#anyway enough of me reflecting on my study and test habits that's boring

[myvirtuesuncounted]

i have a maths test tomorrow and for some reason, i'm not all that freaked out

[bakatenshii]

Flushed

Dabi x Reader (BNHA)

word count: 5.1k

TW: 18+, smut, dub/noncon, drug use/abuse, corruption, virginity, (mild) blood

A/N: I am 12 days late for Sunny’s birthday, but my heart beats for one person and one person only— the light of my life, my wife @blahkugo​, who wrote me two (2!!) Shig fics for my bday Charity & Sludge, that I reread on the daily like the morning news. Cheeky shoutout to @thisisthehardestthing​ for writing one iconic sentence in here that I would have framed if I could. 

flushed

/fləSHt/

(of a person's skin) red and hot, typically as the result of illness or strong emotion.

cleanse (something) by causing large quantities of water to pass through it. 

Dabi doesn’t prowl for prey, he’s not on the lookout for fowl to take home for dinner. No, they come to him. It’s easy, always so obvious, he plucks them out like chicken in a hen house, ripe for breeding. 

It wasn’t hard to spot a desperate girl burning out, Hell, the campus’ full of them. But you had something more, something fun, something that made his lips quirk up and his dick twitch— you were uncorrupted. 

He can just tell, despite the airs you try to give, the aura of a virgin’s akin to an omega in heat to a starving alpha. Sweet, honeysuckle, the tiny flinches when a man gets too close, the breathy lilt in your voice when they propose something too risque; he inhales it all, commits it all to memory like you were desperately trying to do as you chewed on the tip of your pen and scratched out lines on the book in front of you. 

He didn’t need to push, you were already teetering the line, but he did it anyways— because it was fun. 

It was elating to watch you stumble into class the next day, eyes dark with sleepless anxiety, misery painted into every crevice of your features while your notes were tucked neatly into the drawer in his room. Really, you shouldn’t have left them so open on the lecture hall table, it’s like inviting a robber home and cooking him a three course meal. 

Finals season marked the end of your social life, and the beginning of Dabi’s career. It was almost boring, the repetitive nature of his job; too easy, too simple, a mockery of the entitled bookworms who look down on scummy repeaters like him. But the entitlement is what fuels him, over-achievers fearing for two simple digits on a crumpled sheet of paper as if it’s worse than death itself.

He thrives off of their stubbornness to accept anything below perfect; the hilarity of it all, the irony that their insurance to achieve higher standards than that of a scum like him only fuels his lifestyle, bringing him deeper down the depths of degeneracy. 

He sat behind you closer than usual, spoke a lil louder than usual, dropped in the most nonchalant comment about a study drug kids are crazing over these days. He watched as you flinched, hands stopped moving to listen in to the spiel he was spewing, the fishing hook he was dangling in front of you. 

A magic pill, one that’ll help you concentrate, kill any sleepiness, get you buzzed for hours on end— best of all, it’s totally legal, he gets it from a pharmacist, scout’s honour. 

That’s what he told you when you turned around to him at the end of class, whispering in hushed fear, nerves bouncing off your skin in goosebumps on your exposed arms.

Why he’s selling it? Because he needs some extra cash, he said. He knew you didn’t believe him, but he knew you were desperate enough not to care. 

When you met him in the dead of night at the empty carpark of his building, he knew he’s got you; hook, line, and sinker. No self-respecting girl would meet bottom-barrel trash like him in a deserted location at half three in the morning, no, you were untainted, but you weren’t pure.

He didn’t need to know it worked, doesn’t matter what your test results reflected, all that mattered was that you came back to him a few weeks later, met him at the same dingy carpark, hands trembling slightly less this time. 

He pretended to scold you, reveled in the way your lips curled into a soft pout, and warned you that tolerance builds fast. Do it in moderation, he had said— he’s the world’s biggest hypocrite. 

You came to him only a week later this time, and Dabi had pretended to be shocked. He wasn’t, he gave you a lower dosage the last time, there was no way you’d have been satisfied. Microdosing leads the unsuspecting to addiction, the one fact he learned from school. He lectured you, asked you if you’d built up tolerance too fast, if you wanted to try something different?

He watched as your eyes lit up, pupils dilating in excitement at the promise of something different, something better. It really was too easy. You were too easy. 

That night he invited himself over to yours, said he’d wanted to make sure you didn’t have any side effects. It was new, after all, and it was stronger. He’d sit there and be quiet, he promised; it was all out of the kindness of his own heart. 

It was almost embarrassing how eagerly you’d lie to yourself in hopes of a better grade.

Dabi wasn’t gonna do anything to you that night, trust takes time to build up after all. Besides, it’s no fun to pounce on the prey before they started running. You studied the nonsensical scribbling on annotated novels, he studied your tiny movements, twitches, nervous habits; etched them into his brain for future use. 

A too-long breath, a gasp, a clench of the fist signaled your come-up. He timed it, approximately thirty-five minutes for the initial peak, then smaller spikes at half hour intervals, totaling in four hours before you came down. Impressive, still, considering he’d given you the same dosage as the first time. 

He stuck to his words, staying quiet only until prompted, offered you water every once in a while, really, he deserved an Oscar for playing the best supporting dealer. It only took two more sessions before your tolerance peaked again, calculated and timed to perfection right before the next assignment.

The beauty of seeking out an English major was that they’re always searching, reaching into the void for any type of inspiration to translate into eloquently formed words. The beauty of seeking out you, was that you were already in too deep, hooked by the lil pills and plunged into the bottom of the ocean. 

Your grades rose while your inhibitions sank, a dramatic irony, isn’t that what they called it?

It’s cute, really, he only had to give you a nudge this time. Asked you how your assignment was going, played the sympathetic friend, and offered you something completely new, completely different. ‘Have you ever tried 2CB?’

Silly question, rhetorical, almost; of course you hadn’t. Innocent sweet girl like you never would’ve even touched weed, much less a hallucinogen. But he poses it to you in an eager tone like he’s genuinely waiting on an answer, like this isn’t just one big game to him. He laughed when you said no, asked him what it was— do you want him to show you?

You trust him, don’t you? He’s helped you through your exams, supported you through your assignments, honestly, he deserved a pat on the back. Don’t tell him you didn’t trust him, come on now, that’d break his heart. 

He didn’t expect you to put up a fight, but you gave in almost too easily, guess those lil pills really did migrate and nest in your bloodstream. 

The safety of your own dorm room was always granted to you, a faux-sense of security to veil you in, shield you from the true depth of depravity you’ve sunken to. He held you underwater in a net, ensuring you that he’d pull you up whenever— ‘just say the word.’

The net had long been cut, he’d admired the way you’d comforted down there, paddling aimlessly in hopeful conviction. 

It’s become routine, almost. Dabi lets himself in easily, settles into the couch across your desk, pulls out a baggy and passes it to you. “A psychedelic,” he explains, “you’ll see colours you’d never seen, find beauty in everything, an artist’s best friend,” if he does say so himself. 

He watches you pop the lil pill in your mouth, follow the stream of water pour down your throat, traveling the rips and divots of your tongue, before it drops down your throat into your bloodstream with a bob of your larynx. You’re so pliant, so obedient, he reminds himself to thank your parents for grooming such a cute lil doll.

You let out a loud gasp an hour and a half later, and he watches your fingers curl into themselves; and for the first time he speaks unprompted. 

“You good?” It’s almost genuine; the curiosity, at least. He wants to know how articulate you are, needs to know how deeply submerged your consciousness has become. 

He watches as you meet his gaze, little tongue dashing out to wet your lips, and nods once, twice, slowly. You shake your head almost immediately after, croaking out an, “I feel ill,” before pushing meekly at your desk to stand your body up. Cute, weak.

Just how he likes them.

He reaches an arm out to you, pulling you into his chest easily and nests your head into the crook of his neck. “Nauseous, aren’t you?” You nod, and he smirks. “Don’t worry princess, it’s just a rough come-up. I’ll make you feel better, I promise.” 

It’s almost believable, how sickly sweet he sounds. Too many sitcoms accumulated in recycled dialogues to woo girls in any situation; mix and match, simple yet effective. 

He can feel the restless rise and fall of your chest pressing against his, short quick pants as if gasping for air, a small hand scraping at his arm; yeah, you’re definitely coming up. 

He picks you up and nestles you into your own couch, so easily as if handling a ragdoll, then walks to the kitchen and pours you some water. The perfect friend, the perfect support, the perfect dealer. You’re so vulnerable, so exposed, you don’t even know it; it makes his brain fog over with carnal desire to pounce— but he doesn’t. Not yet.  

He lays back on the couch with you, arm snaking around your shoulder to coax you into a subdued euphoria. All the words he’s garnered throughout the years of fishing for his next meal come bubbling out so naturally in practiced scripts, “It’s okay princess, it’s a stronger pill. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.” He’s promising a whole lot, tonight. 

“Hey,” he tips your face to meet his with all the tenderness of a lion stalking its prey, “I’m here, right? You trust me, don’t you? I’ve never let you down. I’ll never let anything happen to you.” 

It’s hard to force down the gagging noise on cue with his disgustingly fake, rom-com lines, but the way he can feel your body loosen, relax, and mold into his tells him he’s close. So close. 

This is the best part, this is what he’s good at; the last stretch of patience while stalking his prey, with footsteps so light, treading so carefully, until the air slows down around him and he can taste your scent wafting through the air.

It happens in an instant, a whole-body jolt as you tense up, euphoria announced with a sharp gasp. The smile that crawls up his face is nothing short of sinister, predatory, but he knows you don’t notice. You can’t. Your eyes are strewn shut, basking in the high, and he takes the moment to swallow the pill he’s held under his tongue. 

It’s no fun to tripsit, he doesn’t get anything out of that, and Dabi doesn’t do things for free. He feels your head fall back onto his shoulder, short breaths warming a ripple of goosebumps up his neck, and watches as you push your heavy lids open to gaze at the ceiling.  

He can feel your giggles reverberating through his chest before he hears them, innocent, pure, unsuspecting. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, because virtuous girls like you like to be treasured, made to feel special, safe— he can make you feel safe; no one’s told him not to play with his food before he eats it. 

He watches as you flutter your eyelids at him, sigh into his touch, really, you’re the textbook prototype, he doesn’t even need to adjust his tactics. “You feelin’ good?” A hot breath into your ear, and he revels in the way your lips pout to let out a soft sigh. 

