chuckled, softly, under his breath. 

“It is too exquisite.”

But then he was rising from his seat, drawing near, bending at the waist—explosive panic, Agnes was not quite sure what was happening—before drawing his face close to her to press a soft, chaste kiss to her cheek.

It was over in the blink of an eye. Emmrich was back in his seat so quickly Agnes might have thought she had imagined it, were it not for the riot of reaction in her body: heat in her chest, in her face, in the bowl of her hips. She had felt the rasp of his mustache hairs against her cheek, as he kissed her. She had not thought to imagine that, not considered how incredible it would feel. 

“Thank you, Agnes. Let’s make the next ten years just as spectacular as the first decade, shall we?”

[keiththecat]

Admissible (Part One)

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Female Reader (You)

Summary: You've always hunted alone. That is, until Bobby sends you on a hunt near the Winchester brothers. How will things change when they come to help?

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: 18+, series typical violence and monsters, weapons, cursing, groping/ almost sexual assault, self-doubt/ self-esteem issues, character death, injuries, hurt/comfort

Author's Note: Hello friends! This is something I'm working on, but it has gotten long enough that I know I'll have to split it up (and I'm excited and can't wait longer to share it lol). Warnings may update as I keep writing, so please check them! The almost sexual assault is stopped, I promise (and it isn't in this part, but I will be sure to clearly label it when it does happen so you can skip it if this upsets you). Also feel free to message me if you have any questions or concerns about anything. Y/N is your name, and feedback is always welcome. Thanks for reading and thanks for all the love so far! <3

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, or any of the related characters. The Supernatural series is created by Eric Kripke and owned by The CW Network. This work of fan fiction is for entertainment only. I am not making a profit of any kind from this story. All rights of the original Supernatural series belong to The CW Network.

AO3 link here

You have just hit the city limits of Kensington, Kansas when your car decides to call it quits. You manage to pull your car off to the side of the road, the engine spitting and sputtering before stopping altogether. You lay your forehead on the steering wheel and groan, “whyyyyyy?”

You almost pull out your phone to call Bobby back and see if any other hunters are close enough to take the case, but your pride stops you. You’re still a relatively new hunter and feel like you need to prove yourself. You’ve done well for yourself so far, no major injuries and usually finished hunts within two days of arriving, but you don’t want to jinx your progress. Sighing, you get out of the car, grabbing your duffel bag of hunting supplies and your backpack of clothes from the back seat. Squaring your shoulders, you start walking into town. 

After about ten minutes of one foot in front of the other, you find a motel that looks promising: just run down enough for what you need. You walk into the office, finding a big burly bearded man, probably mid-50s, reading a newspaper. He glances up when you enter, his gruff voice mumbles out “how long?”

“Day by day. I’ll let you know early each day if I still need it the next night.”

He eyes you for a moment. “Cash?”

You pull out some cash and count out $100, placing it in front of him on the counter without a word. He takes it, nods at you and places a key on the counter. “Room 11. Farthest one to the left. You’re paid for three nights.”

You pick up the key and leave the office, heading left toward your temporary base of operations. You immediately break into your duffel bag, cleansing the room with a smudge stick, laying out your mats with sigil traps embroidered into them, and applying salt lines to the windows and door. You have the room properly protected within three minutes. You pull out your phone to start researching the deaths that brought you here but you’re greeted by a text message from an unknown number.

[Unknown 11:02AM: Hey, Bobby said you were in our area. We’ll be around if you need any help]

You stare at it for a moment before calling Bobby, who picks up on the second ring, “you make it okay?”

“Yeah, Bobby. My car broke down but I made it. Who did you give my number to?” 

“I’m guessing the boys reached out to ya finally?”

The boys?, you wonder. Considering what you know about Bobby, that could only mean one set of brothers. “You mean you gave my number to the Winchesters? And what do you mean ‘finally?’ Bobby, you know I work better alone. You know, far far away from big of heart but dumb of ass.” 

“Look, Y/N,” you can hear him breaking out his dad voice on you. “I just wanted them to know you were nearby. I gave them your info a while ago, I’m surprised it took them this long to reach out. I want you safe, they’re close by, and they’re good people. You’ll get along.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure they are, Bobby. I just prefer to stay out of the drama that comes with… all that. Their names are practically synonymous with trouble and apocalypse at this point.” You sit on the edge of your bed, picking at a stray thread on your jeans.

“Yeah, and they’ve saved all our asses, yours included, each time,” he reminds you. “Plus, Dean knows his way around cars and could probably get yours fixed up for ya.”

“Okay, Bobby, I get it. I’ll message them back.” You and Bobby say your goodbyes and hang up, leaving you staring once again at the text message.

[Y/N 11:06AM: Which bro do I have the pleasure of speaking with?]

[Unknown 11:06AM: Sam]

[Y/N 11:07AM: Alright, Tweedledee. Bring Tweedledum. I’ll need his car brain. Meet at the diner on Main?]

Without an immediate reply, you start looking into the deaths, looking for any connections between the victims. So far, there have been five mysterious deaths of prominent people in the community and each one has died differently: heart ripped out, throat slit, neck snapped, blood drained, and blunt force to the head. 

[Sam 11:10AM: See you at the diner at 12]

50 minutes. More than enough time for you to grab a quick shower, check your supplies, and walk there. Guess I’m dancing with death this time. You sigh, and get to work.

*

Walking into the diner at 11:50AM, you sit at a booth in the back, facing the door. Front door, back door through the kitchen, windows on three sides, your brain automatically on alert in case of any threats. You’re in your FBI monkey suit, intending to question families after a quick meeting with the Winchesters. Your iron knife is against your right ankle, silver knife is against your left, and pistol is loaded and in a shoulder holster under your jacket, resting under your left arm. You are locked and loaded, ready to get this case over with.

[Y/N 11:51AM: Corner booth by kitchen]

You are pretending to look at the menu for less than two minutes when you hear the rumbling of the infamous Impala. They park out front, both unfolding their legs to get out of the car. Damn, they’re tall and hot, the stories did not do them justice. Dean’s unruly light brown hair is spiking in all directions, green eyes glittering in the sunlight. He’s wearing boots, dark jeans, a black tee, red plaid shirt unbuttoned, and leather jacket. Pistol in his jeans at his waist, he’s right handed. Sam’s soft brown hair blows in the light wind, slight frown creasing his eyebrow above hazel eyes. He’s wearing boots, light wash jeans, blue plaid shirt buttoned, and a grey jacket. Also a pistol at his waist, he’s left handed.

Dean reaches the door first, opening and entering, with Sam close behind. Sam is looking at his phone, looks up at you and points his brother in your direction. 

“Y/N?” Dean asks, standing next to your table.

“That’s what my ID says.” You gesture at the seat across from you, indicating they should join you. Sam slides in first and Dean sits on the outside.

“Nice to finally meet you,” Sam says, offering a handshake which you take. “Bobby speaks very highly of you. I’m Sam, this is Dean.”

Damn he has a nice smile. “Yeah, I know who you are. Pretty sure I knew your names my first day on the job.”

A waitress makes her way over to your table. Probably in her 20s, thin and short with long brown hair, her high pitched voice cuts through the air “Welcome in, what can I get started for you all?” 

The boys order coffee, Dean gets a burger and Sam gets a chicken wrap. You order a coffee and a salad. The waitress writes it all down and walks away, saying she’ll be right back.

“So, Sammy mentioned car troubles?” Dean asks, looking outside. “Which car?”

“It’s not out there. It’s on the side of the road coming into town. Broke down on my way in.”

The boys both look at you in concern. “You’ve been walking around town?” Sam asks.

You shrug, “the exercise keeps me alive. A moving body is a living body. I don’t mind. But I will need it fixed for when I’m done here, if you don’t mind.”

The waitress brings your coffees to your table, you each mutter a thanks. 

“I can take a look at it when we’re done here.” Dean says, then he looks you up and down, eyeing your suit, “unless you have other plans?”

“No, that’d be great. I can go do my thing while you do yours.”

“Perfect,” Dean says, “Sammy can go with you.”

“Whoa-” “Wait-” You and Sam speak at the same time. Sam stops speaking but you continue, “I’m fine alone. I won’t need help.”

“Well, Princess, looks like you do need help since your car is MIA.” Dean says, a smug smile on his face.

You stare at him for a moment, eyes squinted, debating if the fight is worth it. “Fine.” You look at Sam, “do you have your suit?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, it’s in the car,” Sam says, shocked that you gave in so easily. The brothers know how stubborn you can be from the stories Bobby has told them. “I can grab it and change after we eat.”

The waitress brings the ordered food to the table, placing it in front of each of you. She checks if you all need anything else, and leaves the bill on the table when you all say no.

Dean speaks with a mouth full of burger, “alright then, it’s a plan.” 

Sam tries to initiate small talk a few times as you all eat, but you keep your answers short, hoping he’ll take the hint. The last thing you need is to form any sort of relationship with the Winchesters. The word around hunters is that being around them guarantees a death sentence, and you’d like to stick around for at least a few years longer. Plus, the less you worry about others, the more you can worry about yourself.

You place cash on the table for the bill, covering all three meals plus tip. You stand and the brothers follow. “Dean, drop us at the Sunrise? Sam can grab you two a room, change and then we can head out on foot from there. A little exercise okay, big man?”

