#posted with only a little less than 2 hours to spare

[roomwithanopenfire]

Day 24- Holiday Shopping

Title: There’s nothing wrong with Paddington Bear

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 813

Tags: Fiona & Baz, Pre-Canon, Canon Compliant, Gift Giving, Grief/Mourning, Sad, One Shot

Summary: Malcolm forgot about Christmas, and Fiona has to find Baz a present quickly.

Read on AO3

@carryon-countdown

[brisquad-unit-4402]

taking care of drunk ike

today it is my birthday once more so here, i'm posting my favorite fic in my drafts. i'm not sure what i should do today...?!

i love honest thoughts while drunk but i wanted to keep the idea of consent in mind... this is my balance weeeee. the longer the fic goes the more dicey it gets. kinda like actual blackout drinkinggg. so if you need to dip no worriesssssssss

tags: gender neutral reader, pre-relationship, fluff and angst, pining, open ending, fluff with a sad ending, sick fic?, blackout drunk ike, ike is a cute drunk, and then an emotional drunk, emetophobia/vomit, unspecified if reader drinks or not, slightest hint of lucake and shuca if you squint while yaoipilled, one (1) swedish word

⚠️ drinking, emetophobia

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Long story short: Ike is sloshed and needs to get home.

Long story long: Luxiem just wrapped up an ambitious project, so naturally you and the rest of the guys spent all night celebrating. The evening started off with a good meal and blowing your lungs out on karaoke, but if someone told you earlier today that Ike of all people would get piss drunk, you would've laughed in their face. Dude's Scandinavian. He's not a heavy drinker by any means but Vox is the only one that can keep up with him. Even then, it usually ends up with the demon plastered by the time Ike starts slurring his words together.

Except for tonight, of course. All Vox had was a shot with the rest of the guys when the night started, so that initial effect faded ages ago.

You weren't set on getting drunk either, so you ended up being the responsible one too. Even Luca sobered up. He's usually the next to go after local lightweight Shu, but the bar appetizers must've soaked up the alcohol, and now at the wee hours of 2 AM, the other two guys were using Luca as a crutch. Seeing sleepy-drunk Shu rest his head on Luca's shoulder was common. Ike trying to break free from Luca's grasp? Completely different story.

"Luca, let me go."

"Are you going to trip in your heels if I do?"

"No."

Luca let go of Ike's hand. Ike stepped forward, stumbled, and nearly ate shit before he could even get to step number 2. Luckily, Luca figured that would happen and grabbed his arm before the novelist completely lost his balance. "See what I mean now, Ike?"

Ike just grunted in half-hearted protest.

Meanwhile, Vox closed his phone. "I don't want him walking home alone," he said. He glanced at the Luca-crutch and the rambunctious child dangling off his arm (plus the contented Shu on the other side). "Uber should be here in a few minutes."

"Thank you, Vox," you said on Ike's behalf.

"It's the least I can do. Still, do you think he can make it to his apartment? He can barely stand up straight."

You got an idea. "I can go with him and make sure he gets home in one piece."

Vox tilted his head. "What about you?"

"Please, don't sweat it! We live less than five minutes away from each other, so I'll be fine. We even have spare keys to each other's places,” you said. Behind you and Vox, Ike was trying to pull his hand out from Luca's grasp. No matter how hard he tried, he had about as much force as a wet piece of paper. Luca was immovable. You continued. "Besides, I'm a little worried too. I don't want him to trip on concrete or anything."

Which brings the long story to now: you sit in backseat of an Uber with Ike who, as mentioned, is sloshed and needs to get home.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Without Luca to hold him in place, Ike didn't have much of an authority to rebel against. He complied without much of a fight. It's endearing watching him switch up; one moment he's acting goofy with the boys and the next he's docile, staring intently at the back of the passenger seat.

"What're you looking at?" You ask.

"Pouh," he says informatively. When you don't respond immediately he pushes his head against your arm like a pillow and repeats himself. "Pughhh."

"What?"

"Pockets," he slurs. He points at the back of the passenger seat, which is as flat as a board. "This seat doesn't have them. Which is so sad. If it can have pockets we should always have pockets no matter what."

"I think you should talk to women's jeans manufacturers about that."

"I would be great at women's jeans," Ike agrees.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

You thank the driver once the ride is done and open the door for Ike. Fortunately he's remembered how to walk but you support him as you climb the stairs to his apartment, one step at a time. His heels, usually quick and prompt, clunk on the ground. Ike sniffs.

Oh, no. He looks like a kicked puppy right now. Did something happen? You try to recount anything that might've upset him. "What's wrong, Ike?"

"I thought about it during the ride." He sniffs again. "Women's jeans don't have pockets and it’s making me sad."

“Sometimes they do!” You pat his back in a quick attempt to cheer him up. “I’ve even seen skirts with pockets.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” Ike smiles. “They should make more skirts with pockets.”

“Sure. Where’s your keys?”

Ike produces a key ring and misses the lock, so you open it for him. His apartment smells like cotton and the greasy hint of bacon, just like how you remember. It’s organized but clearly lived in, down to the folded laundry resting on a chair rather than their designated drawers.

“Come in,” he says, not at all surplussed by you. You visit each other often, after all. He ambles through the threshold and onto the couch with a satisfied “Oof.”

The first order of business is to get Ike some water. You don’t even have to guess which cabinet holds the glasses; you get it right on the first try. Once you’re done, you turn to the couch. Ike lays down on the couch, head plopped on the armrest and his folded hands, squishing his alcohol-flushed cheeks. His drooping eyes perk up as your get closer. He’s been watching you.

“Alright, you big dork, sit up properly so you can drink.” You nudge his shoulder, coaxing him up with a groan.

He straightens as you press the cold glass in his hand. With a wave of his free hand, he tries to say, “I shouldn’t, I’ve had a lot to drink.”

You raise the glass. Despite his protests, Ike wordlessly tilts it to his lip with your help. You must look like an alien species, a tangle of limbs holding a cup to a second mouth, but Ike closes his eyes as he sips. When he parts his lips are dewy. The center turns a brighter color, now glossy from the water, rosy red to accompany the flowery pink flush over his cheeks.

He glances at you. "Tastes watery."

"That's because it's water," you say, letting him get a grip on the cup by himself. "Go ahead, have some more. It'll help."

Ike lets out a tiny satisfied sound as he mumbles, “Only because you’re cute.”

Ah?

He drinks more of the water while you stare at him like an actual alien. His Adam's apple rises and falls with each gulp as you try to shake off your surprise. "I... I didn't know you were a flirty drunk, Ike."

Ike pouts at the implication. “I'm not! I’ve never flirted in my life.”

“What was that, then?”

“The truth,” he says plainly.

“Yep, you’ve had way too much to drink.” You rise up from the couch, refusing to let his unfiltered thoughts be detected as honest. However a weight holds you down. Ike clings to your legs, preventing you from getting up. "Wh—hey!"

"Nooo, don't go."

"What's the matter?" You try to wiggle him off, but Ike's grip tightens. Fluffy sand-and-sea hair rustles against your leg as Ike nuzzles you, face hot with liquor. Nerves kick in. Ike might be an affectionate drunk, but the most you've seen him is hug your friends with one arm and playfully sock them without much impact. There's no way he's thinking straight, not if he's intent on using your lap as a pillow. "Ike, I need to get up."

"I don't want you to go."

"I'm not going, I just need to get up."

"But that's the same thing."

"No, it's not. It's..." You inhale through your teeth as he tugs you back down. "Oh, Ike. I need to take care of you so you don’t regret this when you sober up."

Ike rests his cheek against your thigh now that you're back to sitting on the couch. He exhales. Warm breath settles over your clothes. "I regret everything I don't do with you."

Your furrow your brow. "That doesn’t make sense."

He raises his legs to his chest, curling up in your lap. "It makes sense to—to me." He hiccups. A hand brushes against your leg, then retracts as soon as Ike realizes he placed it there.

Drunkenness has granted him a dreamy tint to his jade eyes as he looks up to you, but you're starting to realize what's gotten into him. The weight of it presses down your back, just like how you support his head in your lap. "You make me want to do everything I wish I could do. If I was braver. Or honest." Ike sighs again. "I wish I was good enough for you."

You’re not sure if this is a conversation Ike wants to have drunk. You're not even sure if this is a conversation Ike wants to have sober. It's voyeuristic, listening to his thoughts out loud, the filter dividing personal and public nowhere to be seen. He's always been a private guy with his feelings—at least, he's never told you any of them. You think you understand why now. It makes you feel dirty. Like you've seen too much.

Ike blinks. Tentatively, his fingers brush your knee again. Eyelashes obscure the blue hope in his eyes, making way for the uncertainty laced in spring and jade green. The fear in ochre yellow.

He regains his sense of shame, closes his eyes, and tilts his head away, focusing on the threads on your clothing instead of his true feelings. They come out in a whisper. "I must be an awful friend for hiding from you."

"You're not awful," you say, just as hushed. He's never been. Ike's greatest critic has always been himself. He's never going to remember this, either. You're certain he's going to black out by morning, or pretend like he did, and that this never happened. You could too.

It's unclear if you're an awful friend for reaching out to Ike. You'll decide later.

But right now, all that matters is your nails light against his scalp, stroking his messy hair, smoothing down the strands like you’re brushing the thought away. Away. Let it go, Ike, I'll brush it away, away, away.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

"Uggh," Ike says groggily.

He fell asleep in your lap while you consoled him. It made your heart hurt, but the pain ebbed by the time you could hear his soft snores. Now that he's stirring, the hurt has dulled to a slight, simple bruise on your heart: easy to ignore, tender when pressed.

"Something going on?" You ask, careful not to be too loud.

"Urggg," Ike repeats. It's not groggy, you realize. It's nauseous.

You snap up. "Oh, no no no no nonononononono. Keep it together, Ike, keep it together!" You help him up and guide him to the bathroom. Simply put, he gets there in time. You hold his hair away from his face as Ike leans over the toilet and empties his stomach's contents.

Naturally in a moment of sickness, Ike is inelegant. Earlier, he used his mantle as a blanket, and abandoned it on the couch when he woke up. One of his fishnet gloves is missing. He leans so deeply that you can see the ridges of his spine through his button-up shirt, wrinkled from rest. You smooth it down, brushing the nausea away by rubbing circles on your friend's back.

He expressed so much about what you mean to him, yet the only appropriate thing you can call him is a friend...

Ike gasps for air. "Hell," he slurs, just before spitting up more of his sickness. He weakly grabs at the nearest wall as support. You can feel his stomach shuddering just by stroking his back, coloring the toilet water each time he retches. "Hel-helvete..."

"Don't talk, just get it all out," you say. He makes an unflattering noise in response; the vomit splatters against the bowl.

And to think, you thought yourself alien before. Clumsiness is common for Ike, but now it’s like guiding an ungraceful animal. He plucks off his glasses, tosses them aside. It feels like holding a cat by the scruff, a bag of rice by its seam.

Ike rasps. “Don’t go,” he pleads, throaty from slumber, slurred from stomach acid. The thought has yet to go away. “Do-don’t go.”

“I’m not leaving.” You set his glasses on the counter, pat his shoulders, and rip off a square of toilet paper.

Now that he’s seemed to recover, you tilt his head to face you. Ike averts jade-green eyes as you pad at his lip with the makeshift napkin. For the first time tonight, proper embarrassment overtakes him. His lip parts to protest, but freezes before the words come out, mentally rejecting whatever is on his mind.

The freeze extends to the rest of his face as you wipe at it. You try not to focus on his eyes, scrunched up with shame. His brows lower as he shuts them. It's only when you can't see the color anymore that you realize you've been paying attention whether you like it or not.

At least now you can observe him without feeling too awkward. Ike's a wreck. Obviously. His hair sticks out from where you held it out of his face. You have to use another square of toilet paper to clean him up. Luckily he's regaining his sense of decency, despite how his face is too ghastly pale to blush.

Ike sighs, barely coherent. "I feel gross."

"It's okay, it happens," you console. Nearby on the counter is a cheap plastic cup. You fill it up with water, then offer it to him. "How are you feeling?"

"...Better." He grabs it with his gloved hand, and traces a bare finger around the edge with the other. "But still gross."

"It happens."

"And I feel bad." You spring up, ready for action, but Ike waves you off as he continues. "Not like that. Just bad."

Instead he takes the cup and swishes, trying to clear the taste of bile. He spits into the toilet (just saliva and water, thankfully). Without his glasses, it's easier to see his hooked nose, especially as he pinches the bridge of it. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this."

"What? No, don't worry about it!" You pat Ike's back again. "I'm your friend, of course I want to make sure you're doing alright."

"I don't know how I thought I had a chance."

"It's okay, you just had too much. Don't beat yourself up over it."

"You're t-too good for me."

"No, I'm your friend."

"I should've figured." For the first time Ike seems to notice he only has one glove on. He rubs his thumb over the fishnet as he stares into the cheap plastic, the crystal water above it. "My imagination always gets the best of me and I have to pretend like I—like I didn't get my hopes up for nothing." He hiccups again. He already threw up all the booze, but you can still smell the alcohol on his breath as he stumbles through his words.

"You're drunk," you say, because now is not the time. No matter how much it pains him to express it, or how much it pains you to keep quiet, Ike deserves better than your true thoughts when he won't remember them at all. It would be cruel to play with his heart.

In the quiet introspection, Ike sits down on the bathroom tile and leans against the wall. He swallows down the alcohol taste. Shadows carve out his exhausted features, including the eye bags usually hidden by his glasses, and the lost, lamenting green of his eye. There's no way he can hear your thoughts, but the emotion sits heavy on his shoulders. He understands the hesitance.

Ike says, "I know." There's nothing to do about it. All you can do is pretend tonight never happened, or that Ike knew how to hold himself back, or that you never had these feelings to begin with.

"I wish I didn't," he adds. Already he protests the silence. It's an elaborate dance around the elephant in the room, but all he wants to do is get in his high heels and trip. If he could he would crash into everything, make a mess, stumble and slip and fall just as hard as he fell for you, over and over again, until he sprains his ankles and his body turns black and blue and the world swirls with dizziness. It wouldn’t be much of a difference. You make him go zero-gravity. Floating on air. The things he dreams of have wings in never-ending motion, away, away, away. "I think I need to lie down."

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

should i make a part 2?

✧. ┊ masterpost ✧. ┊ kofi

[wish-i-were-heather]

A FOOL FOR YOU PT 2 ⤵ GRAYSON HAWTHORNE X READER

ABOUT: 1778 words, no use of y/n (part 1, part 3, part 4, part 5)

STORY: you try to get hungover grayson to talk about the events of last night

WARNINGS: none!!

