#considering I'm more of a slow and steady type these days

[dearbhaalist]

Three days left in (mini) nanowrimo and I've written more in a month than I ever have

!!!!

[mostlysignssomeportents]

What’s wrong with tariffs

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in CHICAGO TONIGHT (Apr 2) with PETER SAGAL, and in BLOOMINGTON on FRIDAY (Apr 4). More tour dates here.

It's not that the Republicans and the Democrats are the same…obviously. But for decades – since Clinton – the Dems have sided with neoliberal economics, just like their Republican counterparts, so the major differences between the two related to overt discrimination, to the exclusion of the economic policies that immiserated working people, with the worst effects landing on racial minorities, women, and gender minorities.

So the Dems stood against discrimination in mortgage lending – but not for the minimum wage that would have lifted the lowest paid workers out of poverty so the could afford a mortgage. They stood for abortion rights, but against Medicare For All, which meant all women had the right to an abortion, but the poorest women couldn't afford one. And of course, in a country where racial and gender discrimination were still the order of the day, the poorest and most vulnerable Americans were racialized, women, disabled, and/or queer.

The Dems' embrace of Reaganomics meant that working people of all types experienced steady decline over 40 years: stagnating wages, economic precarity, increased indebtedness, and rising prices for health care, education, and housing. When Trump figured out that he could campaign on these issues, Dems had no response. Trump's "Make America Great Again" was meant to appeal to a time when working Americans were – on average, depending on their whiteness, maleness and straightness – better housed, better paid, and better cared for.

Of course, those benefits were unevenly felt: America was slow to extend the New Deal to racial minorities, women, disabled people, and other disfavored groups. Trump's genius was to marry white supremacy to economic grievance, tricking white workers into blaming their decline on women, brown and Black people, and queers – and not on the billionaires who had grown so much richer even as workers got poorer.

But Trump couldn't have pulled this trick off without the Dem establishment's total unwillingness to confront the hollowness of their economic policies. From Pelosi's "We're capitalists and that's the way it is" to Hillary Clinton's catastrophic campaign slogan, "America is already great," the Dems' answer to workers' fear and anger was, "You are wrong, everything is fine." Imagine having had your house stolen in the foreclosure crisis after Obama decided to "foam the runways" for the banks by letting them steal their borrowers' homes and then hearing Hillary Clinton tell you "America is already great":

https://www.npr.org/2014/05/25/315276441/its-geithner-vs-warren-in-battle-of-the-bailout

Racial and gender justice matter, of course, but when they're pursued without considering economic justice, they're dead ends. The point of racial and gender justice can't merely be firing half of the 150 straight white men who control 99% of the country's capital and replacing them with 75 assorted women, queers and people of color. The worst-treated workers in America are also its most discriminated-against workers, so the best way to help women, racialized people, and other disfavored minorities is to help workers: protect unions, raise the minimum wage, defend tenants, cancel student debt, and give everyone healthcare. In the same way that a special tax on incomes over $1m will disproportionately affect straight white men, an increase in the minimum wage will disproportionately benefit women and people of color – as well as the majority of straight white men who are also getting fucked over by people with $1m salaries.

Since the Clinton years, Democrats have been trying to figure out how to defend economic policies that help rich people while still somehow being the party of social justice. This has produced a kind of grotesque, Sheryl Sandberg "Lean In" liberalism, which stood for the rights of women who were also corporate executives. It's not that these women aren't treated worse than their male counterparts – misogyny is alive and well in the boardroom. But the number of women who experience boardroom discrimination is tiny, because the number of women in the boardroom is also tiny.

The right saw and opportunity and seized it. As Naomi Klein writes in Doppelganger, they created "mirror world" versions of social justice issues, warped reflections of the leftist positions that had been abandoned by a progressive coalition led by liberals:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

In right wing, conspiratorial hands, rage at wage stagnation and lack of parental leave turned into reactionary demands for an economy in which women would be full-time homemakers while their husbands recovered their roles as breadwinners. The 1999 Battle of Seattle saw mass protests over the WTO and a free trade agenda that would let capital chase low wages and weak environmental and worker safety policies around the world. But Clinton went ahead and signed more free trade agreements, which were also pursued by Obama. So the right filled the vacuum with a mirror-world version of the Battle of Seattle's rage at billionaires, transforming the anti-free trade agenda into racism, xenophobia, and Cold War 2.0 sinophobia.

It's a cheap trick, but Dems keep falling for it. When the right declares itself to be against something, Dems can be relied upon to be in favor it, no matter how reactionary, anti-worker and authoritarian "it" is. During Trump 1.0, Dems lit James Comey votive candles and passionately defended the "intelligence community," a community that gave us CIA dirty wars and FBI COINTELPRO. Anthropologists call this "schizmogenesis" – when a group defines itself by valuing whatever its rivals deplore, and vice versa:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/12/18/schizmogenesis/

You can see schizmogenesis playing out right now, as "progressives" make Signalgate scandal into a fight over poor operational security (planning a war crime using a commercial app) and not a fight over war crimes themselves.

Signalgate will be out of the headlines in a matter of days, though – unlike tariffs, which will continue to make global headlines throughout the Trump presidency, as Trump continues his "mad king" policy of recklessly and chaotically erecting trade barriers that are certain to make supply chains more brittle and raise prices.

For the most part, the progressive discussion of Trump's tariffs takes the position that tariffs are always a terrible idea – in other words, that Clinton and Obama had the right idea when they created free trade agreements with countries around the world, and Trump is vandalizing an engine of American and global prosperity out of economic ignorance.

Economists support this analysis. But in a new, well-argued editorial in The Sling, University of Utah economists Mark Glick and Gabriel Lozada present a more nuanced version of the tariff debate, one that dodges the trap of neoliberal economics and schizmogenesis:

https://www.thesling.org/the-failed-assumptions-of-free-trade/

Rejecting tariffs is practically an article of religious faith among economists. As the NYT put it in their reporting of the 2025 meeting of the American Economic Association, "free trade is perhaps the closest thing to a universally held value among economists":

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/01/10/business/economy/economists-politics-trump.html

Every Econ 101 class has a unit on David Ricardo's "theory of comparative advantage," which argues that different countries have different capacities and specialties, and that free trade allows these advantages to be shared to the benefit of everyone, making trade a "positive expectation" game. The corollary is that tariffs make everyone worse off.

As Glick and Lozada write, the logic of this argument is unassailable, provided you accept its bedrock assumptions as true – and that's where the problem lies.

Economics has an assumptions problem. The foundational method of economic practice is to create models grounded in assumptions that are either not known, not knowable, or – incredibly – known to be wrong. As Milton Friedman famously wrote:

Truly important and significant hypotheses will be found to have "assumptions" that are wildly inaccurate descriptive representations of reality, and, in general, the more significant the theory, the more unrealistic the assumptions (in this sense)

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/17/caliper-ai/#racism-machine

It's actually worse than it seems, because economics, as a field, has been violently allergic to empirically testing its assumptions, so it doesn't even know when it is operating on the basis of one of Friedman's "wildly inaccurate descriptive representations of reality." This is what Ely Devons meant when he said, "If economists wished to study the horse, they wouldn’t go and look at horses. They’d sit in their studies and say to themselves, ‘What would I do if I were a horse?’"

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/27/economism/#what-would-i-do-if-i-were-a-horse

What are the assumptions that underpin the orthodox view of free trade, then? As Glick and Lozada write, the case against all tariffs depends on five assumptions, all of which fail empirical investigation.

I. Full employment

The standard model of free trade assumes full employment – "when workers are displaced by imports, they can easily become re-employed at the same wages." This is the crux of the "social surplus" that free trade theoretically produces. This assumption doesn't hold up to empirical scrutiny. After the US dropped its tariffs, it experienced a 74% decline in manufacturing jobs – the best-paid jobs for non-college-educated men. Those workers didn't find equivalent employment – indeed, in many cases, the found no employment at all. From 2001-18, the US lost 1.132m manufacturing jobs to China, and gained 0.176m jobs manufacturing goods for export to China.

II. No externalities

The employment losses from free trade are not evenly distributed – they are geographically concentrated, and the greatest concentrations are in regions that flipped from Democratic strongholds to Trumpish heartlands over the decades since the US dropped its tariffs. The losses to these regions aren't limited to the directly affected manufacturing jobs, but all the other economic activity those jobs supported. The people who sold groceries, cars, and furniture to factory workers also lost their jobs. When young people abandoned the cratering regional economy, that devastated education and other services catering to families.

III. Comparative advantage leads to long-term growth and development

The theory of comparative advantage says that the world is better off when each country gets to do the thing it's best at. What are poor countries best at? Being poor: having a cheap labor force and weak rule of law to protect workers' health and the environment.

Without exception, the poor countries that grew richer did so in the presence of tariffs: "free trade is not a development strategy, it is a static policy that can impede development":

https://2024.sci-hub.se/1864/6d3f610c51446f057a4054080c70ab0e/chang2003.pdf#navpanes=0&view=FitH

IV. Floating currencies keep trade balanced

In theory, adjustments in the currency markets will rebalance imports and exports – countries whose currency declines will have to switch to domestic production, because goods from abroad will become costly. That's not what happened. Instead, foreigners have invested the US dollars they got from selling things to Americans into US securities and real estate, "which does not increase US productivity because it generates no new capital formation (at least directly)."

V. The US provides compensation for trade-related job-losses

While other countries with robust social safety nets offered retraining, income support, and other programs to cushion the blow of trade-related job-losses, the US – with the worst social safety net in the rich world – offered "woefully inadequate" supports to dislocated workers:

https://www.piie.com/bookstore/job-loss-imports-measuring-costs

Now, just because some tariffs are beneficial, it doesn't follow that all tariffs are beneficial. When the "Asian Tiger" countries were undergoing rapid industrialization and lifting billions of people out of poverty, they did so with tariffs – but also with extensive industrial policy and direct investment in critical state industries (Biden was the first president in generations to pursue industrial policy, albeit a modest and small one, which Trump nevertheless dismantled).

Trump is doing mirror-world tariffs: tariffs without industrial policy, tariffs without social safety nets, tariffs without retraining, tariffs without any strategic underpinning. These tariffs will crash the US economy and will create calamitous effects around the world:

https://archive.is/JvRF9

But the fact that Trump's tariffs are terrible doesn't mean tariffs themselves are always and forever bad. Resist the schizmogenic urge to say, "Trump likes tariffs, so I hate them." Not all tariffs are created equal, and tariffs can be a useful tool that benefits working people.

And also: the fact that tariffs can be useful doesn't imply that only tariffs are useful. The digital age – in which US-based multinational firms rely on digital technology to loot the economies of America's trading partners – offers countries facing US tariffs a powerful retaliatory tactic that has never before been seen on this planet. America's (former) trading partners can retaliate against US tariffs by abolishing the legal measures they have instituted to protect the products of US companies from reverse-engineering and modification. Countries facing US tariffs can welcome US imports – of printers, Teslas, iPhones, games consoles, insulin pumps, ventilators and tractors – but then legalize jailbreaking these devices:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/08/turnabout/#is-fair-play

That would deprive the largest US companies of their recurring revenue streams – from service, consumables, software, payment processing, etc – creating huge savings for consumers all over the world, and huge profits for the non-US companies that make these jailbreaking tools, and the small businesses that supply them. For example, your country could become the world's leading exporter of iPhone jailbreaking tools, and the world's powerhouse for alternative iPhone stores that charge 1-2% commissions on payments, as opposed to the 30% Apple takes out of every dollar (euro, pound, peso) that iPhone owners spend within their apps. This would tempt in all the biggest app companies in the world – from Patreon to Tinder, Fornite to the New York Times – who could offer their products at a discount and still make more money than they make on Apple's App Store.

But that's just one market this enables: the actual business of iPhone jailbreaking would likely work much like the market for phone unlocking more broadly: thousands of small and medium-sized businesses like dry-cleaners and convenience stores where you can bring your phone and pay a few dollars to have it unlocked and set up with a new app store where all the apps are the same – but everything is 20% cheaper.

This is a development opportunity without parallel. US tech monopolists worked with the US trade representative to rig markets around the world, allowing tech giants to siphon away vast fortunes from America's trading partners. These rich deposits of wealth are just sitting there, begging for some country to sink a shaft into them and pump them dry, secure in the knowledge that Trump has ejected from the global system of free trade and they have nothing to lose.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/04/02/me-or-your-lying-eyes/#spherical-cows-on-frictionless-surfaces

[thepencilnerd]

Hello!!! So, I just wanted to gush and say that "seeing double" was absolutely amazing! I love how beautifully you intertwined the smut with Jack and Robby's genuine love and devotion to the reader... it was the perfect blend of romantic and steamy <3333. I'm wondering, do you think you'd ever write more for this trio in the future??? I will say, in an amazing one-shot the bits at the start about the guys being protective made my heart race especially... do you think you'd ever consider delving into more of them being protective of reader (whether that be in standard/domestic "making sure reader is taken care of" way or the more dramatic "reader is put into dangerous scenario and needs defense (i.e., rude patient)" way)? So sorry for the mini-essay, just wanted to bundle all my thoughts into one! Hope you have a wonderful day! <3

ahh thank you so much anon ㅠㅠ this absolutely made my night. I’m so happy you enjoyed seeing double—that balance between tenderness and heat was such a joy to write, and I’m thrilled it landed for you!!

I would absolutely love to dive deeper into the trio. I've actually started sketching out a blurb about what days off might look like for them (domestic bliss, the quiet ways they take care of each other, plus some mutual pining that never really went away even after officially getting together 😌). below is my IP rambling I have in my google doc for inspo hehe

In my mind, Robby’s always the first to move. The one who leaps into action without hesitation, who steps between you and the threat before you even register something’s off. But Jack—Jack watches everything. He memorizes your tells, tracks the shift of your breathing, the tremble in your hand when the adrenaline dips. He only steps in when it really matters, but when he does—it’s devastating.

Especially with Robby constantly pulled into other cases or wrangling the interns, Jack becomes this steady background hum of protection. Not loud, not flashy—just there. Always. He’s the one who notices if you haven’t eaten, if you start shifting the weight between the balls of your feet after hour 11, the way you roll your shoulders back like you’re trying to keep yourself upright out of sheer will. He watches for the subtle signs, the quiet cues—and he never points them out to embarrass you. Just quietly adapts around them.

If there’s a rogue patient, Robby’s the one who throws himself in the way. Jack’s already calculated every worst-case scenario the moment you were assigned the case—ready to act if he has to. Because he knows combat. He knows his temper. He knows exactly what he’s capable of if he lets himself go. Jack’s done the work—therapy, grief, the slow rebuild. He’s learned how to love without losing himself. But he still carries that edge: grief-shaped rage, the kind that only comes out when something he loves is threatened.