Funny how differently you react when you’re high out of your mind, maybe it’s the drug, or maybe it’s just Dabi? You’ve always wanted a bad boy like him, didn’t you? Good girls like bad guys; it’s textbook cliché, and you’re the blueprint. 

He doesn’t wait on an answer, he knows it: you’re feeling good, great— divine. He’ll be right there with you soon, he promises.

“Tell me what you see, princess,” Dabi’s not listening when a cascade of nonsensical descriptions come bubbling out, he doesn’t care. It’s all to get you to keep talking, shift your attention elsewhere while his hand slithers down your arm to play with the hem of your shirt.

At the first brush of his finger on the bare skin of your waist, he feels you purr into him, eyes rolling back in bliss. It’s his cue to give you more, invitation for him to snake his other hand up your naked thigh and knead the flesh gently. 

Gentle does it, he’ll bring you higher as you go. 

He ghosts a breath just under your ear, nipping at your lobe, and admires the full body shiver tumbling through. Moans, loud and needy, come panting out past your lips and echoes off the walls before bouncing back to him. He lets you symphonize short breaths and whiney pleas with each lick and suck traveling down your neck, painting blooms of purple and red as his hand travels dangerously high. 

A firm grip is all the warning he gives you before he tucks his fingers into the crease of your thigh, laughing almost at how obediently you spread your legs. What happened to that pure, innocent girl? Guess under all that laid a dirty whore, just like the rest of ‘em. 

It was slick, so wet, pussy dripping past the delicate lace and drooling over his fingers. Lace, befitting of a slut who lured him in with the fake charms of a virgin. He slides a finger down your slit, gathering up all the juices before presenting it to you. 

“What do you see?” He holds up his finger, slick dripping down like syrup, and watches your pupils dilate in effort to focus. He can see the way your lips part, string of saliva connecting the two soft molds, before gasping out, “melting ice cream.” 

“Want a taste?” 

You clamp over his finger before he even asks you to, sucks on the digit like it’s a melting ice lolly, before your eyes shoot open and mouth twists in disgust. Of course it doesn’t taste nice, normal food isn’t even edible when you’re rolling like this. You’re sticking your tongue out, in an attempt to air out the taste, or maybe you’re just a dumb dog, a dumb bitch, he’s not sure. He doesn’t really care. 

The same hand, now slick with saliva, grips your chin and crashes your lips into his. His tongue finds yours first, tip licking up the crevice of yours lolling out, and he sucks it into his mouth like it’s a crime for it to be kissing the air. 

There’s no modesty, no gentleness, his tongue pries your lips open, and he feels the weakest form of resistance before he’s thrusting the muscle down your throat. He lapping over the back of your teeth, traces over each bump and rugae on the gummy sides, and snickers at your shit attempt to kiss him back with your slack mouth drooling out the corners. 

He feels a pawing at his arm— your hand meekly grabbing at the sleeve of his shirt to bring him in closer, press his chest into your soft tits, crowd him into you more, more, more. 

It’s cute; it’s stupidly desperate. 

He gets it though, it’s no worries. Human nature is all it is; the desire to climb higher and higher— he wonders if he can get one out of you before the pill hits him. 

There’s no gentleness in the way his hand slots between your legs and cups your dripping cunt this time. He wishes he has more time to admire the way your legs quiver and twitch with every firm pat against your clit, but he’s on a time crunch. There’s so much time to spare, he can play with it all he wants later.

He can feel your needy moan vibrate through his lips and reverberate straight into his brain, sloppy mouths working simultaneously together and against each other as he rips your panties and shorts off in one go. Any self respecting girl would shut their legs in shame, in embarrassment, any attempt to protect their dignity, but you don’t. He doesn’t let you, anyways. 

A hand moves under your shirt to roughly grip at your tits in the same breath he sinks a finger into your sopping hole. Inhale; squeeze, thrust, exhale— you moan. It’s tight, as tight as a virgin pussy should be, but not too tight that it fights against the foreign digit ramming into it at a relentless pace too rough and quick to befit an unexplored hole. 

He can feel the pulsing around him, gummy walls milking his finger for all its worth, and he digs his palm into your swollen bud; it’s all he needed for you to come undone. You don’t squeal, you don’t scream, the 2CB in your system rendering you incapable of anything except long breathy sobs of his name. 

His finger pops out with a wet squelch, and he brings it to his mouth to taste it; tarty, thick— he’s still sober. You’re blubbering out drivel about the stars you saw, the colours swirling around at the peak of your euphoria, you think you saw God— is Dabi God? 

Dabi had to laugh, pat you on the head with his hand covered in syrupy slick, watch it leak and clump your strands of hair. He picks you up with your shorts and panties drenched through dangling at your ankles, and walks you to your bed.

You don’t notice, still basking in the afterglow; he knows this. Not that you’d push him off, tell him to stop. Not in your state anyways. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. 

He drops you once the bed’s in frame at the same time he feels his pulse rise, heart palpitate, and a wave of nausea threatens to bubble over. It doesn’t; he doesn’t let it. An experienced veteran would never. It’s a welcomed sensation, one he’s all too familiar with, and he gives himself a brief minute to breathe it in, savour it, before glancing back down at your limp body on the bed. 

Is it your body? He can trace your silhouette from the dip of your waist, the full of your hips, something glistening, gleaming in the light— your pretty little virgin cunt. His eyes roll back at the next inhale before he finds himself landing on the bed on top of you, forearms digging into the soft mattress of your bed. 

He hears your voice singing into his brain, soft lulls of his name stringing out in DabiDabiDabi— the desperation and need shooting straight to his cock, he doesn’t even need to look down at your soft pliant body, welcoming him, inviting him in. 

“Feels good, yeah?” His voice comes out rougher than usual, low and strained, and laughs at how eagerly you nod, watches your chin catch the air and paint strokes of colour following the route it takes, “Who makes you feel this good?” 

He knows, he knows because it’s all you’ve been able to say the past while, the only word on your mind that you can even blubber out— 

“You, Dabi,” your pants grow heavier; his pants grow tighter, “it’s you Dabi, please—“

A hand reaches up to cradle his cheek, your soft, uncalloused, hand, and he grips it by the wrist before bringing it up to his face. He traces every line that curves and meets on your palm with his tongue, letting it be covered entirely with drool before wrenching it down under his joggers and into his boxers to cup his aching erection. 

His hips rut into your palm almost immediately as a knee-jerk reaction, every hump into your tiny hand has him panting into your face, sweat beading at his temples. His tongue drops down to lick at your lips, asking for entrance, begging for access. Your lips might’ve parted just a fraction, maybe just to let out a breathe, but Dabi takes it as permission to thrust his tongue in and prod at your dormant one.

He can feel you gag at the sudden intrusion, throat convulsing to push back the unfamiliar slimy muscle, and he briefly considers yanking your hand out and shoving his cock down that pretty little mouth of yours. 

But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t have the patience. He needs it urgently, needs your tight virgin cunny stretching and agonizing over his overbearing size, needs to feel the flutter of the gummy walls with each thrust; he needs it bad, he needs it now—

Your hand is wrenched away as he yanks both waistbands down to his thighs. He looks at you, eyes blurring through kaleidoscopic vision, and makes out your disoriented gaze staring back at him. Disoriented with toxins, disoriented with need, lust, desperation— a hand reaches behind Dabi’s neck and pulls him back down to crash bruised lips together. 

It’s all the invitation he needs, not that he needs it, no, what he needs is to sink his painfully hard cock into that sweet, sweet cunt of yours. There’s a faint squealing coming from underneath him, and he thinks he can feel nails digging crescents into his nape, but all he can feel is your warm, wet walls clenching around him. 

There was no need to prepare you for any longer, there’s no point if he doesn’t stretch your virgin pussy out with his own cock; it’s wasted on fingers, his fingers don’t deserve to feel the way you walls quiver and contract around it. The pitched cries stop eventually as he feels your body go pliant and soft, and he has half a mind to realize you’re probably starting to come down soon.

He doesn’t wanna deal with that, you won’t be sober for another few hours, but you’ve peaked already, and not with him; that’s not fair, that’s no fun. His cock stills inside you with half still unsheathed and he reaches down into his pocket to take out a baggy of powder. There’s a spoon in, thank fuck, and he feeds a small bump right up to your nose. 

“Inhale,” he slots it right up your nostril, “it’ll make you feel good, didn’t you feel good?” Your head lowers to nod, bumps the edge of the spoon right into the cartilage of your nose, and inhale. Good girl. 

The baggy is tossed haphazardly before he’s working his dick into you again, cockhead pushing through the doughy walls in search of that pocket at the end of your pussy.

You don’t struggle anymore, instead clinging onto his shoulders and carving half-moons into the flesh. It hurts a lil, and Dabi doesn’t like it when it hurts, not when he’s the one hurting.

He snatches your hands off him and pushes them above your head, into the plush forgiving mattress. His teeth are back on your neck, biting over the ripples of purple and green and red and blue, reveling in your cries and moans that come out in symphonies. 

It feels good, great— divine, it’s what he deserves for bringing you to Nirvana. He’s basically your muse, after all, how can you truly describe rapture without experiencing it first? 

He can hear your moans ringing out from underneath, can see them traveling in the air in hues of reds and pinks and reds and reds— there’s red on your bedsheets, of course there is. He forgot that’s what comes with a virgin cunt; blood, mixing with the translucent coating his cock, dripping down and painting the crisp white sheet red, drifting into the air and congesting the whole room with red. 

He inhales the colour, sucks it into his lungs, and uses it to fuel the pistoning of his hips. Your breaths turn to pants, turns to sobs of his name leaving your lips again, and he thinks you look good, so good, taking his cock like this. You should thank him for bringing you to your second orgasm. 

Just look at you, crazy isn’t it? Crazy what a lil pill can do. But he’s got something better, something so much better, something that’ll bring you to a new dimension. You want that, don’t you? C’mon don’t be shy, Dabi will bring you right there, don’t you worry.

There’s still the faint cries from your orgasm when he flips you over and pushes your face into the untainted sheets. He watches as your hands sprawl up to grip and grasp at something, anything, and his hands ease up on the hold on your skull for a second to let you wheeze and greedily gasp for air.

He flickers a trail of blue down your back, watches the flames dance and rage in a mirage, every bouquet indented by the ligament of each tender rib, and there’s a faint scream. The pitch rises with the flames, taunting it to go higher, faster, paint murals in every swell of your back until he can’t see anything except ash coal char. 