A/N: THIS IS A REPOST OF MY OWN FIC!!! I'm posting it again because my account got deleted, but I still want to keep all my fics on my blog. Thanks to everyone for helping me get this all back.

Nine in the morning is a reasonable wake up time to most people. Especially on a weekend when you want to rest. In fact, depending on who you asked, nine was still pretty early to be awake on a Saturday. 

But for Grayson Hawthorne, nine in the morning was ridiculous. The man always woke up around five- you had no idea what he could be doing at such an ungodly hour. But the fact that you hadn’t seen him yet would’ve been concerning, but you knew what was keeping him upstairs.

Since he wasn’t a big drinker, you really had no idea how much he’d had to drink for him to get like that. But it wasn’t a reach to assume he had a low alcohol tolerance. And for someone like him, you could also assume the hangover would be hell.

You didn’t mind waiting, either. It gave you time to think.

The whole night before, you’d barely been able to sleep. Your mind kept returning to the image of drunk Grayson with his arms wrapped around you, pinning you to the wall, cupping your face and whispering that he’d never hurt you, never. 

But had he really meant them? As much as you wanted to believe he did, there were also some… less poetic things. Like when he asked for your face. Not exactly something you could just give him. 

Grayson Hawthorne wasn’t one to talk like that, so part of you just wanted to dismiss it. He was drunk and stupid and saying things he didn’t mean. It was nothing more than that. He would wake up and be back to normal and it would be like none of that ever happened. He probably wouldn’t remember it either. But what if he did? That was for him to be embarrassed about, not you.

~~

After you finished breakfast, you stayed seated at the kitchen island. The only other place you really wanted to go was Grayson’s room, but you knew that was a bad idea. 

Your phone vibrated and you picked it up to see a message from Xander. But before you could check what it was, a pair of footsteps made their way towards where you were sitting.

Grayson.

He was back to himself. Clad in his usual suit, his hair done nicely, Grayson Hawthorne looked normal. Not like the man who’d hugged your neck and called you cozy just the night before, not hungover, but like himself. It was actually somewhat impressive. He was adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as he entered the kitchen. 

“Oh!” you began, hoping he felt as well as he looked. “Good morning, Grayson.”

You were met with a stiff “morning,” in response, and he just went to the fridge.

He didn’t even spare you a glance.

Only a little confused, you tried to continue the conversation. “What are you doing?”

“Getting breakfast.”

Grayson opened the refrigerator and stared blankly at the inside for a few moments until he finally reached in and pulled out… cherries?

“That’s not breakfast.”

He didn’t give you a response as he closed the fridge and carried the box on the opposite counter. Then his response was quick and sharp. “Can a man not enjoy fruit in the morning?”

You were about to give a snarky response but decided against it; he was hungover, be patient with him. You watched as he picked up one of the cherries- rainier cherries, you realized, so he’d have to eat around the seed. He took a bite out of it like an apple.

“Why are you eating it like-”

“I would like to think,” Grayson snapped, raising his voice and turning to you. “That I am impressively put together for someone with a stabbing headache and a miserable hangover. So forgive me if I’m not perfect.”

Drunk Grayson was an idiot, and hungover Grayson was irritable.

Good to know. 

You stared at him, surprised. Grayson was far from the most laid back of his brothers, but he was also not one to yell or get angry. At least over something so simple like this. Sure, your comments may have been a little nagging and annoying, but it was just for fun. He could take a joke. Usually.

You decided to change the subject. “Have you taken anything for the hangover?”

Grayson exhaled, calming down and turning back to the fruit, or his breakfast, apparently. “No, not yet. I’ve been busy.”

“Busy?” You raised an eyebrow. “Doing what, sleeping?”

He looked at you again and motioned vaguely to himself. “Showering, getting dressed, looking presentable.”

“Why? You didn’t seem to care last night.”

That was apparently not the best thing for you to say. Grayson took in a sharp breath and finished eating the cherry. He didn’t respond as he moved to dispose of the seed and stem.

You watched him move silently. His movements were fluid and sure again; he wouldn’t be knocking over any vases this time, which was a relief. 

Suddenly, someone came from behind and took the seat next to you. You turned and realized it was Xander, who received a nasty look from his brother. “C’mon, Gray, that was uncalled for. I haven’t even said anything yet!”

“I don’t remember much from last night,” Grayson said, picking up another cherry. “But I do remember you humiliating me. I really hope you did not get that on camera.”

Xander grinned. “Humiliating you? Nah, I only got a video of you singing twinkle twinkle little star. And sent it to the group chat.”

“I don’t remember receiving this video.” “Yeah,” he explained. “Because I sent it to the one we have without you.” 

Ignoring the pointed look from Grayson, Xander reached for his phone and began to pull up the video. “You should’ve gotten the video, I think,” he told you. 

“Show her the video and you’re dead,” Grayson tried. 

“Eh, I’ll still be your favorite brother.”

“I don’t have a fav-”

“Everyone shut up.” The new voice joining the conversion turned all your heads around. It was Jameson.

He, like Grayson, was also in a suit. But, unlike Grayson, it was a complete disheveled mess. The tie was halfway undone and his shirt was untucked. His hair was all over the place and he was barefoot. But he had no shame walking into the room, grabbing his head and telling you to stop talking.

You watched as he made his way over to Grayson with only a little stumbling, then snatching the cherry from his brother’s hand and popping it into his mouth. “Avery told me to come downstairs and get water,” he said with the fruit in his mouth. “I didn’t know you guys were having a party without me.”

Grayson just stared at him as Jameson grabbed a cup from a cabinet and began to fill it with tap water. 

“So you’re drunk too?” Xander asked. Jameson shook his head. He finished eating the cherry, spit the seed at Grayson, and took a sip of his water. “No, I’m just as hungover as Gray. He’s just better at hiding it.”

With a look of disgust, Grayson removed the cherry seed from his shirt and flicked it into the sink.

You and Xander exchanged amused glances and Jameson stumbled his way to Grayson again, apparently not done annoying his brother. Grayson raised an eyebrow at him. “Are your clothes still wet?”

“I didn’t change out of them,” he explained lazily. “Just slept in them after we-” Grayson placed his hand over Jameson’s mouth. “Don’t mention that.”

He then retracted his hand after a few seconds. “Don’t lick my hand either.”