Robby, on the other hand, is still a little “I’ll deal with my feelings later (but I still love you, obviously).” Loud in his loyalty. Earnest in his chaos. Soft in a way he doesn’t realize until it’s too late.

Jack strikes me as someone who didn’t mean to fall in love with cooking; he started because his therapist told him he needed something quiet, grounding, and just for himself. Something to do with his hands that didn’t involve saving lives or burying grief. Something that required attention but didn’t ask for emotional labor. It began as a coping mechanism—recipes, repetition, control, precision—but now it’s care. A ritual. An offering.

Robby is the type to buy you takeout, while Jack seems like the one to cook for you. Both more than willing to meet your needs, but varying in degrees of intimacy and awareness.

And now? Getting to share it with you? Letting someone into that sacred, hard-won space? That’s one of the most vulnerable things he’s ever done. He cooks like he listens: carefully, intentionally, and a little too thoroughly. Quiet love with depth.

Robby’s the kind of guy who lives on caffeine, protein bars, and vibes—but will unthinkingly give you his last granola bar, no matter how long his own shift has been. He’s the “don’t worry about me” guy with dark circles under his eyes and a schedule that makes no sense, but still leaves for work early to swing by that one café because he knows you like the muffins on Tuesday mornings when they’re fresh.

Jack’s the one who notices Robby’s neglect—quietly logs every skipped meal, every too-long shift—and drags him back to earth when necessary, lest he be scolded by you both at home. You and Jack form a sort of quiet alliance in this: always nudging him toward sleep, handing him a fruit bar, replacing his expired snack drawer without comment. But Robby? He never lets his own burnout stop him from taking care of you.

It’s a strange, overlapping rhythm of care. Sometimes it feels like you’re the one looking after Robby—reminding him to hydrate, slipping a post-it note into his locker, nudging a fresh pair of scrubs into his hands when he’s soaked through post-trauma. Robby tries his best to return the favor—sometimes clumsy, sometimes a little too loud—but always with his whole heart. Jack takes care of you with quiet precision, anticipating your needs before you voice them, adjusting around your silences like he’s reading sheet music only he can hear. And together—without ever saying it out loud—you and Jack take care of Robby. You anchor him. Balance his chaos. Give him permission to fall apart, if only for a moment, knowing he’ll always put himself back together again.

but what do i know, daydreams are just sober drunk thoughts :)

[girltriestowritestuff]

Royal Arrangements, Chapter 2

Telemachus x Reader

“She’s not here for romance. He’s not ready for a crown. But fate has other plans.” When your mother announces your engagement to Telemachus—yes, that Telemachus, son of Odysseus—you expect politics, not apologies. But the prince turns out to be more awkward than arrogant, more kind than kingly. And you? Well, you're not exactly the swooning type.

an-I have state testing so updates might be slow. Also, I finished writing this at 11 pm so if anything doesn't make sense blame it on that

Telemachus didn’t want to do this.

Well, he did, he thought of the idea. What he didn’t want was to force the Princess of Astreon—a stranger—into a marriage.

And yet, here he was. Pacing his room, palms sweating, thinking of the girl who he didn't know would even try to befriend him.

What pained him was this wasn't for love. Just for survival.

He could still hear his mother’s voice from the night he brought the idea up to her, soft but steady, the way she always was when trying to speak reason into a storm.

"Hard decisions are going to have to be made for peace"

Peace. Right.

He was twenty, with calluses on his hands and sleepless nights behind his eyes, and somehow still not ready for this.

His mother believed in him. He wished that was enough.

He’d heard about Princess [Reader's Name]—sharp-tongued and sharper-minded, if the words were to be believed. Rumors said she once made a visiting prince cry just by asking if he’d ever ruled anything more difficult than a vineyard. He didn’t know if that was true, but it made him nervous.

He didn’t want to be another one of her enemies.

If he had another option, he wouldn’t be bargaining a girl’s life for a crown. But the palace halls were growing louder every day, voices rising like storm winds—suitors arguing, posturing, planning. The longer he waited, the more they circled, sensing blood in the water.

He needed legitimacy. He needed a wife.

But he didn’t want her to feel like a solution.

He just wanted her to be real. Not a name in a letter. Not a title on a scroll. Just… real.

Maybe then, he could finally feel real too.

The hall was colder than you expected.

Not temperature-wise, but cold in the way places sometimes are. Formal. Measured. Like everything spoken inside these walls was being weighed for value, and you already feel like your worth had been sold off in a letter sealed with a kiss.

You stood in the center, hands clasped in front of you because that’s what was considered formal, even when people wanted to punch something.

The doors opened with a slow creak. Here we go.

He stepped in.

Telemachus didn’t look like the son of a legend. He looked like someone trying not to trip over his own feet. His hair was slightly mussed like he’d run a hand through it one too many times, and his tunic was plain, though neatly kept. No crown. No extra.

Just a boy with too much on his shoulders and not enough sleep.

You gave him a once-over, then arched a brow.

“I expected someone… taller.”

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. More like oh, this is how it’s going to be.

“I’m Telemachus,” he said, ignoring her statement even though it stung in an almost humorous way. “It’s… good to finally meet you.”

You tilted your head. “Is it?”

He hesitated. Points for not lying outright.

“I’m not good at this,” he admitted. “If you’re looking for charm or ceremony, you might be disappointed.”

“I’m used to disappointment,” you replied. “That’s why I don’t expect anything anymore. Keeps things efficient.”

A flash of something crossed his face—hurt, maybe, or guilt. You didn’t care. Not really.

"I'm not going to lie to you, I proposed this idea. But if I had another option that didn't force a loveless marriage, I would've chosen it"

You studied him. He wasn’t arrogant. He wasn’t slimy like the sons of court ministers you’d brushed off back home. He looked like someone trying to be steady in a room that wouldn’t stop spinning.

You hated that it made you feel the tiniest bit sympathetic.

“Okay,” you said at last. “If we’re going to do this, let’s make something clear.”

His gaze met yours.

“I am not a prize. I am not a crown. And I am not a peace offering.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Understood.”

You turned away before he could see the flicker of something—hope? —at the edges of your irritation.

You weren’t ready to give him that.

Not yet.

tag list?- @gothamsmom @barrythestrawberry041

[theamarischapter]

He’s Not My Boyfriend!

CHAPTER 06; misunderstandings

a/n: so it's been literally forever! i'm literally so sorry but like i've been really unmotivated and also there's been a lot of school events (prom literally yesterday...) but i FINALLY got around to finishing this! working on the final chapter as we speak...anywho i hope y'all enjoy <3

new here? chapter 1 - previous: chapter 5

pairing: beomgyu x f!reader

w/c: 2.3k

genre: strangers to frenemies to lovers, high school au, slow burn…ish (?), fake dating (for a day)

warnings: none!

summary: beomgyu knows he's being irrational, but he can't help it. he's always had a bad habit of acting out whenever he's hurt, so it's only natural that he'd avoid you.

fic below the cut! enjoy <3

The easiest way to get over something is to pretend it never happened! That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. Though, in reality, you’re so hyper-focused on pretending like everything is normal that you fail to notice yourself walking straight into a tall, dark-haired, muscular male—Choi Yeonjun. The impact forces you back into the present, where students bustle in the hallways and Beomgyu walks stiffly beside you, hands shoved into his pockets. You stumble backwards, but he’s quick to steady you as you fumble for words.

“Uh, sorry—“ you start, gaze avoiding Yeonjun and Beomgyu simultaneously. Beomgyu’s warm, gentle palm lingers carefully above your hip—does he even realize he’s doing that? Yeonjun’s gaze wanders down, a small smirk pulling at his lips. 

“No worries. Since when were you two dating? Could’ve sworn I heard you say he wasn’t your type.” He inquires, eyes gleaming with mischief. Where the hell did he hear that? Actually, since when did he pay attention to you? You laugh awkwardly, pulling away from Beomgyu as if suddenly embarrassed to be so close to him. His shoulders stiffen, fingers searching for something to fiddle with. Did you really say that about him?

“We’re not dating!” You correct. Beomgyu’s gaze narrows, flickering between you and Yeonjun. That response was a little too quick for his liking. Plus, you promised to keep up the prank at least until the end of the school day. What changed? “We were just pulling a prank on our friends. April Fool’s Day, remember?”

It goes quiet for a moment, the only noise being loud laughter and post-lunch gossip echoing through the crowded halls. The air is thick, as if they’re both waiting for you to say more. Right. You should probably also mention—

“Um…I don’t think I ever said he wasn’t my type, though.” You mumble, risking a glance at the ‘he’ in question. Beomgyu’s avoiding your gaze, hands shoved into his pockets. Great save. He looks totally pleased to hear that you, maybe, never said anything like that. You suppose you could’ve tried to sound more convincing.

“Mm. Must’ve been thinking of something else, then…” Yeonjun replies, shrugging before offering you a small wave. That was seriously all he had to say…? His eyes linger on Beomgyu, as though sizing him up. It’s times like these that you wish you had the ability to read minds. “Well, see ya.” 

You nod slowly, unable to form any more words—whether that’s because you’re nervous or embarrassed, you can’t tell. Beomgyu huffs, his gaze a lot colder than you remember it last being. He runs a frustrated hand through his dark hair, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Uh, I should head to class. Don’t wanna be late.” 

Weird, considering he didn’t care about being late earlier. You say nothing, instead just nodding like an idiot. Somehow, it feels like you’ve managed to ruin everything in the span of less than an hour. You figure, maybe (hopefully), things will be back to normal by tomorrow. His back is turned to you by the time you realize you have yet to say anything.

“Uh, see you later!” You call out, your voice a little too loud amidst the sudden quiet. He glances back at you, his expression unreadable, then looks away without a word, disappearing around the corner. Or, maybe you won’t see him, you guess. A cold dread settles in your stomach.

— °˖✧✿✧˖° —

Looks like you’re back at square one. After everything, after he went out of his way to convince you to be friends, he’s the one choosing to stay away this time. He knows it’s wrong. He knows it’ll only hurt more in the end—if he wants to keep you, he’s making all the wrong choices. All because he’s hurt. Because he can’t face you and pretend to be normal. But maybe he can bury it all again with time. With space. 

He’s such an idiot. You made yourself clear from the start. From middle school, even. You don’t like him, and you never will. He was stupid for getting his hopes up, for thinking that friendship might turn into more. For thinking that you might actually kiss him—god, why did he do that? He just had to go and make things weird and awkward and embarrassing. And then, of course, you went and reminded him that you don’t like guys like him. No, because he’s nothing like Yeonjun. 

Beomgyu’s no love expert, but he could tell something was up when you bumped into Yeonjun. Your eyes darted around, unable to find a settling point. You moved away from Beomgyu, forgot he was even there. For about two minutes, Yeonjun was the center of your universe. You no longer cared to keep Beomgyu as your fake boyfriend—you hastily denied dating him, as though embarrassed about it. Would dating him be embarrassing? Not to mention, Yeonjun apparently heard you say Beomgyu wasn’t your type. Ouch. Had you really gone around telling people that? All while he’d been fighting a losing battle with his own feelings? If he’d known sooner, then maybe he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be sulking in bed, ignoring an unopened message from you. 

‘hey, haven’t seen you in awhile. did something happen?’

It’s been a week since April Fool’s Day. And, in that week, he’s conveniently been around you less. Always a test to make up during lunch, or a club meeting, or studying. He’s avoided the places he knows you frequent—that one corner in the library, the vending machine near the gym, and the routes to your classes. He’s gone all the way around the building just to avoid crossing paths with you. He’s not ready yet, but he promises he’ll face you eventually. In time. 

Honestly, he didn’t think you’d even notice. Or care. He figured he must not be very important in your life. You don’t care whether he’s around or not. But maybe you do, if the many messages you’ve sent are anything to go by. 

‘are u mad at me?’

‘can we talk?’

‘im sorry’

Yikes. He feels bad now, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Well, not bad enough to suck his feelings up and face you. Not bad enough to type out a reply. But he does feel bad. He closes the messaging app, hoping that your texts might disappear the next time he opens it. He’s sure you’re only pretending, anyway. You couldn’t be actually sorry. You’re probably just putting in effort to save face. Beomgyu refuses to fall for it. 

If you really cared, you’d be doing more to get to him. He rolls over, feeling a cold breeze over his face, the wind whispering through his curtains. Maybe he’ll feel less miserable after a nap.

— °˖✧✿✧˖° —

The weekend comes around again. Beomgyu intends to spend the day lounging around doing nothing, but he goes to the store to get some snacks first. When he returns home, he’s shocked to find you in his room. You’re standing there awkwardly, hands roaming curiously over the smooth, sturdy desk in the corner. You take a shaky breath, hoping to feel less suffocated by the cold air of his room. Your eyes trail along the floor, pausing when they find him. Time stops for a moment, all the words you’d carefully planned to say swiftly gone from your memory. 

“Hey–” you start, voice dying once you register his confused, perhaps irritated expression.

“How did you get in here?” He asks, clearly not amused. He places his bag of snacks down, closing the door before moving closer to you. Your lips part as if to speak, but no words come out. You look away, eyes finding the dark, wooden floor beneath your feet. He calls your name, tone a little softer this time, ushering you to answer. 

“Your mom let me in,” you mumble. He sighs, realizing that maybe he should’ve expected this. Maybe you care more than he thought you did. It’s quiet for a while, and you wonder if maybe he’s waiting for you to speak. Or maybe he’s processing things. Or maybe he’s so upset with you that he needs a moment to collect himself. You don’t know, and you’re too scared to look up at him and check.

“Why are you here?” His tone is gentler now, even if it’s lacking the care you’d like it to have. He still sounds so detached from you. Your heart sinks, eyes burning a little. You clear your throat, blinking rapidly in hopes of collecting your composure.

“Um, well, I wanted to talk,” you reply, voice barely above a whisper. It’s like you're sharing a secret with him, something you don’t want to admit. 

“About?” He asks, urging you to continue. He knows exactly what you want to talk about, yet he’s asking anyway. Maybe in hopes of avoiding the subject entirely.

“Well. I just wanna know if I’ve done something wrong,” you mumble, fingers pulling at the sleeves of your hoodie. You risk a glance at him, relieved to find that he, at least, doesn’t look mad anymore. His expression is soft, maybe a little confused. 

Why do you sound so hurt? He realizes he’s been an idiot, finally. And he’s only now acknowledging that you do care. That he’s been hurting you for the past week. God, he wishes you wouldn’t look at him like that. It’s impossible to stay upset when you look so pretty and sad. Finally, he speaks, voice quiet and subdued. “You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s me.”

You frown, lips pursed as you find your words. You don’t remember anything you’d wanted to say earlier. Your voice is a little shaky, a testament to just how nervous you are. “Well, then…I just—I don’t really understand. What changed? I thought…you liked me.”