Dabi blinks, squints his eyes as he throws his head back to focus on the paint chipping on the ceiling. It cracks and crinkles, shying away from his pointed glare, before he sucks in a deep breath and looks back down at you. 

There’s no ash, no char, only warm tanned flesh, pressed flush against the pristine white sheets underneath. It burns against the pads of his long fingers splayed out across your back, and he winces in annoyance at the irony.

You don’t seem to notice his pause, too fucked out or fucked up to register what’s going around you probably. A mixture of both; Dabi can’t really remember what he’s given you or how long he’s been there. 

He can’t decide if he wants to stay there anymore,  can’t make out the pros and cons of either. He counts them off with each painful yank of your hair, each harsh thrust into your abused virgin cunt— it was that, wasn’t it? 

He was there because he sniffed out a cute lil virgin, one so untainted and untouched, one begging for him to corrupt. He’s not known to be very generous, but sometimes he gets into one of those moods; it can’t be helped when there’s a desperate doll waiting to be torn apart. 

He knows what you want, can read you with his eyes closed— you don’t need eyes to feel the pulse of a greedy cunny; it clenches with every slap of the face, damn near clamps down entirely as his slender fingers slither around to the front of your throat.

Two fingers shove past your lolling tongue and yanks your head back by the digits hooked on the corner of your mouth. There’s drool, and spit, and so many fluids coming and entering all at once— and then you’re coming, again, probably, for the third time that night. Fourth? 

It’s methodical, straightforward, he reads the instruction manual once, maybe twice if the first one’s a bit faulty, and he’s got it down to muscle memory.

At the sound of heaving he looks back down again, admires the feel of two of his fingertips fucked straight into the back of your throat, and pushes down on the rugged gummy wall. You gag, and he laughs. It’s cute, so cute, you’re real cute, you know?

“Such a good lil whore aren’t you?” He digs his nails into the flesh of your hip and rams his cockhead until he can feel the kiss from your puckered cervix. “All fucked out of your mind, bet you can’t even hear me, can you?” 

He watches as you gurgle out words past his fingers wedged down your slack mouth, and choke on the pools of saliva drooling out. It’s the funniest sight, fascinates him to death, really. 

A slap to the face might bring you out of your daze, so he slips his hand back out of your sloppy mouth and revels at your body propelling forward straight into the headboard. He grasps at the tips of your hair and wrench your body back towards him before any satisfying impact could sound out. It’s a shame, but concussions are not in his agenda. 

“Been fucked so loose, filthy slut can’t even keep your body up,” he rolls your hair around his hands and yanks back until your skull meets his chin; it’s excruciatingly painful, probably, and that’s why it’s the best. 

It’s the perfect way for your mouth to fall open naturally, to scream, squeal, fluster around in attempt to be freed from the position— it creates the perfect hole for him to spit in. He watches as your face contorts in disgust, tongue pushed out to let his spit drool out the sides, but that’s no fun, not very nice of you, is it?

“Swallow,” he assists you with an extra hard thrust, and you choke on the moan coming out. His hand comes forward from your hip to rest under your chin before pushing it up so it clamps shut, “I said, swallow.”

Your eyes flood with tears that waterfall down your face, and God, he thinks you look the best like this— wrecked on his cock, body littered in purple and red, covered in sweat and blood and cum; his perfect lil cocksleeve, just for him. 

It’s emotional, almost— religious, even, he can feel the palpitations in his heart thumping against his chest echoing off the headboard banging against the wall, and lets the euphoria consume him, wash over him as he coats your walls with hot ropes of cream and white, hips stuttering with your greedy cunny fluttering and clenching around it, milking and sucking in his cock in deeper, deeper, more.

He thinks you might’ve cum, might still be cumming, but all he can hear is the Messiah calling for him, choir singing lulling him into an infinite jubilation; he closes his eyes to bathe in it, let himself be cleansed and washed over with ecstasy. 

When he pulls out, your body flops onto the mattress, and he watches as white dribbles out your quivering hole, mixing with the red on the sheets, creating a puddle of pink and magenta, before passing out in the fuschia.

[ready-to-obeyme]

[OM!] College!AU Zoom University Headcanons

For the 7 Demon Brothers + Solomon

Scenario: Headcanons about how you interact with the demon brothers online during online lectures via Zoom (an online video platform that universities have been using to teach classes) and their habits using it

Notes: gn!MC, Considering most universities (including mine) are all online AGAIN fall quarter and we’re going to be using Zoom forever……. i kinda wish i DID have online classes with the demon boys (and Solomon) 

--

Lucifer

Video off, mic off, no profile pic just the typical first and last name, so you don’t really talk to him but you do see his name pop up in the Zoom chat to ask clarification questions

Accidentally has his mic on sometimes

First time you interact with him is when you private message him “hey, I think your mic is still on” because everyone can hear his brothers arguing in the background

The mic is soon turned off and you get a response back “thanks. Sorry you had to hear all of that”

“Yeah no prob. How many brothers do you have anyways?”

“Too many.” 

Thus starts your relationship with him as zoom buddies, asking each other privately what the professor just said and some clarification questions

If you’re shy about asking stuff, he has no problems asking for you; never makes you feel dumb about your questions

first time you hear his voice during midterm season when the professor doesn’t see your messages (“you’d expect them to know how this all works by now” he messages you dryly) and he asks his question out loud before the professor can move on

(lowkey think he’s hot just from his voice) 

Then highkey finds out he’s hot when his video is accidentally on for a few seconds when he’s distracted with Asmo or Mammon in the background 

Bonus points if you tease him about it 

Shows up at office hours when the TA is late and you just talk to him, exchange emails and numbers ;) y’know for homework help

If you’re going to do group projects, he seeks you out first-- god forbid he’s stuck with someone who doesn’t do the work ONLINE

Mammon

Mic is ALWAYS accidentally on until the professor mutes him or tells him to mute himself 

“Oh, sorry prof!!! My b!!”

Private messages you on purpose to ask a clarification question because he doesn’t want to seem dumb asking it to everyone or to the professor

You wonder why he chose you but then you realize it’s because you had asked a question yourself earlier in the lecture or answered a question 

It becomes a recurring thing-- like EVERY lecture

If you’re not annoyed at him, then you might suggest that the two of you share a document for notes or tease him about just having you teach the lecture if he’s confused

“Actually, that sounds great!” he types to you before you could say jk “that’d help me a lot, thanks!!”

Smh why did you sign up for more work for yourself but oh well, he seems like a nice guy

Is also a very attractive guy, you realize, when you schedule a zoom meeting with him and actually see his face

Realizes why he keeps asking questions is because he plays card games on a split screen instead of paying attention to lecture (same tho)

Invites you to join him by private messaging you a link to join (and you do eventually when lectures gets boring)

Sometimes sends the invite link to the whole class by accident 

He admits he wouldn’t even attend lecture and would just watch the recording but you’re always there so he goes 

Which means you suppose you should keep going to lecture if anything to have him go as well 

Leviathan

Already the master of online classes tbh and has no problem with the format

Finds it kind of annoying when there’s technical difficulties, but he just quickly switches to a tab to watch anime 

Probably is just watching anime on another tab if the lecture gets boring or slow anyways

He’s always the first one to answer forum/discussion posts because he’s just very tech-savvy and good at replying to people

First interaction is probably him answering one of your questions on the discussion question and from then on after you start messaging him privately during lecture when you have a question you think he can help with

A little hesitant on helping you, but you’re also just really nice to him so he’s okay with helping you, I guess 

Give him your email? Why? So he can send you the book pdfs and previous practice tests of course, why else?? 

O-Oh, you want to add him on social media? Just to ask for homework questions right? Okay, yeah, sure! o////o 

If video is on, you see the reflection of anime in one of his mirrors and casually ask him which episode he’s on

Has never been so shook or attentive in his LIFE 

Satan

He is a godsend during every breakout room because he ACTUALLY TALKS instead of leaving you in a quiet room alone with three other strangers

You think you’re lowkey in love with him when he has no problems volunteering to present to the professor and putting his thoughts into words so eloquently

He also appreciate you talking during discussion too, and enjoys the conversations the two of you have while you’re not even sure the other blank profile pics are even there anymore 

He’s the one to suggest making a shared doc to share notes and study together-- the man is productive and efficient about this, what can I say?

Manages to convince you to go to office hours with him and meet up for studying hours and ooooh he’s hot 

He’s actually a very good study buddy, especially when he’s teaching you something you’re confused about, but also just good to study together with (when you’re not too busy staring at him) 

The only reason why you’re focused during class because he’d look disappointed at you if you weren’t-- that’s on you for caring about what he thinks, but he’s just so PUT TOGETHER how do you NOT look up to him?

Finds out that he’s actually just a mess like everyone else when his brothers come in during one of your study session and he says “excuse me,” mutes the mic and goes off screen; you can see some shadows in the back as satan shoves his brothers out of the room and manhandles them till they leave

Is kind of embarrassed he forgot to turn of video too but you just think it’s funny because you relate to the lack of privacy of online classes (and perhaps annoying siblings)

Asmodeus

How the hell does he look awake and lively at a 9am lecture class????

Is that make up??? Is he… wearing PANTS??? (you don’t remember the last time you put on actual pants)

The most functional-looking person in the entire zoom lecture, asides from the professor 

Has video on all the time-- because honestly why wouldn’t he? He actually looks good

Definitely not paying attention most of the time, and you see it on his face 

Messages you first when you actually wear something nice for once because you’re going to go to the supermarket afterwards

“Ooh, where’d you get that accessory??”

The two of you end up not paying attention AT ALL and instead just gush about each other’s outfits

Definitely is not afraid to ask for your social media so you can follow each other and ask for homework help I guess but MAINLY to talk to each other because online classes can get sooooo tedious 

Really really wants to be able to meet you in person someday when it’s safe (“we’d look so cute together!!!”) but settles for facetime or zoom meet-ups 

Really does not hesitate to make friends and make the best out of social situations despite remote format bless him 

The only time he doesn’t turn on video is after a night of drinking with his brothers (“it was mammon’s birthday” he types into the chat with you, “ugh i’m probably going to go lie down, let me know how lecture goes”)

Beelzebub

Always eating-- even if this wasn’t online, he’d also be the one to bring snacks-- his whole LUNCH to class to eat so this isn’t too surprising 

You think it’s hilarious when he actually brings his laptop or phone (whatever he’s using zoom with) to the kitchen and literally makes dinner during the lecture

Sometimes you watch his tiny video of him putting stuff into the oven than the lecture slides and you bet your entire class is doing that too 

Sometimes you ask him jokingly what he’s cooking and you’re surprised when he pauses and answers your question mid-dinner making

“Lasagna. You want some?” 