Jameson shrugged and left, leaving Grayson to wash his hands.

~~~

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he insisted. 

You weren’t deterred. “Grayson please. I won’t watch the damn video Xander sent. I just want to know why you were drinking. It’s not like you.”

Xander had left a few minutes ago and left you and Grayson alone. Grayson was now done eating his supposed breakfast, and you’d forced him to take some medicine to make him feel at least a little better. 

“What is there to talk about, hm?” He asked. “I was stressed and decided to give in when Jameson offered to go out. But after making a fool of myself, I’ve now been reminded why I don’t drink.”

The silence that followed was palpable.

That only raised more questions for you. That wasn’t the first time he mentioned embarrassing himself; did he remember the overexaggerated displays of affection he’d given you last night? The things he did, the words he said? Whether he meant it or not, it’d happened.

You decided to stick with an easier question.

“What did you guys do to get Jameson’s suit wet?”

Grayson visibly eased when you asked. You both knew you could’ve asked something much more awkward. “I can't remember completely, but I’m pretty sure we went swimming in our regular clothes. Not swimsuits. That’s why I was…”

Oh.

You could see the realization in his eyes. Did he remember how you found him, shirtless and half naked in sweatpants? Did he now remember everything? “Shit.”

Despite his surprise, you couldn’t help but chuckle. “What?”

“Did I really-” “Make a fool of yourself? Yeah, you did,” you grinned. “You said it yourself, you’re a fool for me.”

Grayson looked absolutely mortified. 

You shook your head. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. You were drunk, it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t get any pictures or videos. Your image is upheld, Grayson Hawthorne.” 

Now that he remembered, you now felt a lot more awkward about the whole situation. Not wanting to deal with that, you got up and began to leave. 

“Wait.”

That surprised you.

“I don’t know exactly what I said or what I did last night,” Grayson began. “But I have somewhat of an idea. I was an idiot. So… thank you for helping me.”

Grayson Hawthorne thanking you? For helping him? That was certainly something new. You could tell he’d forced it out of himself; he didn’t like to ask for help, let alone acknowledge that he needed it. 

“You’re welcome,” you said, pleasantly surprised. “One thing though.” “Yes?” “You told me I had a nice face. Did you-”

“I don’t dislike your face, that wasn’t a lie.” He grinned. He actually grinned. “It’s unfortunate though. Maybe one day you’ll find a way to give it to me. In the most respectful way possible, I’d quite like it to be mine.”

Before you could manage a response, he walked away.

Just walked away.

Who knew a man like him could be so forward?

the writing above belongs to me. please do not copy, modify, repost on other sites or claim as your own. © 2024 wish-i-were-heather

[starryredpandawrites]

“Born From the Same Ink” Ch. 17 Sneak Peek

Hairbrush? Check. Birth Certificate? Check. Social Security Card? Check. Nimble hands packed the items into a well-used backpack as their owner checked each of them off a well-rehearsed mental checklist. It wasn’t ideal but at least this way she would have all her essentials secured; there was no chance something would ‘suddenly’ disappear like the last time she mentioned moving out. Audrey picked up an old sketchbook, one of many lying in stacks at the foot of her bed. 

With the straps of her backpack slung securely over her shoulders, she retrieved her shoes and crept to her bedroom door, switching off the lights as she went. The tarnished metal doorknob stole heat from her hands as she slowly twisted it as far as it would go. Then, she nudged the door open, lifting it slightly so it wouldn’t catch on the doorframe. The hinges she oiled the day before gave no resistance as she peeked across the dark hallway to the other bedroom door, which was blessedly shut with no light leaking out from underneath it. A silent sigh of relief escaped her lips as she snuck out of her room for the last time. 

Breathing softly through her mouth, she traversed the hallway in near silence. Years of similar expeditions had taught her which floorboards were safe and vice versa. Each sock-muffled step was calculated, and she was grateful when she reached the living room and could place her feet near the furniture, where the settled floor was less likely to creak. 

She passed the spare room holding the poorly covered Ink Machine without a second glance. She’d lost interest in the dirty thing ages ago. 

Finally, she reached the kitchen, her freedom only a few feet away. She would have smiled if the lights didn’t suddenly flicker on, revealing the man waiting for her beside the counter. 

Rather than stand, he sat in his wheelchair, an increasingly common sight in the Drew household. A folder of miscellaneous documents lay open in his lap. The papers rustled as he meticulously examined them one by one. 

Internally kicking herself, Audrey hid her shoes behind her back and schooled her expression. She should have just used her window. Ruined clothes and a few scrapes from the brambles below would be much less painful than this conversation.

Masking her guilt with concern, the young woman greeted her creator father a little too casually. “Hey, Dad. What are you still doing up?”

Joey didn’t answer, opting instead to pick up another sheet of paper and hold it up to the dim light. Audrey knew the charade for what it was: she had his full attention. 

“Do you want help getting to bed?” she asked helpfully, as though she hadn’t already tucked him in hours ago. 

“I was looking for your Birth Certificate.” he replied nonchalantly as he thumbed through the folder of documents, ignoring her second question. After a moment of awkward silence, he raised a harsh eyebrow at Audrey. “Any idea where it scampered off to?”

Gonna start the next chapter off strong with a flashback, y'all. Hope you like trauma ;)

Fam, it's been 2 whole years since BATDR came out and I started writing this fic. I wanted to post this/the chapter on the anniversary but better late than never, right?

I'm gonna try to post the full update on Friday (November 29th) but it might get pushed Saturday (November 30th) due to the holiday.

Thanks for reading 😘 and an extra big thanks to the people who kept messaging me even though I haven't updated since July. I still haven't responded to every ask I've gotten (and I'm starting to doubt I will, a very good problem to have and one I never thought would happen to me lol) but I love reading every word. You guys (gender-neutral) are the best.

[yougavemeyourheartyouknow]

On thin ice (Hockey player! Miguel O’Hara x Figure skater! Fem! Reader)

Y’all… this word count… I’m was almost gonna slept it up but decided not too. Anyways hehe. Also the last chapter is gonna be posted on Halloween at the witching hour in PST, cause Halloween chapter! so I’m excited about that lol. The usual, not proofread, Miguel might be ooc.

(Y/F/N)- Your full name.

Not much Miguel and reader interaction but what is there is worth it. Me attempting to write about sports stuff I don’t know anything about even though I promise I did attempt research. Cursing (I think tbh I can’t even remember but probably), fluff (if you squint?????), I’m giving up on these tags lmao.

Word count: 2.8k

Series Masterlist

Chapter 14: Ever thought of callin’ when you’ve had a few? ‘Cause I always do.

—

It wasn’t entirely surprising how quickly you got everyone in your group to agree to go to the game later, although you were expecting Logan to be against the idea since he hates the sport, but apparently his want to see you and Miguel get together was stronger than his hate for hockey since he immediately agreed.

You were currently in your 4-way shared Airbnb getting ready for the hockey game, having already been kicked out of the dorms by the university despite there being a game tonight, which didn’t make sense in your opinion, but that’s neither here nor there. Usually you would usually travel back home during the breaks, but due to you and Logan participating in regionals this year, you had to stay in Nueva York, you had both decided to stay in one rather than a regular hotel since it would be cheaper, Kate and Xavier tagged along for emotional support.

“I’ve never actually attended a hockey game, what do you wear? Probably a crew neck or a hoodie right? It’s still an ice rink. Maybe I should wear school merch, ugh but the only school related jacket I have is our skating team varsity jackets.” Kate, Logan and Xavier just stayed silent as they watched you rambled on, their faces full of amusement (and from Logan just the slightest bit of annoyance) as they watched you freak out , glancing at you every once and a while as you kept pacing between the hallway bathroom and your room as you attempted to get ready for the game despite it not starting for another 3 and a half hours.

“You should have asked Miguel for one of his spare jerseys.” Logan teased as he wandered towards your doorframe and leaned against it as he watched you dump your suitcase over your bed. How the hell do you not have a red or blue jacket??

“Shut up Logan.”

“You’re overthinking this, you know.”

“What? No I’m not.” Oh, you totally overthinking this.

“He’s got you whipped.” Logan snickered, shaking his head as he crossed his arms over his chest. You in response threw a pillow in his direction, which he hit to dodge.

“You’re not funny Logan. Do you have a school sweatshirt I can borrow?” You said, releasing a deep exhale through your nose as you turn to look at him.

“I think I think I have a spear.” He replied as he picked up the pillow off the floor and tossed it on your bed. “I just don’t want Miguel trying to beat me up over you wearing my jacket.” He added as he walked over to where you were standing, stopping once he was right next to you.

“He wouldn’t, I promise. I won’t let him.”

—

“This is actually kinda fun to watch.” Xavier said to Kate, as she glanced over to you before back at the rink. The spiders were currently in the lead 2 to 1 and it was about to be the end of the first period, a little less than 6 minutes before the timer reaches zero.

“It’s totally scary though.” Kate said as she took a sip of her soda, you nodding in agreement.

“So glad I went into figure skating…” Logan muttered as his eyes widened, an almost horrified look spreading on his face, but he couldn’t look away. You would have giggled at his reaction if you didn’t feel the same way. Both sports are dangerous just in their own ways.

You turned your head as you saw Peter pass the punk to Miguel, who you believed was playing center, (you watched one of those 10 minute crash course videos on how hockey works before you came to the show because whether if you were aware of it or not, Logan was right about you being whipped already) as he was making his way closer to the goal, when one of the players on the opposite team came crashing into him back first. The other player’s elbow “accidentally” hit Miguel’s face, and Miguel was knocked back, landing against the wall as the player on the opposite side took the puck.

“What the fuck-.” You muttered under your breath in shock, cringing slightly as you watched Miguel’s hand going up to cover his mouth, his face wincing in pain, your hands going up to mirror his actions. As soon as Miguel’s hand made contact with his mouth, a timeout was called. The spider's couch went up to Miguel first, talked to him for a bit before walking over to where the referee was. You couldn’t hear anything from either interaction, so you just watched silently, ignoring your friends glances towards you, keeping your eyes on Miguel, worried written on your face. Miguel’s eyes shift around the arena, before finding yours, you can tell he’s trying not to cringe as much as soon as your eyes meet, as if he didn’t want you to see him in pain.

Once you two were looking at each other, you took your hand off your face and mouthed an “are you okay?” to which Miguel took his hand off his mouth and gave you a thumbs up and a smile, but his smile didn’t free you of your worries, in fact, it made it worse, before you could stop your body, you let out a gasp as your eyes widened. His mouth was bleeding, and it was bleeding a lot.

His expression seemed to falter a bit upon seeing your reaction, to what though you couldn’t really tell. Panic? Worry? You don’t know. Other then the initial pain he felt when the elbow made contact with his face, Miguel wasn’t really worried about his injury despite the metallic taste filling his mouth, he didn’t feel anything break or a tooth fall out, sure he’ll probably be sore from a few hours and will have to clean his mouth guard, maybe think about getting a cage instead (this wasn’t the first time someone has elbowed him in the face during a game) but he knows it’s a part of the sport, that’s what he signed up for when he started playing. So why was it that seeing the concern on your face made his chest tighten with guilt? Miguel didn’t have another time to dwell on his thoughts before his coach sent him to the locker room to clean up.

—

Miguel felt like he was going to go insane if he didn’t get the taste of blood out of his mouth. He’s already gone through 4 sticks of gum and had to refill his water bottle twice in an attempt to flesh out the coppery taste from his senses. He let out a frustrated huff of annoyance as he spat out another piece of gum and brought his water up to his mouth and took a big swig, gargling it a bit before spitting it out in a sink and finally started to make his way out, his bag with his gear slung over his shoulder as he exited the locker room. They had won the game luckily, but Miguel wasn’t as happy as he wanted to be about the victory, maybe it was because he was still mad about getting elbowed in the mouth, maybe it was because he had to be benched due to him getting injured so early in the game or maybe it’s because out of all the games he played this season, of course he got injured at the one you were attending.

Most of the team has gone home already, some stragglers were left, two of those being Miguel and Peter, and Miguel wouldn’t be surprised if you had left already, he probably would have if he was in your shoes. Maybe you got the ick from him now after watching him get hit in the face, and he would be back in square one all over again, the thought was more painful then the hit to his mouth. His mind was running a mile a minute as we made his way down the hall and towards the main exit to head to his car where Peter was most likely already waiting for him. As he walked, he was trying to keep his thoughts on his sore jaw and about the game, trying to to not think about how you saw him get hit, or how your face twisted in disgust at the sight of his bloody smile after you asked him if he alright, the embarrassment and angry he felt when after he came back from the locker room Coach Turner benched him, how-

Is that you talking to Peter in the parking lot???

“I should turn around and wait till she leaves…” he told himself under his breath, but his feet continued to move him closer to where both of you stood near Miguel’s car. Once he was a big closer Peter noticed him first, since your back was facing him, talking to him about something he couldn’t quite pick up on.

“Ah speak of the devil.” Peter said with a smirk, one you would haven’t thought much of, but Miguel knew that there was a smug undertone to it, as if he was right about something. “Sup Mig, we were just talking about you.” He continued as you turned to face him, your eyes widened for a split second as they scanned Miguel’s face, as if checking for more injuries, before you took a step closer to him, you hand instantly going to rest gently on his arm.

“Hey! Oh my god, are you okay? That hit looked brutal, god that jerk.” Miguel didn’t know if it was the way your tone and face went from concerned to annoyed as you spoke, or the way you hand went traveled from his arm to his chin, lightly gripping it and moving his face from side to side gently, mirroring his actions earlier in the day when he did the same to you after he bumped into you at lunch, but god did you make his heart burst with warmth.

“I’m okay ice princess, calm down.” Miguel assured you with a small smile, a chuckle escaping his swollen lips as he took your hand and brought it down away from his face, giving it a light squeeze as he did so. Neither of you have realized that Peter had slipped away into Miguel's car.

“Okay, okay good.” You sighed and nodded, glad to know he was relatively okay.

“Didn’t mean to get you all worried Princesa.”

You scoff, taking your hand away from him and lightly hit his chest.

“God, you always gonna say something stupid, huh?” You rolled your eyes, but your tone couldn’t hide the smile forming on your face.

“Of course I do, ice princess, how else am I supposed to annoy you?”

—

To say you were nervous was a complete understatement, you have never been more terrified for a skating performance in your life. It was your first time performing for regionals after all.

You had barely gotten a wink of sleep, a few hours at most, but you mostly spent the night twisting and turning, glancing at your phone to look at the time, before letting out a frustrated groan and pulling your sheets up a bit higher in an attempt to get yourself to finally sleep. But your attempts were mostly futile, finally throwing in the towel around 5:00 in the morning, deciding it would be better to spend your time Getting ready for the day you’ve been anticipating rather then attempting to get another hour of sleep you know you won’t get.

By the time the clock had struck 5:30, you'd already packed your equipment in your bag, and had loaded it in Logan’s car, not surprised when you saw his back already packed, before making your way to the kitchen to make yourself breakfast, something light but enough to keep you full till lunch.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” Logan asked when you saw him enter the kitchen, two Starbucks cups hand, passing you one as he took a sip of his, his voice low as to not wake up Kate or Xavier. You let out a hum and nodded your head as you took the one he handed you and took a sip, the caffeine making you wince as you feel it try to wake your body up a bit.

“We should hit the road soon, coach Kavinsky said we should be at the rink by 6 so we can make it in time for check in and make it for our off ice warm up.” You said as you stood up from your seat, putting your dishes in the sink.

—

“God, I didn't know our short program would take so long…” Logan huffed as you both threw your figure skating jackets over your performance outfits for the first half of the competition, as you both rushed down the arenas long hallway being careful to avoid running into some of the other pairs as you made your way back to the locker rooms to change.

“Did you see Kate and her boyfriend?”

“No. Did you see Miguel and his friend?”

“No. I didn’t get enough time to look around the seats to find them.”

“Same.”

You both dropped the conversation once you both reached your respective locker rooms. Quickly changing out of the first dress and slipped the second one on, it was a full black dress with long mesh sleeves and smoke black mesh on your sides, being sure to be careful with the gemstones that were placed around the waistline and the chest, and the black feathers that accented the back in order to look like a pair of small wings as you slip your jacket back on, before going to change your lip color and eye makeup.