It was his idea to be friends, wasn't it?

“Nothing changed,” he whispers. “I do like you.” 

For a moment, he pauses, noticing how those words sound a little too much like a love confession. Wait—did you mean like in a friendly way or a romantic way? Oh, shit. Maybe you meant the romantic way. “I mean—I did like you. In middle school.”

“What?” Now it’s your turn to be confused. Does he like you or not? He did? But he doesn’t anymore? So, then, does that mean he doesn’t want to be your friend? Beomgyu’s cheeks heat up—seriously, it’s like his hidden talent to mess up everything when it comes to you. Well, what’s said is said, so he should at least clarify.

“Um, I had a crush on you in middle school?” He mumbles, hoping maybe you won’t hear. His gaze snaps back up to your still conflicted expression. He’s quick to add on, “not anymore though!”

“I’m confused—” You say slowly, head tilting to the side. You’d never thought about it, but now that he mentions it… “You had a crush on me?”

“Yeah,” he nods, clearing his throat. Your heart flutters, a spark of hope igniting in your chest. He’s quick to blow it out. “But you have Yeonjun now. And I have Yeji.”

“Right,” you mutter. Of course, Yeji. How did you forget? Wait, did he say Yeonjun? Does he think you have a thing for Yeonjun? Okay, maybe you used to, but still. That was like…forever ago. Before you knew him. You think maybe you should clarify, but what would that change, anyway? He’s right. He has Yeji, so maybe you should find someone else to have, too. You don’t have Yeonjun yet, but you could. Besides, there are more important issues to address. “Why have you been avoiding me then?”

“I don’t know. Just…needed space. Or something,” he shrugs, glancing away from you. He knows you’re unsatisfied by his answer—he can tell by the way your eyes immediately narrow, a crease forming between your brows.

“Or something?” You repeat, urging him to say more. He huffs, eyes flickering between you and the posters on his wall. Truthfully, he has no excuse.

“Well…I didn’t want Yeji getting the wrong idea,” he lies. You fall silent for a moment, replaying a conversation from a few weeks ago, back when you first became friends. Wasn’t he the one who said to forget about the rumors? 

“Let’s be friends. Who cares what anyone says?”

“I thought we agreed not to care—” You start, the faintest hint of frustration underlying your tone. His gaze snaps up, voice cutting yours off.

“We did. It’s just…y’know,” he mumbles. Yeah, unfortunately, you do know. Is it really so different just because it’s Yeji? If that’s the case, why’d he propose to do a dating prank like that in the first place? You sigh, nodding slowly.

“...yeah, okay,” you mutter, tone clipped. You look up into his eyes, letting your annoyance fade back into hurt. “I just wish you would’ve told me, I guess.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s impossible to stay upset with him when he’s so soft and pretty looking. Curse your stupid heart for having a soft spot.

“It’s alright,” you shrug, but your shoulders are tense. “Can we at least go back to normal now?”

You miss him. But, obviously, you’d die before telling him that. Especially after he was just talking about another girl. You almost feel a little embarrassed by your feelings.

He wishes he could say no. Wishes he could shut you out and hide until all his ugly, scary feelings go away forever. He thinks about the pain that will come if he agrees. But, unfortunately, you’re so sweet and kind—and you came all this way to talk to him—how could he ever say no? How could he shut you out, knowing how it affects you? He’d be evil. He nods, giving you a soft smile, even as his heart aches. You care, but that still doesn’t mean you like him back. You hadn’t said anything earlier when he mentioned Yeonjun. 

It’s okay, though. If it makes you happy, he’ll stay around, even if it hurts. He’ll suffer if doing so makes you smile.

taglist: @whatblop, @innies-goth-gf, @woncheecks, @ewsnup, @etherealid7 <3

a/n: gyu being oblivious as always SMH. i really hope you guys enjoyed this and, again, i'm sorry for taking forever lol. luckily, next chapter will be the final one!!! as always, ty for ur support and patience (especially this time)! likes, comments, and reblogs greatly appreciated! (≧∇≦)ﾉ <3

— °˖✧✿✧˖° —

final chapter

[cmdrfupa]

Hidden Place

Law school Higuruma x Reader

a/n: Was this inspired by the Bjork song? Well, yes! Our quiet love boy is genuinely like a muse for me. I unpack and pack then unpack him every other business day and if i'm being real, the entire Vespertine album is simply Hiromi Higuruma.

I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!

Early winter created a very specific type of buzz on campus. Students seem to have come alive with a rush from the activities post finals and winter break slowly approaching. The student-run Legal Aid Society was hosting a weekend event to offer free legal consultations for under-served communities in the area.

Hiromi, a third-year law student and one of the top performers in his class, had been recruited to help. He didn’t mind especially considering it was a good way to attempt some type of social activity before going home for the holiday.

Rows of tables set up for consultations, a check-in station, and a section dedicated to helping attendees fill out necessary paperwork sat in the bustling campuses center. Despite the organized chaos, there’s an air of determination amongst Hiromi and the other volunteers.

He arrived slightly early, as he always does, wearing a neatly pressed button-down, a dark brown sweater over and his usual calm, serious expression as the director of the event made his way to him.

The event coordinator hands him his designated clipboard of tasks, directing him to the registration area as he gave him the rundown of how the day would churn out to be. “It’s going to be a little hectic but I think we will be able to help at least 300 people before we call it this evening. Got any questions, Higuruma?”

Before he could ask his few questions, he sees you.. Quickly observing you juggle a chaotic scene—fielding questions from attendees, directing volunteers, and scanning a spreadsheet on your phone. Your cardigan is slightly pushed off your shoulder from the rush, and your hair’s a little disheveled, but your voice is steady as you manage the growing line of attendees. “Uh no, no questions. I’ll just hop in.”

The director clasped his hands and smiled before making his way to the group of tables nearby.

Your volunteer booth with your department’s Global Advocacy Club, which focused on humanitarian issues and international policies, had been up since 6am. The event provides a perfect collaboration, with law students handling casework and global studies students assisting with outreach, logistics, and communication.

Hiromi watched you for a moment, noting the way you command attention without raising your voice. Finally, he steps forward with his usual quiet confidence.

“Do you need a hand?” he asks, his voice steady but with a slight edge of curiosity.

You glance up, momentarily startled, before recovering with a polite smile. “I could use a clone, but I guess you’ll do.”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward at your quick wit. Without another word, he sets his clipboard down and begins sorting through the paperwork pile beside you. Within minutes, the two of you fall into an efficient rhythm, his calm presence balancing out your high-energy focus.

For the next hour, you and Hiromi end up running the front registration desk by yourselves as things picked up. It didn’t take much to fall into a routine that highlighted both of your strong suits. Your efficient and diplomatic presence ensured the process ran smoothly. It balanced out the steady, grounding presence Hiromi held while he worked closely with the incoming groups that were grateful for the patience he showed as he walked through the processes for each of their legal questions. Working in tandem was proving to be far easier than he anticipated.

For awhile, the afternoon showed no signs of slowing up. Word seemed to have spread a bit more in the morning and that bought in a flood of those seeking aide. Then, when a translator doesn’t show up and chaos threatens to erupt, Hiromi watched you handle the situation.

“Yes! That’s exactly it. Just be sure that when you get over to the support services booth, you tell them that you qualify for the reduced travel pass and show them that paperwork. You’re all set.”

A combination of diplomacy and charm, seamlessly switching between languages to guide a nervous attendee to the right station. You made it look too easy.

“Impressive,” he murmurs, his tone low but genuinely admiring.

You glance at him, a little surprised by the compliment. “You should see me in a real crisis,” you reply, the light teasing in your tone making him chuckle softly—a sound you realize you like more than you expected.

The two of you exchange occasional bits of banter as you work, gradually easing into a camaraderie that feels surprisingly natural. At one point, while stacking forms, you quip, “You’re way too calm for someone in law school. What’s your secret?”

“Practice,” he replies smoothly. Then, after a pause, he adds, “And coffee. Lots of coffee.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Noted. I’ll have to get the name of the coffee you drink because mine does the exact opposite.”

-------------------

Later in the day, during a brief lull, you both sat on the edge of the check-in desk, sharing a rare moment of calm. Hiromi stretches his neck, loosening the tension in his shoulders. You hand him a water bottle without thinking, and he accepts it with a soft “thank you.”

“So,” you ask, breaking the silence, “what made you join the Legal Aid Society?”

He considers the question for a moment, his gaze distant but thoughtful. “It’s practical experience, sure. But... I think it’s important to do work that reminds you why you started. Law can get... theoretical.”

“Which route are you thinking of going?”

Hiromi took a small sip of his water and looked ahead. “Nonprofit or criminal.”

You nod, catching the weight of his words. “So you’re keeping yourself grounded?”

“Something like that,” he replies. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he asks, “What about you? Why diplomacy and policy?”

You laugh lightly. “Because I like puzzles. And people. And trying to untangle seemingly impossible knots in a system that already works over those who hold it up the most. It’s messy, but it matters.”

Hiromi listens intently, his gaze unwavering. “That’s... a lot more idealistic than most people I’ve met.”

“Is that a good thing?”

He pauses, and for the first time, there’s a glimmer of a smile—not just polite or amused, but genuine. “I think it is.”

"It's good to be passionate this type of work. It isn't always this breezy. But when good people are doing work that others overlook, It makes the long days worth it once you see the relief on ones face."

Hiromi looked down at his hands, attempting to hide just how wide his smile was growing. "I'm glad it's us doing the work then."

-

As the event winds down and the last few attendees are seen to, you and Hiromi find yourselves walking back to the campus building where volunteers are cleaning up. The warm glow from the sun fades the courtyard, and the air is cool but not cold.

You’re discussing the day—its challenges and successes—when he suddenly stops walking.

“You’re good at this,” he says, his tone as calm as ever but with a sincerity that makes you pause.

“Good at what?”

“At... handling people. Keeping everything moving. It’s not easy.” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck, as if unused to giving compliments. “It’s rare.”

You smile, a little surprised by his earnestness but touched nonetheless. “Thanks. And you’re good at not losing your cool. Even when things got hectic.”

For a moment, there’s silence—comfortable, not awkward. But complimentary.You continued your walk to the student center to turn in all the paperwork and grab your belongings. Hiromi seemed to tag along for no reason other than to try and muster up a little extra courage to ask to see you.

As you prepped to part ways for the night, Hiromi lingers for a moment before speaking again.

“This was... good,” he says, his words slow and deliberate. “I don’t usually enjoy these things, but... it was different today.”

You tilt your head, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Because I was here?”

His lips twitch upward again in that subtle almost-smile. “Maybe.”

It’s a simple, understated moment, but something about it lingers. “Well, perhaps you can join me in more of my volunteer efforts in the area. Or even show me where you get your coffee from.”

A slow heat crept up the nape of his neck and Hiromi could only smile. “Coffee while we plan our next volunteer efforts?”

You thumbed through your bag for a moment before pulling out a purple sharpie. Gently grabbed his hand, you jotted your number in his palm. “Don’t wash that hand until you’ve called me.”

As you walk away, you can feel his steady gaze following you for a moment before he turns and heads to his flat.

From that point on, you start to see him more often— starting with a coffee date then at events, around campus, and eventually, in moments outside of school. The connection grew slowly, but it’s unmistakably strong, rooted in mutual admiration and the shared sense of purpose that first brought you together. And it only grew.

(3 years later)

You and Hiromi’s cozy shared apartment was awash in a warm glow from the various desk lamps you had on in the late evening. Papers and books lay sprawled across your workspace, their edges curling slightly from overuse. A faint trace of jasmine lingered in the air, courtesy of your favorite candle burning in the corner, mixing with the scent of coffee gone cold.

It was late, and the rest of the world seemed to have fallen silent, leaving only the hum of the central heating and the faint rustle of pages turning.

You were hunched over your laptop, eyes fixed on the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. Three more weeks of feeling like your brain was going to somehow evaporate and you’d be done with grad school. Your half-empty mug of coffee sat neglected beside you, its contents forgotten as your mind worked to untangle research you’d already logged but simply needed to sort.

Hiromi was in the adjacent room, quietly reviewing case briefs. Even as he immersed himself in his work, he noticed that you hadn’t come out of the living room in more than 3 hours. Familiar with your late-night study habits at this point, he set aside his papers, the faint sound of his chair scraping the floor barely breaking the silence as he rose to check on you.

He stepped into the living room, his movements soft and deliberate. Dressed in a plain t-shirt and sweats, he paused at the doorway, leaning against the frame. His gaze rested on you for a moment, taking in the way your brow furrowed in concentration and the strands of hair that had fallen loose around your face. A small smile tugged at his lips—a moment of quiet admiration for the person he’d spent the best times of his life with so far.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice warm and teasing. “If you keep frowning at the screen like that, it might start frowning back.”

Startled, you glanced up, blinking at him before the tension in your shoulders eased. “It’s not that bad,” you replied with a faint smile. “Just a lot to get through.”

Hiromi stepped closer, his presence grounding. He reached out to brush a thumb lightly over your shoulder, the gesture gentle and familiar. “How’s it going?” he asked, his tone low and steady, inviting without pressure.

You leaned back slightly, stretching your shoulders as you spoke. “It’s... getting there. This section is tricky. I want to make sure I’m framing the argument clearly.”

Hiromi nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. He might not have been an expert in your field, but his ability to listen—to truly listen—was one of the things you cherished most about him.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” he said softly. “Take a break. Even geniuses need a break and a sweet treat.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Just let me finish this paragraph. I’m almost done.”

He arched an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Famous last words. You said that 2 hours ago.”

You laughed, the sound easing some of the tension in your chest. Hiromi’s chuckle joined yours, the shared moment of levity a small reminder of how well he understood you.

“Alright, alright, take this laptop away from me. 30 minutes, Mr. Higuruma.” You smiled and moved the papers from the couch cushion and moved them to the coffee table as he sat you computer off to the side.

He sat next to you and like clockwork, you grabbed his hands to lightly massage them.

Then, almost as if thinking aloud, he said, “I’ve been thinking about what’s next.”

You glanced at him, curiosity flickering across your face. “For after I graduate?”

He nodded. “You’ll be accepting a position with a great agency. We’ll be finalizing pretty much everything for the wedding soon after. And that job at Freusters firm that I accepted. So many paths I could’ve chosen and I’m still feeling unsure on that one. It’s a lot to consider.”

“It is,” you agreed. “But you’ll figure it out. You’ve always had a strong sense of what matters to you.”

Hiromi’s gaze softened, his usual stoicism giving way to vulnerability. “Sometimes it feels like there’s so much riding on every decision. Like I can’t afford to get it wrong.”