“Uh, yeah, I like exercise. That’ll be fine.” Sam responds.

You ride in the back seat, Dean drives and Sam is in the passenger seat. Metallica plays through the speakers and you hum along, looking out the back window. You can feel Dean periodically glancing at you in the rear view mirror and Sam watching you through the side view. You ignore them, focusing instead on making a plan. 

Dean drops you both at the motel, giving you his phone number while Sam goes into the motel office to book a room, duffel bag over his shoulder. You send Dean a blank text so he has your number, and you give him your car keys along with a description and location. Sam comes back out with a key when Dean pulls away to go find your car. 

“Got it,” Sam says, holding the key up and walking to room 9. “Leave in five?”

“Sure, Sam. See you in five.”

*

With some strong pushing on your part, you and Sam agreed to split up, him starting with the most recently deceased’s family and you with the first, and planning to meet somewhere in the middle. Your visit with the Miller family was abnormally short, the widow very skeptical of you and short with her answers. She certainly wasn’t forthcoming with any information, and you’re sure she knows more than she let on. Maybe she’ll respond better talking to a man. Sam does have kind eyes. You shake that thought away, walking up to the Furgeson house now, hoping that Mister Ferguson will be more willing to answer your questions.

[Y/N 1:38PM: At second house now. No luck with the first. Very distrustful of me.]

[Sam 1:39PM: I’m still with the Taylors. We can circle back to her together later. Be safe.]

You roll your eyes, a smile threatening to form. Damn him and his niceness. You hate to admit it, but you are starting to enjoy working with him. You can feel your heart opening up to the idea of being friendly with the brothers. You are walking up the steps of the sidewalk when a police cruiser pulls up to the curb behind you. Shit. Nowhere to run and I doubt I can lie my way out of this. You send off a quick text to Sam, hoping he’ll read between the lines and understand.

[Y/N 1:39PM: I love you too, sweetie. I was never a big fan of brass, but the silver bracelets look nice.]

“Excuse me, we got a call about an FBI officer in the area,” the cop calls out to you. You turn your phone off and turn around to face him. He’s short, stout, bald, and scowling at you like you are the root of all problems.

“Yes, can I help you?” you answer, still keeping some hope that you can get out of this.

“I spoke with the FBI office this morning, they said they weren’t going to send anyone.” he answers, looking you up and down.

“Well I’m just following orders from higher up.” You reach to pull out your badge, but stop short when you see his hand move to his pistol. “Easy,” you say, “just grabbing my badge.”

“Not interested,” he says, pulling out his pistol and aiming at you, “turn around, get on your knees, put your hands on your head.”

“Okay, okay,” you comply, doing as he asked. He moves forward, grabbing your hands and roughly cuffing you behind your back. He picks you up and leads you toward his car, reading you your rights.

*

Sam is sitting on the living room couch inside the Taylor household, Missus Taylor sitting in a chair across from him. He stares at the message you sent, trying to make sense of the message you sent. Brass… silver bracelets… damn it. “Thank you for your time, Missus Taylor. We’ll reach out if we have any further questions,” he rushes to hand her a business card and practically jogs out the door, dialing Dean.

“Yeah?” Dean answers on the second ring.

“I think something’s wrong. I think Y/N got arrested,” Sam says.

“Well shit.” Sam can hear the clang of tools being dropped through the phone.

Sam knew they shouldn’t have split up. From what he has heard, Y/N is one of the best hunters out there. But Sam is kicking himself, he knew that people around here could be extra suspicious of outsiders and he still let her go off on her own.

“What do you need from me, Sam?” Dean asks.

“I’m not sure. Give me a second.” Sam takes a deep breath. He’s sure he could figure out a way to get Y/N out of jail, but it could take a couple days before the courts decide on her bail amount, and that’s if they do. It’s also been a couple days since the last death, so another person could be targeted any second. “Okay,” he finally says, “I have an idea. But I need you to take over the case for a bit.” Sam fills Dean in on what he knows and who still needs questioned. Dean agrees to pick up where they left off, saying he’ll get right on it. The brothers end their call, and Sam starts his journey toward the police station, making another phone call.

Part Two

[mycupofrum]

Oooooh I love reading these WIP lists (I'm such a snoop haha). I'm super intrigued by "closest to heaven". Or if that one has already been asked, I'm always keen for mor of the "While you were sleeping AU" (I adore all the snippets from that one you have shared so far <3)

Hello!! I'm glad to hear you're interested in my WIPs! Closest to heaven is the Father James/Sinner Sirius AU that is just...very naughty and sinful. 😄

The idea is that James is constantly being tempted by Sirius and his imaginative confessions of a "mystery man" he can't stop thinking about (yeah right, such a big mystery 😂). Things progress and James's resolve slips little by little as he battles with his religious conviction and what he truly wants.

I really need to plan the ending of the fic. I just started writing it on a whim as a "fun little drabble" and what do you know, it's almost 8k. I've posted snippets before:  snippet 1, snippet 2, snippet 3, snippet 4.

Here's another snippet!

__ 

His walk downtown on Thursday afternoon takes him to a place where he thinks Sirius's shop will most likely be. The old shoemaker retired six months ago and the premises have been empty ever since.  

Now, James finds himself staring at a window still covered in paper from the inside. On the glass, there's the shop name XXX.  

It looks closed. 

Maybe James got the day wrong. He's about to turn around when the shop door opens. 

"James, you came."  

James looks up to see Sirius dressed in black like his name, simple yet elegant.  

"Yeah, here I am," James says, slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, I must have gotten the day wrong. Your shop is not open yet, is it?" 

"Oh, don't worry about that. I pushed the opening for tomorrow for some final touches. But please, come in. I'll give you a private tour." 

"Are you sure?" James hesitates. "I wouldn't want to take your time. You must be busy with last minute things." 

Sirius's gaze remains unfazed. "Nonsense. Come on in. I insist." 

James swallows. Why does he get the feeling that nothing but sin awaits inside? He shakes it off quickly. 

"All right then. Thank you, Sirius." 

Once inside, it takes him exactly three seconds to take in what he sees and two more to realise he's stepped into a trap. 

"This is – this is a sex shop." 

"An accurate observation." 

"I can't be in a sex shop." 

Sirius's lips curl into a smile. "Does the Bible forbid that? Thou shall not frequent a sex shop?" 

James bites the inside of his cheek before lowering his gaze from the colourful wall of dildos that immediately caught his attention.  

"No, but I shouldn't be here." 

"But here you are. Please, let me show you around before you decide to leave." 

__

You can read more about While you were sleeping AU here. :) Thanks for your ask! 💜

[suratan-zir]

I am just curious about how Ravlyk is doing? And if any progress has been made with Gronk?

references: Gronk the house mouse, Ravlyk the new rat

Hey, I hope you don't mind me replying publicly, just in case anyone else is curious.

Let's start with the sad news. Gronk was found a few days ago dead on the bathroom floor, she (it was a girl) never fell for any of the traps. There were no signs of injuries, so it was probably not the cats. I keep the live traps set but they haven't caught anyone so far.

Now to the better news. The new ratty boy is alive and doing great. The name Ravlyk didn't stick though, and my partner didn't like it, so after a few days we finally decided to name him Syrnyk (Сирник).

It's a Slavic dessert, pancakes made of sweet cottage cheese, served either with sour cream (the superior version) or with jam (the objectively worse version).

edit: tumblr wasn't showing this post in the feed so I had to upload the video on youtube to fix it :(

Since he's still a baby, the medication worked on him really quick. I haven't filmed any of his worse respiratory distress moments, but even in the treat video you can see that, although not suffocating, he's not breathing that easily. But it's all gone now, another week on meds and he's officially healthy.

магазин розетка не платив мені за рекламу, чекаю на пропозицію

He came out of his shell very quickly. Started licking my hands on the day two, playing in about three days. I still didn't want to share his photos or videos because I have this fear…that introduction might go wrong and Skritch will kill or seriously injure him.

Skritch is unlike any other rat I've had before. He is just something else, I don't know what to expect from him. He haven't yet met Syrnyk face to face, although their cages are close enough to smell but not to touch each other. And Skritch is mad as can be. No matter how much experience or knowledge I have, it takes only a second for Skritch to bite, and he often shows no warning signs. I will not forgive myself if Skritch kills the little Syrnyk. So I'm waiting for a moment when I feel like Skritch is ready and not as mad as he is now. It's sad that the baby has to live all alone though.

Syrnyk already met Baton and Cactus, they get along extremely well. Syrnyk has absolutely no fear of other rats, even much bigger than him, so he just goofs around and tries to play with them. They're not interested, of course, but at least Cactus got groomed by another rat for the first time in a long time. Baton and Skritch never groom him, and he desparately needs it, he has a brain tumor for almost 5 months now, and sometimes his fur under the chin and on his back gets crusty (he hates when I try to clean him). So Syrnyk helped him with that.

I have no good photos of Syrnyk. Only these.

maybe the post doesn't show up bc of the photos? hold up

update: seriously tumblr? offended by rat balls? lol

[gardensofthemoon]

End of the year fic recs

Thank you so much for tagging me, @curufiin! I am veeery new to fandom and fan spaces, and I started reading silm fic in August, but I have already devoured lots of great stories and I’m eager to share some of my favourites. I read mostly ship fics, so that will reflect on my recs.