You were stressing hard, hell, you were surprised you were able to apply your eyeliner with a steady hand. You didn’t need to rush, since you and Logan weren’t going back on the ice for a while since they still had a few short programs to go through before you were supposed to go back on, but you tended to rush when you were nervous. Once you finished fixing your makeup you went to touch up your hair, placing two feathered wing hair clips that pinned flat against your head to match the ones of your costume, one of each side of your head. As you were placing some more bobby pins in your hair to help keep the small wings in place you heard your phone ding next to where you had placed it next to all your supplies. Once placing the last bobby pin in your hair, you grabbed your phone to open it and look at the notification.

Hey, you did amazing, can’t wait to watch your other dance. -unknown number

Fuck how your heart skipped a beat.

You didn’t even need to ask who it was to know it was Miguel, although you never gave him your phone number, so you were a bit curious as to who he had asked for it, but for now you’d have to push that to the back of your mind and focus at the more important upcoming task at hand.

—

“Next skaters going for the free skate, (Y/F/N) and Logan Martinez.”

A pause as the two go into their starting positions before Swan Lake by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky begins to fill the arena, the two skaters cladded in black, the gemstones on their costumes, despite their small size, shimmered brightly from the lights. No sounds other than the music filling the rink and the occasional swish from the skates slashing the ice.

You might be representing the black swan but you’ve never looked more like an angel in Miguel’s eyes. Despite the tragic atmosphere that the performance was depicting, you looked absolutely heavenly to him, he shouldn’t be surprised, this is what you love to do, what you wanted to do for a living. But he’s never got the chance, no starch that, the privilege of watching you do a routine in all of your full glory. He’s caught glimpses of you and Logan doing both routines during practices, but that was different, you wouldn’t portraying the emotions like you were right now, you wouldn’t wear the performance outfit like you were now, and the energy you were putting into the routine was far more grand than when you would practice back on the uni’s arena. He could already see himself watching from home as you and Logan were representing the country in the Olympics, but then again, maybe it was just his heart talking,being overzealous. He didn’t know if it was the performance or just your presence that he couldn’t tear his gaze from, but he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to look away in the first place.

You and Logan were selected to advance to sectionals.

—

Taglist: @tayleighuh @cowboylikeevie @coralineyouareinterribledanger @jukioku @loser-alert @miguel-ohara-eater @serpentstarr @littlexscarletxwitch @darksidescorner @sukioyakio @minimari415

[siderealscribblings]

4.15.202X The Apartment of Akechi Goro and Morgana

Being a paid demon slayer for the government was the sort of job most people could only tolerate in small doses. 

Human beings were prey for demons; sheep were not naturally suited to chase wolves for very long which is why S.E.E.S. had a very generous vacation policy. It was almost necessary for the average field agent to take multiple days off each month just to retain their sanity. Narukami himself famously disappeared for the month of June to spend at his family's house in the country every year just to avoid disintegrating from the stress of running S.E.E.S. 

Akechi Goro had been working for eight years and in that time, he had accumulated nearly a year’s worth of vacation that he never used. The more time he had off, the more time he had to realize how little there was to his life outside of his crusade against demonkind. It was better to put his mind to work than to let it chew itself apart and in the early hours of his first mandatory day off, Goro could feel it start to gnaw. 

At 2:30 a.m. he woke up; by 3:13 he realized he wasn't going back to sleep no matter how still he laid or how many horseshit mindfulness practices he tried. At 3:32 Goro gave up trying to sleep and started scrolling through his social media feeds, taking in nothing and enjoying even less than that. Mentions of the Phantom Thieves only aggravated him further until he got out of bed at 5:23 a.m. Internet busybodies were in full tinfoil hat mode, with some claiming the Phantom Thieves orchestrated the attack on Niijima for failing to investigate Madarame. Mishima was no doubt poring over thousands of blog posts looking for the one nugget of gold in an ocean of bullshit. 

Morgana hadn't come home yet, which meant he was likely plotting with the senior heads of the Tokyo branch. So there was no one to judge Goro as he ate cold takeout in front of his fridge completely naked for breakfast. At 6:20 the sun had risen enough to spill on the rows of movies, video games, and books left untouched on his shelf. Logically, he knew he should be having fun in his spare time; every once in a while, he was seized by a surprisingly childish urge to splurge on a new video game system that would go untouched as Goro couldn't bring himself to even turn the thing on. Two new Zelda games were still shrinkwrapped and sitting on top of a forgotten Switch; instead, Goro chose to stare at the ceiling for thirty minutes, tossing a ball in the air and catching it as the sun rose. 

Goro went back to sleep at 8:12 a.m. and had a dream that he and Joker were academic rivals. His teachers didn't find it odd that a fifteen year old with glowing red tattoos was cheating on every test by having Oracle feed him the answers and nothing Goro said or did convinced them otherwise. Goro woke at 10:23 with a refreshed murderous intent and spent an hour cleaning the kitchen he never used, half of which was spent putting a microscopic edge on his knives. Lunch was two melonpan eaten while disassembling and cleaning his backup pistol, meticulously oiling and scrubbing every tiny spring and gear before putting it back together. Part of him still blamed his faulty firearm for failing to fire the night before and wanted to be sure the next time he had Joker’s skull in his crosshairs, it would be to put him down for good. 

By 1:00 Goro was out of things to do, so he went to bed again, glaring at the ceiling while he tried to will his mind to be still. Unfortunately, his mind had a habit of spinning in circles when he should have been asleep, scanning for threats, analyzing his current predicament, and fixating on his latest threat. 

Who knows what they're up to now, Goro thought, glaring at the dancing shadows on his ceiling. 

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Start from the beginning

[acetonitril]

@topguncommentbingo

I made it! Excuse me for not posting a bingo before my blackout, I have literally no idea when my first bingo happened. The last two days have been a little crazy. But so much fun!

I also for the life of me can't figure out how to add the fics to the picture when I've only got my phone with me. So here's a casual list under the cut (I might actually link the fics at a later time but that too was too stressful with only my phone and half an hour to spare (in my timezone)). Go read them yourself!

1. fic tagged Porn Without Plot

pulling down back streets, deep in your head - thegeckbros

2. WIP

he loves me, i love him not - hey_its_me88

3. fic that's the first part of a series

I Couldn’t Help It, It Had to Be You - mackwinnon

4. art rated gen / teen

western sunset - enthyrea

5. crossover / fusion

Cyrano - arami_d004

6. fic completed between March - May 2023

The Penguin Agenda - greenstuff

7. fic where the last comment was 5+ months ago

Kiss me, baby - julie_sailorway

8. fic completed in July or Aug 2022

Feel the Heat, See the Light - ForASecondThereWedWon

9. fic tagged first time / getting together

You got me stuck on the thought of you - Popstar

10. fic set post TGM canon

that summer (when your shadow merged with the shadows of the leaves) - deuceofgears

11. fic with fewer than 5 comments

take you like a drug - callsignvalley

12. fic with a ship you haven't read

Sleeper Hit - goldcranes

13. FREE CHOICE

Homesick - theinsouciantknitter

14. fic completed in June 2023 or later

bare - Saturn

15. fic less than 3k words

I’ll Kneel for You - ReformedTsundere

16. fic from a fandom event

hot as a fever, rattling bones - Notchka88

17. canon divergent fic

Song #86 - LadyLanera

18. fic rated mature

bad idea, right? - ok_thanks

19. fic with more than 15k words

the whole time, under the lights - teacupivy

20. fic focused on a POC

no need to take it slow - boasamishipper

21. fic you already commented on

Rack ‘Em Up, Big Blonde - Earthangel_44

22. fic from an author you haven't read

Spare - wordsonamission

23. fic rated teen

get your head in the game - abliafina

24. fic tagged fluff

Cravin’ You - Jeston17

25. fic with a trope you love

can you see me glowing - dracculaura

[a-clockwork-justice]

Dr. Jekyll and Little Harry - Jekyll and Hyde age regression fic concept (TL;DR at the end)

My first original J&H post, shooting into the dark here (also a crosspost from Reddit. Also also, I'm not in the age regression community nor do I know anyone adjacent to it, but this concept lives in my head rent-free and if anyone happens to be in the community and/or have some thoughts about this then all is welcome).

I have an idea for a reimagining of The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde where instead of Jekyll turning into Hyde, he’s hiding the fact that he age regresses in secret to cope with the pressure of maintaining his respectable public image. Basically, age regression takes the place of Hyde and the draught from the original story. Of course, since it’s not becoming of a respectable Victorian gentleman to act so childishly, even in private, Jekyll has to keep his little side under absolute wraps at all times, only it’s getting increasingly more difficult as life throws more hurdles his way.

With the main story during the canon time period i.e. 1885-1886, this further complicates things as age regression was virtually unheard of back then - at the very least, Jekyll has reason to fear getting thrown in Bedlam if people were to find out - and resources and information are pretty much non-existent. So, how does Jekyll find out about age regression at all, much less engage in it? I have a couple of ideas for his backstory, one that’s rooted in trauma, one isn’t.

Backstory 1 (trauma edition): Decades before the main story, both of his parents die within days of each other at his childhood home in Edinburgh, so the younger Jekyll has to travel back home to plan their funeral and manage their will and maintain the stoic image a man should when all he wants to do is break down and cry Then he enters his childhood bedroom, and sees everything exactly the way it was when he left it, and time seems to fold in on itself, and he feels like a kid again, and everything is easier, and his immense burden is momentarily lifted. Just before he leaves Edinburgh, he secretly squirrels away some of his childhood toys and trinkets and hides them in his home in London, just in case he ever needs to return to that little space again, and he does, more often than he anticipated.

Backstory 2 (non-trauma edition): He just does. No explanation requires, just that he regresses to cope with the stress of living. In this version of the story though, the death of his mother, his one remaining parent, is a plot point and one that also forces him to return to his childhood home to take care of affairs, though in this version he takes Utterson with him to help out with the legal side and for emotional support.

With the backstory out of the way, here's a rough list of plot points I'm considering adding to it:

Jekyll regresses into his little self, which he calls little Harry, voluntarily when he gets a few spare hours to himself. He shuts himself in his bedroom, gets out a few toys he has under lock and key, plays for a few hours, goes to sleep, wakes up in his adult headspace, goes about life, rinse and repeat. It's not perfect, like how he gets lonely sometimes in little space but knows it has to be that way, and the risk of exposure and public shaming is always looming over his head, but he deals.

A series of hurdles in life, including long, hard shifts at the hospital and travelling to Edinburgh to see his dying mother (again, this depends on which version of his backstory I go with), make it increasingly hard to control and hide his little space, and he suddenly starts slipping involuntarily as a stress response. The longer he tries to suppress it, the more fiercely it wants to emerge.

At one point, hit butler, Mr Poole, finds out the truth about his master's little space, and though he's new to it, he eventually becomes little Harry's caregiver while he regresses. Still, Jekyll remains paranoid about this information leaking out further and gives Poole and all his household staff hefty pay raises to keep their mouths shut, threatening them with severe consequences if they tell so much as breathe a word to a mouse about their master acting like a child in his spare time.

Meanwhile, similar to canon, his increasingly erratic and furtive behaviour, as well as a few Freudian slips, tip his friends off to something being odd, and they want to find out what's troubling him, so Mr Utterson and Dr Lanyon, like in canon, do some sleuthing and put together that it's definitely something to do with Jekyll's childhood.

In the final act, the truth comes out when Jekyll breaks down and confesses. Contrary to his fears, his friends take it with compassion and understanding, albeit being surprised at first, and they all communicate healthily to help him feel more comfortable as both versions of himself as well as swearing up and down that they're not going to throw him into Bedlam, nor does he belong there. Still, they all agree to keep it to themselves, since Victorian society is Victorian society and not everyone is as decent and understanding as they are.

So there's the basic rundown of the story, now for other point about how Jekyll's age regression works, as well as how he would handle it in the canon era:

Jekyll typically regresses between the ages of 4 and 7, just old enough to be by himself for a few hours. He could probably regress even younger if he wanted to, but he doesn't want to risk it with no one to watch him.

Jekyll keeps his toys and other little items locked away, and they're either bought by him in secret or squirrelled away from his childhood bedroom. In both versions of the story, however, his favourite toy is a rag doll that he painstakingly stitched himself, which he made because he was lonely in his little space and wanted a friend to hug and keep him company. If this were set in the modern era, I'd give him a stuffed toy rabbit; however, teddy bears weren't invented until 1903, so a rag doll is the closest period-appropriate equivalent thereof.

Other toys include building blocks, toy soldiers, a model train set, and a music box, as well as some children's books and a couple of jigsaw puzzles.

Since children's clothes in that era weren't terribly different from adult clothes and don't look that much more comfortable (and even if they were significantly different, they wouldn't have made children's clothes in adult sizes back then anyway), little Harry spends a lot of his time in nightclothes since they'd at least be more comfortable for playing in.

Little Harry doesn't eat a lot, since he initially only regresses for a few hours at a time in the evenings and can't ask for or get food from the kitchen without risking revealing himself, but when he starts being taken care of by Mr Poole, he's fed a lot of sweet treats and warm milk with honey. Also, his favourite is marmalade, specifically Keiller's marmalade, which was a really famous Scottish marmalade from back in the day.

Certain things that can make Jekyll feel the pull of his little space, aside from stress, are smells, especially foods, that remind him of his childhood in Edinburgh - things like marmalade, treacle, porridge, shortbread, and kippers.

TL;DR

Concept: A retelling of "The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" where Dr Jekyll hides his age regression as a coping mechanism. Age regression replaces Hyde, posing challenges during the canon era of 1885-1886.

Backstory Options:

Trauma-induced regression: Jekyll's parents' deaths lead him to discover regression during a visit to his childhood home.

Non-trauma regression: Jekyll discovers regression as a coping mechanism without a specific trigger.

Plot Points:

Jekyll regresses into "little Harry" voluntarily but struggles to hide it amidst life's challenges.

His butler, Mr Poole, discovers his regression and becomes his caregiver, while friends Mr Utterson and Dr Lanyon notice his odd behavior.

In the final act, Jekyll confesses, and his friends react with compassion, promising to keep his secret due to societal intolerance.

Details:

Jekyll typically regresses to ages 4-7 and keeps toys locked away.

His favourite toy is a rag doll, and other toys include building blocks and a music box.

He often wears nightclothes for comfort during regression.

Favourite foods like marmalade evoke vivid memories of his childhood in Edinburgh, triggering regression episodes.

[furballfaggot]

my buddy convinced me to make an animal jam play wild account since it actually still gets proper updates and so far my feelings have been. mixed. overall i havent done nearly as much as anyone else bc my account has existed for maybeee 2 or 3 hours? so this is just my first impressions. im also kinda biased bc ive been playing animal jam classic for years and years and YEARS. back when 9 + 10 = 21 was still unironically funny and every cool kid in class read warriors. might update this post with extra thoughts as i go along! all opinions below the cut bc this is an absurdly long post

ive only played a few levels of overflow (and it might be because i played on expert because i Definitely have no overbearing hubris casting a shadow upon my better judgement) but the gem payout being higher than AJC for each level you complete is a very welcome change (2 gems times X number, seemingly determined by how long your path is, vs AJPWs i think it was like 5 gems times X number determined by how long your path is? either that or like 10. idk i blew a whole half hour on overflow alone and it was almost 6 AM by the time i finished so my brains kinda muddled)

also, membership has become far less of an overbearing nightmare monster for AJPW in comparison to AJC! thats a good thing! personally i think that membership just Shouldn't but thats because i think any monetarily-accessed subscription anythings just Shouldn't especially in this day and age. i got to go to the clothing store and buy things i liked and i didnt just have to longingly stare at the paywalled options like a maiden gazing out to sea and it felt great