“Yeah send it over through mail bro”

You don’t actually know if he’s actually retaining any lecture information, but apparently he’s doing decent enough-- still, if you offer to share your notes, he’d be so grateful

“Where do you live?”

“Ldfjalskjd why are you going to send me food?” 

“Yeah. What’s your address? I’ll send you a box of cookies or something.” 

Basically he just does NOT care what the entire class sees him doing; he could be cooking, eating, working out-- he’s listening to the lecture out loud but he’s giving you a show (whether it’s a cooking show or a work out video depends on the time of day)

Belphegor

If the lectures are recorded, you’ll never see him, especially if the class is early in the morning LOL

If you do see him during lecture and video is on, he’s always in his pajamas or sleep clothes, a pillow in front of him 

During discussion, if video is required, he probably has a screenshot of himself awake as a profile picture so he can snooze away pretending like he’s actually there 

You definitely notice because he’s the first video to show up in your gallery and his video is like never moving HAHA

You finally message him when the TA splits you all into breakout rooms when you’re all supposed to be finding the answer or discussing something to be shared later

Kind of awkward at first because he’s like… asleep, but when he wakes up blearily, he does participate-- if only for your sake and for discussion points 

“Hey… wake me up if the TA or professor asks us any questions, will ya?” he says as he puts his head down and sleeps 

Since you and him are now officially breakout room buddies, you message him when you have a question and know that he’ll probably respond to you by the end of class because he actually knows the material despite sleeping through half of the class

Is actually very appreciative of you that you volunteer to speak on behalf of your breakout room if no one else does because that means HE doesn’t have to do it

Bonus:

Solomon

The one to make the groupchat/slack link and send it to everyone in the class so we could actually help each other in the class

Shares a link to a google folder with resources

Highkey more useful than a TA sometimes 

Super helpful, efficient, and charismatic… but suspiciously so

Like where did he get all these pdfs? Where did he get all these 100% test from previous years? And-- is that an answer key??? To what???

Video isn’t on ever, so you have no clue what he looks like… until you’re in the same discussion as him and he turns on his video for breakout rooms

He always, ALWAYS sits at the island in the kitchen and sips coffee whenever you have discussion with him 

Responds back to you almost immediately if you ask him questions during lecture (because honestly, why not-- he seems smart and has his life together) but if anyone messages him in the groupchat, surprisingly takes a while to reply… maybe he’s busy?

Anyhow you’re not gonna question it; you’re gonna pass this class and Solomon is carrying everyone to an A+

[evermore-notes]

The Least to Most Effective Study Methods

Studying is a part of a student's life, it’s a part of succeeding in life most cases as well. Learning and retaining is a vital life skill you should learn as soon as possible. This is a post to kind of follow up with my last study post I did called “Study Habits That I Use”. Because it got me thinking “what if what I am doing isn’t the “best” way to study? Can I improve?” which is what made me want to type this up.  

Disclaimer- I am not a professional. I study a lot because I basically live the academic life by choice and enjoy it. It's part of what brought me into the Dark Academic aesthetic.  

The Least Effective Study Methods and Why

Studying for Long Periods of Time (Cramming)

This is bad because chances are you will get bored with what you are doing, you will space out, and just scroll on your phone to entertain yourself. This doesn’t make you a bad student, it just makes you human. I’ve been in the academic's world by choice for many years, and even I do this. Another reason to not do this is that is actually increases your stress levels. Cramming can also lead to students staying up too late and missing out on sleep, this is if the student decides to even sleep at all. This now leads to the student going into class after an all nighter to try and pass a test. This just isn’t effective.  

Studying a Single Subject for a Single Period of Time (Massed Practice)

This is like speeding through something. Can you read 5 chapters of your book before bed, yes, you probably can, but SHOULD you? This is how I explain it to those around me when they don’t understand. If you read the entire book, you just bought in one sitting, you probably won't retain much of the story. You are literally not giving your brain a break to process the information so you don’t have a chance to retain it. My advice here, SLOW DOWN, slow and steady wins the race.  

Mastering One Subject Before Moving on (Block Practice)

This is when you study a pattern. This may seem like a good way to study in theory, because you may remember answers 1 through 10 are this and that, right? But what if I mix the lineup of questions? It is shown that block practice is not as good when put to the actual test. Which many schools do. This is why I recommend switching up the questions, learning them in as many different orders as possible. That way your mind gets use to that method and you won't feel as anxious when the list isn’t in a particular order.  

Reading and Rereading Text

To me this is one of the most boring ways to study. And it has been shown that students that sit and read the same thing over and over again do not retain the information due to lack of interest. Studying this way does not give you a challenge to overcome. Your brain likes achieving things, so if I may suggest Flash Cards instead?  

Highlight and Underlining Text

I know I said I use this method, and I do, a lot actually. That’s because I have been teaching myself to study with color codes. For most students this simply isn’t a good option. You may take the time to high light and reread but chances are you won't review the material. I find this to be a good habit if you want to high light passages in your text book that you know you will come back to. But that’s it.  

Reviewing Notes

This is the same as rereading your notes, but this has more to do with the student keeping a habit of coming back to actually review and study. Again, most students will not want to come home after a lecture and read what they just spent probably 2 hours on in class. And they shouldn’t! Give your mind a break, drink some water, eat a healthy meal. Play a game or go shopping with a friend. THEN come back and review. But, like I have said, most of the time student will not come back and review what they have typed/written in their notes.  

Most Effective Study Methods

Pre-testing

Pre-testing has been shown to help decrease anxiety and help the student actually retain what they are answering. This is a good way to build up self-confidence as well because you get to see how many you missed the first-time vs the second time and so on. You can also spend less time studying with this method and take more breaks vs studying for hours on end, which isn’t good anyways.  

Spaced Practice

This is one of my favorite ways to study actually. That is when my courses allow it. This is when the student takes several hours at a time if not days on a subject they are studying. Doing it this way is more effective because you are giving yourself time to absorb the information without over working yourself to death.  

Creating Flash Cards

PLEASE DO THIS! This is good for ALL subjects! Not just math. This is a very good way to challenge yourself and help you retain the information. And it’s okay if you get it wrong sometimes, just shuffle the cards again and keep practicing. Even making the flash cards can help your brain start to learn the information. Then you get to challenge yourself which is even better. A way I do this is by getting my favorite candy or treat, and whenever I get one right, I get a bite. I’m not sure how effective this is, but I like to think it works lol. You should also ask yourself about the flash cards, this can create meaning to the cards and help form connections during testing. I normally study for about 30 minutes to an hour with flash cards, three times a day if I have enough time to do so. I also combine color coding as well if multiple cards go into the same category.  

Self-Quizzing

This is effective because you write out the test question yourself and then go back and answer them, or you can answer them as you write them out, whichever floats your boat. Whenever I have done this, I personally have more fun, because writing is a good way to retain information, and I am taking a quiz which may just be in my head, but it gets rid of my testing anxiety.  

Interleaving Practice

This is when you study a subject that has different categories all together. By doing this you are teaching yourself to think about the problems in different ways, because not all problems may follow the same formula, such as Maths.  

Paraphrasing and Reflecting

I use to hate doing this, because I didn’t see the point in turning to my partner in class and asking them about what we just read. But in reality, it has helped me not just in school, but when learning a new skill in general. By taking the time to talk to yourself about what you are learning you are allowing yourself to take in the information. Reading it in your head is different than hearing it out loud. If you are lucky enough to have a study group or a friend, do this together. Talk about what you just learned, then allow your friend to say their piece on the subject. This helps you not only learn to socialize but to also learn the same information in a different way.

Remember that even though you might get something wrong, maybe you studied till your hearts content and didn't pass. Its OKAY to fail. Its OKAY to not get 100%. Just try again, and communicate with your professors and see if they might have any methods or resources for you to get help.

I hope that this post was helpful to everyone. Happy Studying!

Source - https://www.edutopia.org/article/5-research-backed-studying-techniques

More In Depth look at Flash Card Studying https://usm.maine.edu/agile/using-flashcards

[luckyspike]

Definitely Not a Wizard - A Good Omens Fanfic (or: Crowley breaks several rules of Aziraphale’s bookshop)

Me at 9pm: I’m just gonna write a quick fanfic just to get some of this energy out.

Spongebob title card: Several hours later.......

Anyway look it’s more fic with Crowley and kids because I’m a predictable sap that likes children interacting with eldritch horrors.

--

In the days following the Nahpocalypse, and indeed, the years, Crowley and Aziraphale settled into a routine. They moved out of the city, and set a primary base of operations up in the countryside. Retirement, Aziraphale had initially thought, was appealing. Oh, he’d keep the bookshop open one or two days a week, he had said to Crowley, as the demon drove the Bentley to the chalky cliffs of South Downs, just initially, until he settled in, but probably after a year or so he’d be ready to let it go.

Crowley had nodded and said nothing. He was no Agnes Nutter, but he had known Aziraphale for 6000 years, and he was fairly certain ‘letting it go’ was not anywhere on the agenda in the future.

He was right. Four months in, when the winter was harsh and the weather was hideous, Aziraphale found Crowley in the greenhouse, lounged back in an overly-ornate garden chair, fingers steepled, glaring at the plants lined up before him. An iced coffee rested on the arm of the chair beside him, condensation running down the outside of the cup in the pleasantly warm humidity of the greenhouse. The plants, trembling, steadied somewhat when the angel came in, brushing his hands absently through their leaves while Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“What is the point,” he said, gesturing to the row of comforted plants, “of menacing them if you’re just going to come through and tell them it’ll all be alright? I’ve been working on that aptenia for weeks! I nearly had it!”

“Ah, well, I’ll bring it comfort in its brief life, I suppose. Say, Crowley,” the angel pulled up a chair beside the demon, who was watching carefully as the aptenia stilled for a moment, and then resumed trembling, perhaps more than before. “May I impose on you?”

Crowley paused. “Depends,” he replied, eventually. “Can’t say I’m really in the mood at the moment, angel.”