Recommend up to 5 series or multi-chapter fics from 2023 that everyone should read (multi-year WIPs count, if the last update was in 2023).

Recommend up to 5 single chapter fics/one-shots (long or short) from 2023 that everyone should read.

Recommend up to 5 fics NOT from 2023 that everyone should read (oldies but goodies).

Recommend up to 5 of your own fics (completed or WIP) from 2023 that everyone should read.

Multi chapter fics:

The Long Road by whyyesindeed, WIP, Mature, Fingon/Maedhros, 26k. I adore the author's previous works, and this one is a chaptered story in progress, an AU where Fingon and Maedhros go to Beleriand 48 years before Finwë’s death. The prose is impeccable.

Half-brother in blood, full lover in heart by @ettelene, WIP, Mature, Fëanor/Fingolfin, almost 200k. This is my favourite Feanolo, with lovely writing and compelling plot. The chemistry between the leads is sizzling and I hope that in this AU there will be a happy(/ier) ending.

Moonlight In His Cave by @cuarthol, WIP, Mature, Curufin/Finrod, 15k. Canon compliant Curufinrod, I don't need to say anything more. I cannot wait to read more; the prose is absolutely gorgeous and I LOVE how the familial relationships are portrayed so far.

Curufinwë Atarinkë’s Journal by @curufiin, WIP, Teen and Up, minor Curufin/Finrod, 9k. This one made me love Curufin so much and understand more of his mind, it's crack treated seriously and it goes from baby Curufin scribbling in his journal, to adult kinslayer bearing a horrible burden. I read this three times and each time, I love it more.

Know Thyself by LiveOakWithMoss, completed, Teen and Up, multiple relationships, 9k. Absolutely hilarious, couldn't stop grinning: First Age Feanorians are magically transported into the modern world and meet their human counterparts. Chaos ensues (Maglor duet contest, selfcest, Maedhros is elected Assistant Manager in a mall shop, some interdimensional threesomes). I adore every word.

One shots:

Mirror Image by @swanhild, Gen, various familial relationships, 4,5k. A few fluffy moments between the Feanorians and the Arafinweans, with Feanor and Arafinwe watching. It's endearing and heartwarming with some ominous foreshadowing. It made me cry.

Mapmaking by am_fae, Explicit, Maedhros/Maglor, 3k. Super funny and clever with lots of puns, and a steamy sex scene. Lots of sexy geography talk.

The dining room by @ettelene, Teen and Up, various familial relationships, 9k. A peek into the cooking preparations and subsequent dinner at the Feanorians' house. With a larger cast, lots of witty dialogue, a Huan cameo and underlying tension, this is a splendid read with great characterisation.

Of doves, letters and darker things by @elevenelvenswords, Explicit, Curufin/Finrod, 3,5k. Super atmospheric, a glimpse into the complex power games between the cousins that ends up in hot throne sex.

Oldies:

Outlast the Forests by daphnerunning, 2021, completed, Explicit, Beleg/Turin, 68k. If I could convince any silm fan to read a fic, THIS WOULD BE IT. It's my TOP favourite longfic, canon compliant, slow burn, mortal/immortal. It's based off of Children of Hurin, rife with tragedy, heartwrenching, incredibly loving and ladden with longing. I read it four times and I still think about it on a weekly basis. This is canon to me, it gives alllll the doomed feelings. I don't even need to read other Turleg fics, this is perfection.

And All Our Wounds Forgiven by Marchwriter, 2012, completed, Mature, Curufin/Finrod, 9k. The writing style is fantastic, tolkienesque, the atmosphere the writer has created is unparalelled, like a fairytale, but infused with tension. One of the first Curufinrod pieces on ao3 and a MUST READ for fans of this pairing. I cannot stress enough how beautiful the prose is.

Those Who Favor Fire by @clothonono, 2022, completed, Mature, Fingon/Maedhros, 41k. The author is already one of my favourites on Russingon, but I love this fic in particular because of Maedhros' portrayal post-Thangorodrim, as it fits in line with my headcanons. It also explores the morality of the first kinslaying and Fingon's attempt at justifying himself. It ends with a gut-punching line.

your shadow at morning, rising to meet you by crownlessliestheking, 2021, completed, Explicit, Feanor/Fingolfin, 5k. Fingolfin goes to Formenos to talk sense into his brother. Excellent characterisation and I specifically liked the dialogue.

Correspondingly so by LiveOakWithMoss, 2016, completed, Teen and Up, Curufin/Finrod, 2k. Notes and letters that are funny and witty as hell and full of subtext. I love ALL of LiveOak's Curufinrod pieces, but this was one of the first ones that I read and I remember snickering so much. Another one I reread multiple times and it has in fact inspired one of my fics too.

Mine:

Fëanor posts on r/amitheasshole, Teen and Up, various relationships, 4k. Pure crack. I laugh every time I reread this and I had a ton of fun writing it, I recommend it for when you want some shits and giggles.

Immortal Longings, Mature, Curufin/Finrod, 5k. Epistolary and humorous, written for a 'sexy letters' prompt. Falcon shenanigans, banter, mentions of steamy scenes and golden lingerie that ends up being treated by historians as valuable artefacts from an ancient age. It ends up in tragedy but I am very proud of this one.

Give me shelter, the night is dark, Mature, Curufin/Finrod, 5k. I consider this my best written fic, prose-wise, and I am very pleased with the dialogue (I adore writing Curufinrod dialogue). The premise of it is basically 'Curufin does drugs and Finrod does Curufin.'

This took way longer than expected! I truly believe I have not read ONE badly-written silm fic, and it was quite difficult to choose from many well-loved works. Tagging all authors mentioned here, if you'd like to join.

[wordywarriorwrites]

Calendar Girl: January

Series Masterlist: Calendar Girl Joel Miller Masterlist Author: @wordywarriorwritesrwrites​ Summary: The story of how Joel Miller falls in love again, told over a series of months. Series Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Language. Violence. Discussions of rape and consent. Alcohol consumption. Age-gap.

January

“Don’t pull,” Joel instructed. “Just squeeze.”

Still unused to the kick and noise, you hesitated on the follow-through, and the first shot only winged the target. After he reminded you of your stance and hand placement, you aimed and fired again. The second bullet had been much closer to the mark, and the third better still.

After you popped off the remaining rounds, Joel complimented your progress, and gave you some additional tips on your handling and timing. You were a fast learner; he knew you’d only improve with time and practice, and after he’d reloaded and returned the gun to you, you went again, and hit the target five out of seven rounds.

“Ready to move onto something with a bit more firepower?” Joel asked as he dumped the shells.

“Go big or go home,” you laughed.

Ellie smiled and nudged your shoulder, “You going to be patrolling regularly?”

You shook your head, “I don’t think so. But I want to be ready to fill in - just in case.”

As you and Ellie chatted, Joel prepped his Mossberg 500. While he loaded, he wondered if you’d ever had to shoot your way out of a bad situation, if you’d ever needed to defend yourself in the ways Ellie had, or if you’d been forced to do other things - like some of the things he’d done - in order to survive.

He’d never bothered to ask if you’d taken out a clicker or killed a human being before - not that it would’ve mattered, or changed the way he felt about you. After all, he’d done more than his fair share of killing and had no right to judge anyone. Since the threat of violence always simmered just beneath the surface, knowing how to shoot was not only smart, it was a valuable, life-saving skill Joel thought everyone should learn.

Especially you.

“I like my knife,” Ellie stated as she showed it off. “Saved my ass many times, but after I learned how to shoot - well, I just feel safer now, you know?”

You made a noise of agreement, “I get it.”

He handed the shotgun over to Ellie, and after he advised you to cover your ears, she fired off a few. There was a significant difference between the Taurus Model 66 (his preferred weapon of choice) and a pump action. By having Ellie demonstrate, he hoped you’d feel more confident trying it, and be prepared to practice with and use a rifle in future. After Ellie emptied it, he took the shotgun apart, explained the innerworkings, and guided you through cleaning, reassembly, and loading.

By the time you finished putting it back together, it had gotten too dark to continue on with target practice, so, he called an end to the lesson for the day. After the weapons had been checked back in and secured in the town’s armory, the three of you left the makeshift shooting range, and walked to the mess hall for dinner. Ellie had been quick to ditch you both in favor of her friends, and after Joel followed you through the chow line for his serving of spaghetti and salad, he took a seat on the bench across from you at the table.

“So, you gonna tell me the real reason why you wanna learn how to shoot?” he asked.

You picked up your fork and knife, “I told you why.”

“I offered to teach you last year,” Joel replied as he rested his forearms on the table. “You refused - said you weren’t comfortable with it. What’s changed?”

While you looked down at your plate and stabbed at your leafy greens, he stared at you and willed you to speak. You’d been weird and standoffish since Christmas. In fact, Joel would go so far as to say you’d done a spectacular job of avoiding him almost entirely, and he’d grown tired of it.

“You gonna talk to me?” he prodded. “Or am I only your friend when you need somethin’?”

You jerked your head up. Slammed your fork down. Mirrored his posture. Gaze now completely direct and full of fire, you asked him when he learned and who’d taught him.