dont like how theres so many fewer options for shopping for Like Everything but its a far more ambitious game than AJC what with everything being 3d modeled, and its got a younger target demo and theyre usually happy with whatever looks cool, so it checks out. haha. funny pun that was intended definitely. whats there is also pretty great and the den item options you get started off with are both way more cool and way more More than classic in its hayday. idk about the ajc starting den items now though i dug my old account from the ashes of who i once was when i decided to pick classic up again. i dont actually remember if you start with any den items in ajc now that i think about it i might be misremembering. that still means play wild has that point against classic though. shame theres no water animals but they could maybe possibly be added in an update pretty please wildworks if by some miracle youre reading this i am begging and pleadi

really my main issue so far is with how many things cost real-world money. theres next to nothing that requires a membership to even be bought aside from one members-only map location my buddy warned me about beforehand -- which, as a reluctant f2p since literally like 5th grade, ive been playing this game for Far too long, i do genuinely appreciate -- but boy oh boy you can sure tell this was mainly developed as a mobile game. there is so much pay-real-money-for-trinkets stuff and you just Cannot disable that menu. at least let me get rid of the little button that tells me i can spend the hard-earned bucks on moms credit card to get 1/4th the amount of animals of AJC man thats all i ask of this part

also this is largely unrelated but can i just say i DESPISE how many things are like "hi heres a welcome bonus :) oh but you need to pay like 3 bucks for it. yeah its usually 5 but for a Special New Player Like You? its a steal!" like thats not a welcome bonus thats an entry fee. i know thats like a paltry amount of money compared to most things Just Ever but its also coming from a guy whos family usually has zero money to spare

[bigsnaff]

So!!! Here's that Merlish post mentioned several months ago that I'd write pretty soon after the first SotO update dropped (I did not). But here it is now!

So, in all the time I've had Merlish, I've never really had a solid story for him. He's my second oldest character right next to Cyna, being 8 years to her 11 years (the 3 year gap being because he's the only other character that survived deletion from that period), but only in the last 2 years has he had any... actual substance.

Anyway, disregarding previous incarnations of him, Merlish Cendigg is a ghost of Ascalon, except he's not bound to the same limitations that all of the rest are.

I'm not nearly as familiar with GW1's lore and have only played a couple of hours of it, so inaccuracies and headcanons that are contradictory to canon are probably impossible to avoid while developing a character that's literally from the time period of said canon, so... bear with me a bit. But Merlish was in King Adelbern's court. His specific role, I'm not entirely sure. But suffice it to say, he was, and still is, an extremely powerful sorcerer - enough so that he drew the attention of the Astral Ward, probably became a member somewhere along the line, and was seriously considered a candidate for ascension. Until the Foefire.

Merlish had taken some precautions. He embedded his soul into his spear. His body was incinerated by the Foefire and he became a ghost as all the other humans did, but he was spared of many of the limitations that the other ghosts suffer. He has retained his awareness, consciousness, isn't just a complete rage-blinded specter (though his emotions are far more volatile than they were when he was alive, and he is much more prone to anger and restlessness), and he is overall more independent.

But, nonetheless, he is entirely bound to the spear, and remained dormant within it for centuries, until it was eventually plucked from the rubble by a member of the Ward and brought to Isgarren.

The spear happens to be the very same staff skin that Isgarren actually carries in-game! This was completely coincidental, as I had already been using that skin for Merlish since it was released, but it stirred a lot of ideas in my head and is what spurred a lot of this post to begin with.

But anyway, the post-effects of Merlish finally being awoken from his dormant state after his discovery are still TBD, especially on account of the fact that we haven't really figured out Isgarren's actual angle in SotO yet, but I'm assuming that either:

1). Isgarren felt some amount of guilt for Merlish being imprisoned for centuries in the ruins of Ascalon, and is looking to rectify that in some way, which is why he's carrying the spear in-game as we can see.

Or, the other option, (which is probably more likely tbh):

2). Isgarren is using the spear, and by extension Merlish, as a conduit for his power, strengthening his own magic. He regards this as a necessary sacrifice of Merlish's own autonomy in order to ward off the Kryptis.

Either way, I think eventually Isgarren hands Merlish off to Cyna (a precaution for her while in Nayos, as Merlish is a very valuable ally and formidable foe, and portable, no less), which is when Merlish finally regains much of his autonomy, and Cyna finally gets to experience at least a little bit of what revenants have to go through with a ghost rattling around in her head. Which, added with Peitha, is not a very good time. At least Merlish is a little more polite though, if angrier.

[blackbird-brewster]

It's done.

Fooled Around (and Fell in Love) - Part 3, is done.

I could ramble for hours about how I feel right now and as much as I'd love to lie and say I'll try to be a bit succinct to spare you all a long, emotional essay -- that's not happening. My blog, my feels.

I think it's important for me to start by saying, 'Fooled Around' was a miracle project, it brought me out of years of writers' block. Up until July 2022, I had been writing-retired for seven years. There were a few times during that hiatus where I tried to write, but the words always felt forced and disingenuous. I honestly believed I'd never write fanfic again -- then one night, out of nowhere, I got a comment on an old fic and it reignited my passion.

I spent that whole night re-reading my old works, delving into my personal archives, reading the outlines of WIPs that were never finished and that's when I came across my original outline from 2015 for a Jemily fanfic based on 'Imagine Me and You'.

I even had a couple of chapters already written from back then, it wasn't very good, it was admittedly just a scene-for-scene remake.

And for whatever reason, after seven years, I saw this WIP and went "Huh, I think I'd like to finish that."

With that, Fooled Around (and Fell in Love) was born. I wrote the entirety of Part 1 in ten days and the thing was, it wasn't even labelled 'Part 1' because I had no intention of making this into a series when I was writing it.

But by the time I had it fully posted, I already realised how much I wanted to keep writing these characters. When I began Part 2 in September 2022, there were only TWO other fics on AO3 in the JJ/Tara tag (there are now 26!). I loved writing their story and creating my polyam OT3 which I lovingly call, Je T'Emily.

Part 2 took less than three weeks to write and when it was complete, it was my longest fic to date (87k) and this time, I really did feel contented with where the story ended.

Afterwards, I worked on other projects, wrote tons and tons of new fics, including my 101k Jemily saga: i can't be wrong (to be craving you).

All the while, my Fooled Around characters started popping up in the back of my mind again, little plot bunnies rattling around, keeping me up at night, until finally, I sat down in May and said 'What could Part 3 be about?'

What I never expected was for this fic to take SEVEN months to write. Previously, the longest I had ever spent on a single project was four months and those were babies compared to Part 3.

Part 3 not only eclipsed my previous 101k WC record for longest fic, it more than DOUBLED that. In the end, this fic turned out to be 220,000 words long (equivalent to a 960 page novel).

I wish I was the type of person who could be proud of their own achievements, but I'm not. Even as I write this, there's part of me saying just delete and never post it, because no one cares about any of this -- but I'm fighting that little voice, because I truly do want to document how it feels to complete such a massive fic.

I poured hundreds of hours into this story, I did SO much editing, so much re-writing, re-working. I had a total of four main characters, their individual plots, plus SIX other characters, and their subsequent side-plots. To weave threads and continuity through a project spanning seven months of work was no easy feat.

I learned so much about myself in the process. Both regarding my writing styles, my stamina, and the dire need for me to find balance with writing and my own well-being. I pushed myself into burnout and the last few months have been really difficult on me, but I was determined to finish what I started.

And now, I have.

Six months of weekly updates and it all ends this Friday and I couldn't be happier.

To any of my readers who have made it this far, thank you. Your weekly comments and support really were the motivation that kept me going through the worst of it. Please know your usernames are all known well amongst me and my partner, because I share all of your comments with them and rave about how amazing you all are for coming on this journey with me.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. We may not know each other outside of AO3 comments or tumblr, but please know, I consider each and every one of you to be my friends and I cannot express my gratitude enough.

Pleased to tell you all, Fooled Around (and Fell in Love) will be back next year. Not as anything as massive as Part 3, but I'm planning to write a series of individual character epilogues to wrap up the series.

Until then, X.

[sparkly-key]

Echo chamber

Aziraphale watch Crowley almost literally get dragged into Hell, leaving him alone on Earth. Well, not alone, but he might as well have been. Day 3 of Whumptober 2023. "Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon."

Related but not related to Day 2's "Quite the Imagination" because if I get to physically torture Crowley in 1827, it's only fair to mentally unhinge Aziraphale in the same time frame, right? Right?!

“Crowley?!” the angel called, forcing himself not to yell as he stared aghast at the spot where the demon had stood less than a second ago.

(“My lot doesn’t send rude notes,” Crowley growled years ago as Aziraphale stepped away from the chains that had tethered him to the bastille’s stone walls a moment ago.

The gratitude stilled on the angel’s tongue at the reminder.)

If Aziraphale had a heart, he doubted he would have been able to hear the crickets and owls’ answers to his call over the necessary organ’s thunderous beating in his chest.

Crowley was in Hell.

The angel clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, and tried to assure himself that it was alright. Crowley was clever. He’d tell a tale worthy of Aziraphale’s bookshop to explain why he’d stopped a young urchin from committing the most grievous sin and chuckle about it with the angel, as they usually did after doing each other’s jobs.

Doubt filled Aziraphale’s mind, whispering that after all these years of worrying about what Heaven would do to him if they discovered the Arrangement, he should have spent more thought to what would happen if Hell discovered Crowley’s subterfuge.

The angel twisted the heavy gold signet ring around his pinky as he hastened out of the graveyard, the gesture doing nothing to soothe his nerves.

He lingered in Edinburgh for nearly a week - surreptitiously returning to the spot cemetery path where the demon had vanished, as if Hell would deposit Crowley in the same spot – before he admitted the futility of it, hurrying past the rear of Gabriel’s sculpture as though crossing its sight would summon the archangel himself.

London felt colder when he returned, as if the city was missing Crowley’s infernal presence. Though bustling as ever, Aziraphale couldn’t ignore the sense of loneliness that plagued him from inside his shop as days passed.

Without his little assignations with Crowley and with Heaven never popping in for a visit, he felt even more isolated than he had outside Eden, after the serpent had slithered back to Hell to report his success and Aziraphale had sealed off the Garden brick by brick.

(“Aziraphale, where is your sword?” She asked, Her Voice louder than the thunder the world had witnessed for the first time hours ago.

Aziraphale patted the boulder he’d just wedged into the wall as if he was testing its security instead of stalling so he could at least try to not look as guilty. He turned around, lifting his face to the sky, and wrung his hands. “It’s around … here … somewhere.”

Adam and Eve were specks in the distances, their miniscule forms swimming in the hot air over the vast expanse of sand.

She was silent, Her disappointment plain to the principality before he felt Her absence.

The Guardian of the Eastern Gate breathed a small noise of sorrow before he straightened his back and stared determinedly to the horizon. His post was a lonely one, but he would not disappoint The Almighty again.)

He didn’t know when he stopped telling himself that the tempter’s quick mind and silver tongue would spare him any punishment. But Aziraphale’s mind was eager to provide excuses, explanations that might assuage somebody else.

“He’s fine,” the angel fret, staring at the marks his shoes had worn in his Persian rug from his pacing these past 56 weeks. “He’s just being safe, staying away until things cool down.”

Time was a funny thing for an angel. It passed simultaneously in the blink of an eye and at a snail’s pace unless the celestial being was among those powerful enough to halt it.

(“Would you mind?” Aziraphale muttered at Crowley.

“Hm?” The demon asked, looking away from the jarred human remains filling the surgeon’s shelves. The blond gestured to Mr. Dalrymple, wiggling his fingers pointedly. “Oh. Yeah.”

Mr. Dalrymple froze as he ran a rag over the length of a cleaver, the blood smearing along the steel.)

Aziraphale inhaled sharply at the memory, so innocent then but now tainted by his guilt.

What if he’d been quicker? If he’d recognized the laudanum before Crowley and acted first? If he’d stopped the demon from drinking the opiate and saved Elspeth before she followed through on her plan?

Some angel he was, relying on a demon to do his job for him.

With a groan, he snapped his fingers and miracled away the worn marks on the rugs and retrieved his coat to venture out into the city.

The only difference in the path he tread now and the one he’d just vanished is that his footsteps weren’t as blatant as they were on the rug, but that was because bricks and grass and dirt were either too resilient to display them or too burdened by others to distinguish them.

Aziraphale had walked through the city countless times, circling the points Crowley and he had designated as their clandestine meeting locations. He fed the ducks in St. James Park, giving them extra handfuls of peas and fruit to make up for the demon’s absence. He peeked inside the pub they dined at when Crowley convinced him no one was watching, but the angel always denied himself a morsel of food or sip of wine out of penance for his inadequacy. He lingered outside The Globe, staring balefully at the banners proclaiming productions of the bard’s comedies. And when he’d finished his circuit, he’d return to his bookshop, and pace the length of his Persian rug.

“What is the definition of insanity?” Aziraphale asked himself aloud months later as he shrugged his shoulders out of the coat and fastidiously hung it on a hook, perched precisely to avoid stretching out the collar.

Doing the same thing over and over and over again and hoping for a different result.

“It can’t last forever,” the angel assured himself, his voice [1]filling the empty bookshop. “One day, he’ll come back. Who better to tempt humanity further into sin than the wily serpent who coaxed Adam and Eve into the original one?”

Crowley had been gone for years when Aziraphale had gotten … excessive with his miracles. He bestowed blessings willy-nilly, caring naught for how ludicrous they seemed. The young debutante in the park longed for a flower to adorn her plain straw bonnet? A field of wildflowers sprung up around her in a 20-foot radius. The urchins on the street corner gazed at the grocer’s apple cart, their hand pressed to their bellies to fruitlessly quell the empty ache? The cart’s wheel cracked, sending its bounty into the streets as the children scrambled to catch them and flee with their arms laden with produce – and the vendor found a few extra bank notes in their apron pocket.

The Almighty’s Grace was allowed to run rampant through London Town due to an unchecked angel who couldn’t bring himself to pray that Hell would realize the danger of not having an emissary to thwart him.

Aziraphale tossed the rude note from Gabriel into the waste bin and strode out into the streets, his tartan umbrella overhead to shield him from the downpour the way a brilliant white wing had sheltered him from a storm of shooting stars as a nebula formed in front of them.

A dandy dashing from awning to awning in a frantic race to save his new coat from the rain found his path miraculously dry as the droplets parted around him like the Red Sea had split before Moses.

“Aziraphale!” A voice barked out between the thunder.

The principality whirled, his eyes wide, at the name that had not been spoken aloud on Earth in 30 years. But the face that greeted him lacked Crowley’s sharp jaw and golden gaze. Instead, Gabriel’s lips were pressed together in a thin line of annoyance and his violet eyes were irked as he glared at the blond from the doorway of a tailor’s shop.

Aziraphale stilled, his shoulders slumping, as the archangel beckoned to him as if he were an impertinent child.

“What in Her name are you doing?” his superior hissed when Aziraphale reached him.

The blond closed his umbrella and shook it, trying to school his features into an expression less ... crestfallen. “My job, Gabriel. I am spreading Her Grace so all may know that the Almighty is everywhere.”

Crowley would have cackled at the exasperation on Gabriel’s face, Aziraphale was sure, but he was not the demon and the hard gaze dampened whatever spark of rebellion the principality had fanned moments ago.

“That flashy stuff went out of mandate decades ago, Aziraphale, we are now operating under a Blind Faith policy – the humans are meant to trust in the Almighty by finding her Glory in the world around them,” Gabriel explained patronizingly as they retreated into the shop. The tailor was nowhere to be seen, no doubt unexplainedly reminded of a chore in the back. “Besides, there’s no need for such actions. Our intelligence reports that the demon Crowley hasn’t been in London for years, off who knows where –“

HE’S IN HELL, Aziraphale mentally cried out as a wave of insanity washed over him and Gabriel’s words were drowned out. He knew where Crowley was, knew what had put him there. And Gabriel had just watched as the earth had swallowed the demon –