Aziraphale waved his hands and laughed a little. “No, no, not that, you incorrigible old snake. No, I’m wondering if you might be available to … well, I’m thinking of opening the bookshop a bit more. You know. Just … obviously not selling anything.”

“You’re bored,” Crowley observed, languid and smug, reclining even more aggressively in his chair and taking a leisurely sip of iced coffee. “You’re bored and you need me to drive you to London so you can open the bookshop more and -”

“Yes, that’s what I just said,” the angel answered, peevish. 

“Are you lonely? Not enjoying my company enough?” There was no offense in it, no meanness. He prodded Aziraphale in the side. “Not as fun to intimidate me, eh? Just don’t give the same thrill of customers.”

Aziraphale glared. “Do you want to drive me to London three days a week or not?”

Crowley sipped his drink again and let his head fall back, feet propped up on a potting table. His eyes closed, although he never stopped smirking. “‘Course. Been waiting for you to ask for the last two months.”

“You don’t have to be so self-satisfied about it,” Aziraphale said with a frown, settling back in his own chair with his arms crossed. “Smug.”

“Don’t I? It’s sort of my scene, angel.”

“Hmph.” Aziraphale didn’t argue. Rather, he looked to the demon, dozing to his left, and then to the rows of plants in the greenhouse. And then he smiled, broad and honest and full of mischief. “You know,” he said, suddenly raising his voice to a near-shout, “he really quite likes all of you!” Crowley’s eyes snapped open. “I see the way he looks at you all sometimes! He’ll never say it, but he does like you, all of you, in his own way!”

“Angel!”

Aziraphale rose, and primly brushed the non-existent lint from the front of his waistcoat and pants. He turned to Crowley and smiled with divine beneficence. “I must protect and comfort. It’s my scene.” He started to walk away, back to the cottage, stroking the plants on the opposite side of the row, this time. They leaned toward his touch. “Would you mind tomorrow, by the way?”

“I might,” Crowley muttered.

“Excellent. I’d like to open the store at nine, if you wouldn’t mind.” The doors closed behind him, and Crowley crossed his legs as he glared after the angel, arms crossed over his chest. 

“If you don’t mind,” he repeated, mocking. “He’s lucky I like him.” He raised his voice, and glared over the greenhouse full of plants. “Unlike you lot!” With a grunt, he hoisted himself to his feet and began stalking through the rows of plants. “Surprise inspection! I’d better not see a single blemish, you miserable heaps of pre-compost!”

Miraculously, he didn’t. Not even a single droopy leaf. Even the aptenia. In the cottage, Aziraphale smiled and turned his page.

It did start as a chauffer arrangement*. Three days each week, Crowley drove Aziraphale into Soho and dropped him off at the bookshop. Sometimes he would come in and spend the day, sometimes he would leave and ramble around London. On occasion he would go on a day trip elsewhere, usually Tadfield. In the spring, he enrolled** in a university physics course. He did homework. It was interesting, and a nice way to spend the time besides, now that he was more-or-less retired.

Well, mostly retired. He did tempt his classmates to procrastination and cheating at times, because old habits die hard, and they were university students anyway so they hardly needed a full temptation. Just a gentle push, really. Also, Aziraphale noted somewhat astutely one night over wine, if everyone procrastinated studying then the average grade for the test would be a bit lower, possibly resulting in a generous curve, which Crowley invariably benefitted from. Crowley, mid-way through an equation, glared at him for the remark, but didn’t dispute it.

“Oh, I need a favor,” Aziraphale said after a minute, and more fevered scratching from Crowley as the worked at the equation more. The demon glanced up.

“Aziraphale, if you’re going to open the shop four days each week, we might as well move back to London.”

“Oh? Oh! No, no that wasn’t what I was thinking of.” 

“Oh.” Crowley propped his chin in his hand and tapped the pencilpoint on the paper. It was a wonder he didn’t have smoke coming out of his ears, Aziraphale reflected, the way he was looking at the paper. 

Well, Aziraphale had said math might be wise to take first, before physics. No one to blame but himself, really.

“I have an appointment tomorrow,” Aziraphale said, continuing when Crowley hummed in distracted acknowledgement. “I’m meeting a woman about a first-run printing of Harry Potter. With the shop only being opened a few days per week, I’d hate to close it down for a few hours in the middle of one of the days for the meeting.”

“Why? Planning on selling something?”

“No, but people do like to browse.” He leaned forward and to the side slightly, so he would poke into Crowley’s field of vision. “Would you mind watching the shop for me for a few hours while I have my meeting?”

“Huh?” Crowley looked up, and then visibly re-wound the last minute of conversation in his mind. “Since when do you buy fantasy?”

“It’s a cultural phenomenon, Crowley.” Aziraphale waved a hand. “And that’s irrelevant, besides. Would you be able to watch the shop? Please?”

Pursed lips as the demon considered the request. More idle pencil-tapping. The point snapped off, and Crowley didn’t seem to notice. “Just … just make sure nobody messes up the books, right?”

“Yes. And don’t sell anything.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows arched as he allowed himself a hopeful smile. “Please?”

Crowley sighed. “Yeah, I can do that. Fine.”

During the commute in to London the next day, Aziraphale distracted himself from the no-less-than-twelve near-discorporations by quizzing Crowley on Bookshop Management Principles. “Are children allowed?”

“Only if accompanied by parents,” Crowley recited, monotone. “And they cannot touch anything earlier than a fourth edition, or the books in the children’s section.”

Aziraphale smiled. “And what if someone wants to buy a book?”

“Encourage-them-to-leave-but-please-don’t-terrify-them,” Crowley replied, mechanically. “How long is this appointment? An hour? It’s not like your shop has just huge amounts of foot traffic, Aziraphale.” He looked to Aziraphale and read the expression on the angel’s face. “Two hours?”

“Probably closer to three. I expect there will be bartering.”

“Hm.” The Bentley rumbled on. “I’ll still manage just fine.”

“I’m sure you will, dear.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s arm, and there wasn’t a trace of irony in his smile. “I have no doubts.”

Crowley did leave for a few hours after dropping Aziraphale off - likely to hunt down a decent cup of coffee and spread a few wiles around, which would be typical - but he did return ten minutes before Aziraphale planned to leave for his meeting, coffee in hand. Aziraphale smiled, and looked him up and down, hands clasped in front of him as he appraised the demon before he left.

He looked nothing at all like a shopkeeper. But he looked everything in the world like Crowley, which was, in Aziraphale’s opinion, much better. He laid his hands on Crowley’s shoulders for a second, smiled, and then turned to grab his briefcase. “Remember, keep an eye on teenagers, and don’t let anybody fold the pages or bend the spines, and don’t sell anything.” This last was said in unison with Crowley, who tried to look annoyed but mostly just looked amused. 

“I can handle it, angel. I incited original sin, I think I can manage a shop for three hours.”

“That’s … not reassuring.”

Crowley pushed Aziraphale - gently - toward the door, giving him an extra nudge between the shoulderblades at the threshold. “Have fun getting your letter to Hogwarts, see you in a while.”

“It’s a first edition Harry Potter book, not -”

“Goodbye, Aziraphale.” The bell over the door tinkled as the door closed. On the other side of the glass, Aziraphale was glaring at him. Crowley waved and, with a sigh, the angel turned and started off down the sidewalk to his meeting. Crowley watched until he faded out of sight and into the throngs of people on the London sidewalks, and then turned to the shop, empty at the moment, hands in his pockets. “Right.” Aziraphale always kept a chair by the window next to the perpetually-unused register, and Crowley dropped into it, appreciating the sunbeam coming through the window and the warmth it provided. He closed his eyes, and briefly considered Going Snake just to enjoy the sunbeam all the more, before his withered and blackened but surprisingly-resilient sense of duty chimed in with the opinion that Aziraphale definitely would not approve of either napping on the job or watching the store in the form of a ten-foot-long viper. And certainly not both at once. He would probably even be cross.

Crowley opted to play a game on his phone instead. 

It was a full 45 minutes into his shift before a customer entered. She was college-age, dark hair and eyes, vaguely reminiscent of someone he’d known in Mesopotamia. Maybe an ancestor, he considered. Probably not, though. That was a long time ago. She looked around the shop, obviously at a loss as to where to begin, before she caught sight of Crowley in his chair. She straightened a bit more, and he sat up slightly, under the pretense of politeness. “Uh, hi.”

“Hi.”

“Do you … have any Ursula Le Guin?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “No idea.” There, that ought to put her off browsing around. She cocked her head. “Just watching the shop for the afternoon, sorry. Not really clear on all the inventory.”

“Oh.” She looked to the shop, and her shoulders relaxed a little as she looked across the stacks of books, the shelves with their haphazard organization. “Is it OK if I look around?”

“Yeah.” Crowley pulled his phone back out and propped his feet up on the table with the register on it. “Of course. Let me know if you need help.” The look she gave him indicated she rather doubted there would be anything he could help her with, and she wandered off into the shelves. Crowley settled back in. Suited him fine. He returned to his game, although he kept one ear on the woman, and would glance up from his game on occasion, just to make sure she wasn’t up to anything, like stealing or worse, trying to buy something. 

She had been in the shop for about fifteen minutes when another customer entered. Crowley almost groaned. Unreal.

At least this one seemed more than passingly familiar with the bookshop. She paused at the threshold and nodded to Crowley, trying not to make a show of looking around the store. “Mr. Fell not in today?”

“He’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Crowley answered, counting down the minutes in his brain. “Had a meeting.”

“Are you a … friend of his? Watching the store for him?” She watched Crowley nod in agreement. “Ah. Er, I’ve been coming in on my lunch for the past few days to read a book.” She glanced to the other woman in the shop, and then took a step closer to Crowley, lowering her voice. “Mr. Fell said it was alright, only I couldn’t afford to actually buy the book.”

“Yeah, some are quite valuable.” Crowley became conscious of the tone of his voice, the sprawl of his knees, and wrenched the temptation knob down to a respectable 5 out of 10***. He looked back to his phone. “If he was alright with you reading over lunch I’m not going to stop you. Just don’t, you know, fold anything or anything.”

She stood back a little, visibly disappointed. “Great,” she said, though her voice was a little flat. “I’ll be careful. Thanks.” The book in question was set to a table to the side, which had no labels but was piled high with books rife with bookmarks, and she took it from the pile before walking softly back through the shop to the little sitting area by the wall opposite the register. Crowley forced a smile when she looked to him, before she opened the book and settled in to read.