“I grew up in Texas. Was practically born with a rifle in my hand,” he shrugged. “Dad taught me when I turned seven, maybe eight. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I used to be a trust fund brat, remember? And the only thing my parents ever taught me was how to be seen and not heard,” you snapped back lowly. “So, when the world went to shit, what do you think happened to me and girls like me? Huh?”

Joel knew some things about your past, about your life from before. Over a few too many at the bar one night, you’d compared battle scars. Swapped some of the grittier war stories. Neither of you had gone too deep into the weeds, though, because the pain had been too raw, and you’d both wanted to think about other things. You told him you’d lost your entire family the first night, that you’d seen unimaginable horrors since then, but he’d hoped such horrors hadn’t been inflicted on you.

After a stretch of silence, you cleared your throat, and kicked up your chin, “I don’t want pity, alright? I just… It’s well past time I learned how to protect myself.”  

He nodded, “Whatever you need.”

You sat up straighter and reached for your fork, “And I’m sorry for avoiding you. With everything that’s happened… Well, I’m an absolute shitshow and not really the best company right now.”  

Joel tentatively reached out and placed a hand on your forearm, “Hey, there’s nothin’ to be sorry for. And I’d rather see the shitshow than have you lower the curtain on me.”

“You want to see the drama unfold?” you snorted.

He smirked. Squeezed gently. You sighed and placed your hand over his. Joel looked at you and you looked at him, and without saying a word, you understood each other. It just flowed between you, effortless and uncomplicated. Many things had been left unsaid, but it was as if you both knew those things didn’t need to be said all at once. Time was not guaranteed and life was even shorter and more precious, but there wasn’t any rush to rake up the past just yet.

Especially not when there was a present and a future to be considered.

“You got time tomorrow for another lesson?” Joel wondered.

You took a bite of salad and thought for a moment before you spoke, “Morning’s free.”

He twirled some spaghetti and brought it toward his mouth, “I’ll meet you at your place.”

Having aired it out, conversation flowed freer and supper went down easier. A half hour later, he checked in with Ellie, who was still in the thick of it with her friends. With a promise that she’d be home in an hour, Joel offered to walk you to your place, and you accepted.

“Listen, uh, do you have anything at home?” he wondered, eyes on the icy ground and hands shoved in deep in his pockets. “Something to protect yourself with?”

“Broken baseball bat,” you said as you yanked on your hat and sidestepped a snow mound. “And dull kitchen knives. Those count?”

Joel didn’t have it in him to tell you that they didn’t count for much. That when it came down to it, you’d probably only have one chance to hit or stab someone - especially if that someone was faster and bigger than you. And if you were taken by surprise, overpowered, or knocked out cold, those weapons could be taken from you and used against you. At least with a gun and decent aim, you’d stand a chance of either scaring a would-be attacker off or wounding them bad enough to get away.

“Why do you ask?” you prompted.  

Joel glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were alone before he spoke again.

“I know it’s against town policy to keep firearms in our homes,” he voiced quietly. “But I have two hidden away. One is a nine-millimeter. You could handle it. And it’s yours - if you want it.”

You nodded, “I’ll take it.”

It wasn’t until your house came into view that you gently grabbed his elbow and pulled him to a stop. Snowflakes drifted, landed on the hood of your coat, and you practically vibrated with shivers. The icy wind aggravated his nose, and his fingers felt as if they’d gone numb, but he didn’t dare move - not with you so close, and especially not when you placed your mitten-covered hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoe, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” you murmured.  “Night, Joel.”

Joel dipped his chin. Bid you goodnight as well. Watched you climb the stairs and go inside before he turned around and headed in the opposite direction.  

He was warm all the way home.

Next Chapter: February

[howdy-folks-its-showtime]

It's Showtime! - May 2024 Devlog

Howdy! Cobalt here, if this devlog seems a little strange or not as well formatted as any of the others, it is because it is May 30th [for me who is writing this before publishing it] and I am sick with a fever. Out of the past three days I've been sick, today I by far feel the best but yeah I'm gonna blame any mistakes or lack of comprehensiveness on that.

Also luckily it only took one devlog for me to realize I should probably date and title these.

To start, we're almost done blocking out the first floor, it lacks a roof right now but the layout, the placement of stuff like interactables and some aesthetic things are all planned out. Once the roof textures are done I will share screenshots of it, but for now my focus is far more on programming than aesthetics for the first floor.

And in terms of programming, we have made a ton of progress! I now have a Progress Manager, it doesn't have a script of its own but manages three other script: Objectives Manager - Keeps track of which part of the game you are in for activating event and cut scene triggers. It also tells the game which character you should be playing as currently and does stuff like adjust what is in your inventory n such accordingly. Cut Scene Manager - Technically doesn't do much of anything right now because we're not yet at the stage where any cut scenes are being played. This will be working with the Objectives Manager and Event Manager to play cut scenes and manage them so it's not disorganized. Event Manager - Passes information from the Objectives Manager to things like triggers for events, such as cut scenes and animations to activate them. Has a list of all the events to make managing them easier.

These combined with the other scripts I have means adding things like animation events, cut scenes and objectives is really easy. So we will make progress on those things a lot faster.

Other important scripts I have made are: Interact - Just a script that makes an object interactable and then executes the script it's told to upon being interacted with, then deletes itself. Item Pickup - Stores an items' title, description and icon to send to the inventory manager upon being interacted with. Also destroys the item since it's no longer needed. Item Use - Upon being interacted with, searches your inventory to see if you have the object you want to use and if you do removes it from your inventory and tells the progress manager you've completed that objective. Other Use - Right now just for one use items like valves you need to turn or levers you pull when interacting. Then tells the progress manager you made progress.

I have also programmed an entire inventory system to keep track of the items you have picked up and the ones you have used. It has names, icons and descriptions. I should be able to use this same system for the tapes with some simple modifications too.

The screenshot is super rough, but don't worry, we'll use our own assets in the final product. Everything here is just placeholder stuff. Titles and descriptions may change later on too.

So what does all this mean? Well, it means upon starting up the game you are simply spawned right onto the first floor/level. You can check your inventory and see the item you start the game with. You can pick up all the items you need to turn on the ink machine [plus some bonus ones], put them on the podiums, flip the levers for the machine, see some animations and soon you'll be able to fall through the floor right in front of the entrance and we'll get started on the next section. The best part of all of this is going to be how much easier and faster it makes future progress. Now all I have to do to add a lot of things is drag the same script onto objects and modifying the scripts I have written to suit my needs as we go along. We have built the base and now it's time to build upon it, but the first step is always the hardest and now we're done with that! Thanks for all your patience with this project as always and I sincerely believe I should have way more to share by next month! For now, that's all. Thanks for reading!

[dramioneasks]

Hi, do you have some ff recommendations which are exclusive on Fanfiction.net and not crossposted on AO3?

my tbr-list is filled with AO3 stories but I'm sure there are some gems on FF.net too :)

Thanks!

On the one hand, I'm like: I came back at the perfect time to answer this question, because FFN got me into fanfiction. It's my first love. But on the other hand, I'm almost exclusively an AO3 reader now (FFN got too spammy).

Your best bet is to honestly just google something you're interested in and see if it's cross-posted. There was a big push a few years ago for authors to move or at least cross-post their fanfiction. And then there's a lot of fans who have moved older stuff over when it looks like the author is no longer active. So googling is the only way to tell.

But I'm happy to share my personal Dramione FFN favorites list, and I'm 100% sure some of our followers will post theirs in the comments.

-Shirlyn

The Request by redhead414 - M, 39 chapters - Astoria was never a fan of Hermione Granger, but pretty soon, she would be gone, and Draco was going to need all the help he could get. Rated M for future chapters.

The Fine Line Between Love and Hate by Short-circuit-Soulmate - M, 30 chapters - The Silver Marauders are the most popular group in school, consisting of Ron, Harry, Blaise and Draco. Hermione is the most unpopular girl in school. Blaise wants to discover the motivation behind Draco's constant bullying of Hermione. AU. Violence. COMPLETE!

Vibrations by Craft Rose - M, 6 chapters - After three years of a mundane, sexless existence and far too much wine, our favourite brunette happens upon the magic equivalent of a sex line. There, an intriguing, deliciously devilish caller manages to pique her interest. It's all fun and anonymous

Wrong Life by camnz - M, 25 chapters - Hermione wakes up in the wrong bed, with the wrong face, and with a husband that hates her.

Crimson with a Silver Lining by Lady Cailan - M, 78 chapters - It is six years since the fall of the Ministry to Voldemort. Those other than purebloods are deemed less than human. When Ginny's daughter ends up in grave danger, Hermione sells herself to the Death Eaters to save her life. Draco/Hermione. Not fluffy.

Burbage High by Charlotte Bird - M, 27 chapters (abandoned) - 14 Years post war, Hermione has become Head of the progressive, yet failing Burbage High. Handling right wing politics is easy, but working out why Malfoy is insisting his son start there in September is not. 10 years spent in Azkaban and 2 years isolated in the muggle world may have changed Draco, but surely not that much? Is something more sinister going on?