No. He hadn’t.

It had been a statue in the graveyard in the archangel’s likeness, not Gabriel himself. Because the only beings who had witnessed Crowley’s intervention were either too powerless to stop the demon’s abduction or were too powerful to let such a good deed go unpunished. Because Aziraphale had been alone in the cemetery with Crowley that night. And he’d been alone on Earth ever since.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when Gabriel snapped his fingers in front of his face and he forced the deranged burst of laughter that threatened to erupt from his lips down his throat.

“You’ve been down here too long, chum,” the archangel declared with a decisive nod, “and you could clearly stand to brush up on Her policies. I believe it’s time for you to return to Heaven.”

The words slammed into Aziraphale like the door of a vault, heavy and inescapable. He fought against the wave of panic.

He couldn’t leave Earth. He had to mind his shop. He had to protect his collection.

He had to be here. To make sure Crowley was alright.

“- We’ll assign somebody to Earth and they can use your shop as headquarters. Maybe Saraqael,” Gabriel continued, already planning to erase all of Aziraphale’s work.

“Unnecessary,” the blond interrupted, tidying his caravat and tugging at the hem of his waistcoat to smooth the few wrinkles in its fawn brown fabric. “I’d like to remain at my post, if you don’t mind.”

“Aziraphale, in the past month, you’ve acted  – well, you’ve acted recklessly. It’s not dignified for an angel to be running amok as you’ve been. “ There was that tone. The one where the other angels acted as if he was a simpleton who needed to have everything explained to him.

As if he didn’t nearly 6,000 years learning as much as he could without having to ask questions[2].

(“I wouldn’t worry though,” the angel said with a small smile to hide his disappointment at the thought of his stars and nebulas reduced to a blip in the archives of the Almighty. “How much trouble can I get into just for asking a few questions?”)

“My apologies for my outburst, Gabriel, I don’t know what came over me but I guarantee you that it won’t happen again,” Aziraphale assured his boss with a tight smile. “You’ve made me see how foolish I’ve been.”

Crowley would come back eventually. And Aziraphale would be damned if his friend was greeted by another angel.

______________________________________________________________

[1] His voice was perfectly normal, thank you very much. Definitely not shrill. And it was perfectly fine to talk to yourself. After all, She had stationed him alone at the Gates of Eden and not spoken him after asking him about the sword. So clearly, he was meant to talk to himself.

[2] He could ask Crowley questions. He’d lost count of the questions he’d asked and the ones Crowley had asked in return.

[thecheesywritingcabin]

Regular Routine

So, the last two months have been moving at a rapid pace. The third draft feels like it's about halfway done, but it's still too early to start talking about beta-reading and whatnot.

Since I'm working at the moment, I thought it might be nice to talk about my writing/editing routine. It might be nice in terms of catharsis, as well as gives me a little break from my edit today.

So, let me break down how I survive working on this and my job as a pathology collector. Spoiler alert: this is a very, very long way of saying "take some breaks".

What Is Your Current Writing Routine?

Unless I have time off, I only edit on Sundays. Sometimes I'll get spicy and do some the Saturday evening, but more often than not I'm dicking around playing video games and decompressing from work.

Now, sometimes I'll plan some extra writing time in around work, but that can be a little bit of a nightmare.

How Long Do I Work For?

I don't talk about myself much online, so let me give you some context. I'm in pathology, and my roster is a mess. In fact, Wednesday and Thursday I don't know where I am until 6am that morning, or the previous afternoon if my boss has had time to plan. Monday and Tuesday meanwhile I work two shifts that are both three hours long - this used to be eight hours accumulative, but the evening shift had its hours cut. Friday I work five hours and on alternate Saturdays I work three and a half hours.

So, this sounds manageable, right?

Here's where it gets weird. First of all, the mornings of Monday, Tuesday or Friday I can get redeployed elsewhere, working either longer or farther away. One time, I worked from 8-2pm, then 3-6pm about 30 minutes away from the first location. Early in my career, my boss was so short staffed I wound up working close to 12 hours. Never again.

Wednesday and Thursday meanwhile I've more or less been locked into a 9.5 hour shift because few other staff know how to work that particular room.

In summary, most weeks I work about 36 hours, not including the weekend or redeployment. That translates to 75.5 hours per fortnight, just 30 minutes shy of full time hours here in Australia.

How Do I Manage These Hours and Writing?

For those of you who haven't worked in my industry, there can sometimes be gaps as wide as 2 hours between clients. During this time, it's best to do the store orders, stock counts and any miscellaneous tasks since there are a lot of those.

However, doing all these tasks take up about 15-20 minutes of your day. In fact, it's pretty easy to complete them all in the first hour if no clients show up.

In my company at least, you can be sent to rooms where there is nobody but you on site, and your clients are in the single digits.

You can probably see where I'm going with this.

Once the daily chores are done and there's no clients, I will whip out my journal and set a timer for 10-15 minutes, taking advantage of the excess float time. If I'm doing a big chapter, I might even do a draft on my lunchbreak if it's long enough.

In fact, a good chunk of Draft 1 was written like this.

This Sounds Exhausting

Well, that's because it is. There's no nice way to say it, but there's a reason there were 5-6 years where I posted nothing on Tumblr. Writing on the job takes away time that I might have otherwise used to rest in between clients.

It's all about finding balance. I do it on days I have the energy, but if I had a busy day or things have been going badly I won't touch my pen.

I'm sure most of you have heard a variation of this advice: find the gaps in your day, maybe get up earlier or stay up later if you need to, so you can allocate that time to write. That's basically what I do, but sometimes you need to take a break.

The problem for me while writing Draft 1 of Case of the Crawling Shadow, at least for a while, I would try to cram writing into every spare gap I had. This is a side effect of doing Camp Nanowrimo in 2022, but even going into Draft 2 I tried to keep up that momentum.

I wore myself down until I feel like a nub of a person. I was trying to do 3 chapters worth of editing a week, and suffered for it.

What's Happening Now?

At this point, my goal is to finish the Case of the Crawling Shadow's third draft so we can start sending it to beta readers. It's about 50% done, but going slowly. My body is still a bit grimy from the whirlwind drafting process, and I've been working resting into my editing time.

With any luck, we'll finally be able to start getting the ball rolling this year. I'm pretty excited for it. For now, I am alternating editing this chapter and building a McMansion in Sons of the Forest.

[uncreative-media]

Happy 2nd birthday to the Wintertwined demo!

Exactly two years ago I posted a demo online for a game I had been making in my spare time during the pandemic.

This game came to be known as Wintertwined, my first ever long term project.

I had spent most, if not all of my free time during the lockdowns working on my little game.

With the amount of free time I had, it slowly changed into something a little bit bigger than I had anticipated.

What was supposed to be a little side project, got out of hand and slowly turned into something a little more profound and personal.

Looking back, I don't know whether releasing the demo, when the game itself was just 25% finished, was a good call or not.

On the one hand, it made the game better. The amount of feedback I'd gotten was both kinda scary at first, as much as it was welcome. It all helped to shape the game into a better overall product.

On the other hand though, 2 years down the line and it still isn't done yet and I feel like I've killed most of the momentum the demo had.

Since the pandemic restrictions got lifted and I got back to working my day job, I got to spend less time on the game.

I was working a job that, to me at least, felt restrictive and kept me from growing into the industry.

This slowly started to burn me out, especially since it had been my intention to work full time from the very start.

Instead I got covid, which damaged my lungs and made me exhausted whenever I had to do anything physical.

I've also had multiple health related setbacks that made it impossible to sit for hours.

For almost the entirety of 2022, I'd slowly chip away at the game, desperately clinging to the idea that the game must be released that year.

Obviously, that didn't happen.

I've since put the development on hiatus and it hurt to post that.

No more estimated release dates, this created so much unnecessary pressure before.

I also had to learn the hard way, that making a game is hard, and when I say hard, I mean it's HARD fucking work.

I've gained so much respect and appreciation for developers and the medium as whole through this journey.

Something you can really only learn, by making something yourself.

Sometimes I rewatch live streams and let's plays from time to time, and I get a weird sort of reassuring feeling that I made something good. So, to those people a genuine, heartfelt thank you.

Luckily, the road ahead is looking bright.

I've switched jobs recently, and I think I've finally found a place I love and will love for a long time.

Not only that, but most of my health related issues are getting better as well!

Currently, I'm getting used to my new job and with this, comes a new schedule.

One that allows me to make time for my hobbies, which in terms means development time.

I'll be trying to pick up development once a week, keyword being try!

But I'll be doing my best, I can't wait to share my game with the world.

I’m beyond excited to start working on Wintertwined again and want to thank all of you for being so patient with me.

Thanks for reading my ramblings <3

And happy 2nd birthday to my little demo

[formula1neverleft]

To Be Close To You - Lando Norris - Part 1 / 2

Pairing: College/Uni!AU Lando Norris x female!Reader 

 Summary:  When your professor pairs you with the token shy boy in your photography class, you can’t wait to get the project over and done with. Turns out, you had no idea just what you were in for.

 Warnings: none for part 1  (part 2 however...I shan’t speak (it’s gonna be pure filth goodbye)) 

 Words: 2.8k 

Author’s note: My first Lando piece!! Part 2 will be longer but wanted to get this out there, stay tuned peeps :)) Not proofread.English is not my first language.  

Feedback very much appreciated!! Enjoy xx 

Song recs: Pools by Glass Animals // cowboy in LA by LANY // Crush by Tessa Violet // 1950 by King Princess 

Some posts that *inspired* me: Lando in this , collegeboy!Lando, THIS PICTURE...Idk why but just...this.......picture

 To Be Close To You - Part 1 

It was one of those days.

 One of those days where, from the very second you opened your eyes, every little thing that could go wrong, did. First, it was you sleeping through your alarm and having to skip your morning shower to make it to class on time. You decided to use what little time you had to at least make sure you’d had something to eat, only to somehow burn your toast. Great.

 As you shuffled into your seat in the auditorium, you were relieved to see you’d made it with time to spare, albeit starving, disheveled, and slightly sweaty from your half-jog across campus. You took out your phone and typed out a quick text to your best friend Margot.

 Where are you?? Class is about to start

 In true Margot fashion, it took less than thirty seconds for a reply to come through.

 I’m abandoning ship for the day. Turns out you were right to skip tequila night yesterday, I’m dying here girl

 Her text was accompanied by a selfie of her in her bed, mascara smudged and eyes swollen red. You repressed a laugh when you saw it, but it was quickly replaced by a frown of panic when you remembered that you were supposed to work on a photography project in class today, and you needed a partner. Fuck.

 No no no, drag yourself out of bed asap

we were gonna pair up for that project remember??

 The sound of professor Seidl talking made your head snap up from your phone.

 “Morning everyone! As I said last week, I’m going to give you this hour to prepare for the photography art project that counts for 70 percent of your final grade for this class. 

This time, your photos should center around a person, it can be a self-portrait or you can find a third party to model if you prefer. The rest of the concept is completely up to your own creative devices! Please use this time wisely, you can start working out some ideas with your partner, or discuss what material you’ll be using to shoot. Alright, partner up!”

 You contemplated sneaking out of the auditorium, but since there were only about thirty of you in the class, there was no way you would make it without professor Seidl noticing. He was notorious for knowing all the names of his students by heart, and you would hate for it to influence how he graded your project. Instead, you opted for attempting to talk yourself out of the situation, so you made your way to the front of the class as all the other students started scrambling to partner up with their friends.

 “Professor?” you smiled politely.

 “Y/N! Happy to see you present in a class this early. What can I do for you?”

 “uhm, I was going to pair up with Margot for this assignment, but she couldn’t make it today because she’s feeling a bit…under the weather. Could I be excused so I can go to her dorm and work on it? Or I can get started on some ideas by myself?”

 “Ahh, Miss Margot seems to be one of the few students missing today. I suspect tequila night at the student bars had something to do with that?”

 You raised your eyebrows in surprise, not knowing how to respond.

 “Yes, yes. Us teachers hear stuff through the grapevine, you know. I’m sure miss Margot can find a partner that also couldn’t make it to class today, but since you are already here, I can just pair you up myself”

 Absolutely fantastic, you thought, you would have been better off just staying in bed this morning.

 “Mister Norris!” ,professor Seidl yelled, “ looks like I found you a partner”

 You followed his gaze towards a boy standing just a few meters next to the professor’s desk.  He must have been standing there the entire time, but you hadn’t noticed him until now. You’d seen him around in some of your classes, but you hadn’t heard him speak at all the entire semester. As he shyly shuffled over to the two of you, he ran a hand through his curls and clutched the strap of his backpack tightly with the other.

 “Y/N, this is Lando Norris. Mr. Norris, this is Y/N. Voila, a new partnership is born” professor Seidl said, satisfied with his matchmaking.  “Now off you go, get started” he said as he waved his hand towards the auditorium seats nonchalantly.

 You tried your best to hide the scowl on your face as you sat back down in defeat, Lando hesitantly taking the seat next to you. How on earth had you just been punished for actually coming to class?

 “Sorry you got stuck with me” Lando finally spoke up.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, but he wasn’t really the one to blame, and he seemed like a nice enough person. Margot, however, was going to feel your wrath when you saw her later.

 “It’s okay, not your fault my friend was too hungover to drag herself to class this morning. Why are you alone anyway?”

 “I, uh, I don’t really have friends that take this class” he replied quietly.

 “That take this class, or just in general?”

 Okay, so maybe you were taking the frustrations of your bad day out on him a bit, and you felt regret set in fast as you watched him flinch slightly and cast his green eyes down towards the  laptop in front of him.

 “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, it just hasn’t been my day so far”

 “Yeah, no uh, no worries” he tried his best to muster up an understanding smile.

 “and I do have…you know…friends. My best friend Max would rather, in his own words, eat glass than take a class that involves any kind of creativity”

 You laughed genuinely in response, and it felt like the first time today where you hadn’t forced a positive emotion out of yourself. Maybe this won’t be as bad as you’d thought. 

 After an hour of discussing materials, themes and lighting, it felt like Lando and you were no closer to an actual concrete plan than you were before you got up this morning. It’s not that his ideas weren’t good, just nothing that made you feel particularly inspired. This class was important to you, and in your mind, you’d already set the bar high for yourself. The familiar feeling of the fear of failure was already bubbling below the surface, and it made you feel even more exhausted than was already the case.

 “Jesus, this is really going to take some time huh? I hate that they give you so little directions” you huffed as you started packing your bag.

Lando could see the worry written on your face, the little frown between your eyebrows getting more prominent by the second, and he found himself wanting to reach out to smooth it out with his thumb and try his best to make you smile once again. 

 “We can work on it tonight if you’re free? Maybe I can ask Max to model, a nice black and white shot of him chewing glass?”

 The faint grin of recognition that you gave him in response felt like a small victory for Lando, but he could see that it didn’t quite reach your eyes. His mind scrabbled to find another stupid joke, but he drew a complete blank. Why was he so concerned about the feelings of a girl he’d just met anyway? 

 “I think I’m gonna skip my next class and take a nap, can you meet me at my dorm at seven pm? I’m in the new building next to Freddie’s. Dorm 6C”

 “uhm, Freddies?” Lando asked with an apologetic look on his face.

“You don’t know Freddie’s? It’s a diner that caters mostly to the students, best burgers on campus! You know what, just meet me there, we can work on the project over a milkshake, drink away the day, yaknow?” you gave Lando no time to respond before turning with a wink and making your way out of the auditorium, just barely catching a soft nod as he stared at you in silence.

 //

 He knows it’s stupid, but Lando couldn’t help but feel nervous as he observed himself in the narrow mirror inside of his closet door. Max layed splayed out on Lando’s bed, trying to balance his playstation controller in one hand as the other scooped Cheetos into his mouth. Damn, he really couldn’t be more of a college kid if he tried, Lando thought. 

