#this one was so fun i might make an actual fic out of it

[forest-hashira]

Naked in Osaka

hi friends! this is my submission for @pixelcafe-network's "challenge friday" that they do every other week! the prompt this week was a random song selected by shuffle, and my assigned song was "Naked In Manhattan" by Chappell Roan, and after a bit of debate (& some help from friends), i decided to go with shoko for this fic. it's a quick thing, but it was fun! i hope to write more for female characters in the future, and this was a good jumping off point 💜

read on ao3 | wc: ~2.6k | cw: gender neutral reader (no pronouns used, but implied fem reader based on song lyrics), alcohol consumption, making out, implied smut at the end (kinda?), implied first sapphic experience (thus the pride divider), shoko calls reader "cute", minor background stsg

“Please leave your message after the tone.” Beep.

“Hey Sho, I know you just landed, and I know you're probably busy, but I would love to see you, so call me when you can.” 

You sighed softly to yourself as you ended the call, tucking your cellphone into your pocket. It wasn’t exactly a surprise that you’d gotten Shoko’s voicemail – she’d been out of the country on a trip and had only just gotten back – but it was still a bit of a disappointment. You hadn’t been able to see her much since you’d graduated from Jujutsu High together, since you’d moved to Osaka just a few weeks later. She was good about returning your calls and texts, so you tried not to think about it too much.

Despite how infrequently you got to see your friend in person, she never really left your thoughts. In fact, you probably thought about her more than was normal. The two of you had been pretty close in school, spending a lot of your time together, especially when Gojo and Geto were off on missions or otherwise wrapped up in each other. You’d been friends with the boys too, of course, but your one on one time with Shoko was where you formed all your best memories of your school years. Around third year was when you realized your fondness for the other girl may have been more than just platonic, but you never allowed yourself to dwell on it or bring it up to Shoko, telling yourself it was no different than the way the boys felt or acted around each other, so there couldn’t be anything weird about it.

Then again, the boys had gone on to start dating after graduation, and last you’d heard they’d gotten engaged, so… Maybe it was worth revisiting those feelings again.

The sound of your phone ringing pulled you out of your thoughts, and when you saw Shoko’s contact picture – a slightly blurry selfie she’d sent you nearly a year ago while she was out getting drinks with her friends in Tokyo, her cheeks a little flushed and a soft smile tugging at her lips – on the screen, you felt your cheeks begin to burn, as if you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing tonight?” Shoko asked, and you couldn’t help but smile. Your conversations with her never really seemed to stop or start; instead, it was more like you’d been having one long conversation with her from the day you’d met.

“Nothing,” you told her, idly beginning to pace your room. “What’s up?”

“Figured I’d come see you if you were free. That okay?”

You bit your lip for a moment, suddenly feeling very flustered. “I-I, uh… Yeah! Yeah, that’s fine. That sounds great, actually.” It was obvious even to you that you were stumbling over your words, and you cringed slightly at how weird you sounded.

Shoko only chuckled quietly at you. “Careful,” she teased, “if you act too excited you might give me a bigger head than Gojo.”

That made you laugh. “As if that could ever happen.”

“You’re right,” she agreed, her words airy with laughter. “Does that udon place down the street from you still do carryout?”

“Yeah, as far as I know.”

“Cool. I’ll cover dinner if you’ll cover drinks.”

“Wine or sake?”

“Surprise me.”

She hung up without saying goodbye, though that wasn’t unusual. You glanced at the time, and though you knew you had a few hours before she’d be there even if she’d already been on the train when she called you, you already felt like you were running out of time for all the things you needed to do before she arrived. 

After a few moments of internal scrambling, you figured out a rough order of operations: popping into the liquor store to grab Shoko’s favorite wine, then a mad dash to make your apartment presentable, then finally a shower before she arrived. The trip to the store didn’t take very long, and you tucked the two bottles of wine you’d grabbed into your freezer to chill while you cleaned and got ready. 

Thankfully, your apartment wasn’t as much of a mess as you’d convinced yourself it was, so cleaning it didn’t take long at all, and you were able to hop in the shower within an hour of getting off the phone. The last thing you wanted was to smell when you saw your friend for the first time in over a year, and you knew you were sweating from nerves. It was ridiculous to be nervous about seeing her, you knew that, but this time felt different, somehow. Maybe it was because you’d been wondering earlier that day if you really did have feelings for Shoko.

Whatever the reason was, you were desperate not to smell like nervous sweats.