Eventually, the first customer of his inaugural shift at A. Z. Fell & Co. left, looking disappointed. He smiled and waved at her as she went. The second customer also left, about forty-five minutes after coming in. She paused at the table after she set her book back down, obviously considered saying something to Crowley, and then thought better of it, leaving with a subdued smile and a little wave, which he returned with rather more enthusiasm than necessary.

Two confused customers in as many hours, he thought. Not too bad. With a little more hostility he might even be able to make them disgruntled. Maybe there was something to this bookshop thing. He continued with his game, and considered it further. One hour to go, he thought, and he started tapping his foot to the game’s music out of sheer infernal cheer.

Two-and-a-half hours into his shift, the bell above the door tinkled again. Crowley looked up, and then down. Faintly, an alarm bell sounded in the back of his brain.

An unattended child.

Oh, sure, they’d established that unattended children weren’t allowed, but Crowley was rapidly realizing that Aziraphale had not told him what to do in such a circumstance. The kid was looking at him, though, all wide green eyes and a messy red hair piled into an attempt at a ponytail. “Hi,” she said quietly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you lost?”

The girl stepped back, toward the door, and then glanced into the street outside. “No,” she answered. “Um, my … my dad is out there talking to a friend, just there, and he said I could come in and look around.” Crowley thought about that. Well, she was just looking. Right? No harm in curiosity, he thought, without a trace of irony. Besides, she was probably … ten? Eleven? Thirteen? Somewhere in there. Crowley had never been good at guessing human ages, and he hadn’t gotten better with time. The girl looked worried. “That’s alright, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Crowley made a decision, and secretly hoped that Aziraphale would not mind or, even better, would never find out about it at all. “Yeah, s’fine. Just, ah, be careful with the books. They’re all … very old.” He looked to the children’s section. “Oh, except those back there. You can look at those.”

She looked to the indicated section, and then turned back to him, obviously slightly offended. “Those are for kids.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Which is why I pointed them out.” He paused. “You are a kid, aren’t you?”

Scratch slightly offended, now she was clearly offended. “Yes I’m a kid. But I don’t like to read kid’s books.” She looked around. “What’s the oldest book here?”

Crowley shrugged. “Dunno. Not my shop. I just work here.”

She frowned. After a beat, she turned away, and started to wander the shelves, looking but not touching, studying the dusty spines and the gilded titles. Crowley watched her for a minute, and then settled back into his chair, even going so far as to pull his phone out as if to play his game, but he never started it. As inconspicuously as possible, which was very inconspicuous indeed for a 6000-year-old demon, he watched her. She would pause, now and then, in front of a book. He could see her hand twitch at her side, or clutch at her paisley skirt, but then she would think better of it, and move along the shelves, never touching anything, only looking.

Five minutes in, he asked, “So what kind of books do you read, if not kid’s books?” She looked at him over her shoulder. 

“I like … books about history,” she settled on. “And. Well, and some kids books. If they’re good. If they have like, good magic in them and stuff.”

Ah, magic. Crowley squashed down the urge to nod. That was alright then. He was beginning to wonder if she was truly a human child, and not some kind of supernatural being that looked twelve-years-old but didn’t read kids’ books and had self-control more impressive than some adults. But no, magic was alright. Human kids loved magic. 

“I like Lord of the Rings,” she went on, continuing her perusal of the shelves. “My dad always says he thinks it’s too complicated for me, but I read it anyway.”

“No harm in it,” Crowley agreed. He’d tried to read The Hobbit once, years ago, but he’d gotten bored ten pages in and promptly stuffed it into a shelf at Aziraphale’s shop, never to pick it up again. “Did you read all of them?”

She nodded, and this time when she looked at him, her eyes were a little brighter, a little less wary. “Nearly,” she said, eagerly. “I’m on the last one - The Return of the King. Did you read it?”

“Nah. Just saw the films.” Her face fell. “They were good films, though,” he added, somewhat unconsciously. “Er.”

She serpentined down an aisle, looking the books up and down, her hands alternatively playing with her hair, or picking at her skirt. “I don’t know what to read next,” she said, unprompted, right as Crowley decided she was probably alright, and anyway this level wasn’t going to beat itself.

“Huh?”

“After I finish the book, I mean.” She sighed, the troubled sigh of a pre-teen facing a significant personal crisis. “Mum says I should just re-read them, really savor the parts I liked best the first time around and maybe find even better ones the second go-round. But I want to read something new. I don’t feel like re-reading them right now.”

“Ah.” 

She looked to him. “I was going to ask you for recommendations, since you work in a bookshop, but you haven’t read them.” She shrugged. “My maths teacher might know a good book for next. He gave me The Hobbit in the first place.”

“Maybe.” Crowley stared at his phone for a minute, and then, in a fit of benevolence that made him feel slightly nauseous, he got up, and crossed the shop toward the girl, hands in his pockets, studying the shelves she was in front of as he drew even with her. She watched him, carefully. “You like magic, you said? Good magic?”

“Not like stage stuff,” she clarified quickly, in case he had any designs of pulling a quarter from behind her ear or a length of scarves from his jacket. She did not know how near of a miss she had had in that department. “Like real magic.”

“Right, obviously.” He traced along a shelf of books, which were not organized by any recognizable system at all, and then stopped. He considered the book in front of his hand, apparently - A Brief History of the Sonnet, First Edition - and the girl looked dubious, before he reached between books, and pulled out another one, which had not, prior to that moment, looked like it could have existed. The girl blinked.

“Did you just - ?”

“Stage stuff,” he said, dismissively. “Old trick. Anyway, here. You might like this one.” She looked down to the cover, orange and battered, with a garishly-rendered suitcase on the front. With legs. And teeth. She raised her eyebrows. “It’s got real good, proper magic in it. And it’s funny.” She looked to him, and he shrugged. “I like funny ones.”

“Right.” She turned the book over, slowly, and then looked back to him, suspicious. “It doesn’t have a price tag. Where did you get this from, anyway?”

Crowley beamed. “A magician never tells his secrets, didn’t you know?” She gave him a look that suggested of course she did, and to stop being ridiculous. “Must have been an oversight, missing the tag. I think it was …” he licked his lips, under the guise of thinking, considered the strength of the metal smells coming from her backpack, and said, “Two pounds.”

“I don’t know if I have that.” Nevertheless, she carried the book up to the register, and plopped her bag down on the table to rummage through. “I’ve got ... “ she studied the handful of coins, and then looked to Crowley again, although this time there was an accusatory undertone to her look of amazement. “Exactly two pounds.”

“Lucky coincidence, then.” His watch clicked - three hours - and he glanced to the door. “You buying it or not?”

“Are you a wizard?”

“No.”

“Only you’re wearing all black, so if you are a wizard, you’re an evil wizard.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not a nazgul, are you?”

“I have no idea what that is,” said Crowley, completely honestly. “So I’d imagine not. Listen, you want the book or not? I bet you’ll like it.”

She looked from him - a hint of a glare, which was novel - to the book, and back to him. And then she laid the coins on the table. “Okay. But if I don’t like it, Mum always says I should ask for a refund.”

“You won’t get one here.” He pointed to the ‘Returns welcome,’ sign, and then miracled it to say ‘No refunds, no returns,’ hastily, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

“Wait that sign -”

Crowley didn’t hiss. He didn’t growl or do anything menacing. He’d already broken two rules of Aziraphale’s bookshop, and he’d be blessed if he’d break any more. Instead, he looked to the street, where the girl’s father apparently suddenly realized his daughter had been missing for the last twenty minutes, and looked into the shop, wide-eyed and bewildered, before he caught sight of her through the glass doors and waved.

“Oh, would you look at that! Looks like your dad’s looking for you, well, so sorry to see you go, but hope you enjoy the book -”

“You are a wizard!” the girl said, a broad grin spreading across her face, even as Crowley placed his hands firmly on her shoulders and started pushing her toward the door. “That’s not stage magic, I know it can’t be -”

“Not a wizard!” he interjected with forced cheerfulness. “Don’t tell anyone that! Definitely not a wizard! Goodbye!”

“Dad, this guy’s a wizard!” she said, pointing to Crowley, before he pointedly shut the door behind her. The girl’s father looked to her, and then to Crowley, through the glass of the door, and then smiled a tired smile, offering up a shrug as if to say, Kids, right? Crowley nodded, and then turned on his heel, heading straight back to his chair and his blessed game and the quiet bookshop where there were no children or customers and certainly no wizards.

He’d have to look up nazgul or whatever later.

When the bell tinkled again - again - five minutes later, Crowley did groan in exasperation, a little, but he bit it off before it hopefully became too noticeable. He looked up and Aziraphale, briefcase in hand, met his eyes. He looked, confused, from Crowley, to the change on the table, and back to Crowley.

“What did you do?”

Crowley stammered for a second and then managed, “Nothing.”

“You sold a book,” Aziraphale said, in a low voice. He looked back to the change. “You sold a book for two pounds.”

“I didn’t.”

“You sold a book to a …” he closed his eyes, and Crowley winced. He could feel the angel’s energy stretching out, feeling the space, reading the recent past as easily as Crowley might read a gossip magazine in the coffee shop checkout. Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open. “You sold a book to an unattended child!” He dropped the briefcase, the better to put his hands over his face. “Oh, Crowley.”

The demon sank into the chair a little. “Wasn’t one of yours,” he muttered, defensive.

“You’re going to tell me next the child saw you conjure a book out of nowhere?”

“No,” Crowley said, and it wasn’t a lie. He honestly had no intention of telling Aziraphale anything of the sort. “No, just, ah, said I’d nip around the back and get it. I got it from … somewhere else. Another shop.” He paused a minute, and considered that. “It was stealing. Very demonic.”

Aziraphale was looking at him with weariness, and possibly frustration, but that seemed to be softening to amusement more and more by the minute. “But it definitely wasn’t one of mine, was it?”

“Definitely not,” Crowley confirmed. “So really, I only broke one rule. And I did get two other customers to leave without buying anything, so overall a net win for my first day, don’t you think?” Aziraphale didn’t roll his eyes - not quite - but he did smile. “You get your book?”