You reached out, taking his hand in yours. “You’re not going to get it wrong. Whatever path you choose, you’ll make it meaningful. You’ll learn from it, grow from it and come out better because of it. That’s just who you are.”

“So if I said I wanted to go into corporate law?”

“I’d ask what the hell happened to my fiance and find the real you.”

Hiromi chuckled and brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your engagement ring.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his expression lightening. “Thank you, my heart.” he said, his voice soft. “You’re the most driven person I know. And the best part of my support system.”

The conversation lulled into a comfortable silence, neither of you needing to fill the space with words. Hiromi shifted to lean against you, the papers and laptop momentarily forgotten while he rested his head lightly against yours, the warmth of his presence steady and reassuring.

“We’ve got this,” you thought, the words unspoken but understood. The challenges ahead felt less daunting with him by your side, just as you knew he felt the same with you.

“Soon to be Mrs. Higuruma.”

“Yes. Mr. Higuruma?”

Hiromi caressed your ring finger. “We’ve got this.”

As the candles burned lower, you closed your eyes for a moment, savoring the quiet intimacy of the night. It wasn’t grand gestures or elaborate declarations that defined your relationship.

It was always moments like this—small, tender exchanges and quaint love that would move mountains from how strong it was. It’s what spoke volumes about the life you were building together from the very beginning.

[vexic929]

Earth-2 Etude

Chapter 7

Warnings: graphic description of a corpse

Chapter 1: link

Previous chapter: link

The next week dragged in an endless gauntlet of stupidity. Allen's painfully genuine concern, Captain West's incessant micromanaging, and the rest of the CCPD's general fuckery almost made Hartley wish he was in Iron Heights interrogating Singh.

Then, the day arrived.

Even with Hartley's new dampening hearing aids, Iron Heights was louder than before, almost to the point of distraction. The inmates' voices echoed off of the grey concrete walls, making their crude comments as he passed near impossible to ignore. The rustle of cards being shuffled felt like knives in his temples. He could hear someone screaming obscenities all the way from solitary. The guard let him into Singh's cell where, at least, the voices were muffled. Singh didn't look up from his newspaper.

"Back so soon, Mr. Rathaway?"

Singh's voice was smooth, clipped, as if they'd just spoken yesterday - which they hadn't. It had been six days, fourteen hours, and twenty-two minutes. Hartley had counted.

Hartley stepped in without responding and waited for the door to latch behind him. The room was small. Clean in the way that only utter control could produce. Singh sat at the table like it was a throne.

Singh folded the paper and set it aside. "So, what is it today? More maps?"

"Nine men." Hartley's voice was dry, surgical. "Sandhu. Reed. Zatouri. Manesh. Malloy. Reyes. Savchenko. Browne. DeSoto. All formerly yours. All butchered."

"I'm the bad guy, Rathaway. What the fuck do I care about sacrificing a few pawns?" Singh said, leaning forward to meet Hartley's eyes.

Hartley's mouth curled, cold and sharp. "More like bishops and knights, weren't they?" He leaned forward, voice soft as silk dragged over glass. "They made it pretty high up in your ranks. Rumor has it one of them might've even been more to you."

That landed. Singh's jaw clenched. Still, he held steady eye contact.

"What's it matter to you who a mob boss fucks on his downtime?" Singh grinned. "'Less of course, you're jealous?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Hartley said, tone brittle. "You're not my type."

"No?" Singh leaned back, draping one arm across the back of his chair. "Pity. You're exactly mine. Cold. Beautiful. Dangerous when cornered." His eyes glinted. "But not quite dangerous enough."

Hartley took a slow step forward. Then another.

The silence stretched between them like a drawn bowstring.

"Do you always deflect when someone strikes a nerve? It was Sandhu, wasn't it?"

"I told you, CSI. He was just a nice fuck, that's all."

"Guess Nimbus got the wrong idea too, then, considering he murdered him in your bed and left a message on your mirror."

Singh didn't do anything as obvious as flinch but his weight shifted, ever so slightly. He disguised the motion by crossing his legs - Hartley saw through it. 

"Nimbus is a fucking moron." Singh sneered as though the name itself put a bad taste in his mouth. "He gets a lot of things wrong."

Hartley leaned back in his chair. "Guess it won't bother you to explain how you found him, then, will it? You were the one who found him, right?"

"I was," Singh drawled, looking almost bored. "What I did or didn't do after is none of your fucking business, pretty boy." 

"Again, with the flattery. I think you just don't want to remember what you saw." Hartley responded, matching Singh's uninterested tone. "Strangulation's an ugly way to go, isn't it? Purple in the face, eyes bulging, with your tongue protruding like a bloated worm-"

"Enough." Singh hadn't yelled but the authority in his voice stopped Hartley mid-sentence anyway. "If you're still trying to get me to talk you'll stop talking about Sandhu. Now."

"What was he to you?" Hartley pressed. "Forensics report says you cleaned and dressed him post-mortem. One might think you were trying to hide evidence."

A flicker in the corner of Singh's eye. That flash of something unmoored. Loss, maybe. Guilt. Rage. Hartley wasn't sure which.

He tapped the file against the metal table. Let the images slide free: autopsy photos, time of death estimates, fingerprint analysis. "You washed him, Singh. Closed his eyes. Dressed him nicely. Brought him back to the bedroom and laid him out on the bed like he was sleeping instead of brutally murdered."

Singh reached for the folder slowly, flipped it shut, and set it aside like it bored him. "You done with your performance?"

"This isn't theatre," Hartley said flatly. "It's evidence."

Singh's voice was low, measured, lethal. "Then you tell me, Mr. Rathaway - what do you think it shows? That I mourned a mistake? That I wept over a boy who should've known better than to crawl into bed with a man like me?"

"You loved him."

"No," Singh said. "I dragged him from the gutter, trained him like a dog, and let him think he mattered. I ruined him."

Hartley didn't respond immediately. He watched Singh, trying to decide where the armor ended and the fracture began. "Nimbus didn't just kill him. He desecrated him. You felt that, didn't you? That rage. That grief."

"I don't grieve pawns."

"That's why you hate the Darbinyans." It wasn't a question.

"I had twenty men die under my command before I was thirty," Singh said flatly, but there was something off in the delivery. Too precise. Too practiced. "You think one body concerns me?"

"I think Harvik Sandhu wasn't just a body."

A flicker crossed Singh's face. Barely there. But Hartley's eyes were trained for detail. Singh wasn't as practiced at loss as he liked to pretend. Hartley continued:

"I think you want vengeance so bad it's choking you." Hartley slid another photo across. The mirror from Singh's penthouse. See you soon, lover boy, scrawled in Sandhu's blood. "You lay out the plans of the hideout, we catch Nimbus. If we catch him because of your intel, I'll see what I can do about getting him in here with you. Maybe even somewhere with...slightly more lax security."

Another beat of silence passed. Then Singh laughed. Low. Bitter.

"You think this makes us allies, Rathaway? You think you can bribe me with the chance to break his fucking jaw?"

"No." Hartley answered breezily. "But I think I can bribe you with the chance to kill him with your own two hands."

Singh raked his eyes over Hartley's slight form, surveying him quietly for several moments. He pushed the folder towards Hartley.

"And you'll 'look the other way'? Is that the deal?"

Hartley's lips curved faintly, thin and sharp. "You're in prison. What you do with the guests once they're dropped off...isn't really my jurisdiction."

Singh studied him, expression unreadable, but something about it almost seemed...impressed by Hartley's ruthlessness. Still, he was silent for so long that Hartley began packing his things, certain Singh wasn't going to give an inch and he'd have to go back to the drawing board. Singh spoke before he could rise to leave.

"Bring me proof - hard evidence that Nimbus is in that hideout. If you can do that, I'll tell you what I know."

[bitbybitwrites]

I was tagged by : @porcelainmortal, @alasse9 @forabeatofadrum

Thanks for thinking of me! . . I should really do this before 2024 is up, right? 😂

BTW its still Dec 31 here where I am, so I'll say it counts.

I've done a lot more than I expected this year, as I look back. And I'm kind of proud of myself.

I started writing for another fandom - RWRB. Its been fun adding these characters to the mix.

I managed finishing 1 multi-chapter fic and a 11 shorter fics.

I'm still plugging away on 3 longer multi-chapter WIP, adding and posting chapters as I go.

I have compiled an additional WIP list of (*stops to count*) 16 other fics that are not posted yet, but are in various stages of readiness. I flitter around adding bits to each when inpiration hits.

I think that's about it for me for 2024 - still writing, slow and steady. 😊

I'm always so happy to see any of kudos and comments if you have left any . . . and I'm still really apologetic that I haven't gotten to responding to many. There's only so much time in the day. I will try to get to them!

WRITING GOALS FOR 2025: Basically write more, and write as often as I can. There are so many of my WIP I want to get into and finish . . hopefully some of you will find them interesting to read!

Wishing you all a Happy New Year and a productive and creative 2025! I look forward to seeing/reading all you create!

See links and descriptions to everything under the cut!

1.) COMPLETED FICS

April 2024

Falling For You (Klaine fic) - 26,089 words

Summary:

Kurt Hummel thought by donating his services as a florist to Memorial Sloan Kettering, that he would simply be giving back to the medical community. A good deed for the month of December. Little did he know that a few chance run-ins with an adorable doctor and a sweet little girl in the hospital lobby would change all that. Written for the Klaine Secret Santa 2023 Gift Exchange.

May 2024

Pretty Shiny things (Klaine fic) - 1,943 words

Summary:

The clangs and shrieks of the alarm system at Christie's Auction House filled the corridors, echoing through the mostly empty building. They were just as loud as the beating of Kurt and Blaine's hearts as they raced down corridor after corridor while they attempted to escape. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Kurt growled through his teeth as he ran, slipping slightly on the polished marble floor as he turned another corner. “I leave you alone for five minutes . . . FIVE MINUTES, Blaine. What on earth did you do?” **** Discovered a fun new thing on Tumblr called Ficlet Friday. This ficlet was inspired by a dialogue prompt by annepi: Prompt: Klaine - “I leave you alone for five minutes...”

June 2024

hold me close (FirstPrince fic) - 836 words

Summary:

Alex has had a rough day. It's a good thing that Henry's home to take care of him. For a Ficlet Friday prompt : "Tell me anything. Everything.”

blythe spirit (FirstPrince fic) - 1,756 words

Summary:

“I . . . I don't know why you're even interested." “Baby, I love you.  I'm interested in everything about you." Alex gave Henry a very pointed and heated look that definitely hit the mark. The flush on Henry’s face now deepened.  He worried his bottom lip between his teeth for a few moments as he considered his options. “Come on,” Alex softly cajoled.  “You can’t just say things like: ‘I played Elvira in a school production of Blythe Spirit’ and not expect me to ask for pictures . . or at least the lowdown on it all.”  Alex pouted again to prove his point.  “I’m a weak man, H.  These are the types of things I need to know more about.” ***** From a Friday Ficlet prompt: "Tell Me anything. Everything."

nightfall (Klaine fic) - 219 words

Summary:

Blaine sighed as he collapsed onto the sand. With his chin upon his knees and arms wrapped around his legs, Blaine gazed out toward the ocean, deciding that the purple-ish pink sky that stretched out before him was absolutely breathtaking. If only he had his camera with him. It would be a perfect addition to his next gallery exhibit. ***** Based off a Tumblr Prompt/Ask Game - "Create a microstory from the prompt selected" Thanks to Falles for giving me: "49 - nightfall"

i'll always come back to you (FirstPrince fic) - 504 words

Summary:

Alex will always come back to Henry . . .always Based on a microstory prompt: #32 - dust motes

July 2024

fire island follies (Klaine fic) - 3,027 words

Summary:

Blaine Anderson is off to a weekend on Fire Island - well, his good friend Santana is draggng him on one. He's not so sure it's the best thing to do - but a run-in with a beautiful performer from the Fire Island Follies quickly changes his mind. ****** From a Tumblr Friday Ficlet prompt from bowtiesandboatshoes : "We're going to Fire Island.  It's like gay Disney World." Title is from an actual burlesque/cabaret show: The Fire Island Follies

i hate waiting (FirstPrince fic) - 555 Words

Summary:

Alex needs to keep his daughter from being bored.   inspired by this adorable picture on Tumblr by wordsofhoneydew

study date (Klaine fic) - 945 words

Summary:

"Get your hands off me!" The sound of a scuffle had Kurt look up from his reading. To be honest, Divination was such a bore of a class. It's not like he needed to learn anything new about it. Kurt had all of his mother's crystals, divination tools, and journals tucked away in her old trunk up in the attic of their home. He could read tea leaves and scry with the best of them. He had long ago lost focus on the chapter Professor Holiday had assigned them for the evening, so at this point, any other distraction would be welcome. Even if it was prefect duties.

Originally this was a bit of a false start for my fic, Advanced Potions

The original prompt was "hogwarts!au + 4. meet messy + 6. "what is that?"

August 2024

what can compare with your beautiful sound (Klaine fic) - 1,183 words

Summary:

Kurt’s brow furrowed as he concentrated on the task at hand. He had to get it just right. His hand hovered just a few inches higher, and with a deft flick of his wrist, a drop of wax fell from the lit candle in his hand to his canvas below. The canvas moaned in ecstasy. “Now, darling, we don’t want to shift, now do we?" Kurt softly murmured as he leaned in close. "You've been such a good boy for me so far." ***** Based off of a microstory prompt from Tumblr : "candles"

November 2024

smutsgiving/wanksgiving 2024: rwrb/firstprince - 662 words

Summary:

Prince Henry has been given a new gift for his bedchamber. Entry for Smutsgiving/Wanksgiving 2024.

smutsgiving/wanksgiving 2024: klaine - 580 Words

Summary:

Dinner was lovely, but Blaine is really ready to go home. Entry for Smutsgiving/Wanksgiving 2024.

2.) PARTIALLY PUBLISHED WIP:

(Klaine) If I Can Make Your Heart My Home - (Klaine Reverse Bang 2023) Life in New York City and working in the restaurant industry wasn’t exactly what Kurt Hummel had expected it would be. He’s lonely, stressed out and miserable. He’s almost ready to throw in the towel and return home to Ohio when a chance meeting with a musician in Central Park changes everything. (Warning: an angsty rollercoaster of a ride. Soooo many cameos from Glee characters! 😉)

(RWRB) Puppy Love - (RWRB NYE gift exchange 2023) The cold snowy day that Henry Fox discovers an abandoned beagle puppy in an alley brings handsome, flirty veterinarian, Alex Claremont-Diaz into his life. Alex is a single dad, recently moved to NY with his young son who Henry hasn't met yet - or so Alex thought. (Fluffy kid!fic)

(Klaine) Sanctuary - (Klaine Word Scramble 2023) Crown Prince Blaine has stumbled into a secluded glade, trying to escape the horrors of the bloody war his father had brought upon their kingdom. Mourning his beloved older brother and faced with the burden of taking his place in the kingdom, Blaine yearns for a place to hid from the world to deal with the issues weighing on his heavy heart. He encounters a mysterious elf, the guardian of the magical spring that Blaine has mistakenly defiled, whose growing connection to his life the young prince can't ignore. (Inspired by an idea/ artwork by @datshitrandom and @justgleekout)

3.) WIP FICS TO FINISH AND POST

My WIP list can be found here! I keep it updated. Feel free to ask me about any of them if you're curious . . 🥰. Hoping to finish some of these in the coming year.