After thoroughly scrubbing yourself with your best-smelling body wash, you hurried to your bedroom to get dressed. Overwhelmed with options, you threw on some underwear and paced your room, feeling like a nervous teenager.

It’s just Shoko, you reminded yourself, sitting down on your rug. She’s not gonna care what you’re wearing as long as you’re wearing something. A soft groan escaped you then, and you flopped onto your back and covered your face with your hands.

Your pity party came to an abrupt end when your phone chimed. Pushing yourself up just enough to grab it from your bed, you saw a text from Shoko, letting you know her train was about to arrive, and that she’d be at your apartment in half an hour at most. 

The message made your heart flip in your chest. How long have I been laying here? How long was I in the shower?? Instead of letting her in on your internal panic, you shot back a simple “see you soon!” text, then leapt up from the floor, scrambling to find clothes that were comfortable but also somewhat presentable. Eventually you settled on a pair of pajama shorts and a loose t-shirt, then stepped into the bathroom to make sure your hair wasn’t a complete disaster.

You’d only just finished putting your hair out of your face in a way you were satisfied with when you heard a knock at the door. Heart skipping a beat again, you took a deep breath to steady yourself, then hurried to answer the door.

Shoko stood there with a small smile on her face, an overnight bag slung over her shoulder and the takeout in her other hand. “Long time no see,” she greeted, stepping inside as you moved aside. “Is it cool if I go change real quick?” She set the takeout on your table as she spoke, then turned to you and arched a brow slightly.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll get the drinks out and everything while you do that.”

Her smile widened the tiniest bit. “Perfect.”

She made her way to your bathroom with her overnight bag, and as she shut the door, you pulled a bottle of wine from the freezer and two glasses from the cabinet. They weren’t fancy, and they didn’t match, but you told yourself it was better than drinking out of plastic cups.

Once the glasses were out, you opened the bottle, pouring a fair amount into each of the glasses, though one had a bit more; Shoko’s tolerance had always been a bit higher than yours, so you were sure she would want to drink more than you did to make sure you had the same buzz. 

You had just started pulling the takeout from the bag when Shoko came back from getting changed, and your heart fluttered a bit when you saw her. She wore a tank top with a big picture of Gudetama in the middle and a pair of yellow shorts to match. It reminded you of the pajama sets Gojo had gotten everyone when you were in high school – Cinnamoroll for himself, Kuromi for Geto, Badtz-Maru for Shoko, and Keroppi for you – though you knew it wasn’t the same set from back then, since she wore a different character now. 

“You’re staring,” Shoko teased, bumping you lightly with her hip once she was standing beside you. “Do I really look that hot in my pajamas?”

Though her words left you feeling more than a little flustered, you just scoffed at her and rolled your eyes. “They remind me of the ones Gojo got us when we were in school, that’s all.” 

“He got me these ones, too,” she said with a small chuckle. “They were for my birthday last year.”

“Why’d he pick a different character than the one he picked when we were in school?”

“He said the penguin reminds him too much of Megumi now,” she said with a shrug, and you both laughed. You could see the resemblance too, though; both had the spiky black hair and the deadpan expression, and imagining Gojo telling the boy that nearly made you die laughing all over again, but you kept it to yourself for the moment.

Just as comfortable in your home as she was in her own, Shoko opened a few of your kitchen drawers, grabbing soup spoons and chopsticks for the both of you. “We should watch a movie while we eat.”

“What do you want to watch?” you asked curiously, carrying the takeout to your living room and setting it on your coffee table.

“What was that American movie we watched all the time in school?” she asked, following after you with the utensils and wine. “It was about those high school girls who wore pink.”

“Mean Girls?”

“Yeah, Mean Girls!” she grinned, setting everything down before sitting on the floor, gesturing for you to join her. “God, I don’t know how we never got sick of that movie.”

“Because Regina George was hot,” you replied without thinking about it.

The words drew a laugh from her, and she bumped you with her shoulder. “Glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

A small, relieved chuckle left you at her teasing words. “I’m sure we could stream it somewhere if you wanna watch it again.”

“Please, I could use a good throwback.” She took a long sip from her glass, then opened the lid on her bowl of udon.

With a nod, you grabbed the remote for your TV, sipping from your own glass as you flipped through various streaming services looking for the movie. Eventually you found it, not even caring that you had to pay to watch it; it was worth it to have a night in with your friend, especially when you knew it would make her laugh and smile more.