Aziraphale sniffed. “It has a coffee stain in the middle of the fourth chapter. It’s going to take time to get it out. No miracles,” he said quickly, when Crowley opened his mouth. The demon’s mouth clicked back shut. “And would you believe the woman didn’t want to come down on the price at all, even with that? I spent the better part of the time negotiating with her over the value of a coffee stain on a book versus the value of the cup of coffee itself.” He sighed. “Honestly.”

Crowley nodded sympathetically. “The absolute gall.” He stood, made a show of stretching, and asked, “Since you’re back and all, I have a little errand of my own I need to run. Mind if I step out?”

Aziraphale frowned, and then nodded. “Of course not. Thank you,” he went on, his face softening into a smile, “for watching the shop, Crowley. Even if you did sell something.” He glanced behind him. “And … and changed the sign. What did you do?” He blinked when Crowley kissed the bridge of his nose, and then watched as the taller of them walked out the door with his typical swagger, without another word. He watched him go, smiling all the while, and then turned back to the change on the table. “You’re ridiculous,” he sighed to himself, in the bookshop, his smile never fading, before he swept the change into a donations tin by the register, and set about his new book.

Two blocks away, Crowley ducked into one of the chain bookshops, glancing furtively around before he did, in case Aziraphale had tailed him. With no puffy, wonderful, probably extremely judgy angel in sight, he slid through the door, and made a beeline for the sci-fi/fantasy section, careful not to make eye contact with anyone on his way through the store. 

His personal collection was down by a book. He needed a replacement. He found it, there on the shelf, with the rest of the series, and picked it out, thumbing through the pages and not smiling when a favorite passage caught his eye. Definitely not smiling. He closed the book - probably time for a re-read, he thought - and turned to the door (certainly not the register - he might be going a little soft in his retirement, but not that soft), but he paused. Just a minute, he thought, and he wove through a few more shelves, pausing in front of a rather impressive display of The Lord of the Rings and all associated paraphernalia. He frowned. And then, under his breath and inaudible to anybody else within earshot, he said, “Oh, why not. Isn’t as if I don’t have time,” before he grabbed The Fellowship of the Ring off the shelf, and slithered out.

-

* No capital ‘A’ required.

** Meaning he showed up and nobody questioned his presence there.

*** He generally rested at a natural 9, but was capable of levels between 12 and 15 when pressed.

[andwlita]

Nov 18,2021

Past few months was a whirlwind for our family. A lot of betrayals have happened and it was an eye opener on the concept of love. Sappy, I know but my family’s experiences taught me a lot about it. There’s just simply no such thing as perfect relationship. My sister, I thought had it all, I mean, she’s already perfect yet her husband wanted more. Enough is not the satiating thing for him and we have always seen a facade that fooled us all. My other sister who got married has been ghosted by his husband. They might have their reasons but at least have the decency to explain to the person you married. I feel sad for my family. i just realized that being late in life might have its own advantages. At this age, I should’ve been married yet I can’t even find a guy who can tie up, seal the deal. I’m talking to this british guy and only my best friend knows about it and occasionally I show it to my 5 year old niece who has no idea what I am showing her, a portrait of this handsome guy.

We started talking from my reddit post, where I just wanna talk to someone and share my thoughts about the world. I do expect things to get sexual and he’s the one leading that, this was expected. Well, what would a british guy doing in that subreddit anyway, probably finding pussies. I was actually expecting him to ghost me every week when he replies late, I would always tell myself that he’s probably bored and going to ghost me. I always blame myself for not being exciting although it’s not my duty to do that since we haven’t really defined anything yet or never. We call each other many names, but my favorite part would be his good morning sunshines. I do think it’s not special because it’s too good to be true, I also expect him to cheat on me knowing we’re miles apart and conversations get exciting when the clothes are off. I like that he calls me darling and wishes me good sleep and asks me how I am. I guess that’s enough for me for now. He assures me I’m the only one but given what happened to my family, everything about assurance I just find bullshit. Usually the people surrounding you will always be the ones to betray you. Not unless he put a ring on it, i’ll believe in everything he says. We’re not in the depths yet, my best friend told me that I’m a test drive for the interracial explorations mostly whites have. I’ll just have to go with the flow and see what happens.

Pandemic has been getting loose here, I’m expecting normal habits soon. I’ve been reading a lot and the promised reviews were not yet here, I don’t think I’ll ever do it. I just place 3 liner reviews on goodreads but I am proud of myself for exceeding my goal. I’m also learning a lot and reading these books made me wanna go back to school and study but I’m still having a dilemma if it would be worth it for me to try. It’s always a good thing to do of course but fears don’t let me take a leap of faith.

We went to the beach last week and it was chill, I get to expose my body in its good state to the open and I love it. I don’t have the best body but body positivity is everywhere and everyone just doesn’t care what people think and i just love it. I love that everyone was ok and confident especially my family. I had been having arguments with my sister and I think it’s pretty normal and I’m trying to push myself more to be super patient and I like that I am trying.

So far I feel happy writing things down that happened to me lately and reflect and be thankful. I just need a decision on which big life choices should I pursue with the little amount of savings that I have. Should I do master’s? What if I can’t sustain it? Should I live overseas? I can’t even take a leap this moment. I am young, I should jump any minute now but I’m just really afraid which route to take.

[working-on-becoming-a-better-me]

Day 253—Mar. 23, 2021

Okay, so the numbers for my previous consecutive posts were off by a day (like a day ahead) and February 7′s math was way off, but I googled this! so from here on out, we will be accurate! let’s go bois!

BIG UPDATE BOIS! Essentially? I’VE GOTTEN BETTER! Mental health is better, habits are better, outlook on life is better, productivity... isn’t as high as it was when I first started the blog, but it’s doing MUCH better than November and even January.

coping with minecraft:

So, I’m still addicted to the dream smp minecraft fandom. my friend got me a dream hoodie, bucket hat, and a georgenotfound hoodie for my birthday. but! I’m coping better. I’m behind on streams, and am now catching up during Spring Break. For a while, I was pushing back school work to watch and catch up on streams. I promised myself that during free periods I would work since I was catching up on streams at home, and then... yeah. ANYWAY! I’ve gotten a lot better at that recently by noticing that even fanart accounts (accounts dedicated to mcyt-ers) were talking about how they didn’t watch a phasmaphobia stream because they weren’t interested in it, or talking about how they were behind on streams... it really helped me accept the fact that I can be a real fan and not watch every single stream.

cultural convention:

My international school does events with other international schools but because of covid, we can’t travel. I act and made varsity drama (we call it a different name, but yeah!) and we had virtual conferences. I was incredibly friendly and loud and there were tons of zoom calls. Our schools kinda known for being... uh, stuck up? and kinda elitist. Not like I was being fake, but I was making an effort to talk during calls and be active on group chats made. I joke-flirt a lot and focused my attention on one person. A whole thing ensued, but some of the other actors in my school (there were only 11 of us) were joking abut sending me to “horny jail” and one girl kept apologizing for me. During “lounge sessions” I would interject with what I thought were funny comments and she’d say “again, I’d like to apologize for her behavior” and... uh... I cried at school. Cuz I’ve heard way too many times from too many different people about how I’m embarrassing... BUT.

What really helped was the fact that there were late night zoom calls and I was one of only three kids from my school the first night on a call with around 25 people. Other people said I helped give them a really good first impression of our school, especially considering all the things they’d heard previously. The guy I joke-flirted with (I previously dmed him asking if he was okay with it and he said he was) said on a call that I was one of the funniest people he’d met in a while. It was a huge confidence booster in knowing that the efforts I was making were paying off :)

confidence:

Since starting this blog, I’ve been trying to be nicer to myself. I’ve been practicing more positive self speak and have recently realized the difference between the way I speak about and to myself and how some other people do. Being nicer to myself out loud has helped a lot in feeling better and more comfortable.

I wanted to try wearing black masks, but my mom bought the wrong kind. They had patterns and I was really nervous because I didn’t really want to stand out. I used to not care, but... I dunno. Teenagehood and whatnot. We wear uniforms too, so the only differences are in accessories, hair, etc. I’m not sure why, but I was really nervous to wear the new mask patterns to school. But I told myself it was an experiment, to force me to be more confident. I actually forgot I was wearing it until I saw myself. And since I’d posted on my private story saying I was doing this to try and be more comfortable, some of my friends came up to me and told me it was actually cute. Shows that I really had nothing to stress for. Not that it was really self-expression, but for me, and anyone else who needs to hear this, no one cares. Maybe they even wish they had the courage to wear different things as well.

mcyt mantra:

I have a mantra now! adapted from something drunk Wilbur Soot said during Quackity’s livestream, I think. I repeat it when I’m happy and when I’m nervous or scared and I guess... I dunno, I’m like classically conditioning myself? Except not really since I’m doing it out of order. But yeah! get yourself a mantra!!!

character day:

more with confidence! spirit week is just an excuse for kids to not wear their uniforms, but I put a lot of effort into an Ace Ventura outfit I put together. I only saw around two or three other people actually dressed up as characters, but I had so much fun and thought I looked amazing. I was proud that I wasn’t a normie ;]

Also... it’s so humid in this country and the rubber bottoms of my boots actually stuck to the pavement and fell off. I spent the day without the bottoms of my shoes and it was so funny. Even my mom laughed after (she laughed for so long, it was adorable) and she said only I could pull it off and that the friend I walk to school with everyday is lucky to have me as a friend. My mom was telling me about how she never had a friend like me growing up, just so weird and goofy. And it made me happy to think that I can bring so much... zaniness to people’s lives

ao3:

been writing a lot more recently! haven’t been posting on my writing blog since it’s all fanfiction, but it’s helping me write! I update one of my stories every two weeks. When I feel like I’m not doing enough, it’s a nice reminder that I actually can be consistent. I may be getting better... who knows :)

nehs:

been editing lots of papers even though I don’t need to anymore since I made vp of my school’s nehs chapter. but it’s helping me learn too! I’m very instinctual when writing, but obviously when I’m editing I can’t just ask them to change something because “it doesn’t sound right”. So I google explanations and then tell the people who’s papers I’m editing. It helps both them and me!

ipad/drawing:

got a new ipad for my birthday. been messing around with procreate. been doodling in class (only dream team characters so far lol). might be getting better... hopefully I am!

also have a sticky notes app on my ipad and been creating to-do lists! yay!

teaching:

been teaching students in cambodia! last year I had a teaching partner who guided lessons mostly. this year I’m the leading teacher. It’s helping with my fear of leadership and responsibility.

social:

still not the most social, but more active on snapchat now with keeping in contact with some of the cultural convention kids. covids made it harder to keep in contact, and I’ve been trying to reach out more to my closest friend who I’ve not hung out with in a while. not that we don’t see each other at lunch every other day, but I walk to school with, share a class and after school study hall with another friend. so comparably, I’ve spent less time with my closest friend.

recently had a spa day with my small neighborhood gang! my friend painted my other guy friend’s nails! yes! we used face masks as well :)

general update:

- went to the pool the other day and now I’m hecka burnt

- yesterday I wrote letters for honor society points, caught up on math hw, wrote a reflection and plan for a class, reviewed chinese with my mom, met up with my “mentor” for a class

- have been helping a lot of people! am currently a part of two people’s pieces for their theater class and I have a rehearsal later today!