Forget Me by Emara88 - M, 26 chapters - The war ended over two years ago, but Hermione still feels the echoes of strange memories from that time, as though something is missing or has been taken from her. When she sees Draco Malfoy at a Ministry ball and collapses, falling into a coma, the truth about their past together is revealed.

Once More with Feeling by Kyonomiko - M, 20 chapters - Sometimes taking a second look can give you a new perspective on someone. Hermione has difficulty analyzing people once she has made up her mind, especially in regards to herself. Circumstances what they are, she might not have a choice but to try again. Dramione EWE. Granger Enchanted Awards 2018 Winner

Who Needs Friends by camnz - M, 47 chapters - Friends prove difficult as Hermione and Blaise start dating, especially his friends. Malfoy is particularly offended by Hermione's presence on the scene.

Simply Irresistible by bookworm1993 - M, 30 chapters - Draco gave a cocky grin. "I am going to give you a makeover." "I'm sorry what?" "You heard me Granger, I'm going to give you a makeover that will make every man want you,and make Weasley die of regret. You will be simply irresistible."

Pride, Image, and Reputation by Fanofbooks.Harry Potter - M, 28 chapters - They hate each other. Plain and simple. But he's Draco Malfoy, and no girl escapes his charm. Even if it is stupidly smart Granger. But what happens when progress is actually made...from both ends, and a certain little bet between friends gets in the way?

Of Kings and Queens by galfoy - M, 26 chapters - Hermione has a bad habit. Draco has a big problem. The universe has one heck of a plan.

Little, Fragile Toys by Bex-chan - M, oneshot - "That incident, their first kiss, always reminded her of a car crash; people often described how they could recall every moment before and every moment after, but the impact itself was lost or hazy, like when you find a new bruise and can't remember where it came from. And Hermione could genuinely remember every detail that followed the impact. Every detail." Dramione. One-shot.

It's All Uncharted by redhead414 - M, 38 chapters - "Are you ready?" she asked. Draco brushed the back of his hand against her forehead before tracing it down her cheek. "I was ready the moment you came back into my life, Granger. Are you ready?" "With you," she whispered, "I'm ready for anything."

It's Just Me by jehszs - M, 32 chapters - After a night of mistaken identity Hermione finds herself unable to stay away from the mystery man from the darkness. How can she stop herself from falling for him when he's doing everything in his power to make her his again? M. HG/DM. Warning: some non-consensual sexual themes

Heir Brained by diagonally - M, 42 chapters (abandoned) - The war witnessed Draco managing his way into the Order's fold & the trio's cramped boundaries. Years later, they are quasi-friends. Does Hermione want more? Want to bet your copy of 'Hogwarts, a History? Flashbacks/action/post HBP

Utterly Despicable by camnz - M, 24 chapters - The death of both Voldemort and Harry Potter let the pureblood elite build the world they wanted. One that leaves Hermione in a vulnerable state, which Draco Malfoy is prepared to take full advantage of.

The Bracelet by AkashaTheKitty - M, 103 chapters - Hermione has everything she could possibly want... Except a life. People are getting sick of her superior attitude, especially Draco Malfoy, who schemes to get her down, once and for all. And then there's the thing with The Bracelet... 7th year AR. COMPLETE SINCE 2009 XD

Forbidden by Darkest Dawn - M, 17 chapters - He hated her...but he would have her. After all: Forbidden fruit always tasted much sweeter. -Being revised-

Sweet Caroline by gingercat0319 - M, 43 chapters - He was rich, single and disgustingly handsome. Learn how a four-year-old will turn his world up-side down. Sequel now posted - My Darling Caroline.

The Passion Of Hate by XorderlyXchaosXnXconfusionX - M, 17 chapters - It's a known fact to the entire population of Hogwarts that Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy hate each other with a passion. But what happens when that passion turns the hate to lust? Winner for He Had It Coming Dramione awards

Valentine Encounter by Kyra4 - T, 24 chapters - READ ME! Draco and Hermione are Head Boy & Girl, but do NOT share a common room and see as little of each other as possible til a fateful encounter on Valentine's night leads to a gradual, reluctant romance. Starts 7th year goes postHogwarts. NOW COMPLETE

Never is a Promise by LoPotter - M, 45 chapters - HrD fic, they're head girl and boy and having an interesting year. June 19! I finally updated! It's been a year, sorry. But here's Chapter 45. Oh nelly :

[torchickentacos]

Physical Education Class and Ableism (AKA, 'Is my invisible disability actually invisible, or do you just close your eyes when confronted with a student in pain?')

I will not pretend this is a well-written discussion on the issues in PE. This is not that. This is an outlet of the grief and pain and genuine suffering that I, and many other students, felt through PE class- which goes far further than having a couple blisters after running the mile. I am in no way being dramatic or hyperbolic when I say that PE class leaves a long-lasting stain on not only self-image, but for some of us, our bodies. LONG POST. This IS personal and emotional (because years later I'm still angry at how I was treated), not a purely fact-driven dissertation, though personal anecdotes are relevant to the topic, and my emotional biases do not invalidate my points.

TW for ableism and brief mention of ED behaviours (clearly labeled and easy to skip over). This was definitively NOT fun to write, and I quite dislike talking about exactly how much disability affects me but I'm honestly angry enough to not care right now. Because every time I think about how I was treated, I get angrier and angrier. The wound grows deeper with each year I have to process it. I just want this to reach anyone else who is as angry about it as I am to reassure you that you have every right to be angry. A hell of a lot more people should be mad, too. I want people to get mad reading this. If you want, share it. Put it on tiktok without credit, for all I care (though actually please don't do that). If nothing else, just listen to kids when they say they're in pain.

To preface, I have never been able to do a push-up. Never. My shoulders and elbows just cannot support me. Any time we did push-up tests, I'd just sit on my ass because why hurt myself trying to do what everyone around me could do with ease? As for curl-ups, I think I peaked at 27 once. I never ran the mile in under thirteen minutes. Never did a pull-up. Was always last in every activity consistently (even during Ramadan, as a non-muslim who was not fasting- which, Ramadan and PE expectations are a WHOLE other topic that I am not educated enough on to make comments on, so I digress).

There were maybe three things I was good at, though. I could always far exceed everyone else in stretching and flexibility tests, and I was uniquely really good at gymnastics and hurdles, of all things. In retrospect, this is due to the leg flexibility needed for hurdle jumping, and I'm flexible due to disability- I'll get into that soon, though.

All of which is to say, I was bad at PE.

No matter what we did, for the most part, I'd be lagging behind and dizzy and in pain.

At first, I tried to push through and ignore it, determined to not fall too far behind my classmates. I was already a weirdo in the special ed program, didn't need another reason to feel like an outcast. I was already, at that point in time, missing large chunks of the year due to 'psychiatric help' stays, to put it mildly. So I just tried to keep up and never could.

Eventually, the complaining started. Or rather, the advocating that fell on un-listening ears. I started telling my teachers that running hurt and I didn't know why. That I was out of breath and my head hurt. This went on for a couple years and every single time the answer was 'well, you'll get half credit for the class if you walk today, but if you do that too much you'll fail'. So basically the answer I was given was to run with everyone else or fail class.

I started having a crunching knee. A clicking kneecap. Ankles rolling. Progressively getting worse over time. I started running with a limp. I started lagging even further behind. I started giving up entirely, opting to walk and take a bad grade because I could not keep willingly and actively hurting myself. One time, I even almost passed out after the mile and was told "well, put your head between your knees and see if that helps, then go back inside and get ready to go to your next class".

What that response told me was that I was being dramatic and lazy. The lack of seriousness they took it with told me I was just being overdramatic. So, I started believing them. Every time I walked up the school's stairs to the second floor, knees hurting and chest heaving, I just told myself I was out of shape and needed to work out more. I convinced myself I was lazy, just like they thought I was. I tried to get better. I tried to exert myself more and more in class only for it to hurt more and more.

The harder I tried, the worse I got.

I didn't understand it. Everyone around me was doing the same exercises and getting faster and stronger. Everyone else was improving or at least staying at the same levels of health. I was deteriorating, no matter how hard I tried to get into shape. I wasn't trying hard enough, maybe. SKIP RED SECTION IF ED TOPICS ARE TRIGGERING FOR YOU.

Maybe I was overweight, I thought (not true and led to some very bad habits that made me worse). I'd go from not eating lunch one day to eating two the next, trying ANYTHING that would make me feel like I was putting in the 'effort' to be healthier. Maybe I needed more food and more muscle. Maybe I needed less food and less fat. I'm sure we can see how this was an issue (that could have and would have been avoided had I been listened to).

RED SECTION OVER.

I was roughly thirteen to sixteen through all of this, if my math adds up (which it very well may not, since we can also put math in the disability zone for me).

I still get stuck in this thought pattern. I'm still working to get rid of these thoughts and attitudes in 2023. My last PE class was in 2018 if I recall.

I started skipping class. I was getting panic attacks and hiding out in the halls, in the bathrooms, trying to strategically schedule counselor meetings, doing anything I could to avoid PE class and the pain that came with it.

Eventually, though, after an eternity of pain and being told to suck it up, I stopped PE classes and fulfilled my credits for them (how I passed, I have NO idea- I can only guess my IEP team pulled strings for me behind the scenes). Only after this did I learn I had Ehlers Danlos Syndrome and Postural Orthostatic Tachychardia Syndrome (and some other random stuff that's less pertinent but definitely didn't help).