Once the movie had started, you finally got into your own food. You smiled when you saw that Shoko had gotten your order perfect without even asking. She’d memorized it in school, but it made butterflies flutter in your stomach a bit to know that she’d never forgotten it, even after so much time apart.

For the most part it was quiet as you watched the movie, only the soft sounds of occasional slurping and the faint clinging noise of glass on glass when Shoko topped up your wine glasses. Every once in a while, one of you would make a small comment or joke, or you’d quote the lines along with the movie before bursting out laughing. It felt like being back in school, huddled in one of your dorm beds, sharing drinks from a flask shoko had managed to sneak on campus.

At some point, you set your glass down after finishing the contents. It had been your second glass – or maybe your second? Shoko had topped you up enough times that it was hard to be sure – and was enough to have everything feeling a little fuzzy around the edges. Leaning back against your couch, you turned your head towards the other woman, smiling to yourself as you watched her, rather than the movie.

She’s so pretty… even prettier than when we were in school. When did she get so pretty?

“I’ve always been this pretty.”

Shoko’s words startled you a bit, and though it took your brain a moment to catch up, you realized she was responding to your thoughts. Only… you must have said all of them out loud, rather than just in your head. The realization had your face burning with embarrassment. “Oh my god, Sho, I—”

“It’s okay,” she assured you with a smile. She settled into the same position as you, turning to face you a bit. “‘M glad you think I’m pretty. Always thought you were cute, too.”

The whole world came to a screeching halt around you. “…You did?”

“Yeah,” she said easily, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Her words weren’t slurred, but you could see that her movements were loosened a bit from the wine. “Thought you knew that.”

“No, I… How would I have known? You never said anything.”

“I saw the way you looked at me. Thought you’d only look at me like that if you knew.”

You blinked, confused, and more than a little worried. “…How did I look at you?”

Her expression softened at that. “The same way I caught Gojo staring at Geto when Geto wasn’t looking, before they got together.”

The words sent a mixture of shame and hope swirling around your tipsy mind, and before you could really contemplate your next move, you heard yourself asking, “Can I kiss you?”

Shoko’s cheeks flushed a bit, and she nodded, shifting closer and wrapping her arm around your waist. Your eyes widened as she came into your space, and when you felt her breath on your lips, your own finally started cooperating with you again.

“I’ve never kissed a girl before.”

“I’ll teach you,” was Shoko’s only response before she kissed you. She was surprisingly warm, and it only took a second for your eyes to slip shut and for you to melt into her, returning her kiss eagerly. As she kissed you, everything else in the world faded away, the only sensation you were aware of was the feeling of her lips on yours.

It didn’t take long for her to press in closer, tilting her head a bit to deepen the kiss. Stumbling and a bit inexperienced, you did your best to move with her. She held you closer with the arm around your waist, her free hand coming up to cup your cheek, guiding your movements the tiniest bit. Time slowed and stretched out, the moment between you endless in the best possible way. You weren’t entirely sure when her tongue came into the mix, but next thing you knew you were parting your lips to let her in. 

A small sound escaped you as she deepened the kiss further, turning slightly to press you both into the couch a bit more. Still struggling to keep up because of the alcohol in your bloodstream, the movement threw you off a bit. Reluctantly, you pulled away for a moment, needing desperately to catch your breath. 

Shoko smiled down at you as you panted, faces only inches apart. “How was that for your first kiss with a girl?”

“I really wanna kiss you again.”

She laughed softly. “Is kissing all you wanna do tonight?” She arched a brow curiously, her thumb tracing your bottom lip lightly. 

“I don’t know how to do anything else,” you breathed, “but I'd love to learn.”

“Looks like I've got some teaching to do, then. Lesson one: kissing with tongue.” She leaned in again, capturing your lips in another passionate kiss. You were more than willing to let her take the lead, though; there was no one else you’d rather have teach you everything, anyways.

taglist: @mitsuristoleme @redlikerozez @oceaneyesinla @pixelcafe-network @peachsukii

@dr-runs-with-scissors @entirelysein-e @teddybeartoji @sugurei @whatthefucksatan 

@lu-dao-writes @roselleviennesstuff @hayatoseyepatch

join my taglist!