******

OK so ( as usual) I'm late to post - so if anyone hasn't done this yet and wants to - take my big open tag for it and maybe some of these folks might want to do one of these wrap ups as well?

Tagging ( participate only if you want to): @wowbright, @gleefulpoppet, @daisyishedwig, @spaceorphan18 @special-bc-ur-part-of-it

@myheartalivewrites, @14carrotghoul, @thighzp @tailsbeth-writes @onthewaytosomewhere

@sophie1973 @getmehighonmagic @tinyarmedtrex @henrysfox @blueeyedgrlwrites

@kirakiwiwrites @madas-ahatters-world @sarkyblueeyes @heartsmadeofbooks @iboatedhere

@little-escapist @littlemisskittentoes @kurtsascot @hkvoyage @lilinas

Psst. . . and if any fanartists see this and want to share what they've drawn this year, tag me! I'd love to see your work if I've missed some!

[thehiddenbaroness]

Entry 9: Like Cold Oatmeal

1/24/25

(Just had to go back and fix the dates for the prior two entries because no, we’re not in 2024 anymore, and also yikes January is almost over!)

I’ll come out and say it: eBook formatting, so far, has been a bit of a bitch. Part of it, I think, had been my skewed expectations since my digital reading is limited to PDFs for work and a few novels to edit in Word or GoogleDocs – I don’t own an e-reader, and generally far prefer to read physical books, so I’m not as familiar with what’s considered standard or comfortable. 

To back up a bit: of course eBook is going to be one of the formats for the whole novel, but right now my focus has been on what needs to be done so my website (and mailing list) can go live. One of those preparatory tasks has been to format the prologue and first chapter to act as a reader magnet for the newsletter (for those not familiar with the concept: essentially, a freebie for signing up). I’ve used both Reedsy and Kindle Create and so far, the results have either been simply botched or very underwhelming compared to my beautifully formatted Word document. I’m sure some of it is lack of experience, so I’m going to test out some other methods.

But once that’s done, I can test out one of my fulfillment platforms: LaterPress. I’m a little dubious since I can’t find a downloads-per-month limit or similar, but we’ll see how it goes. I want to give it a shot before we pay for BookFunnel, even though that’s its own inevitability farther down the road. In general I’m looking forward to gaining a first-hand understanding about how this and the newsletter management will work on the back-end, since it’s making me a bit nervous.

The website going live is a bit misleading. It will be live, sure, but for the time being it’s only going to have a single landing page with a ‘Coming Soon!’ -type message, plus the newsletter sign-up form. While I wait for marketing art and such to be complete, I figured something was better than nothing, and building that mailing list is so, so important. Once it is live, though, I’m ‘safe’ for my other social media presences to go ‘live’ too, and by that token can start the slow but steady chug-a-chug of the hype train. In a way that kinda starts the clock, which is also nerve-wracking, but it too is inevitable.

In other news, yesterday I received a first draft of the map from my map artist! I can’t share it until it’s complete and on my website, but I’m excited to show you. While there are some aspects that didn’t turn out like my original concept, I’m very pleased with the results so far and the artist has been great to work with – I feel I’ve learned a lot not only in how to trust another professional’s judgment, but also in how this visual translation process works (e.g., for clarity there’s been several things that I opted to remove). Although this version will be in black and white out of necessity, I hope to one day have a larger, color, fuller map from her as well. (For those curious, my artist is Melissa. Highly recommend.)

Our snow-days are pretty much over, down here in the south. I spent yesterday writing to take a break from all this admin stuff – which frankly was starting to get overwhelming – but before I get back to it today I need to clean my house.

+++++ Baroness' Self-Publication Journal Masterpost I'm journaling what I uncover as I do more research for self-publication of my novel! I'll be using the tag "#sp journal". All of this will eventually wind up as part of a larger, more detailed guide for which I'm making notes.

[swiftscion]

TOA anniversary munday!

Celebrating TOA and the people who contribute to make our group what it is.

Repost, don't reblog. Only fill in what you feel comfortable sharing!

Happy anniversary, TOA! Here's to many more years spent together.

tagging: you. yes, you.

Name: Orokara

Pronouns: he/they

Birthday (no year): February 3

Where are you from? What is your time zone? Canada; EST

Roleplay experience: I have no idea but probably something like 7 or 8 years at this point

Got any pets? Just a few fish, if you can count those

Favorite time of year: Spring! It feels really nice when the days start to get longer

Some interests and things you like: Mythology, music and playlist making, reading, animanga, cooking, random video essays, biology

Some fun facts & trivia about you: I used to moderate a few roleplay groups and a Pixelmon server myself, though those interests all died. I share a birthday with Hilda Goneril. I have an awful habit of starting things and then never finishing them. I like wearing bracelets and golf clothing. I crack my neck like all the time.

What non-Fire Emblem games do you play? Currently, Honkai: Star Rail, League of Legends, and Flight Rising. I'm also a big fan of the Pokemon series (and fan games), Project Moon games, Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance, Ultrakill, and Omori. Currently looking for people to play Stardew Valley with me ehe

Favorite Pokemon type & Pokemon: Ghost and Grass. I used to be a grass-type gym leader on the Pixelmon server i helped run, and Appletun was my ace. Did you know that due to its ability thick fat and partial dragon typing, it actually resists fire moves? Many of my challengers didn't ;) my other faves are Hisiuan Zoroark, and Altaria!

How did you get into Fire Emblem? I liked Ike from Smash Brothers Brawl and on a whim decided to play Path of Radiance one day. It was one of my first emulator experiences. I let Rhys and Soren die on the first map they were available and never reset for them. It was bad.

What Fire Emblem games have you played? All mainlines at least once, plus feh

First Fire Emblem game: Path of Radiance!

Favorite Fire Emblem game: Blazing Blade, Binding Blade, and Genealogy in no particular order

Any Fire Emblem crushes? Kagetsu, Shannan, DIECK, Tibarn, Gerik, Selena/Severa

If you’ve played the following games, who was your first S support? Awakening - I don't remember but most recent is Chrom. Fates - Selena. Three Houses - Marianne. Engage - Mauvier

Favorite Fire Emblem class: Swordmaster but I use early game pegasus knights and thieves religiously. Dodgetanking is my favorite thing ever

If you were a Fire Emblem character, what would be your class? Navarre archetype myrmidon

If you were a Three Houses character, what would be your affiliation? Fear the Deer baby!

If you were an Engage character, which Emblem would you Engage with? Emblem Ike so I can run into an entire pack of enemies and slap the great aether button

How did you find TOA? Got invited after i was struggling as like. the only fe4 fan in a discord group that mostly wrote modern fe titles

Current TOA muses: Larcei, Owain, Sain

Who was your first TOA muse? If you don’t have them anymore, could you see yourself picking them up again? Larcei! Though she has come and gone

Have you had any other TOA muses? Ough I might not remember them all but I think the list is: Lewyn, Elm, Sirius, L'Arachel, Ryoma, Idunn

Do you think you have a type of character you gravitate towards? This might sound crazy considering my muselist but edgy swordsmen... I think people who grapple with feelings of revenge, hatred, and guilt are so interesting to delve into the psychology of. Lif is probably my all-time fave, if that says anything about me

What do you believe you enjoy writing the most? Slow and steady character growth. I like it so much when my muses become long-term friends with other ones. Owain and Julius, Larcei and Edward, Sain and Caeda, etc etc. Gaining a new reason to wake up in the morning and all the implications of that is always a joy to hash out over the course over multiple posts

Favorite TOA-related memory: The time Sirius and Est kept being forced to attack eachother by an arena boss, but whiffed all their rolls. Darcy and I wrote it with this little tongue-and-cheek bit where they kept saying "now isn't the time for sparring" before misdirecting yet another attack and writing Sirius' feelings regarding her, his past in Archanea, and the present state of that arena was real fun. Shoutout to N's Leif for the incredible setting of a really dark cave, too!

How do you pronounce TOA?: Sometimes I pronounce each letter individually and sometimes I say "towah". I am mad inconsistent sorry

Got any delusions that didn’t see the light of day in TOA that you’d like to share? Fuck it have my whole delusion list: Rutger, Fergus, Lif, The Vaike, Lewyn (again), Osian, Melady, Orson, Zihark, Louis, Kagetsu, Libra, Lon'qu

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Caliban’s cravings are so fascinating to me. Can we get a story of when Caliban’s cravings first return? Him trying to hide them at first and maybe when Azalea is beginning to catch on?

That's so sweet of you to say! Thank you so much!

I've already talked about this in a few asks (mainly this one, this one,  this one, and these two. Major kudos to the anons who sent said asks in, btw! I've really gotta start making an emoji list so I can recognize people). But I'm happy to expand on it a bit more. Even if I do want to keep some things vague. . .

(Trigger Warnings: implied murder/death, implied cannibalism, implied violence, mentions of blood, cravings/hunger pangs, mentions of eating/drinking, implied abuse/neglect. Please let me know if I missed anything.) 

(Also, just to clarify: this snippet takes place years before Caliban and Azalea joined The Pentas Family)

___

His world is a blur thanks to the violent movement he’s fighting against. . .

Caliban’s eyes felt dry and heavy. One of them twitched as he stared into the darkness of his room. Even as he kept tossing and turning in his bed—the same one he’d had to hide under so many times before—he couldn’t seem to close them.  

For the first time in years, the house was quiet. Not calm (a place like this would never, never be calm. Not to Caliban or his sister, at least), but quiet. It had been ever since. . .

Caliban flinched badly as a long, low, sickening growl reverberated under his skin. 

. . .Or, the house was relatively quiet.

Logic insisted that the noise wasn’t as loud as it felt, that Azalea couldn’t hear it through the wall in the room next door. 

A small voice in the back of Caliban’s head chastised him for still trying to look for logic, considering exactly what he’d done. 

Caliban swallowed a lump in his throat, trying to take deep, slow breaths.

It didn’t steady him at all. In fact, it almost seemed to amplify his stomach’s demands. 

His teeth click-click-clicked against one another as he started moving his jaw up and down without knowing or meaning to. 

Caliban hadn’t even realized that he’d started shaking until he felt himself curl into the fetal position, his arms snaking around his abdomen.

As if that would do anything to drive the aching and gnawing and churning away. 

The skin is soft and warm under his teeth, tearing far too easily. . .

Several hours came and went, and Caliban found himself in the kitchen with his sister. It was a wide, open area, providing more than enough space for a much larger family to use. That luxury ultimately meant more things to clean, but that wasn’t too much of a problem right now. 

Azalea paced back and forth between the dining room and the kitchen, transferring what she and her brother had used from the table to the cabinets.

Caliban, meanwhile, stood before the sink, soap suds nearly reaching up to his elbows. He’d always found it pretty damn stupid that so many types of cutlery couldn’t be put in dishwashers, but he wasn’t about to complain.

He could barely remember the last time he’d eaten a full meal, a proper meal.  (Azalea had smuggled food to him whenever she had the chance, of course.)

Now that the two of them had free-reign of the house. . .

Both the pantry and refrigerator were decently-stocked. There was nobod—nothing to withhold any of that food from him now. 

Still, he needed to be careful with it. He had to make sure there was plenty for his sister. Aside from that, it would only last so long. 

The siblings may have learned how to properly stash any money they managed to come across. (Hell, they’d found plenty more sometime on that fateful day, when they’d entered a room they’d previously never even been able to breathe in the direction of.) But they needed to be cautious about that money, needed to use it sparingly until they figured out what the hell they could do about their circumstances. 

Caliban moved to the side as Azalea came up to the sink to soak a spare rag with soap and water. She paused, peering at him, then offered a small smile as she went to wipe down the table. Caliban smiled back. 

Earlier, they’d worked together to make a small feast. It truly seemed that Azalea had been born to cook and bake, and Caliban was eager to learn what he could. 

It’d been so. Damn. Refreshing.

Being able to just coexist with Azalea, help her, enjoy this new freedom with her. . .it’d almost been enough to distract him. 

Almost. 

But when Caliban finally turned the faucet off, when he began drying off the things he’d washed, when he took a gleaming steak knife into his hands. . .something crawled into his mind.

The blade was clean.

It shouldn’t have been clean.

It should’ve been be dripping, should’ve been slathered in red, should’ve been slicing into—

It clattered back down into the sink as Caliban’s stomach began to roar. 

Caliban ground his jaw. He almost immediately felt cold sweat begin to form on his skin as his sister froze, slowly turning to face him. 

“. . .We literally just ate,” Azalea mentioned, tilting her head, eyes filled with concern. “Are you feeling okay? Is your stomach upset?”

“I. . .” Caliban’s reply was shaky, as something in his throat was trying to pull his voice down. “I’m not sure.”

Blood gushes out, dark and crimson and rich on his tastebuds. . .

Caliban had trouble settling onto an armchair at one corner of the living room. It wasn’t uncomfortable; the leather was plush, and it seemed to give the perfect amount of support for his back.

He just wasn’t used to actually enjoying this space. If anything, this room was one that he and Azalea had typically tried to avoid. 

Speaking of Azalea: she was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She’d all but covered the coffee table in colored pencils and fine-tipped markers, and her eyes were glued to one of the adult coloring books she’d had hidden away. 

She didn’t seem to be feeling out of place or tense, but Caliban had been wrong before. 

Caliban lightly shook his head, trying to focus on the book in his lap.  

The carpet was smooth under his feet.

The carpet also still carried the smell of dish soap. It wasn’t as strong as it had been on that day, (and even then, it definitely wasn’t as strong as bleach would’ve been), but it hadn’t faded away. 

A chill raced up Caliban’s spine as he chewed at the inside of his cheek. It’d seemed impossible that he and Azalea had been able to clean the carpet so quickly. Especially with how he’d felt something stir as he’d stared at that huge, dark red stain. . .

He caught movement in his peripheral vision. He glanced at his sister, who was scanning the coffee table instead of the page she’d been working on (an abstract drawing of an octopus, which now boasted pretty blue rings along its tentacles). Her brow was furrowed in confusion; she was obviously looking for something. 