 “Mate, stop acting like this is a date or something, I doubt that she’ll care if the shirt you’re wearing is light or navy blue, honestly” Max said in a mocking tone. If any other person talked to him like that, Lando would probably be offended, but his friendship with Max had been so heavily characterized by the act of ridiculing each other for even the smallest actions that Lando wouldn’t have it any other way. He knows it’s not for everyone, but for him, it felt nice, like he could always count on Max for making life feel a little less heavy and serious.

 “I know it’s not a date, doesn’t mean I want her to think I’m some kind of vagrant”

 “Oh, so she’s like a posh girl huh, or a…photography hipster or something? To be fair, that’s what you get for signing up for a class like that, bunch of wankers with an Instagram account that think they’re the next Andy Warhol or something”

 “Warhol wasn’t even into photogr- you know what, nevermind. All due respect, Max, but you really need to know when to shut up, mate…and she’s not…posh or a hipster, she’s just, like, a girl, a normal girl”

 “Wow, you really know how to charm a woman. She’s gonna love that line, honestly. If she’s such a normal girl, then why are you currently rearranging your hair in the mirror for the twentieth time tonight? It looks the same as before” Max said as he finally  shifted his gaze away from the game and towards Lando.

 “I don’t mean normal in a bad way, she was just, I don’t know, she had a nice face, really…expressive, like every complex human emotion could be reduced to something so simple in her features. I just liked that”

 Max stared at Lando like he had just grown an extra head.

 “Okay, I’m not even going to pretend to know what the hell you’re on about, but if you like her face so much, then why don’t you ask her to model for the photo?”

 //

 As you made your way down to Freddie’s from your dorm, the cold breeze of the evening made you hunch over and clasp your sweatshirt tighter to your body. Even if it was just a three minute walk, you were relieved when you pushed through the glass doors of the diner. The smell of fries and coffee filled your nostrils as you scanned the room for your brand new partner. 

 Lando was already there, sitting in one of the cherry-red booths next to the window. He was staring awkwardly at his own hands, seemingly deep in thought as he failed to notice you walking towards him right away. 

 “Take my advice and stay far away from the scrambled eggs here. My friend Margot had them once and she was out of commission for like five days” you joked as you scooted into the seat opposite him. 

 Lando looked up, startled, staring at you for a short while like he was somehow surprised by your appearance, before conjuring up a one-sided grin and matching your joking tone. 

 “I thought you said this place was the best in town? I already ordered a milkshake, no scrambled eggs in there I suppose?” 

 “I said the best burgers in town. Never said anything about the eggs, Norris” you answered as you slid the menu to the side and took your notebook from your bag to put in its place. 

 “Okay, so did the rest of the day bring you any more inspiration for this project?”, you continued, not leaving any time for Lando to respond, “I was talking to Margot earlier and she might be able to model. I mean, we’ll have to give her a day or two to fully recover from this hangover and she also has to do this project so maybe she’ll do a self-portrait and that’s stupid if we have the same subject as them, you know? Maybe we can-” 

 “What about you?” Lando interrupted your monologue abruptly. It seemed as though he hadn’t listened to a word you had been saying, his initial shy and soft-spoken demeanor now replaced with a confident one as he stared at you expectantly. 

 “What…about me?” 

 “I’d like to photograph you, if you’d be comfortable with that” he answered like it was the most logical conclusion in the world. 

 For the first time since you had met Lando this morning, it was his turn to leave you speechless. Photography had been a part of your life for years now, but not once had you actually considered being the one in front of the camera. Suddenly, you felt your heartbeat rise as panic started to course through your veins. 

 “I… I don’t know about that. Can’t we find someone else? I’m sure there are far more interesting looking people out there that can model” 

 “I doubt that” Lando said amusedly, green eyes still trained on your face as your brain scrambled to find a way to gain control of the conversation once again. 

Luckily for you, the waiter interrupted your thoughts as he placed two milkshakes on your table, complete with whipped cream and a cherry on top, like a prop straight out of those 50’s movies. 

Lando finally broke eye-contact to focus on his milkshake instead, but you remained motionless in your seat. 

You were so used to having your instincts guide you when it came to meeting new people, always knowing what to say and how to act to stay on top of the situation. When you’d first laid eyes on Lando, you thought you knew exactly what kind of person he was, but the boy sitting in front of you now had you flustered and lacking the right words to say. It made your skin crawl, but not necessarily in a bad way. 

 “Okay, I’ll do it. We can start shooting tomorrow” you said with feigned confidence, because between failing to rise to the challenge Lando had presented you with and embarrassing yourself in front of a camera, the latter seemed like the lesser of two evils. Lando nodded, a barely audible “cool” making its way out of his mouth, and you could tell that your answer had rattled him, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. 

 Ha, two can play that game, you thought

 And with that, you collected yourself and shifted your focus to the strawberry milkshake in front of you as a comfortable silence settled between the two of you. 

As the night progressed, Lando and you decided to abandon the subject of school and just chatted comfortably. He was fascinating to you, trying his best to keep up the appearance of a cool, collected and somewhat mysterious man, but you could see that underneath his facade he had a certain tenderness to him. 

You could see it in the way his face lit up when he spoke about his brother becoming a father just a few months ago, and how his parents were his biggest supporters. 

When the time finally came to say your goodbyes, it was unimaginable that you had not known each other when the day had started. You parted ways with a final exchange of smiles and just as you turned your back to him to head towards your dorm building, Lando spoke once more. 

 “Oh and thank you, by the way” 

 “For what? You bought the milkshakes, remember?” you answered amusedly. 

 “For agreeing to be my muse. I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N” Lando turned and started walking in the opposite direction before you even had time to respond. 

 Damn, he’s good, you thought as you let out a nervous chuckle to nobody to yourself. 

[miekasa]

six thirty

+ pairing: armin arlert x (fem) reader

+ genres and warnings: college au, enemies to lovers… kinda… in a very nerdy academic rivalry kind of way, me being a comedian you’re welcome, fluff, smut/nsfw content

+ word count: 5.6k… pls say sike

+ notes: shout out to ryn​​ for listening to me during our very many rambling sessions and also for extorting me into posting this. consider it a late birthday present for my favorite menace </2

+ side notes: no i am not a part of armin nation and i never want to be, nor do i wish speak of this again.

Armin Arlert is the perfect student. Prompt and well prepared during lecture; smart and insightful during office hours; the apple of any teacher’s eye. Unfortunately for him, so are you.

If you asked Armin, you were a little too clever for your own good, and liked to make it very well known that you believe you’re the smartest person in any room you walk into. That may be true, but it doesn’t mean that he has to sit there and worship your superiority complex. 

If someone asked you, you’d say that Armin was a know it all, and a manipulative little piece of shit. Again, not a completely false statement, but perhaps a slightly biased character analysis.

Neither of you are wrong. It’s why you’re both the bane of each other’s existence.  

There’s a noticeable grimace on your face, chin in your palm, elbows resting atop your desk, as you turn your head to where, sure enough, Armin is seated where he always is: first row, right side, directly in front of the podium, like perfect little teacher’s pet he wants to be. He doesn’t have any books to unpack like everybody else because a shiny, blue iPad is propped up on his desk in place of all of that. He’s robably looking through his pre-written list of showboaty questions to ask during lecture. Like he’s a cut above everyone else.  

Maybe some of the other morons in this course, but not you, that’s for damn sure. You bet that if you broke his thousand dollar tablet he wouldn’t think he’s such hot shit anymore. Maybe that would knock him down a couple of pegs.

“Look at him sitting there with his stupid blue eyes, and his stupid Bieber haircut, and his stupid, shiny blonde hair, and his stupid fucking glasses. I bet they’re not even real and he just wears them to—”

“Did you just call his hair shiny?”

You snap your head to your left, “What—no, of course not. I said shoddy, he’s probably a bottle blonde. Maybe all the chemicals from the hair dye seeps into his head and warps his sense of reality.”

“I’m pretty sure you said shiny.”

“Shut up, Annie.”

She raises an eyebrow at you, “You got something against blondes? Because your track record would beg to differ.”

“Once. We kissed once, and it was truth or dare, and we were both sloshed.”

“You still chose me,” she reminds you, pulling her notebook out of her backpack.

You huff, ignoring her words and turning your head back to Armin, this time finding him twirling his stupid fucking expensive Apple Pencil between his fingers like it’s nothing. You can feel your eye begin to twitch.

Perhaps he can, too—or maybe he can just feel your eyes boring holes into him—because he turns in your direction and ceases his pen twirling the moment you make eye-contact. More students filter in, walking past your line of vision, but each time they move, you and Armin meet gazes again; neither one of you daring to look away, a palpable tension between you.

His eyes might be icy blue, but you can see the rose pink tint underneath his skin, even from the distance; a familiar blush that spreads across his nose and cheeks. You exhale with a silent laugh, breaking your eye contact before he grows completely red, just in time for Dr. Zöe to start the lecture.

Everybody thinks that Armin’s so brilliant, so smart, so untouchable. You know that his only genius is that he’s fooling everyone into thinking that he’s the kind, humble, little nerd boy who wouldn’t harm a fly, when that’s far from the truth.

Armin is mean. He’s competitive and possessive and snarky and sly. He’s the definition of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but you’re pretty sure the only person in the world who might believe that is Eren. Though, you’ve heard some of the insults Armin throws Eren’s way, and they’re not exactly soft. Granted, that’s a factor in any friendship, and most of his jabs are coated with a layer of intellect the brunette likely doesn’t understand, but that doesn’t make Armin any less sarcastic. It just means Eren’s too dumb to know what’s going on.

Poor kid. Maybe it’s for the best.

That’s all to say that Armin is nothing but a big talker—not even; a smooth-talker, is more like it. He comes across as perfect, all good and sweet and soft, because that’s what he lets people see. Nobody else looks through to the sharp tongue and ragged edges, because they’re too busy cooing over innocent blue-eyed baby in front of them.

But you know that Armin, the one he doesn’t want other people to see: the one that’s so good, he’s bad; so sweet that he’s sick; so nice that it’s cruel. And you know just how much pressure to apply to make his façade crack.

And you intend on doing so.

“I don’t know which formula to use—hey, are you two eye fucking again? Cut it out, I’m trying not to fail over here,” Eren exclaims, poking Armin’s shoulder with his pen.

The jab averts the blonde’s attention back to his friend, eyes wide as he blinks himself back to reality. He curses under his breath when he feels a familiar warmth creeping across his cheeks. Few things piss Armin off like the way he gets red in the face after thinking about you, or even just looking at you, for too long. Whether it’s red out of pure annoyance, or another feeling he tries to push down, it’s irritating, and above all, embarrassing.

He spares one more glance over his shoulder, to where you and Annie are sat a few tables away in the library. You’ve looked away by now, focusing back on your notes, but Armin swears he can still see that irritating smirk on your face from this angle.

He rolls his tongue along the inside of his cheek. He should be able to keep it together around you by now, but he can’t, and it bothers him. You bother him.

“We weren’t eye fucking,” he refutes, turning his back to you completely, “She’s such a little know it all sometimes, s’annoying.”

Eren raises an eyebrow. He knows that you and Armin don’t get along, but he doesn’t understand why. Armin knows almost all your friends, and you definitely know all of his—Eren would even go as far as to say that you and him are pretty close friends—so it’s not a matter of not spending time together. You’re also the two smartest people Eren knows. In theory you should have more than enough to talk about together, but every time you’re in the same room, you hardly acknowledge each other outside of surface level commentary, or glances that border on staring.

Thankfully, the bickering remains in the classroom for the most part. Eren’s seen you and Armin go at, and he’ll be the first to admit that it’s beyond intimidating. Though, a little part of him finds it oddly entertaining, and he can’t help but to be impressed. All the more reason for you two to start playing on the same team. 

Eren thinks the two of you should get to the root of the issue already. Which, if you asked him, has very little to do with your rivaled academic genius, and a lot to do with your lack of it concerning your feelings for each other.

“She’s not that bad,” Eren vouches for you, “I think you two might get along if you ever spoke outside of trying to one-up each other in class.”

“I’m not trying to one-up anybody,” Armin rolls his eyes, a nasty habit he’s picked up as of late, “And if you stopped and used your brain for a moment, then maybe you could solve the problem.”

“I did use my brain!” Eren’s lips fall into an offended pout, “But none of this makes any sense to me! I fucking hate math, you know that.”

Armin sighs, feeling sympathetic for Eren as he slumps into himself defeatedly. He knows that Eren isn’t dumb, but math in any capacity is certainly not his strong suit. He also knows that he shouldn’t give Eren all the answers, but sometimes he needs a little push to get him there. A little bit of added guidance and motivation to keep him going. It’s either that, or he has to trick Eren into doing the work himself, but clearly that method wasn’t working out today.

“You already solved for the activation energy, now you’re supposed to use the Arrhenius equation in the expanded form.”

Eren’s lips fall into a small o-shape, as his eyes scramble across his paper again. “But—how do you—”

“There’s two measurements given for temperature.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah! Okay, right, but then—”

“You have to convert it to Kelvin first or it won’t work. It’s given to you in Celsius.”

Eren furrows his eyebrows together, and then it finally clicks for him. He mutters to himself as he puts his pencil to paper to begin to work through the problem, “How do I convert—”

“Add 273.15 to it. Make sure you put the bigger one first in the equation, or else you’ll get a negative error.”

“You didn’t even do it,” Eren huffs, angrily punching numbers into his calculator, “How do you know it’s right?”

“Because I took this class already,” Armin reminds him, sparing a brief glance over his shoulder, “Isn’t that why I’m tutoring you?”

Eren coughs over his embarrassed blush, “Oh, yeah, right.”

It’s quiet between them as Eren makes a final attempt at solving the equation, carefully and proudly circling his answer when he’s finished. He looks to Armin with bright eyes, and is content when the blonde gives him a reassuring nod, confirming that his answer is correct.

“Well that was a bitch to work through,” Eren sighs, stretching his arms behind his head with a slight yawn, “Chemistry is nothing but glorified math. It’s barely a science.”

Armin shrugs, but he doesn’t disagree. He isn’t the biggest fan of chemistry, unlike somebody else he knows. “Why’d you take chem if you knew it would have so much math?”

It’s Eren’s turn to shrug, slumping back in his chair and running a hand through his hair, “I gotta take all the pre-med requirements… just in case.”

“You wanna go to med school? Since when?”

Eren averts his eyes from his friend, a telltale sign of his bashfulness coming over him. It doesn’t happen often, but Armin knows it’s sincere when it does.

“Dunno. I’m not sure of it, just wanna keep my options open, you know?” Eren replies casually, “Doctors help make a difference and all that, and surgery looks kind of cool. Besides, if my bastard father could do it, how hard could it really be?”  

A gentle smile grows on Armin’s lips, “You can do it. If you really want to, I know you can.”  

Eren’s head snaps up, eyes wide and filled with affirmation and adoration. He relaxes his expression quickly after, but the pink hues are still present, “Thanks, Min.”

From his position he catches eye of another head of familiar blonde hair over Armin’s shoulder, and beside it, your own hair. There’s a flash of a moment when your eyes meet Eren’s, and you offer him a small wave before turning back to Annie to resume doing your homework. Eren barely gets the chance to wave back, but a dopey smile sits on his features at your kind gesture. It fades when he looks back to Armin, once again pondering the animosity between you two.

You and Armin aren’t all that different, you just need to get to know each other better. Actually, Eren thinks that you might make a good couple if you both stopped overthinking it.

“So, what’s the deal with you and (_____)?” Eren asks, bending his right knee to wrap his arm around his leg and rest his chin on top of it, “You act like she kicked your cat.”

“What?” Armin questions, flustered, “What—no, she wouldn’t touch Soup.” 

Eren quirks an eyebrow at that. “I still can’t believe you named your cat Soup.”

“It’s technically a nickname.”

“A nickname for what?”

“…For Miso Soup.”

Eren blinks. “Okay, if she didn’t mess with Soup, then what’s the issue? You scared of her or something?”

“Why would I be scared of her?” Armin asks, tone incredulous; then softer, more subdued, like a kid who doesn’t want to admit they’re wrong, “’M not scared of her.”

“You stare at her like you are—well, you look kind of angry, but also scared. Like, when you see those balloon things outside of car washes. You hate them, but you can’t look away from them—”

“I am not scared of those!”

“You are, and it’s okay,” Eren waves away his friend’s denial, “Oh, I get it—is this one of those things where she makes you nervous, so you respond with anger and sarcasm instead of thinking through your feelings?”