[snowmoonwrites]

Break Me Softly

Tokyo Debunker fic. Pairing: Kamurai Jin x MC/Reader

Smut, D/S, praise kink, got wholesome by the end, safewords, safe sane and consensual

It was one of the free nights that the academy allowed. Given that it was for a Halloween party that was organized off-campus with the Kamurai family’s money, it was near impossible not to allow students to attend. Aside from the academy it was also open for many more prestigious schools too, of course all participants were subjected to a thorough background check. No reason to put danger onto the general students’ life, or irritate the ghouls.

That’s how you found yourself in a, honestly, quite revealing dress which maybe could be said to resemble some witch outfit… but there was too little fabric for you to actually be sure about your assessment. Not like it mattered. The place is probably going to be reasonably dark to encourage students to dance. Maybe if you planned on bringing anyone back to your bed it would matter what exactly you are wearing. But, given that the only person you would want to bring back won’t be there, even though his family sponsors it… It really didn’t matter.

You have been in a relationship with the King of Ice for enough time to know that if Tohma didn’t physically force him out of his room, you will be left alone the whole night. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t the first it happened. You were a big girl.

That was what you said to yourself while drinking definitely non-alcoholic drinks and dancing with random people. It was quite a nice night. Then, over the shoulder of your dance partner, you saw the annoyed glint of icy-blue eyes drilling a hole into the boy. You didn’t even remember where he was from. Neither were you interested. But this. Oh, that dangerous glint in Kamurai Jin’s eyes. That started a fire in you. And you just loved to play with flames.

You let your hands caress the stranger’s shoulders as you leaned in closer, till their ear, little by little. Your body moved closer to his, pushing your breasts against his chest in your near-nothing clothing. Keeping up the eye-contact with Jin the whole time. In a blink he was next to you. You weren’t sure whether he used his sword, or he just walked really fast. Not that it mattered. In a second you were buried in his chest as he rumbled into your ear.

“We are going to my room.”

As usual, it was far from a request. Not like you cared in that moment. You were on fire, and the murderous gaze that he showed your dance partner only fanned the flames higher. In seconds you were back in his room, the chilly temperature not even registering on your heated skin. He sat on his bed, all nonchalant seeming now that he had you where he, but in reality you both wanted.

“Kneel” came the irrefutable order fueled by the sliver of skin contact left between your hands. 

You immediately dropped to your knees. Waiting for what he has planned for the night.

He looked at you, refraining from touching you for now.

“Was it fun?”

He didn’t have to elaborate. Your little scheme to set the fire of jealousy in him. Your little idea, which worked perfectly. You were actually pretty proud of yourself. It might have shown up on your face as he let out a chuckle.

“Shall I remind you who you belong to?” He didn’t wait for your answer as he reached out one elegant hand to make you look up at him. “How many do you deserve for this? One for each time that you touched him?  Answer honestly.” 

Your breath hitched. It was actually difficult to answer. Not because you didn’t know what he meant, but because you were so focused on Jin, you don’t even know how many times you touched that insignificant boy. You let his command wash over your memories, finding an acceptable answer for you.

“Twenty?”

His smirk got bigger as he let go of your chin.

“Get your upper half on the bed.” 

As you got into position, he lifted your skirt and let his fingers dig into your ass in a massaging manner to avoid causing serious harm. Once he was satisfied he got up from the bed.

“Count them out. Colour?”

“Green,” you breathed out. The second it was out of your mouth, his hand also came down in an arch onto one of  your cheeks. You yelped out, then remembering called out “One.”

With each slap you grew more conscious of the silence aside from your breathing and the sounds of the spanks. Jin didn’t say anything. As if he wasn’t even there. As you let yourself sink into the repetition, the burn, and the pleasure his absence was striking. He was never one to speak much, but he always let his presence known. This was punishment greater than ever.

By the tenth slap you were sobbing. Not from the pain. But from the culminating feelings. You couldn’t let yourself go like this. Stress coiled up in you as he refused to be more present. 

Another slap. “12”

You could feel yourself on the verge of panic. You couldn’t take this like this. As if it was someone else. If this went on you would lose yourself in a drop. But you were aware enough still.

“Yellow,” you cried enough. In the next second everything stopped and Jin sat on the bed in line of sight. Yellow: pause and discuss. He reached his hand towards you, not touching you yet. The ball was in your court now.

You grabbed his hand, letting him pull you onto his lap. You felt his straining erection but knew he wouldn’t do anything until you gave him consent for anything more than cuddling. He gently stroked your hair and back with one hand while the other rested on your hip. He waited until your breathing returned to normal before asking anything. 