Caliban’s eyes wandered to the floor. Sure enough, he discovered a pale-gold pencil resting near one of the armchair’s legs. He reached down and plucked it up, then audibly tapped it against his book. The noise caught Azalea’s attention, and she swiveled her head to face Caliban. Her slight frustration melted into a smile as her brother handed the formerly lost pencil to her. 

“It’s healing,” she murmured. “Shouldn’t take more than a week.” 

Caliban’s own smile flickered as he tilted his head at the statement.

Azalea fidgeted in place, probably wondering if she’d actually meant to say that. “Your eye, I mean.”

“. . .Oh,” Caliban replied. “Right, right.” He subconsciously raised a hand. His fingers brushed against the skin around his left eye, which was a dull shade of purple. It was still sore, but the swelling had definitely gone down. 

Although. . .well, it certainly wasn’t the first black eye Caliban had ever gotten. And even if he’d somewhat adjusted to the throbbing, stinging sensation that always came with black eyes. . .he hadn’t exactly had time to focus on the pain that followed this particular one. 

Another awful groan shuddered through his intestines. Caliban flinched, biting back a gasp.

He saw Azalea freeze, saw her slowly bring her pencil to rest against the page, saw her begin peering at the room around them. 

Caliban forced himself to stare at his book, turning the page and almost accidentally tearing it out. He shifted in the armchair, hoping that the way its leather squeaked would somehow cover up the noise.

Shut up, he repeated the words like a mantra in his head as he pressed a hand against his midsection, his nails digging in through his shirt. Shutupshutupshutupshutup!

The smell of iron (or maybe pennies?) is so strong, completely filling his nose, to the point where his eyes are nearly watering and he can feel it creeping along his brain. . .

Caliban wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d crept out of his bedroom, had trudged down the stairs, had been pacing back and forth between the kitchen and the living room. 

The house was dark. Like the past few nights, it also wasn’t entirely silent. 

He was careful to walk slowly, to keep his movement as muted as possible. He didn’t know why he bothered, though. 

It wasn’t like he could hear his footsteps through the cries of his stomach.

It felt like the acids were alive, and that they’d somehow formed claws. 

So how the hell could his stomach feel so empty at the same time?!

He hovered in front of a door in the corner of the pantry.

The basement was unfinished. There was no carpet down there, no insulation, no windows.

No matter what the weather outside was like, the basement was always very, very, very cold.

The basement had always been a cluttered wreck. On one hand, that made it even more unsavory than its darkness and temperature. 

On the other hand, the mess down there had helped him and Azalea to hide the body. 

Caliban stared at the doorknob. It looked smooth, polished, even. But his instincts swore that the material would drag along his skin and leave a bloody gash in his palm if he grasped it. 

That didn’t change the fact that he needed to open the door. He needed to go down to the basement. He needed to stop feeling SO GODDAMN HUNGRY DESPITE HOW HE’D FINALLY BEEN ABLE TO EAT ON HIS OWN TERMS—

The kitchen light was suddenly beaming down.

Caliban whirled around to find Azalea standing just a few feet away. Her eyes immediately drilled into his, full of stress and hurt.

“Cal,” she pronounced. “You need to tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

Caliban’s mouth opened and closed a few times. No words came out. 

“I know something’s wrong,” Azalea insisted. “I know you’re not okay, and I know it’s not just because of what happened. The only thing I don’t know is why, and I can’t just—”

“Since when have either of us ever been okay?” Caliban finally replied, voice shuddering.

“That’s not the point.” Azalea argued, taking a step closer to him. “The point is that you’re my brother and I’m your sister!” 

Another step. 

“I care about you! I want to make sure that you're safe and happy!” 

Another step.

“But I can’t do that if you’re trying to hide things from me when I’ve never hidden anything from you!” Azalea’s voice grew weak, choked-up. She stood in front of Caliban, eyes now glistening.  “You never had a problem talking to me before. And I’ve never had a problem listening. So why now?”

 “Because I’m scared, Aza!” The words forced themselves out of Caliban’s mouth. “I’m scared because I don’t understand what’s happening to me!”

“And I can find a way to help you understand it!” Azalea almost shouted. 

Eyes starting to burn, Caliban nearly yelled back, “Well, what if that leads to you being scared of me?!” 

Silence

The seconds dragged by, jeering at the two siblings. 

“Do you. . .” Azalea tried, a tidal wave of emotion crashing down on her features. “Do you not trust me anymore. . ?”

Caliban felt his heart sink. “N-no, no! I do trust you, I swear! You’re probably the only person I can ever trust!”

It’d been a miracle that she’d helped him clean up the mess.

It’d been a miracle that she hadn’t fled the house screaming.

It’d been a miracle that, after seeing him hunched over and covered in blood, she’d approached him and snapped him out of that daze.

“I’m sorry—I just—I-I-I can’t—!” Caliban hardly felt dull pain flaring in his knees as he collapsed onto the floor, tears pouring down his features. It took effort to feel Azalea wrap her arms around him, to feel himself hug her tightly. 

He could barely feel anything other than hunger.

His sister was right.

He had no choice.

“I liked it, Aza,” he confessed, his voice caught between a whisper and a sob. “I enjoyed what I did, and I’ve been starving ever since I did it! The taste was so good and it was everywhere and I’ve just been wanting more!”

And with that, Caliban waited. He waited for Azalea to turn pale. He waited for her to push herself away from him, to stand up and start running.

He waited for what felt like hours and hours.

But she never did any of those things. Instead, he saw her push her hair out of the way before she rested her head on his shoulder. Still embracing him, still drawing circles on his back. 

“. . .That’s not your fault,” Azalea finally murmured. “You had your reasons; we both know you did.” 

Even though his crying had tapered down into hiccuping, Caliban wasn’t sure how to answer. Relief flooded through him, of course, but it was still overshadowed by shock.

“We can figure this out,” Azalea promised, carefully pulling back to look her brother in the eyes. “You and me.”

Like him, her face was covered in tear stains. But Caliban didn’t see a single trace of disgust or anger or fear.

“You and me,” he echoed. 

The screaming keeps coiling inside his ears long after the thrashing eventually stops. . .

[distortedclouds]

Hi Clouds!

For Aruani writer ask game :3

1 2 3 5 7 10 11 12 14 16

You sure didn't hold back haha <3 Alright, let's do this

Share your favorite part of your latest fic

.... my latest fic was a PWP :|

BUT if we're gonna keep it PG, then it's got to be the first quarter where Annie asks explicitly for the baby

if not then that bit about Armin being super focused on doing it right but still not noticing that he's going extra hard everytime he looks at her

2. Share your favorite part of your first ever fic

That's gonna be Black Water! Almost at 130k I have a lot that I love about it, parts that I'm especially proud of. But I guess the first chapter will always have a special place in my heart, the before the last scene were Armin and Annie make up and make out in the kitchen

3. If you look back at your first fic compared to your last, what's changed?

If we're gonna be technical, the length of paragraphs. I feel like I've gotten more comfortable with words and how I can use them to describe settings and emotions, in particular. (Also i've gotten better at filth lol)

5. Write about Armin and Annie's first meeting! Could be in anon setting or any other AU

When it comes to aot, I'm in love with the canon the most. For Armin and Annie, I don't think it was a love-at-first-sight type of situation. I don't think they paid much attention to one another until their personalities started to show: Armin brave, determined, and intelligent, and Annie secretly a nice and sweet person

7. What was the inspiration behind your shortest fic?

Answered here

So I'll do my second shortest fic! ... which is also a PWP :| (DAMMIT ANNA!)

Nothing special about Talk your shit, just some good ol' brainrotting that got out of hand thanks to @moonspirit

10. Write about their first kiss! (could be in tweets, screenshots, etc)

I'm a firm believer that Annie kisses him first after waiting for forever for him to do it. It's very short and shy and dainty and just "a question" on the state of their relationship.

11. What annoys you the most about your own writing habits?

Answered here

I think that's my main qualm, everything else I can manage and is part of the overall joy and charm of writing

12. What's a trope you'd never write? why?

I have a lot that I'd find unpleasant to write, but one that comes to mind right now is infidelity. I'm here to write love stories at the end of the day, no matter how angsty and tragic the journey might be. I get that it's just storytelling and some people may be able to develop their characters well in that scenario, I'm just not interested and likely never will be

14. Tell us about a detail you wrote that nobody commented on

Answered here

Another detail... Can I say Annie's pregnancy scare? I know a lot of people said they weren't surprised by the poll I did a while ago, but considering they've been careful in all the other smut scenes in the fic, I thought it'd raise some flags

16. Share a WIP you're excited about

I don't think I have solid WIPs right now besides the final chapter of BW. but I AM excited about coming back to Slow and steady plus a couple of one-shot and two-shots rather than something full-blown. I'm especially excited to write a sick-fic, them eloping, some Armin-centric stuff, and maybe even explore the world of BW with side-fics and one-shots

[supergoopersworld]

This post assumes you know the basics by now Part 1.

Considering which is the most viewed video on his second channel, I'll assume that my fellow sickos are up to speed with the textbook definition of what a "this shit was meant to be private" type drama looks like, so we won't be delving on what even Tom was talking about. You see, the memories of early 2020 came back to me when people started accusing Flowergothic of SH after Quinton posted his response, hence why I finally decided to start sharing my knowledge.

So, Julia (Flowergothic) decided to leak her entire Discord chat logs almost a month ago just to prove her side of the story and she shared them in multiple file formats to prove they were the real deal. By then most people had moved on and the files are fucking massive so only a sicko would even bother. Well, I'm a sicko.

I will spoil you something important: nothing disproves Julia was into Quinton and the whole "she started stalking me and wanted me to rue the day" happened on Twitter so most of what his response centres around (rejecting her started it all) isn't disproved per se. However, Quinton did lie about other stuff and lucky for you I'm here to walk you through it.

In order to make this more digestible here's a blast from the past. Julia officially started complaining openly March 22, 2022.

Let's start by talking about a big scheduling conflict. Julia was in her last semester of uni when iBinged iCarly was made, in fact about 1/4 of her messages are school related yet she kept a steady stream of project updates and talked about her obligations.

On paper she was meant to get an editing reliever buddy that was never necessary because Julia cruised through her workload like a woman possessed.

She was accepted as an editor right of the bat and one of the first complaints by Quinton was that she took his guidelines "too literally". All of this you can see by scrolling the first few pages of the PDF file. Feedback from here on is largely on the technical side. At this point I want to touch two Quinton counterarguments:

She rushed things. She would have an edit back in 2 days, he would need 2 days to fix it.

So here's Quinton expressing dissatisfaction with Julia's pace and making sure to tell her she should take her time.

Sicko Fact #1: Did you notice the pace of release of the NSU miniseries slowed down dramatically after Flowergothic left?

Did you also noticed Quinton excerpted such a tight grip on the project both the project and project files had to be the same name so he could make additional tweaks to what was sent to him? She even ran copyright checks for him.

Julia agreed to her paycheck.

Not a lie, but that wasn't her complaint rather that she was paid less for more work. Bare in mind she is credited as the editor for Season 1 in iBinged iCarly and is the sole guest editor for The End of iCarly, in layman's terms, she was the one that arranged footage whenever Quinton wasn't on screen.

She was paid less for more work, that was her complaint. And had to negotiate a raise.

Considering how long this post is already I will cover the more notable aspect of this thing in the next post.

Here's the Drive link with the chat log files: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1b3-rLmMYK7EFMFsA4aNITLKgtH6ILWeB?pli=1

[space-arts]

Another few characters for the fake farming game. Here we have the local woodworker and tool maker, along with some of the family that work in the villages orchard and also some sisters who work at the family owned bar. If you want to either buy or craft tools or certain items, you'll be going to the woodworkers shop! Seeds and fruit can be bought at the orchard, and you can also buy certain types of trees and the like from there too. Although you'll be too young to drink at first, you can still work part time at the bar during the day to set things up and when you are old enough you can work a shift and even buy alcohol too! You can also buy and trade items like wheat from the bar owners, plus if you have enough of certain items you can use their kegs? (idk enough about alcohol to know what the things you make beer and the like with are called lol) to make your own drinks! If you make enough you can buy or build your own for your farm too!

Orin is a human woodworker, he makes the tools you'd use in game and also makes building materials for your farmhouse. He's a hard worker, but always down to hang out. He helps you at the start of the game with giving some spare tools and materials for you to get started and to repair your farmhouse, and if you are willing to be patient and work with him quite a lot you'll slowly build feelings up until you can date! Slow and steady with him is how it goes.

Miller is (for now unless I consider a change) a human who's worked under Orin as an apprentice for a few years now. They've always been interested in tools and tinkering, and as Orin does both woodworking and tool making it was pretty natural for them to work with Orin eventually. Orin doesn't mind, being able to focus more on woodworking while Miller takes over the tools helps a lot! Miller is a bit quiet and withdrawn when you first meet, but once getting to know them they open up and can be quite the chatter box! Orin knows that well that's for sure. When you first meet Miller is quiet and mostly talks about what tools you'll want to get you started, but as you spend more time together and get to know one another feelings will slowly go up. They are like a mini Orin, where slow and steady is the key to unlocking dating, it's just a bit less slow cause again, mini Orin.

Cerise and Fraser are twins, they have 5 siblings and work alongside their parents on their Orchard. I'm not sure what race they are, they just have four arms lol. Makes quick work of berry picking that's for sure! Cerise is a very bubbly and chatty girl, and although she's a hard worker when she needs to be, it's not uncommon to see her busier chatting away with others than with her chores on the orchard. Fraser is the opposite, quite laid back and chill. The one thing he has in common is that he also works hard when needed but if not? Catch him by a tree on the outskirts of the orchard taking a nap. In order to date one of the twins you have to have a good relationship with their younger siblings and visit them when they're slacking off... aaand maybe helping them when they need to hurry and get their chores done!

Barley and Teff are human sisters who work part time at their parents Rye and Hops bar. Barley has a more bubbly and outgoing personality, and Teff is a bit more laid back and grumpy. The two mostly get along, every now and again they have their spats but they make up quite quickly. They like the twins a lot and frequently hang out with them. The girls are considering if they want to save up for college outside of the village or not. You're introduced to them by Cerise and Fraser, and although you're not allowed to drink alcohol you're still welcome in the bar before service starts. You can choose to help the bar out by bringing wheat and fruits to make drinks or to help pre-prepare for service. In order to get close enough to start dating you have to help them through a sisterly spat that will last a little while. You have to get involved enough by talking to each of them and others like Cerise and Fraser to know what's going on and help to solve it. By showing interest and that you care enough to help your hearts will go up and you can start a dating route from there.

Orin often works with the twins and their family, in combination with Azielle and her growing magic! There's certain trees planted that are able to be harvested and then cut down fairly quickly when growing magic works its wonders. Down the line if you build lots you can choose the types of trees you want to be planted and expand that area so you can get more wood!