- was doing a lot of work as an officer of thespian honor society—I’m likely going to be on the officer team again next year and, until a few weeks ago, I hadn’t felt like I’d been doing much and was feeling unworthy. but then I was proactive about something and updated our sponser (school’s drama director) on what we as officers decided. felt... prettyyy goooodddd :)

- !!! yesterday I went on a walk and brought money and my student ID, ready to buy bubble tea, but then... I mustered up what little willpower I had and then didn’t buy it. Instead, I bought surprise lilies for my mom (and some groceries she asked me to get)   - been trying to cut out unnecessary sugars and foods. if I’m not hungry, I shouldn’t eat, but also... I listen to my body and if I’m feeling really snacky, I’ll indulge   - recently been craving ice cream, but not the flavors in my fridge so instead I’m just not eating ice cream at all and ate an apple once as a substitute :D

- not sure if I’ve been sleeping more, but it kinda feels like I have been?

- started taking pictures of the world when I think it’s pretty one sunny afternoon when I was laughing lots with a friend... especially right after cul con, I was taking a lot more pictures...

- just been more active (not physically... though occasionally, when bored, I’ll stretch some... but I should try and get more active (I mean... the walk yesterday?))... creatively speaking (ao3, with art), socially online (cul con kids), in person (making plans over spring break!)...

- I just feel like I’ve been putting more effort into life

of course, there are the down bits, like for one project based class where the end product is due in May-ish and it focuses on the “process”... I’m just... not... process-ing. I chose a writing project (why). I’m focusing a lot on my side projects, but not my class writing one :/ as well as that, when assignments pick up, I do too, but when I get down time I feel like I deserve it (which I do!) but I don’t work ahead. I’ve been really busy though. Teaching got cancelled because the school in Cambodia shut down unfortunately due to covid. But before spring break, I was teaching, editing papers, writing my own for lang, doing cul con and then catching up on work I missed because of cul con, studying for tests, attending rehearsals... there’s a lot going on and I need to recognize that I am doing so well, especially compared with a few months prior when I was in a much darker place.

mostly stress has been my plague, but yeah! also in the span of one week, two classes bumped up a grade (or half a grade... we have letters and + system (no -)) so my previously low gpa became slightly less low! It gave me confidence that I can end the semester strong!

procrastination: another plague. I keep delaying setting up college counseling meetings and have delayed this update for a while now... and the project-class...

also have babysitting jobs again so we gon get some monnaayyyyy! (job is not from people we met at the pool, but we did meet people at the pool and their kids liked me so much they asked me mom to get me to babysit them... another boost to confidence! yay :) I’m a likeable person :] )

thanks for sticking around! I’m glad I’m getting this update in because I’m doing... really well :D hope you guys are also doing well or that it gets better!

[laseroy89]

Not Drowning in the Swimming Pool

I love swimming. I can’t go extremely fast, or swim non-stop for super-long distances, or even hold my breath for longer than two minutes. But what I can do, is enjoy myself immensely in the water.

My condominium’s swimming pool is just the perfect place for my hobby. When my family first moved in, I was hooked the moment I saw the pool. It isn’t Olympic-sized, but it’s big enough for eight-year-old me. It measures 2.5 metres deep at one end and 1.2 metres at the other, and at that shallower end, there’s a huge slide. Back then, when I returned from school, I would go up to my apartment, dump my schoolbag, and run back down to the swimming pool, changing into my swimwear along the way. And of course, run right back when I saw my parents’ car coming, and pretend to have been doing my homework for the entire afternoon. I would secretly invite my friends over, and they would hide in the pool when my parents returned, and sneak away when the coast was clear. Those were fun times.

As I grew older, I had less free time, but the magic of the pool wasn’t lost on me. I had to deal with a lot more schoolwork, trying to blend in with the crowd and get some friends, advancing in my video games….the commitments in my life kept on adding up. However, I made it a point to swim everyday - that was one commitment that I couldn’t let go. Every now and then I submit work late, go on a losing streak and rage-quit a game, or miss out on a few social gatherings, but that was okay as long as I could swim that day. You could call it an obsession, but in the end it was a healthy habit. It prevented me from piling on the pounds and kept me sane in the face of so much pressure.

When I moved on to college, I wasn’t really prepared. While I foresaw an increasing amount of commitments, I totally didn’t expect the number of projects to triple and quadruple. Not to mention the constant demand to participate in school activities, the bugging need to socialise and make friends - wait, no, form connections, not miss out on what’s in, and lots of other pretentious bullshit that filled up my life. It was exhausting, to keep up with the masquerade and pretend to be interested in things I wasn’t interested in. But it was required, to blend in. For the sake of it all, I had to forcibly peel myself away from the pool.

It was then, that the absence of the pool made my heart grow fonder. Whenever I was free, it became my retreat from the world outside, my hideout from the looming spectres of missed opportunities, growing student debt and other plaguing insecurities. The water ignited a spark in my sole upon contact. As the refreshing liquid gently caressed my skin, an entire day of stress got washed away. The incessant lapping of the ripples against my body eroded the tension and stiffness that clumped together like a sharp rock embedded in my muscles. As I immersed myself, I could drown the vulture of jealousy pecking away at my insides, and squash the self-hate gnawing in the pit of my heart.

Most people swim in the afternoon or the evening, while the sun is still up. I swam late at night, at perhaps 10 - 11pm, not only because there was no one, but also because I normally couldn’t take it anymore and paused my work then, to continue in the morning. It was at that time, when the pool lights were already on, and the fuzzy rays of light extended like skeletal arms into the inky blackness of the water. In the dim light, I couldn’t see the reflection of myself - a scrawny college student, trying to work out what he was going to be in the future, with his less-than-ideal grades, below-average looks, and not-so-extensive connections. The water harboured neither prejudices nor judgement, and welcomed me with its cool embrace.

How could it be that the water - some inorganic, cold and dead matter that doesn’t even have a form of its own - be more welcoming than a university culture that claims to be accepting? Perhaps it was better to be cold and dead, rather than being part of a hive-mind that disguised itself under the facade of diversity and instead compelled everyone to fit in.

I dipped my head in, rubbing my cheeks and letting my pores soak in the refreshing liquid. Then I stopped all movement.

Underwater, the pool was dark and quiet. I couldn’t hear the rustling of leaves in the wind, or the humming of cars as late workers return home. There was nothing but the rhythmic beating of my heart reverberating in my ears.

It was so peaceful.

In one swift motion, I lifted my feet to the walls of the pool and pushed off. I sliced through the water, stretching my limbs with each movement, revelling in the lack of restraint.

I swam to the deep end of the pool. Inhaling deeply, I went under again, just to reexperience the peace and quiet.

What if I just gave up my life outside? Spend it right here, 2.5 metres below the surface, the water pressure replacing all other worldly pressures.

I slowly exhaled, watching as the bubbles trickled out from my nostrils,floating haphazardly to the surface.

The idea of leaving it all behind was tantalising. I wouldn’t have to wake up early to attend a boring 10am lecture. I wouldn’t have to study for the weekly test which I would probably still fail anyway. I wouldn’t have to listen to the rants and complaints of the basic bitches and fuckboys. I wouldn’t need to face the reality of a growing student debt. I would be totally free, suspended in water instead of being in suspense about my future.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled.

The chlorinated water stung my nostrils as it gushed down my airways. It flooded my lungs, filling me with a choking sense of dread. For just a moment, my reflexes kicked in. I struggled, paddling furiously to get to the surface.

But I realised…I wanted it. I craved it. I willed myself to stop swimming, and breathed in the water with more rigour. As I lay still in the water, I prepared myself for my imminent end.

In those few moments, as I suppressed my survival instinct, as my lungs threatened to burst….I’ve never felt more alive. I’ve never felt more liberated, to be able to choose how my time ended. Somehow, the suffocating deprivation of air felt better than the muddle of emotions that clouded my head whenever I was away from the pool.

My senses were fading….then I felt a presence behind me - hugging me. Must be a hallucination from the lack of air - until the pulling started in my lungs. It started as a minor discomfort that paled in comparison to the water expanding inside, and it wasn’t till my nose hairs started tingling before I noticed water was being drawn out. Soon, it escalated into unbearable pain as my chest contracted - being pulled from inside, and being crushed from the outside. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out but water, water and more water.

The invisible force hugging me round my waist started ascending, accelerating as I neared the surface. Upon breaking through, I was flung away, landing hard on the folding chairs. The impact inflicted painful scratches on my elbows and I was jolted awake from my dying reverie. I slumped against the wrecked furniture, trying to process the sensory overload.

The pulling didn’t stop; instead, I was dragged into a sitting position by my nostrils, as if I was a bull led by a nose-ring. I could only watch as the stream of water continued to erupt from my nose into the water like a fountain, the agony in my chest not fading one bit. It took about two minutes before the stream stopped and another unseen force started pumping air into my nose and mouth. I gagged and choked, but it didn’t stop forcing air into my lungs, then out, then in again. It was as if there was some invisible medic giving me CPR while I was conscious and sitting upright.

When it finally stopped, I couldn’t stop panting, out of breath after my self-imposed ordeal. That was when I finally noticed the hand slowly disappearing into the depths of the pool. A hand that seemed to form out of water, roughly big enough to….hug me round my waist and throw me out. Massaging my sore chest, I watched until it dissolved into nothing, leaving only the waves that formed when I was cast out from what could have been my watery grave.

I’ve enjoyed myself countless times in this pool. It has watched my growth from a little eight-year-old splashing around in the shallows, to an angsty teenager trying to de-stress after a tough day at school, to a dejected college student depressed at his prospects.

Apparently, it wants me to continue growing.