Ehlers Danlos or EDS is, to put it simply, a joint/connective tissue disorder characterized by hypermobile, super flexible yet weak joints that are prone to injury and dislocation. It comes with a plethora of comorbidities and other symptoms that aren't as relevant but still made it harder for me to work out.

Postural Orthostatic Tachychardia Syndrome, or POTS, is where your heart rate spikes when you stand from sitting or laying down, causing dizziness and blacking out. For me, it also results in chronic hypoxia- low oxygen.

During exercise, my joints were not strong enough to take it. My joints would not stay in place and this caused injury. Want to know one of the owrst things people with EDS can do? High-impact repetitive exercises. Like running. The POTS made me dizzy and weak, and I couldn't get enough oxygen to sustain the level of exertion required of me to run.

I am now not ALLOWED to run by my doctor. I'm still working on finding a way to work out that is safe for me because the truth is, most exercises are NOT safe for me. Granted, exercise in specific ways are actually helpful and considered treatment, but this is with a physical therapist and medical professionals who know how to help you work out in ways that will help and not prove to be detrimental.

Safe to say, PE class is not that.

And here's the thing. Ehlers Danlos and POTS are what are known as invisible disabilities. Unlike amputees or people whose disabilities altered the physical look of their bodies, my disabilities are all internal. But they aren't truly invisible.

My teacher could have seen the way I was white as a sheet and stumbling after attempting the mile, the way I would almost black out once I finally sat on the grass. She should have seen the way I winced as I got up from sitting every single time. She saw me limping when my kneecaps were sliding OUT OF THEIR SOCKETS as I ran (but she likely assumed I was being dramatic and faking that limp). Invisible disabilities are not truly invisible. Through the easy bruises, the never-healing injuries, the blood pooling, the pallid faces and the hyperflexible joints, the rashes and reactions, through the pain and through all the times I tried my damn hardest to vocalize these issues, it was immensely visible if someone was willing to see it or listen.

She only ever saw the issue when I started to skip class because I was getting panic attacks about attending.

The last interaction I ever had with my PE teacher was at Graduation.

We had an outdoor venue due to Covid. By then, I'd had diagnoses for Ehlers Danlos, Postural Orthostatic Tachychardia Syndrome, and various other things, and I'd been out of PE for three years (I took two years of pe freshman and sophomore year, none during junior and senior, and had one extra year for a veterinary science thing).

I had seen her during our practice round, which took place in our gym. I'd asked her about the amount of stairs at the venue and about how much standing was needed, explaining my disability to the same woman who would force me to run with it. She said she'd make sure she was there to help me through it and to find an accessible way to get through the venue.

I get to the venue and she's nowhere to be seen. I walk to the area we were told to go to, no teacher in sight to take me to any shortcuts or to keep an eye on me. I sit in the line of students on the hot concrete behind the stage (where everyone else stood) in my comfiest, most supportive shoes that clashed with my graduation dress, among the girls in their best heels.

I graduate in the same way I took PE class- without her help.

Afterwards, she finds me. After I've walked and sat on hot concrete and sweated and been dizzy and steadied myself on walls and the ground.

She says, in the most condescending voice I could possibly imagine, that I seem to have been fine without her help.

It was obvious to me. This final act, this final stretch of forced self-sufficience on my part had solidified it to her- I had never needed all the help I had seeked. All the complaining had been just that- complaining. Skipped classes were truancy. To her, I'm sure I'm long forgotten as one of the lazier students she's ever had.

I don't recall her name but I remember her face as clear as day. I remember how I felt every damn time I walked to the dressing room, the pain as I took my backpack off in the locker rooms and felt how much my back hurt from it. I remember her every time my knee crunches as I stand up from my desk chair, every time I'm out of breath. Every time my shoulder aches after tossing a stray ball to the kids across the street from my grandmother's house.

I remember how she made me feel.

I want to wave my cane in her face. I want to make her take my vitals and WATCH as the blood rushes out of my face as I stand, to WATCH as my heart rate goes from 65 resting to 120+ as I stand up. I want her to hear how my joints crack and pop and snap. I want her to see my kneecap sickeningly glide out of place and into the side of my knee. I want her to have been in the same room as my mom and I when my Cardiologist said my oxygen levels from POTS hypoxia could have been confused with that of someone in heart failure. I want her to know how I cried in the car after that appointment.

Not because I want her to be miserable and sick with guilt, but because I want to prove to her that I wasn't a liar. I wasn't faking it. i wasn't seeking attention.

But I can't do any of that, not that it would help anything if I was able to and did. All I can do is sit here and type and seethe, as my wrist pain starts to shoot into my forearm and as my hands and feet grow cold from blood pooling- I've been sitting and typing too long, and now my hand skin is mottled and my feet are growing purple with that so-called 'invisible' disability that nobody saw in me.

I don't want consolation. I don't want pity. I don't need sympathy, though I appreciate it. What I want is for this to stop happening. I want disabled people to be seen and to stop being forced to do things that are harmful to their bodies. I want for schools to stop giving a letter grade to someone's health. I want some random thirteen year old to not have to go through what I did at their age.

I WANT PEOPLE TO FUCKING LISTEN TO KIDS WHEN THEY SAY THEY'RE IN PAIN.

[thyandrawrites]

For the shipping bingo board, Rin/Isagi, Kunigami/Chigiri & Nagi/Reo :3

Woo, a fun one!

Rinsagi:

Listen. They are The ship because they are divorced and soulmates at the same time. I love that energy they have going on. Their dynamic got sidetracked with the neo egoist arc and kaiser's introduction as isagi's new foil/rival, but imho bllk peaked when these two were still navigating how to coexist with each other and simultaneously come on top of each other. What I like about their dynamic is that is balanced. While isagi makes an effort to understand rin and work with him instead of for him like everyone else, isagi also doesn't coddle him or tries to fix him.

They are equally deranged for football and their skill levels are different, but on the field they push and challenge each other in ways that other dynamics simply don't, imho. I never get the feeling from them that either one has fully caught up to the other, and that's part of why I like them so much. They barely tolerate each other, yet they're the closest thing to actual teamwork this manga will ever have. What I love about them is that despite being polar opposite in basically every respect (personalities, family curcumstances, attitude towards others), they're also very in-synch because on the field they see the same view and think the same way. Everyone always says that kaisagi is the dbhwks equivalent of bllk, but to me that's rinsagi. Enemies that have way too much in common and don't want to admit it.

Plus I find it funny that they're both lowkey-highkey touch averse so that makes imagining them as a couple fairly fun :')

Kunigiri:

This is where I'm conflicted because this is a very very small fandom, and the bloggers who actively talk here (here being tumblr or discord) as opposed to just... Sharing things are almost all kncg shippers. For the sake of finding fandom friends, I tried liking this ship. Believe me, I did! But it just isn't hitting for me. And the thing is, I can see the appeal. They have the same tragic angle of friends separed that nagireo and bachisagi do, except it's even more tragic because one of them is almost eliminated! Plus the whole "came back wrong" potential angle! I should be shipping them! I live for angst and for hurt/comfort! But I just... I don't know. I find them a bit bland, and it doesn't help that I hate with a passion the nickname "princess" and you just cannot avoid it in this corner of the fandom

I guess I will try harder, maybe eventually I will find out the fic that will convert me

Nagireo:

This is where I reveal myself as unhinged because they have completely hijacked my brain. I STARTED SHIPPING THEM AS A JOKE. because it was funny. And then I read episode nagi. And then somehow they became my biggest comfort ship ever??? They can barely communicate. They actively make each other worse (at least as far as blue lock themes go. They'd be fine in a different manga). How did this happen.

Ahem. Without writing (another) essay on them (check my meta tag for those), I will say that I am absolutely feral about these two. They're fun because they are so Weird. They're the best friends to lovers trope but they can't talk to each other at all. Miscommunication is their daily bread. They're rivals who can't help being wrapped around each other's fingers. One moment they're trying to progress as their own individuals, the next they're back to being codependent. They exemplify so many of the themes of blue lock and one day I'm gonna write a whole essay on it. Like I'm not even kidding, reonagi, bachisagi and rinsae are all faces of the same coin. I'm convinced Kaneshiro introduced them all to drive home the idea that the best striker in the world cannot live for someone else's success, and those three dynamics are different stages of self awareness in that respect. In that respect I think all three are integral to the series and that's why they're the most nuanced dynamics of the show

But as for nagireo itself? I know they will make me miserable eventually because I want them to be a team and that will never happen (well, if you don't take into account how they're both likely to make it to the u20 proper at least). But still. If I didn't like pain I wouldn't be shipping them in the first place I guess

[poupeesdecirque]

Personal Update & Doll Plans!

Maybe some important things to tell.

Glasses, Social Media & real life, a little bit of dolls

First of all: if you are reading this - thank you for being interested in what I have to say.

As I had updated not too long ago I got my next tattoo on the 23rd and it was a quite short lived decision as I had planned on doing it in February but somehow I felt the urge to do something for myself only.

It's healing well but let us come to something else...

Before I made the tattoo appointment I made an appointment to have my eyes checked. I have issues driving in the night and last month at work I had trouble to read a power point presentation.. as my last check was in 2005 I decided it was about time.