[ujunxverse]

hello viv! i doubt you remember me, but a couple years back i sent a lengthy ask to you upon reading 14 steps to a better you (angsty teen, lighthouse analogy person??? if that helps). if you do recognize me, i apologize for such a delayed response. when i first got notice of your reply i was eager to write back right away, but i felt bad to do so. i spoke of how your story had such an influence that it made me want to get back up again, but at the time i had not made much progress that i would have been satisfied to report. i wanted to talk to you as, well, a better me. 

i believe i was 16 back then, i’m 18 now and finishing up my first year of university soon. i’ve achieved and experienced a lot that junior year me would have not even dreamt of. i know i am capable of more, but considering what my state was previously, i'm glad i'm stable enough to establish such a foundation for my “adult” self. it's not a constant feeling yet, but it's a slow and steady improvement. i cannot stress how thankful i am for you and your kind words that motivated me, viv.

honestly, i think about you and your writing more than i expected. as far as i can tell, you are someone who has such immense love and care for your craft. despite having only read 2-3 of your works, your words and passion have lived subconsciously in me for years. while i do enjoy reading, i have not really read many stories in my life so it may not mean much coming from me, but to this day 14 steps is still one of the most impactful pieces of work i’ve had the pleasure of consuming. i sincerely do wish that your efforts always receive the amount of appreciation they deserve. 

your pinned post… perhaps i should be sad that you privated your previous stories, but i think i’m more proud than anything. last i recall you had plans of doing so earlier. i am glad you know your worth and are interacting with an audience who can recognize that. also if i am not mistaken, you had a magazine right? i’m sorry but i forgot its name, if you do get the time to see this could you please share the blog? i would love to support in any way that i can! i remember there was a categorization of genres into seasons which was such a beautiful concept, i hope the magazine is flourishing.

how have you been? i really hope you are doing okay and taking care in the midst of your busy life. until the next time i talk to you, i pray my admiration and support reaches you through telepathic signals. best of luck with everything!!!!!

hey anon !! sorry for getting back to you so late. i'm trying to remember, but frankly, it's been like two whole years since 14 steps initially came out on the blr back in orpheyeux, so i can't really remember much. i hope you don't take offense to this, because i'm normally the type to remember things with a photographic memory. i think a part of it, despite how nice the community i've crafted as orpheyeux was, is the fact that there were some bad things that happened in my time there, and having my work plagiarized here left a bitter taste in my mouth that tanked any form of sentiment i had for this site and my works being published here. i do remember an ask saying they had no place to comment on 14 steps as someone with a lack of experience in life, but it could be someone else.

first off, before getting into my full response, i'd like to say thank you for reaching out. it's always nice to have someone come into my inbox and tell me my work and my words had a profound effect on the trajectory of their life, and seeing that 14 steps, too, was something i wrote when i wanted something to change in my life and the stagnancy i felt, it gives me solace that, as cheesy as this sounds, i'm not the only one going through some form of individual crisis. writing has always allowed me to channel my thoughts and my feelings about whatever emotion i was going through, and i'm extremely happy that it had reached you and affected you in one way or another. it wasn't my initial aim when i wrote 14 steps, but seeing as so many readers have had their lives altered or at least learned something from jake and mc's journey, i can say i'm in some ways proud of what 14 steps had accomplished.

it's good to hear that you're doing well !! i know adolescence can be a difficult time to navigate as i've gone through many ups and downs as a teenager myself, but one thing i would say is that it gets better with time, even if things do get harder and more challenging. when i wrote 14 steps, i was still in the middle of my second year at university fresh out of the pandemic, and now, i'm due to graduate university in the summer and have been offered a spot to do my masters. creative writing had become something that i put in the backburner as i gear up to work on my research interests, and i think it will stay that way for a while given the reading and writing intensive labor required to complete a masters let alone consider a career in academia. though i rarely get praise for any of my works, i think 14 steps left a mark huge enough to have people such as yourself coming back to my now defunct blog and pseudonyms to thank me, and that's more than enough praise and appreciation to me. there's an odd, almost humane experience of wanting to be remembered, and in a sense, this tiny, niche space where my work lives on is good enough to me.

i've watched frieren recently and it completely changed my views in life, where i now believe it's better to live mundanely but with content than continue chasing after accomplishments and success, because in a sense, what you accomplish for yourself is already good enough. and good enough is all you need to keep yourself satisfied. if i'm being honest, part of why i had to let go of orpheyeux was 1) the fandom being toxic but also 2) because it was getting to my head. the statistics, likes, reblogs, praise—all of it was getting to my head and it was getting too difficult for me to keep up. i wanted to write more, but i was afraid i would let my growing audience down because my ideas were not romantic or something that had the same effect as 14 steps or welcome, which was two of the works that gained explosive popularity at the time. despite this, though, it's good to reconnect, and once again, i'm happy you reached out, truly.

yes, you're right. i've been meaning to leave for quite some time now, and i've decided to completely move to ao3. i think the lack of aesthetics has made it a bit better for me to focus my energy on writing alone, because writing on tumblr made me very conscious about banner art/design etc. and yes, indigo seasons was an old project that's now unfortunately defunct, and i do run a music magazine irl but i would like to keep my real identity separate from what i do here, if that's okay with you. since i'm graduating, i'm also stepping down from my two-year tenure as co-editor-in-chief, but if you're curious to see more of my works for the music magazine (to be honest, it's not creative writing at all, just op-eds and show reviews), then i would love to reach out privately and show you our magazine.

your words have certainly reached me the way 14 steps have reached you, and messages like these keep me wanting to write a lot, knowing that there are people out there who truly feel anything from the things i've put out. apart from graduating and preparing for grad school, nothing's going on in my life. i have a pretty stable part-time job and i plan to do an internship, and i've been thinking about my own 14 steps ahead of time.

how have you been? i hope you're doing well too, and do reach out whenever you can if you need someone to talk to. i'll always be here despite a hectic schedule, and i do enjoy long conversations such as this one.

best regards,

vivian.

[plush-rabbit]

Coffee and Fated Tragedies

Something cute about The Spot or something, but like before he became The Spot. Maybe I'll do something about him and his holes later

Word Count: 5K

A/N: I need him, like carnally. There’s like nothing about him and I need to get this off my chest before I like combust so¯\_(ツ)_/¯

-

You stand near a water cooler, watching the bubbles float to the top. Your cup has been empty for the past minute, and you consider taking the rest of your break outside. The fluorescent lights are making it difficult to stay awake, and the sterile air at Alchemax is burning your eyes. 

With a sigh, you reason to yourself that the short trip to the parking lot would waste the remainder of your break, and you’d have to walk back to your desk by the time you even stepped near the doors. You turn your head, and watch as a scientist turns the corner, taking slow and careful steps to make sure the obnoxious amount of files that he’s holding doesn’t tip over.

He slows down enough, taking a pause next to the water cooler, and with a peek around the files he spots you looking at the files with wide eyes. There’s a certain look in his eyes that has your neck burning.

“Um-” you clear your throat, placing the empty cup of water in the trash- “do you need any help?” 

His eyes scan you, giving you a quick run down, suspicion twisted into his features. “It’s fine- I'm fine,” he snaps, holding the file just a bit tighter, almost defensively. And as if the world were against him, the top half of the stack nearly spills over, before you hold onto it, steadying the stack once more. The tips of his ears flush into a deep hue of red, and you smile at him nervously. 

“I’m on my break,” you tell him. “It wouldn’t be a bother. Plus, I’m sure you would much prefer for the files to be in order rather than all er- out of order,” you reason. 

His eyes dart around the room, before finally letting out a sigh. “If you wouldn’t mind, then yes. I’d appreciate the help,” he says slowly, as if still can’t believe that he’s allowing someone else to hold such important paperwork. “Please and thank you,” he mumbles.

You smile, nodding your head, quickly grabbing halfway through the stack and holding it firmly in your hands. Having the files fall after offering assistance is the last thing that you need- especially after the scientist had such a tone in his voice.

Words stay stuck in your throat as you follow behind him without a sound. You’re sure you should be talking to him, but he isn't making conversation either. Plus, you aren’t entirely sure what you would talk to him about. The weather? You only felt it when you clocked in in the morning. Lunch? No, you’ve heard around that most scientists don’t even take their lunch these days- too busy with whatever has been going on these days. Your mouth pulls into a thin line. Truth be told, you want to ask about the files- you’re positive that it has something to do with whatever has ad the building in such a buzz. But you doubt he’d even tell you. 

“I apologize for making you waste your break on this,” he mumbles, giving you a quick glance over his shoulder. He makes eye contact with you briefly before he looks forward once again.

“Huh? Oh! That’s fine. It’s no worries, really. I was the one who offered after all,” you say hurriedly. He huffs and silence befalls the both of you once more, but you’re much too eager now after his words. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but where are we delivering them to?”

“Dr. Octavius’s office. She said that she needs to review the recent ana-” he stops short and he straightens his back, clearing his throat- “experiment.”

“Oh,” you say. You don’t have the luxury of knowing the inner workings, and a part of you wishes that you did. You always were a bit of the nosey type. “Are you part of those experiments as well, um- I’m sorry I don’t believe that I asked for your name.”

“Johnathan. Ohnn. Dr. Ohnn,” he says, stumbling over his words.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Dr. Ohnn,” you say with a smile, stopping just behind him when he turns his head. 

“And you are?” There’s a tense layer laced into his words, but when you answer, he smiles slowly and nods to himself. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he mumbles. 

-

It's only been a few days since your encounter with the scientist and maybe it's because you've finally noticed him, that you notice him more and more. 

You see him in the cafeteria, surrounded by other scientists.

In the hallway, carrying a much more manageable stack of files that asking if he needs assistance would probably be offensive.

You see him peering into the different break rooms located on each floor, locking eyes with you for a moment, before pouring himself a cup of coffee.

He lingers in doorways, looking around and lifting his chin to peer over the crowd, trying to find someone. Sometimes, you’ll catch his eye and when you do, he looks away quickly and walks away.

A part of you thinks that maybe he’s waiting for you to approach him, but you can’t be too sure on that assumption. It is a nice thought to have though.��

It isn’t until your coworkers grab your bicep and whisper in your ear at how convenient it is that Dr. Ohnn appears where you are. There’s a smile that stretches across their face, and for a moment, you play along that the doctor might be interested in you. 

“Oh yeah, the cute and stalkerish scientist,” you say with a smile, placing a hand over your chest. “What a catch,” you sigh, rolling your eyes at the fits of giggles. 

Truth be told, you wouldn’t mind having said cute and stalkerish scientist be fond of you, but it probably isn’t that. It’s a nice thought to have, but you don’t fester on it for too long. He’s a scientist- one of the important ones around here, and you’re simply here for your paycheck and the benefits. 

-

You sit at your desk, typing and retyping emails, answering calls, and sneakily going on your phone when you can. For a moment, you think to yourself that maybe you should quit- live in the middle of nowhere, tough it out, but then your coworker drops off a pastry at the edge of your desk with a hasty “you’re welcome” and when taking a bite, the idea of living without the sweet baked good. 

A shadow crosses over your desk, and there’s a soft ‘click’ sound and you look up to see a cup of coffee placed on your desk, and over it stands the scientist who’s been not-so-secretly searching for you.

“Hello,” he greets you, his tongue tripping over your name. “I was wondering if you wanted a cup of coffee.” There’s a fiddly tone laced into his words, and it makes you smile.

He certainly is cute. 

“Hello Dr. Ohnn,” you greet. “Thanks for the coffee.” You grab the cup, and peer inside the cup. It’s half full. You glance up at him. “I don’t suppose you brought creamer or anything like that with you?” 

You see the apple in his throat bob as he gulps. “No,” he says, almost ashamed. “I uh- I didn’t know how you liked it and thought to play it safe with black. I apologize.”

“Would you like to walk with me to the breakroom?” You offer, standing up and grabbing at the cup. You grab at a napkin and cover the pastry, before taking a step away from your desk.

Instantaneously, he perks up. He smiles at you, taking a step back to allow you to walk with him. His forefinger and thumb pinch at the leg of his glasses, adjusting them so they sit properly on his face.

The walk is short, only light conversation about the weather and how the day has been going so far fills the air.

Thankfully, the break room is empty. You don’t think that Dr. Ohnn would like an audience when he’s with you.

You walk to the counter, and grab a pack of creamer and sugar. The dark coffee turns to a lighter version of itself. 

“So-” Dr. Ohnn rushes to your side when you start to speak- “what made you bring me a cup of coffee?” You stir in the contents and bring the rim of the cup to your lips, giving him the chance to speak.

“I wanted-” he trails off, and turns his head- “I just thought it would be nice to repay you. After you helped me with the files the other day.”

A smile graces your lips and he returns it, before looking away and clearing his throat. “Well thank you for the coffee, Dr. Ohnn. It was much appreciated.” 

“Johnathan,” he corrects. You tilt your head, confusion scrunching your brows. “You can call me Johnathan.”

“Oh,” you chirp. And realization dawns on you, as you smile. “Okay then. Thank you for the coffee, Johnathan.”

He nods curtly. “I just apologize that it wasn’t anything better than the break room coffee. I made sure to brew a fresh batch.” He shifts his weight nervously on each foot. “I’d have brought you some fancy coffee, or taken you somewhere but-” his face turns into a deep hue, and he pulls along the collar of his shirt. “I uh-  didn’t know your schedule or if you’d even want to go.” He lets the end of the sentence trail off into a rushed slur of words.

You dig your nails into the cup as the realization of what he wanted to do dawns on you.

The cup is placed down, and suddenly the room feels hot. “Oh! Really?” You unconsciously lean towards him, and he nods, looking away from you. "I’m flattered.” You can feel the tips of your ears burn. “I mean, if you’re not too busy after the end of the day, I’d love to get a cup of coffee with you.” You bite the inside of your cheeks before taking a risk. “Or we can get a bite to eat? Whatever you prefer of course.”

“Really?” He asks, a smile stretching across his face. “I’d love to do that. Either. We can definitely get something to eat.” 

“That’s great!” You exclaim, clapping your hands together. But you immediately retract. “Ah. I usually take the train to work, so if we can get something maybe close by? Like walking distance or-”

“I have a car,” he rushes. Your eyes widen and he straightens himself. “I can take us wherever you want to go. I don’t mind. I can drop you off at the station or at your home. Wherever you’d like.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” You ask, nerves making your stomach twist and turn.

“Not at all.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t mind. Honest.”

Nodding your head, you smile. “Okay,” you tell him. “If you’re sure you wouldn’t mind, then we can go to whatever restaurant- so long as you pick it.”