“What went wrong?” Never one to mince his words. It was reassuring in itself. He didn’t sound angry. Not even a slight irritation in his words remained from the start of their evening.

“I… You weren’t there,” it was hard to put into words, the absence of him. You tried again, “You weren’t talking. I couldn’t see you. As if it could have been anyone else,” your eyebrows furrowed, you were still frustrated with not being able to convey it perfectly. His petting soothed you when he hummed in acknowledgement.

“Let’s change it up then princess, hmm?” He maneuvered you onto the bed completely, lying down with you. 

“How about I edge you three times for the remaining punishment and then fuck you till you beg me to stop?”

You felt blood rush two-ways in your body. Up to your cheeks at the idea, and southwards to reignite the sundering fire. You nodded your head silently.

“I need words baby.”

“Yes, sounds good. But, can you kiss me first?” You felt undeniably shy, hell he just spanked you, you were in the middle of talking about him driving you close to insanity with his magical hands and tongue and glorious dick. And here you are, shy about asking him for an innocent kiss.

“Good girl,” he praised you as he closed the gap between your lips. You let yourself melt into the kiss and enjoy the fluttering you felt at his praise. He knew he could make you putty in his hands with just a few praises. And he was right, you were so weak for them when they came out of his mouth.

The mouth that started to wander downwards, peppering kisses onto your neck while his hands unceremoniously ripped your dress from your body.

“HEY! I liked that dress,” you complained playfully.

“No, you didn’t. I’ll buy you better ones,” he answered nonchalantly before biting one of your nipples, making you yelp back the retort that you would have made just to be difficult. He smirked up at you, looking halfway to ridiculous with your nipple still in his mouth. His hand found your other breast and started playing with it just the way you liked it.

He alternated between gentle fondling and tweaking your nipple while he worked the other with his skillful mouth and tongue. You let out your voice to encourage his ministrations, knowing no one would hear you outside the room. One of your hands buried itself into his silky locks, pulling him as close as possible.

As his mouth traveled down, your flush reached towards him as well, not just your cheeks, down until your chest you had flushed due to his attention. When he reached his goal you twisted your free hand into the sheets. Oh how he knew just what to do to make you lose your mind.

He pulled down your panties, as if they had personally offended him. Immediately after he moved your leg to have more space. As he licked you in a long stripe you whined. This much stimuli, while feeling good, was nowhere near enough while in his bed. He chuckled at you, then flicked your clit before sucking on it. He alternated between fucking you on his tongue and playing with your clit until you were nearly sobbing with pleasure. But you knew it will get so much better and worse.

Just as you were close to reaching your peak. As your breathing became incredibly fast and moans left your mouth unrestrained.

“Jin… I’m close.”

You warned. And all touch ceased. You were left on the verge. Flexing your thighs to feel a little bit of relief, unsuccessfully. 

“One down. 2 more to go dear. Colour?” He caressed your cheek to get your attention.

“Green.” You smiled up at him. Even while being punished, like this you could never forget the love you hold for this man. And he never let you forget that he loves you too, you could always feel it in his gentle caresses like now, that let you calm down before he once again put an onslaught of pleasure onto you.

He pecked your lips as his fingers moved downwards. His mouth once again found your nipple while his fingers caressed you at first. His thumb circled your clit before one elegant, long finger got inserted into you. He pumped it experimentally a few times before adding another.

“So good for me,” he praised you while picking up the pace of his fingers. He crooked them just enough to hit your G spot in every inward thrust. When he also resumed playing with your clit, you knew this would not take long to get on the edge again. And you were right, just a few minutes later, or were they seconds, you grabbed his head to pull him up towards you. Just by a glance at you, he knew you were close again.

He once again stopped playing with you, but his fingers remained inside you, keeping you open. You whined and tried to move your hips to gain even the slightest friction that might send you over the edge. His other hand pinned you down, and you whined in frustration.

“You are doing great. One more and I will gladly fuck you until you come again and again,” he rasped into your ear, thrusting his clothed cock against your thighs once to let you know how much he wants you. He knew what his words can do to you. Even the slightest praise could make you hot and bothered for him.

And thus, once again, the second you calmed down a little, his fingers started moving in you again. His tongue started playing with your clit, intent on driving you as fast to your peak as possible,  just to stop before it once again. Thankfully, it was the last one. As you stopped before your peak again, you thought you were close to losing your sanity. You might have just pounced on Jin and rode him till he couldn’t cum more. Maybe tie his hands up too, while you were at it. Maybe another time, you thought as he stripped. As he positioned himself above you, you caressed him, showing your appreciation, your love. He kissed your palm as he slowly entered you, making sure not to overwhelm you at first.