I got checked one week ago and the result is my eyes are almost perfect in regards of functionality themselves BUT I have Astigmatism, the lense in my right eye is the worse but the left isn't much better. Yep, my vision is crooked and it explains so SO much for me. Like the fact I was never able to draw straight lines even with rulers and such :') and the issues with driving at night, things are deformed for me, appear wider and broader.

Thursday I was able to pick up my very own first pair of ... glasses. I am adjusting to them now, I had car-driving glasses in before but those were plain window glass just to protect my sensitive eyes from the AC.

And it might be not a big change but right after the Connichi I had cut my hair even after having asymmetrical hair for years, it's three big changes for me, the hair, the tattoo and the glasses on top of work being absolute hell with too much going on.

I have to step back here and there in regards of hobbies and my decision is to step back from the social side, I will be using some of my social media less and less, especially when some last things are settled. I want to concentrate on the sides of my hobbies that bring me joy and not dig through dirt all the time in the little time that I have. I am actively trying to figure out how to use my main media like my tumblr blog here, you might have noticed I have started to write travel blogs and that's the route I want to go, to write down more, to share more of my thoughts, my impressions and all that.

I am reachable, I am here if you have questions, it maybe just will take a while until I reply.

I am handling a lot on top of my real life and art is a hobby, I can't juggle it all in a fair amount, i can't do cosplay, drawing, dolls and writing all at once. Writing is a priority for me same as drawing, I am aiming to do it several times a week.

I want to attend more conventions again and engage with the fandom outside of the internet, I feel like I have lost important connections and want to rebuild them, it's a progress for myself mainly.

Digging through my personal backlog of tasks is another can of worms. I just... took one bite too much too often.

But well, here I am wriggling my way through. Had a nice drawing and writing day today while I finally finished watching a series that came out in July and feel kinda proud I did it (you have no idea, the times I have actually WATCHED a show is now 6 times this year, a movie? Maybe two. it's sad I know but there is mainly just no time left or spoons for it.

In case you read this far and are in for doll related news:

I ordered the body for Bookman and am now waiting for three bodies, a full doll and a new head I just snatched last night! I hope to make the announcement for the head the next days as I made some art to go with it :)

Thank you for your attention <3

[drivingsideways]

For the usual suspects @rain-hat​ and @elderflowergin​ and a not-suspicious at all anon :D

From Behind the Scenes of Fic Writing: 30 Questions for Authors

1. What was the first fandom and/or pairing that you wrote fic for?

This was a Draco/Hermione fic that I only shared with few friends via email! :))

2. Do you participate in any writing events or challenges throughout the year? If so, what do you like about them?

Unfortunately, no! Mostly because I am absolutely terrible at working around deadlines when it comes to fic, and also I have a lot of anxiety around whether I’ll ever finish the fics I start writing. 

3. Do you write fics from start or finish, or jump around?

Hmm, I usually don’t jump around between fics, but sometimes when I’m writing a long fic, I take a break and doodle something shorter. But this is quite rare, because it takes me a while to get into the “zone” when I’m writing a fic and I’m nervous to break that and try something else in case I never get my mojo back for the fic I started with. 

4. Do you outline before you start writing? If so, how far do you stray from that outline?

I start outlining about a quarter way through the fic, usually! I only have the vaguest idea of plot when I start out, usually, and it takes me a chapter or three to get things clearer in my head. But once I am writing fairly steadily, then I find it useful to make an outline so that a) I don’t forget to put in things and b) I feel good about tracking progress. 

My outline does keep changing- I’d say, I stray about 20-25% from it in terms of no of chapters planned vs what gets written; but not really much in terms of the main story/ events. 

5. What is the perfect environment for you to write in?

This question made me miss my old life (when I was living alone): I miss the table I used to write at, and the window I would stare out of, the curtains fluttering in the almost constant breeze, and the quiet. But the truth is, I can write anywhere- a coffee shop, a train compartment, in my bed- what’s critical is that I need to be left completely alone for a few hours at a stretch. 

6. If you’re really concentrating, how many words can you write in a day?

I haven’t really tracked this as such, but I know that I wrote about 3-4k almost every day when I was doing an episode coda format fic for Serenade of Peaceful Joy as it was airing. But that kind of writing is unusual for me;  I’d say maybe 2-3k if I’m left completely alone and don’t distract myself.  But it’s not really the word count that matters, is it? If I write a drabble (100 words!) that I’m happy with, after thinking about it for the whole day, I’m good with that too. 

7. Which part of writing do you struggle with most?

I’m very bad at editing. 

8. Do you listen to music while you write? If so, share a song that’s been inspiring you lately.

I don’t like to listen while I’m writing because it’s distracting, but in the last year or two, I’ve taken to making playlists to listen to while I think about fic. Of late, it’s been a bunch of David Bowie songs, especially Starman, for a fic I’m thinking about. 

9. Do you prefer to write AUs, canon divergence, or canon-compliant fic?

I think all fic is somewhat “AU” from the canon; but if you’re asking whether I would write a High School AU for hmm, Supernatural, for eg, then NO.  That said, I have done precisely this in one fandom- not high school au, but “modern” au for a period drama- but it was because it was low energy and effort, and that was all I had the bandwidth for at the time.  I usually like writing fic within the canon universe which attracted my attention in the first place.  I often enjoy writing post canon fics, which would be like 95-100% canon compliant; and in some cases I like making a specific canon divergence, which then makes the whole thing “au”, I guess. 

10. Do you enjoy writing dialogue, exposition, or plot the most?

I don’t really think of writing or the joy I derive from it in this way though- I mean in these buckets- so I’m not sure whether I can answer this question. I realize that my fics tend to be dialogue heavy because I have tv show brainrot. Do I enjoy writing dialogue? Sometimes! When it’s going smoothly! :) 

11. If you could only write angst, fluff, or smut for the rest of your life, which would it be?

I think my wheelhouse is “bittersweet”, so it’s always going to be an angst+ fluff combo, maybe? I LIVE for the day when I’ll be able to write a good PwP, which, I think, is much harder to do than most people guess. 

12. Is there a trope you haven’t written yet but really want to?

I keep thinking of writing some kind of platonic soulmate-fic for various canons, but I haven’t got around to it. 

13. Is there a trope you wouldn’t write if it was the last trope on earth?

Is Omegaverse a trope or a genre? I wouldn’t write it ever. Also, let’s face it, High school/ college/ coffee shop etc. (I hated college, what is WRONG with all of you!!!)

14. If you were stuck on a desert island with only two characters, which would you pick?

Nobody. I want that island and its solitude all to myself, thanks. 

15. A Hollywood producer tells you that they want to film just one of your fics. Which fic would you want it to be?

It can’t be a Hollywood producer, because they would just ruin it, but if anyone wants to make Terms of Surrender,  I think that’s the most movie-like. Artist Company, you can have this FOR FREE. 

16. What is your most underrated fic?

Hmm, I’m not sure what this question really means- should I consider kudos/ comments as a measure? I end up writing niche pairings in small fandoms, so I think that’s a double whammy; but in a medium sized fandom like Beyond Evil, I sure wish more people read “Deer Heart” rather than “Cat Whisperer”. My best writing was for Serenade of Peaceful Joy, which nobody watched, and so maybe three people read the fic. 

17. What fic are you most proud of?

I can’t really answer this, I think. All of my fic is very personal to me, and while I know the quality of the writing varies *wildly *, I’m proud that they exist. Ok, NOT Cat Whisperer or A Soul Divided, but even those I side-eye because I think kdrama fandom has bad taste, not because they’re inherently awful. :p 

18. What is a line/scene you’re really proud of? Give us the DVD commentary for that scene.

Again, there are lots of little bits scattered across all my fic that I love. I love the ending of Inventing Love which I typed directly into AO3 like a madwoman - while waiting for Rain to finish writing the sequel because we wanted to read each other’s fics together; I love Gon getting high on pot brownies and dancing to Black Pink in Destiny’s Child, and talking to his horse when he’s at his lowest;  I love Miranda Barlow asking Thomas Hamilton whether he would have preferred if she had a cock for him to swallow in  May it Happen to me (all) ,  a line I didn’t know I was going to write until I was typing it; I love all the letters between the halmeonis in Terms of Surrender, especially the last one from Geowi to Kkachi, and I wrote each one of them through a blur of tears where I could barely see the screen; in Moon River, I love Do-chul and Hong-gi sharing a cigarette and being so in love with each other, thinking about what the future holds for them, while the titular song plays faintly in the background; I love Park Pyung-ho wounded and exhausted, leaving the lights on so that Jeong-do wouldn’t hesitate to knock on his door; I love Koo Seo-Ryeong texting Hyeong-min “ I made a man of you, baby, never forget “ in TMTTAL; and I love the young Kang Sin-jae ruining a perfect tea-set by smashing one of the cups in Before You Came. I remember writing these things, and I remember the feeling when I wrote them, the best feeling, when the words on the page say exactly what you want them to, even if it might get lost in translation between you and the reader.  

19. Who is the easiest/hardest character for you to write about? Why?

I don’t know if I have ever found *a * particular character hard or easy to write; my trouble doesn’t lie in characters, I have difficulty with the other things- plot and description and grammar, lol. 