“Okay,” he says, smiling widely at you. “I’ll meet you at your desk, after I clock out,” he says confidently, before smiling a bit more softly. “Is that alright with you?”

“It’s alright with me,” you confirm.

“Great. It’s a date.” There’s worry laced into his words at his sentence, and you can't help the grin that grows.

“It’s a date.” He smiles when you agree with him. You reach your hand over, pausing and about to retract. With his eyes on you, you decide to commit. You reach over and grab his hand, giving it a soft squeeze. “I’ll see you later, Johnathan.” You give him another smile, before you wave goodbye, walking back to your desk with the coffee in your hand.

-

He sits down in front of you. After the rush of Spider-man- Spider-men, he reminds you- the building is in a panicked state. You’ve found some place to rest where the alarmed employees won’t peek through.

Your thumb ghosts over the red spot where the bagel had hit Johnthan. You click your tongue, frowning, and run your hand through his hair.

“Sorry about messing up your hair,” you mumble, running your fingers through the strands.

He shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He looks up, and your hands follow, curving down from the top of his head, down to cup his face. “Bagel had already messed it up.” He looks away from you, face growing warm under your palms.

“You took a hard hit.” He looks back down and you return to the top of his head, pinching away at any crumbs. “I forgot how strong Spider-man is.”

“Was,” he corrects.

You frown. “Is he not Spider-man?”

He murmurs something under his breath that you are unable to hear. “Not ours. It’s what I’m so busy with.” You choose not to respond, and he takes it as an invitation to continue further. “You saw me get hit with a bagel,” he groans. You smile softly even if he can’t see it.

You want to press further about whatever it is that he’s working on and why there are two Spider-men, but you know that it isn’t the time for that. You gulp and try to fix his hair, the once red spot, growing faint. Your mouth pulls into a thin line, and you take in a breath. 

With his head still down, you return to cup his face, lifting him up slightly. He turns his head, his nose and mouth pressing against your palm. You smile at him, and lower yourself, pressing a chaste kiss against the spot. His face flames up once more.

“I’m just happy it was a bagel and not an apple,” you tell him. “Come on,” you tell him, reaching down to grab at his hand, “I’m sure one of us is being looked for.” He squeezes your hand, and follows you quietly.

-

You sit beside him, the car playing a song from your playlist, and the air conditioner blowing a nice cool breeze to combat the warm air that is outside. Your legs are tucked underneath you, the drinks dotted in condensation as the two of you eat inside the car. 

Rain starts to pitter patter against the windshield and you turn your head to watch the drops collect. 

You turn back to Johnathan, watching as he eats his fries. He raises his brows at you. “Sorry to make you waste your gas,” you say, feeling just a bit bad about it, but not enough to lose your appetite. 

He shakes his head, quickly grabbing at your drink and taking a sip. You smile when he realizes that he grabbed the wrong drink. “No, no,” he comforts. “I like being with you. This is fine. Plus as a scientist, the pay is fine. As long as I have access to my bank account, I’m fine. There’s no need to worry about that type of stuff.” He reaches for your drink again, stopping short and sending you an apologetic smile, before grabbing at his own. He bites the tip of his straw, and takes a small sip before letting go. “If anything, I’m sorry that I took a drink from your soda.”

The rain collects, a storm furthering on, and you think you hear thunder somewhere. You two have flirted enough, been on enough dates to classify yourselves as “seeing each other” - whatever that means- when people ask, that it seems fine to take drinks from each other's straws. You know that what he did is an indirect kiss and you wonder if he knows that. 

You reach over, cupping your hands over his and tilting the drink towards you. You look at him, before returning your gaze to the drink and place your lips over the straw, taking a small sip. The taste of his drink rests heavy on your tongue, and you want more of it. 

“Now we’re even,” you say softly, letting go of his drink and returning to your side of the car.

His face flushes into a dark color, and his lips are parted open.

There’s a realization far off into your mind that he did realize what just transpired between the two of you and a soda.

Johnathan sets the drink down and adjusts his glasses, peering out the windshield where the rain washes down in waves. He turns back to you and reaches past the boundary that are the cupholders. His hands are warm as they cup your face, one reaches around, fingers curved over the back of your head, and the other holds you gently, letting you pull away if you were unsure about this, but you lean towards him.

Your heart beats against your chest, and you think that it’s going to bruise you, leave you battered and spill out, a bloody mess over his car. 

You’d really have to apologize then. 

The beating doesn’t stop- not when he’s pressing closer to you. It goes on, drumming inside of you, erratic and following the heaviness of the raindrops. It goes on as he kisses you, hands fumbling to keep the drinks steady when he pushes himself too close to you. He kisses fiercely, and desperately. His glasses press against your face, and you grab onto his shirt, twisting the fabric

The kiss deepens, and he pulls away for a breath of air, gasping for it as he presses pecks against the corner of your mouth. The cups be damned. You press yourself against him, your hands flat against his chest as you push him back, clambering across to sit on his lap.

His hands find themselves at your hips, and yours rest over his neck. He leans into your touch, and there’s a loud honk. You both startle, but he keeps kissing you, a hand leaving you to fumble with the seat. 

Thunder booms in the sky, and he bunches your shirt in his hand. 

The seat shoves back with full force, and you break away. You stare at each other with wide eyes, and you’re the first one laughing, wrapping your arms around him and giggling into his neck. Your heart still beats with a heavy pitter-patter. His laugh echoes in the car, and he holds you tightly. 

“I like your laugh,” you mumble into his neck. You press a kiss against him, and when you nuzzle into him, you can feel his pulse quicken.

“I like you,” he says tenderly. “A lot.”

You pull away, and his hands slip underneath your shirt, his hands burn against your skin as he holds your waist. “I like you a lot too.” You press a kiss against him. “Do you want to come back to my place?” Your hands move to cup his chest. “I’ll make it worth your while,” you tease, kissing along his jaw. Underneath you, he stiffens and you smile. “How ‘bout it Dr. Ohnn?” You press yourself against him, giving a soft roll of your hips. “Wanna continue this back at my place?” You fix his glasses, and smile as he stares at you with heavy-lidded eyes with  pupils blown-out.

“Fuck,” he breathes out. “I’d-” and as if the universe were against the idea itself, his phone begins to ring. Quickly, you and him search for the phone, and just as abundantly as the tension had started, it ends. He grabs at his phone and clears his throat, giving you a smile before answering it. You can catch only snippets of the conversation, and you watch as his face falls, and he gives you a sad look. 

Disappointment makes your shoulders fall. Whatever was going to happen, isn’t. At least not tonight. Clumsily, and something a lot worse than the “walk of shame”, you move awkwardly off of him, careful to not touch the drinks, and to not hurt him. 

He finishes the conversation, just as you sit down. You turn to him, and wait for him to start. 

“I have to go. It’s about work,” he says pitifully. “I- I don’t know when- Maybe we can-” he stops himself short. “I’m sorry.” 

You smile, and close the gap between the two of you with another kiss. “‘T’s not your fault. Maybe we can pick this up again sometime.”

“Yeah?” He asks hopefully.

You nod. “Definitely.” You press another kiss against him. “I really do like you Johnathan.”

“And I really like you,” he mumbles, and your name sounds honeyed on his tongue. 

“Mind dropping me off at least?” You ask, not really looking forward to having to call for some taxi service of the sort.

“Of course,” he says. “Anything for you.”

-

There’s a tapping at your window. It’s soft at first, and you only noticed it due to the pattern behind it. You groan and turn over, grabbing at your phone and hiding under the covers. The screen is bright and blinds you for a moment before you read the time. 

The tapping at the window hurries and it’s far too late- or early depending how you look at it- to deal with whatever or whoever is behind the glass. You close your eyes, your stomach twisting into itself and hoping that after a few more knocks, whoever or whatever will just move on. 

Then it starts to bang, and you jump with a start, almost going to turn on your bedside lamp, but stopping yourself. Maybe you could trick whoever is behind the glass that you’re asleep or not home. 

You’re tempted to grab at the pocketknife that you have hidden somewhere in your bedside table. The knocking on your window grows relentless. Whoever is there is banging, and then it just stops. You hold your breath, slowly reaching your hand to grab at the knob to the drawer to blindly look for the knife while your gaze stays focused on the window. 

On the other side, the words are muffled, and soft, but you hear them. Your name is whispered again in a hushed tone, the knocking returning, begging for you to answer. Slowly, your hand returns to your side, and the bed creaks as you shift your weight. 

You recognize the voice. It’s him. 

“Johnathan?” You ask in a shaky voice, hoping that you’re right.

“Yes,” he says hurriedly. 

The blankets have twisted themselves around you, and you kick them off. As you shift and turn, the bed creaks. Light fills the room, a warm glow that has you wincing and moving towards the window.

“Give me a minute. Let me open the window.” Your hands fist at the curtain when he replies.

“No!” He shouts, and in a softer voice, he speaks again. “Don’t.”

Your hand returns to you, and you remember the rumor that was going on around Alchemax.

How Dr. Ohnn wasn’t- right. How he wasn’t human, or how he should have died. It was a joke around the office, as if whatever happened was humorous, but when someone asked, the joke died. 

He couldn’t be whatever it is that the others were describing him as.

“Johnathan?” You call out. He knocks against the window. “Are- You can come in. It’s okay,” you reassure him. 

“No,” he says again.

You frown, and fist your hands together, your nails digging into your palms. “Then I’m going to open the window.”

“Don’t.” He sounds scared.

“Johnathan.” Your voice is stern, at least that’s what you’re hoping for.

“This was a mistake,” he says. You’re sure that he’s talking to himself, but even so, you reply.

“You came here,” you hiss out, face burning with some type of emotion.

It’s silent, and you fear that he’s left. “I wasn’t thinking,” he says. “I just- I wanted to see you,” he mumbles.

Your shoulders slump. “I wanted to see you too.” It’s silent and you take a deep breath. “Please come in.” 

“Okay,” he finally concedes. Before you can make your way to open the window, his voice starts again. “But you don’t have to open the window. I can get in.”

A nervous laughter escapes your mouth before you can stop it. “Whatever you say.”

You look around, wondering what he’s going to do. Maybe he’ll walk through the door. Or appear in a vent. But then a black spot forms on the ceiling, and you watch as something white, and black spotted exits through the hole. And then all at once, a lump of whatever it was falls to your floor. 

It groans out in discomfort, and you watch as legs and arms straighten themselves out. Once upright, a man-shaped person- you aren’t entirely sure- is faced towards you. A black spot where a face should be stares at you.

The rumor was true. There’s a twisting in your stomach, and you yelp, pressing yourself against your headboard, and you immediately regret it, when he stiffens and moves closer to your bedroom door.

It’s Johnathan. 

He’s all skin and spots, standing far too tall in your bedroom.

“I’m sorry. I just- I wasn’t expecting-” you bite at your bottom lip- “spots. Do you-” You pause. Does he eat? Does he drink? He stands so awkwardly, shifting his weight, and it reminds you of him. It’s still him. “Do you want to sit down with me?” You pat the space next to you, the one on the bed that’s close to the wall. 

He must be feeling some type of way because he nods and walks over. He’s a mess of limbs, legs long and hands cup and twist at the bed sheets as he sits next to you. He still looks away from you. 

You missed him. You open your mouth to tell him just that, that you wanted to see him and were worried for him. 

“How have you been?” You bite the inside of your cheeks at the wrong words.

“What do you think?”

“I’ve missed you.” He looks at you, and you stare into the hole that place where his face once was. You wonder what expression he would make. You think he’d look surprised. “I quit Alchemax. There were cops and stuff and well thankfully I wasn’t a scientist so I was able to just leave. Cops still asked me some questions.”

“Where are you working now?”

“There’s this little library a few streets over-” you wave your hand in a vague direction- “pay’s all right, but I had some money saved up. I uh- might move. Get a smaller place, you know.”

“I think I’m not gonna have a place to live.”

“You can stay with me,” you say. “I’d like the company. You know, as long as you help pack and stuff. We- I can get your stuff from your place. You know, if the police haven’t taken anything as evidence.”

“Most of it has been taken.” He doesn’t explain further.

“I can get you some new clothes.” You peer at him, and you can’t help but just stare at him. “I’d uh- I’d have to measure you. Get you a scarf, or a hat. Maybe both,” you add.

“I can’t believe I’m in your bedroom and I look like this.”

You frown. “Yeah, well,” you trail off. You rest your head on a white part of him, your hand over his chest, fingertips just below a black spot. “I’m glad that you’re here. I was worried. I thought that- that something else had happened to you.”

“I’m sorry for making you worried.” You know that he means it.

“It’s okay.” You aren’t sure if you mean it. You worried yourself to tears. He grunts out a response, and you kiss at a white area on his shoulder. “Are you hungry?” You furrow your brows. “Can you eat?” 

“You wanna ask about the holes, right?” He says, and you nod. “Might as well get it out of the way,” he mutters.

“What are they?”

“Spots. I’m thinking about calling myself The Spot.” He turns to you, and you grab at a hand, rimming the edge of it with the pad of your forefinger. “What do you think?” He says your name, but stops short, when he realizes what you’re doing. “Oh.”

You pull away, and he grabs at your hand and brings it back. “I’m sorry, I just-”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Can you feel it?” You ask, returning to another spot.

He nods swiftly. “You can put your hand in it.” You look up at him and tilt your head curiously. “In my hole. You can put your hand in my hole.” You snort at the phrase, but take him up on his offer.

Your hand disappears, and you watch as it comes up on another spot of his body. You flex your hand, and it’s surreal, seeing it appear from somewhere else. 

“Woah,” you breathe out. “You’re so cool,” you mutter. 

“You think so?” He asks incredulously. 

“Mhm.” You nod slowly, pulling your hand partly out, watching as your fingers still peek out. “Super cool,” you mumble. You pull your hand out and you smile up at him. You turn your hand, seeing it fully intact, and you try to fight back a yawn, only to fail. “Are you tired?”

“I woke you up,” he says in a small voice.

“I’m glad that you did,” you say earnestly. “I’m happy that I got to see you.” You hold his hand in yours, and your fingertip goes along the white area of his body. “Do you want to spend the night?” You tighten your hand around his. “I want you to. I’d like you to get some rest.”

“You would?”

“Of course.”

“In your bed?”

You snort. “Of course, in my bed. It’d be fucked up if I gave you the couch or something.” You let go of his leg and slap his knee. “Come on, Johnathan. Get under the covers.” You grab at the furled up mess of blankets, straightening them over your body and his. He watches your every move, and keeps his face turned in your direction until the light clicks off and you can’t see him. You lay beside him, turning on your side, and resting your hand over his chest, careful to not let your hand dip into one of his holes. 

“Goodnight,” he says your name in a quiet voice, one of his hands clutching onto your forearm.

“Night Johnathan,” you whisper, pressing a kiss against him.