“You’ve been going to therapy for one month, relax.”

“Maybe you two should go to friend therapy and work this out,” Eren bites back, “It probably doesn’t help that she’s always with Annie. They both look like they would murder someone with no remorse. I admit, it is kind of scary… but it’s kind of hot, too.”

Armin spares him an unamused glare. Eren crosses his arms in defense, “What? I’m not wrong. It’s sexy in a scary kind of way, maybe that’s why you’re always eye fucking. I don’t blame you, she’s hot. I would let her and Annie axe-murder me without regret.”

“Eren?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and do problem six, I don’t have all day.”

Eren huffs, but flips the page to the next problem, grumbling under his breath as he attempts the, “It’s not as sexy when you’re mean, you know.”

Armin hits him silent.

Tuesdays are Armin’s favorite days because he only has one class. Sure, it’s three hours long, but it’s much more bearable than his usual eight-hour day.

It’s also the one class he shares with you. Which is why he’s always mentally exhausted by the end of it, but physically, he feels like he could punch a wall; all his pent up anger and frustration is channeled into his body and he’s desperate for an outlet for it. It’s a feeling he hates to love.

Annie seems to have cut class today seeing as she’s not next to you; and it’s almost as if it’s emboldened you to mess with him even more than usual.

He bites his tongue as Dr. Zöe enthusiastically uses your latest point as a segue into the final topic of the evening. He made that same point ten minutes ago. You just worded it differently—admittedly, more concisely, but somehow with a little more nuance, than when he had hesitantly proposed it—and, yeah, maybe you made it sound more convincing, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t come up with it first. If his stupid, fancy stylus didn’t cost upwards of $200 he might have snapped it in half.

You’re definitely the better conversationalist, that much he can admit. Words have never been his forte and he hates the way you can talk circles around him, and that there’s so little he can say to make you stop.

He wishes you would just shut up. In fact, he’d like to shut you up himself.

Thankfully, class ends sooner rather than later. Armin finds himself briefly talking with Dr. Zöe afterwards, most other students having taken the opportunity to leave early for the night. To nobody’s surprise, you’re not one of them, having stuck around to talk to the professor, too.

“The two of you should consider lab research this summer,” Dr. Zöe suggests ardently, walking between the two of you as you exit the lecture hall, “I could really use two students like you!”

Armin chuckles at his boisterous professor. He’s known about the research opportunities at their lab for quite some time now, and he knows that you have, too. “I don’t know that lab work is really my strong suit.”

The three of you come to stop at the hallway intersection, the professor now standing across from you and him. You give them a polite smile, “And I’m not sure that collaboration is mine.”

Armin spares a glance just in time to see you flash one of your own in his direction. Dr. Zöe’s eyes flicker between the two students rapidly, a slight squint to their eyelids.

They aren’t quite sure why their two brightest students seem to despise each other. They wish you two would just get along already, so that they don’t have to spend the summer training half-witted chemical engineering majors how to use basic lab equipment; and instead, conduct some actual research.

“Well, I hope the both of you reconsider,” they smile, “I’ll see you during office hours, I presume?”

You two nod in sync, sending the doctor off with happy smile, just long enough until you see that they’ve turned the corner further down the hall

“Had fun stealing my point earlier?” Armin questions, looking your way as you still wave mindlessly, eye-twitching at your polite façade.

“I would call it improvement,” you tell him, not bothering to turn in his direction; still and smiling waving like the professor can see or hear you, “You should stick to showing, rather than saying. You never were good with your words.”

Armin kisses his teeth together. He’ll give you what you want, if that’s how you want it.

In a fit of irritation, he grabs your moving hand by the wrist, and pulls you down the opposite hallway, not caring for your dramatic wailing behind him.

“Hey, Einstein, the exit is the other way, do you have any idea where we’re going?”

“Ever heard of observational learning? Maybe if you shut up for a second, you would figure it out,” he snaps, pulling you further.

There’s a door on the left that Armin knows is unlocked, and he’s quick to open it and pull you inside. Before you have the chance to glance around, he has you pushed up against the wall, jaw forced up and forward.

He could scoff at the small hitch in your breath at his actions, clearly a little too satisfied with being manhandled; but instead, he takes the opportunity to press your lips together. Armin quite likes the feeling of your lips on his; warm and soft and far too welcoming; a rare moment of silence.

“Someone could hear us.”

Or not so silent.

“Then be quiet,” he snarls.

Armin feels your fingers weave themselves into his hair, scraping along his undercut in sync with his lips trailing down your jaw. A groan falls from his when he feels you tug at the ends of the strands, just hard enough to force his face back to eye level with yours.

“You’re the one with the big mouth.”

“You’re so smart, huh. Always got something to say,” Armin lets out a low chuckle, deft fingers running down your sides to squeeze at your waist, “You can be really fuckin’ annoying, you know that.”

You mirror half of his ministrations, letting your right hand trail down his chest barely brushing over the very visible bulge in his jeans, before hooking your index finger under the belt loop, effectively pulling him closer to you.

The smile on your face is dirty, but you’re not laughing like he was, “Do something about it then.”

His blue eyes grow cloudy as he takes a good look at you; slowly rakes over your features, from that stupid, snarky look in your eyes, to your kiss-bruised lips, down to your chest, and back up again. Armin finds himself copying your smirk for all the wrong reasons. But it’s your own fault; you always did like to push him one step over the edge.

“Fine.”

Despite your twisted grin there’s a look in your eyes that’s eager; willing; ready for the taking. That same look you have when you talk over him in class; when you pretend to ignore him around your mutual friends; when you want him to fuck you stupid.

Armin uses his right hand to cup your jaw again, closing the distance between your mouths with a less than gentle kiss. He feels your groans reverberating through his body, waves of heat accompanying them and going straight to his erection. Your arch your back into the kiss, but he forces you backwards, left hand flat against your tummy.

Following suit, he pushes himself against your body, pressing his knee between your legs; the thin fabric of your stockings doing little to prevent your thighs from rubbing against him.

He swipes his tongue over the seam of your lips, earning a frenzied whine when glides his tongue across yours, and teasingly licks at the roof of your mouth. Your tongue is lithe against his, but somehow just as deceptive and sly as always, and Armin would be a fool to deny that he loved it.

There’s a spark flickering in his stomach when you push your center harshly against his; and it’s only ignited further when he feels you bite his bottom lip. A guttural growl escapes him, his right hand moving to your throat with practiced ease, pushing the back of your head into the wall.

He pauses for a moment, drinks in your wide eyes and desperate visage, “You are the single most frustrating person I’ve ever met in my entire life.”

And he couldn’t get enough of it if he tried. He couldn’t get enough of you.

You must see through his words, into the grainy expression of adoration in his eyes, because he can see it filtering into yours, pupils dilating with both want and care.

“Aw, baby, I love you, too,” you pout, leaning forward as best to can to peck him on the lips, “Now, shut me up and fuck me. It’s exhausting being this pretty and smart-mouthed, you know.”

Armin dips his head into your neck, squeezes against the column of your throat with warning until he hears a gasp escape from your lips. He presses gentle kisses into your skin, in stark contrast to the increasing pressure from his fingers, waiting for one last request, and then, finally—“Please.”

He smiles, loosens his grip for a moment, just long enough to hear your pretty panting, before slotting his lips against yours again. Your moans are lewd and sloppy and breathless between kisses, and it makes his dick twitch in his pants. You really are so fucking loud. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He uses his free hand to push your skirt up, and subsequently dip past the weak barrier of your tights and underwear. The slightest flicker of his fingers against your center has you choking out a moan, and Armin is forced to press his right thumb harder against your neck.

“Quiet,” he reminds you, “You asked nicely, so I’ll give you what you want. No need to be loud about it.”

He watches you nod with short and restricted movements, a sadistic kind of power washing over him at your eager compliance. He uses his middle finger to rub slow, careful circles around your clit; the feeling of your wet cunt against his fingers, coupled with your wanton moaning only spurs on the throbbing in his pants.

“Armin,” you whine, impatiently; but he expected that of you, “Don’t tease.”

His eyes flash to yours briefly, pressing his lips to yours again to swallow your shuddered moans. He dips his tongue into your mouth at the same time he does his middle finger into your cunt. An obscene moan echoing through the classroom, as Armin feels your body arching into his again; feels your fingers frantically flying to his hair, searching for purchase to anchor yourself on.

He pulls away in time to add another digit and watch you groan underneath him. He pushes both his fingers in to the knuckle, carefully curling them upwards to elicit the prettiest sound out of you. He has to admit, it’s probably his favorite thing to hear come out of your mouth.

He keeps a steady pace, pumping his fingers in and out of your pussy with perfect friction, teetering between letting you moan his name and choking you silent. Your hands are frantic in his hair, grasping and pulling and so, so, desperate, Armin can’t help but to finger fuck you harder.

“You want one more?” he questions, but his voice is taunting, words ghosted over your lips just out of reach for you to kiss.

He can feel your leg trembling against his, see you pupils shaking along with your shaking head. Armin stops to smile; he thought you might do that. He could probably make you cry right now if he wanted to. Maybe later.

“Want you to fuck me,” your words short and ragged, eyebrows raised when he uses his thumb to press lightly against your clit, “Armin, please.”

The blonde shakes his head, “You’re dumber than you look if you think I’m gonna fuck you in a classroom, baby, so if you want to cum now, you better tell me.”

You have the audacity to pout of all things, “You’re mean.”

Armin lets out a breathless laugh. “You like it,” he leans forward to peck you sweetly, “So, what’ll it be?”

“Fine, but I want head later, too,” you tell him, words becoming less firm when Armin teases his ring finger against your slit, “Please.”

Armin hums in compliance, leaning forward to kiss you again, this time with more tact, and he chases your whines when he finally pushes a third finger inside of you.

“Look at you,” he croons breaking your kiss and forcing your head back again, “You take it so well.”

“Ah—fuck, there, Armin—there,” you cry, wet heat squeezing around his fingers in intermittent spasms.

Armin watches your chest heave with desperate breaths, air stuttering to pass from your lips to your lungs with his hand around your neck. He can feel your walls constricting around his fingers, feel your body shaking underneath him when he increases his pace. He curls his fingers again, just right, just until he hears you sing a strained call of his name. And when he feels your nails scraping down the nape of his neck, and the slight weight of your body convulsing, Armin knows you’re done for.

He’s nice enough to fuck you through your orgasm, shallow thrusts of his fingers bringing you to and down from your high as he watches you pant for him. He presses small kisses against your throat, up, up, up, until he’s kissing you, and carefully pulling his fingers out.

He removes his hand from your neck, and slides it down your waist to offer you support. He’s not prepared for your sudden pull on his neck, forcing him into a kiss that conveys your content; he’s quick to raise his left hand, palm meeting the wall to hold himself up against your sporadic actions, chuckling lightly into your kiss. You were always so reckless and happy after an orgasm.

You kiss him like you have him wrapped your finger despite being the one pleading moments ago. You do, so he supposes it’s not unwarranted; and he welcomes your flirtatious kisses despite the annoying blush they always bring forth.

And sure enough, he can feel his face on fire when you pull away. Armin scoffs internally at himself; he really should be able to keep it together around you by now. But when you kiss him like that, you kind of make it hard to think straight.

“You’re so good when you’re not… pretending to be good,” you hum, a blissful, hazy look on your features as you wrap your arms around his neck.

Armin shakes his head with a chortle of disbelief; leans forward to kiss you again, “’M not pretending. I am good.”

“Yeah, you’re such a good little saint that arguing with your girlfriend turns you on,” you taunt him, “It’s okay, Armin, you can admit it.”

He groans, out of shallow annoyance this time, and it makes you giggle. “Why are you acting like you’re not complicit in this?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” you refute with an exaggerated roll of your eyes, “You get turned on by hearing me talk about biochemistry. I like it when you tell me to shut up about it. We are not the same.”

“Yeah, because you look hot doing it,” he tells you, “Speaking of which, Eren called you hot today, so I kind of need you to slip a neurotoxin in his Gatorade.”

“Aw, Eren thinks I’m hot? Tell him I think he’s hot, too,” you bat your eyelashes at him, but Armin only offers you an unimpressed glare in return.

“I think he might be onto us, actually,” Armin notes, affectionately bumping his nose against yours.

“If he’s onto us, then it’s because you’re the one giving it away, not me.”

“Oh, because you could never do anything wrong, right?”

“Right,” you flash him an overconfident smile before reaching up to kiss to the tip of his nose, “See you’re so smart, baby.”

Armin shakes his head again in disbelief. You’re a handful, he can see that much.

“Come on,” he prompts, “We should go, I still have to finish my lab write up, and I know you haven’t started your paper.”

Armin tries to motion you forward, but is stopped when he feels your hand combing through his hair, and sees the genuine spark of concern in your eyes. “The one for your elective? I thought you said you were going to finish it on Monday.”

“I was,” Armin admits, “But then I didn’t.”

“You want me to help you with it?” you offer kindly, pushing his bangs back and letting your hands fall down the sides of his face, palms resting against his ears.

He nods gently, turning his head to press a kiss into your left palm, before wrapping his hand around your wrist, “I can help you outline your paper.”

You nod in return, and Armin spares one more kiss, before pulling your hand away to lace your fingers together.

Thankfully, nobody’s around to catch you exiting the classroom, or see you holding hands as you make your way out of the building and towards the bus stop. This was Armin’s favorite part of any Tuesday; the one time he could hold your hand on campus without the fear of getting caught by your friends.

He reasons that you guys should probably tell them soon, though, especially if Eren might have an idea of what’s going on. You were bound to get caught sooner rather than later. That, or Eren and Sasha would start meddling.

“If you think Eren knows, then Mikasa definitely knows,” you note, swinging your intertwined hands as you walk through the parking lot as a shortcut.

“Maybe if you actually remembered to hide Soup’s toys, there would be less evidence for her to piece together.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t forget when your midterms are, I wouldn’t have to emergency cat sit the hour before Mikasa comes around, and there wouldn’t be any toys to hide in the first place.”

“I’m bad with dates, you know that!” Armin pouts, “I don’t say anything when you forget about ten page papers until four hours before they’re due.”

“You’re saying something right now, actually.”

“That’s not what I—you know, you’re so—”

Armin’s quiet when he feels your lips pressed against his cheekily, “Annoying. I know. You like it. You’re not very good at staying mad for very long.”

Armin’s tempted to roll his eyes yet again—he really needs to quit it, or at the very least, get your own temper under control before it’s irreversible and completely rubbed off on him—but takes the opportunity to kiss your forehead, instead.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Your eyes twinkle under his affections. “And that you love me?”

He nods, “And that I love you.”

“And that you’re gonna fuck me before you make me write my paper when we get home, right?”

Armin chuckles and presses another kiss to your forehead, “We’ll see about that one.”

Hange huffs as they make their way through the parking. They always forget their keys in their office, and always, inconveniently park half-way across the campus. In their defense, this parking lot is free, and the one closest to the Medical Sciences building is not. So, really, capitalism is the one to blame for their frequent late night car lot strolls.

They hear two familiar voices bickering just as they’re about to step into their car, and are more than surprised to see their two favorite students walking together. Walking together and holding hands. Wait—you and Armin are walking together and holding hands?

Hange blinks for a moment, drowning out the sounds of the conversation after they see you two kiss. Their jaw practically falls to the asphalt and they might not blink for a full two minutes as they process what they just saw.

Their trance is broken when it finally, finally clicks together, and Hange has to try their hardest to contain their squeals before sitting in the driver’s seat, an overly forceful slam to the car door following. They waste no time fumbling with the pockets of their lab coat to fish out their phone, and make a call to their favorite math professor.

“Levi, I told you Arlert and (_____) had to know each other outside of class! I think they might be dating! You know what this means, right? I can have them both in the same lab without worrying they might start a chemical fire, and I won’t have to hire two brick heads this summer!”

Levi has never hung up a call more quickly in his life.