20. What’s your favorite minor character you’ve written?

I pepper in a lot of OCs because I can get away with it in post canon fics , and it’s a great way to introduce women into male-dominated canons. Off the top of my head, I love the female OCs I sneaked into This Suspect Edifice (Yejun’s colleague and friend Kim Sang-mi), Deer Heart (Sister Lee Sun-ja and Jeong-je’s therapist Dr. Kim Jung-hee) and recently Choe Yeo-reum from  Terms of Surrender and “Hwasal” from Juche. 

21. What is the one fic that got away?

2020′s Tell me the Truth About Love developed an entire universe of its own without so much as asking me; this year that happened with Terms of Surrender (still writing in that universe!). But I’m more prone to letting fics get away than not because I rather enjoy it when they do.  *shrug hands emoji *

22. Have you cried while writing a fic?

Yes, absolutely, why wouldn’t I? 

23. If you had to remix one of your own fics, which would it be and how would you remix it?

Oh. This is a tough one. I guess I always felt that I didn’t do justice to one of the first  stories that I wrote in The Rise of Phoenixes fandom- A Place in the World- which was a Ning Yi/Feng Zhi wei  fic. I think I would probably expand on the universe and write it from Zhi wei’s PoV. 

24. How did you come up with title for [x fic]?

”Terms of Surrender” started out in a google doc titled The Unified Soy Sauce Company; I think I changed it about three chapters in. I love cheesy Harlequin romance titles and this was a burst of inspiration because I was writing about lives sundered by war and borders; and Spotify randomly played  “Hallelujah” that morning. [ I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch/ love is not a victory march]

25. Which idea came to you first in [x fic]?

For Juche, it’s the reveal that happens half way through the story about how Park Pyung-ho became a spy. Well, that, and Pyung-ho buying a pair of soccer shoes for Jeong-do’s son. Don’t ask me why, I have NO idea. 

26. Which part of [x fic] was the hardest to write?

I know Rain asked for recent fics, but Yeong leaving Corea in Inventing Love was so incredibly difficult to write, but I’m very proud of it. 

27. If you were ever to do a sequel to [x fic], what do you think might happen in it?

If I ever write a sequel to Juche, the only thing I know for sure is that there’ll be at least one scene of them dancing in a small kitchen. [Alexa, play Unchained Melody]

28. In [x fic], what is a happy, post-fic headcanon you have about [pairing]?

In Rival, post fic verse, Min-chae adopts a dog who only loves her mean mom Na Hee-do. *shrug hands emoji *

29. Send me a word. If it’s in your WIPs, include the sentence and a short summary of the fic.

Lol, I think you’ll find an abundance of the word “huffed” in any fic of mine. 

30. Tell us an idea for a longfic you want to write in the future.

I only write longfic! *sob *

My scatter-brain is hopping between several different nebulous ideas and I’m not able to settle down with any one, so I’m going to pass on this. The only thing I can say for certain is that it’ll feature people grossly in love with each other, and being completely stupid about it. * shrug hands emoji *

[veebs-hates-video-games]

I've only been playing one of them for a couple days, but I think I'm ready to declare Xenoblade Chronicles 3 and Vampire Survivors my favorite games of this year, both that came out this year or just that I've played this year.

One of these days I’ll make that XC3 post, but in the meantime Vampire Survivors is great. I know that’s a brave and controversial opinion. It’s completely chaotic but still feels like it’s usually pretty easy to tell what’s going on and what you’re working toward, the progression is really well tuned, and the entire thing is one giant reference to the older Castlevania games.

@solunderscore said that it’s a game about setting boundaries after I shared a screenshot that I described as “you have now entered the no touchy zone”, but I’m going to go a step further and say that it’s a better game about setting boundaries than the game I played this year that’s explicitly about boundaries, Say No! More. Vampire Survivors wins for me because I both enjoy playing it a lot more and because you can enforce your boundaries with exotic magical weaponry.

I don’t think there’s really much competition for those two for my favorite things I’ve played this year unless you count XC2, but it loses points for not being from this year and for me also having played a good chunk of it already before this year (and then stopping for a while because Tora). Gris is probably up there too, and if Radiant Historia keeps doing things as well as it has so far until the end that definitely will be too, but I still haven’t finished that one. Also Hades, which I’m almost done with, but I still feel not done with it because there’s a bit more stuff I haven’t done yet.

Bleed 2 and BlazBlue: Cross Tag Battle might be the next ones down. Astria Ascending I definitely liked a lot and spend a ton of time with, but it’s enough of a mess that I can’t recommend it as highly to just anyone. Egglia Rebirth is kind of in that zone too, and I still haven’t finished that one either because it gets a little repetitive trying to do too much at once, even if I like all of it.

Tokyo Mirage Sessions #FE Encore and The World Ends With You Final Remix both have things about them that are as good as anything else I’ve mentioned, but I haven’t finished either yet and both also have enough frustrating things to knock them down a bit overall. Bravely Default is in the same boat with them, which I love a lot of stuff about but also am very frustrated by some other things. I would like to go back and finish all three some day though, because when they’re good they’re great.

Fire Emblem: Three Houses and Fire Emblem Warriors: Three Hopes might be my biggest disappointments this year. I like a bunch of stuff about them but can’t really bring myself to play more of either. FE3H is one of the only games to ever cause motion sickness for me, and also it just feels really janky to me outside of battles, and FEW3H doesn’t feel as good to me to play as any of the other Nintendo Warriors games.

Next to those I definitely had even more and bigger problems with Injustice 2 compared to the first game in that series, but I also wasn’t expecting quite as much from it as from the FE games. Borderlands 3 can live here too I guess. So good in some ways, completely unbearable in others.

And then there’s stuff that seems perfectly fine but that I bounced off really hard like Celeste and Hollow Knight. Nothing against either, they just didn’t feel right to me at all.

Video games ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[elecman108]

It’s finally done. I’m... feeling a little emotional, honestly. All my D&D character references are now “recovered”, as in redrawn completely, from my broken SSD whose files were all lost.

I... I just want to sit back and put my head in my hands. [Cont’d]

This... It’s every character I have made for D&D since I started playing. The first two I designed - Miri Evenwood and Cecillia - down to the most recent two - Zarris and Joy - all together, all forms, all types, all everything, all at once. I’m just... This was so much work and effort.

When I lost the original file with all these guys in it, I thought that was it. Nothing. But I do post my art here and on Twitter, no? I saved what I could off here and there, and the quality of these guys was... bad. Like, really bad. Most of the pictures I downloaded looked like this:

Fuzzy, illegible, and most details lost. Some were better quality, but...

...the image compression of being uploaded to Tumblr or Twitter was... difficult to contend with. I did have some I shared on Discord, however, those were a little more to work from.

I had some sketches, linearts, in-progress images, and some poor-quality finished works. All out of order, all wildly differing in quality. I sat back and had to think, what could I even do here? My character references, all lost to an SSD that Windows Recovery corrupted the data off of. That was probably the end of the story.

But I am stubborn.

I started to redraw them. Why did I start with Ezra, Axel, and Blaze? I don’t know why, but I’ve held these three close to me. And then I started making the basic line art for each other character, either completely by scratch (see Verda here) or with a crunchy, fuzzy, off-my-twitter-or-tumblr reference to work from.

With each new character I drew the lines for, with each finished reference, I felt like the task ahead of me was monumental - impossible at times. Work got stressful, life got in the way, and whenever I had a few minutes to myself, I was putting character after character through the redux machine and redrawing them by hand.

Some stayed incomplete for a while. Some were started and finished within a... week, reluctantly. I spent a lot of time looking at what I’d done so far, and then back at the ones I had yet to finish or start. At a certain point, I felt like I had given myself a task that I would never complete - a problem I could never solve. Maybe I would’ve given up after a certain point.

But then I didn’t. I refused to give up. I made notes for myself, I reviewed old notes saved to my old phone that barely worked that told me which of my unsaved list I had later dropped or redone. I kept drawing these characters, and about at this time I realized something.

I had been making D&D characters for almost a decade. Some of these guys are from that time - Miri and Cecillia, namely - and some had been in-progress for years before I actually ended up using them - Blaze and Axel came to mind - and here they were. Again. After I had initially lost them.

This was something that gradually made me better at drawing. This was history - my own personal brain’s history, at least - and I was doing everything I could to ensure I kept it. Not only was I determined to have at least one single full-body reference of each character I could ever use in D&D, I remembered my original goal when I was drawing these guys.

One of each race and class combination. Of course, a silly goal, but it allowed my creativity to flow and make some genuinely cool characters. I would always look back on these guys and smile, and now I can do that again - and add more.

And the satisfaction of lining them all up in a colour order was so good.

--

So yeah, from October to December. So much work, and the payoff was absolutely worth the effort and time that went into it. Through every burnt-out evening, from days I spent stuck on the couch unable to move through the pain to days I spent here and there and back again. Through each hour worked at my job, to each our I worked at home and doodled these guys. They’re here again, and they’ll see me through.

And I encourage you to design your own characters. I use D&D as inspiration for these, but I have others, after all...

But at least these references are more stuck towards their names than their full outfits, fuck’s sake. These were my May-August project of recovering files so... This year’s been certainly interesting.