When he sheathed himself fully into you he still waited for you to nudge him. He knew well he wasn’t one of the smallest guys, and that was also true to his nether regions. While you would sometimes enjoy the slight pain, today he instinctively knew it wasn’t one of those nights. Not after the misery he caused you accidentally.

When you had enough of waiting, you lifted your hips to thrust back into him. He immediately started thrusting into you slowly. So slowly it could have been described as torture. You whined at him and let your nails leave marks of your annoyance on his back.

“Want more?” He thrusted in with a bit more power.

“Please.”

“With pleasure,” he whispered to you as he picked up the pace.

You loved him like this, when he was close to losing his composure to pleasure, as he was thrusting into you, pulling you both under a wave of indescribable feeling. Verging on the line of love and pleasure. As he found your sweet spot again and pulled you closer and closer to the edge. When he reached down and started playing with your clit again, you gasped even louder than so far.

“Jin… I’m close… Can I?” You asked in between gasps. 

“Yeah, cum for me.” He deliberately aimed at your weak spots, urging you to fall over the edge.

With one last twist of his hips and a stronger stimulus to your clit your back arched as the orgasm rushed through you. Your cunt spasmed around him as he thrusted into you faster, fucking you through your orgasm.

“That’s my good girl.” You looked up at him, slightly oversensitive. He was close, you knew from the furrow of his brows as he tried to hold out a little more. You whined at his praise. You pulled him impossibly closer with your legs. Pulling him down in a kiss in the meanwhile.

“Cum in me, please,” you whispered into the kiss. Loud enough for him to hear over your mingled breaths.

“Fuck, you are gonna be the death of me baby,” he grunted as he pistoned into you, chasing his orgasm in your sensitive body. Pulling you close by your hips as he thrust one last time and let himself go in you. He was a sight in his orgasm. As his lips gaped just a tiny bit in a soft moan, as his eyes closed in pleasure. You were sure you could find no one who was more beautiful in this moment, not like you would go and search for someone else, when you were in his bed. You weren’t completely stupid.

When he came down his high he pulled out of you, making you groan softly from his absence. He kissed you before starting to get up.

“Good girl. Wait for me. I’m bringing a towel.” You nuzzled into his hand that caressed you, like a satisfied cat.

He came back promptly, with a damp towel in one of his hands, and a bottle of water in the other. He gently toweled you down before doing the same to himself. Then he gathered you in his arms, making you slowly gulp down mouthfuls of water. When you moved your head away from the bottle, nuzzling into his chest, he drank the remaining water before laying down and cuddling with you. Gently caressing you, he murmured praises to you.

“You did so great today. My good girl.” He kissed your forehead, your cheek, your lips with each praise. You sighed, content after the evening. Humming, you lifted your head to bring him into a kiss. A different one from the ones before, not passionate now, but loving and sleepy. The one people share just out of love, to express their feelings.

As you got comfortable against him, sleepiness came fast. Your eyelids became heavier with each passing second. Content, satisfied, happy, you let yourself murmur against his skin. 

“I love you Jin.”

“I love you too,” he murmured back, kissing your lips one last time. “Go to sleep.” He pulled you even closer, acting as your heater in the admittedly cold temperature of his dorm under the blankets.

That’s how you fell asleep that day. Held in his arms, warm, and loved.

[epically-ace-attorney]

*Intro Post ~ Welcome to the chaos!*

Hallo! This blog is an Ace Attorney AU using the musical EPIC! Canon is our bitch and we do as we please :)

The blog is joint run by @weltato (hi) and @the-ace-attorney-siren (formerly @burtrice1). Feel free to ask us anything about this AU in the inbox and not DMs - PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS IS A WIP AU AND IS CONSTANTLY BEING THOUGHT OUT!!

The "backstory" I suppose would be that Wel was watching a great guy on YouTube by the name of Mortius (you should check him out, he's cool) react to "We'll Be Fine" and "Love in Paradise" from the most recent saga released from EPIC as of writing this (20/09/2024) - The Wisdom Saga. Wel had also been binging through some Ace Attorney streams by The NyanCave (also really cool, you should check them out too) and had that on the brain at the same time. Then she noticed something interesting - Odysseus had been on Calypso's Island for seven years.

You wanna know who else had a seven year gap? Phoenix Wright.

So obviously, I go to burtrice1 and say:

And then this happens:

And everything came from there. Just imagine it: Phoenix on that cliff calling for Mia T^T

Anyway, we had some planning to do: there is currently a list of characters from The Ace Attorney Trilogy, Ace Attorney: Investigations 1 & 2 (we're using the fan translation names in this house), and Ace Attorney: Apollo Justice (because Wel hasn't finished Dual Destinies and hasn't seen Spirit of Justice yet) and what people from EPIC they're going in as.

*RULES OF THE BLOG!*

No spoilers for the games please! There will be people that see this blog with no idea about the Ace Attorney series and they'll want to find out themselves (also one mod hasn't finished the series yet).

No spoilers for EPIC! There will be people that see this blog with no idea what the craic is with EPIC and letting them experience the joy that is this musical is all the sweeter with no spoilers <3

As previously mentioned: game canon is our bitch and we do what we want with it, which means that if you see an inconsistency with ages or anything, no you don't ;p

To second that: we are fitting characters with roles we feel they fit the best in EPIC canon, so a villain from Ace Attorney might show up as a 'good guy' from EPIC - it's not because we've redeemed them, it's just that they fit the role nicely.

Please keep questions PG, there are minors that enjoy both Ace Attorney and EPIC and we'd like to keep this blog a safe space for everyone.

In the words of Ricky Potts: don't be a dick. We don't tolerate harassment of either the mods or anyone sending an ask into our inbox. Respect isn't hard, friend :)

If you've asked us a question and we haven't responded yet, please don't go into our personal inboxes or DMs to ask us about it - see the rule above. Both mods are busy people and do this purely for fun, so we'll get to your question when we see it. The timezone of this blog is GMT/BST depending on the time of year, so both mods could very well be asleep.

The canon of this AU follows with EPIC canon, which is NOT the actual Odyssey or Iliad. If you want to read those in your own time, feel free to.

Have fun! We want to share this with people to see your reactions and interact with other fans of the Ace Attorney games and EPIC: The Musical.

If you're excited about this blog, REBLOG OUR POSTS!! Reblogging is the lifeblood of Tumblr and can make or break a post. We want to reach as many people as possible with this silly little idea of ours.

If you want to write fics about our AU, please ask us first! Wel is a regular fic writer and she has some ideas floating around, so maybe let her finish those first before jumping in - but we love the enthusiasm! Thank you!

Fanart is awesome!! Please credit the idea to this blog and @ us in the post with the tag #epicallyaa, we'd love to see what you've done :D

This post will update with extra rules as and when needed, if we need to <3

*TAGS!*

#wel writes - this is for whenever Wel writes a fanfic about something. This is a personal tag from Wel, so if you want to see more of her work feel free to peruse that tag on her main Tumblr account. All the fics posted here will be specifically for this AU.

#siren art - this is for whenever the-ace-attorney-siren posts art to this blog. Again, any art posted here will be specifically for this AU.

#epicallyaa - this is a tag for us and others to use about our AU! If you post any fanart or fanfic about our AU, use this tag and @ this account too so that we can see your awesomeness :D

#wel answers - whenever Wel answers an ask

#the siren sings - whenever the-ace-attorney-siren answers an ask

Like the rules, more tags will be added as and when we feel we need some more.

Thanks for reading all of this!! This post is very important to read, so if you come in asking questions blind, we might just refer you to this post and ask you to try again :)

~ Wel & the-ace-attorney-siren

[jeanystillbeany]

BillFord Fic 3

yippee no pacing.

 “What do you mean the portal is destroyed?!”  The triangle sat atop a large throne made from the majority of Gravity Fall’s residents.  The lacky ticked nervously at Bill’s clear annoyance.  In fact, the whole Fearamid was silent in response to the demon’s rage.  

  “It-it was smashed-“ the green monster explained with a shudder.  His eyeballs were blackened with eight-balls as his pupils.  

  “Well thanks!  That’s exactly what I was- NOT asking for!  Details eight-ball.  Details.”  Bill Cipher seethed.  Eight-ball shook as he tried to explain without suffering from his ring-leader’s unhinged mood.  

  “We- m-me an-and Pyronica- we- we were g-going to move t-the portal here- like you said- but- but it- something smashed it.  N-nothing useful.  We-we haven’t found the creature-“

  “Get out.” Bill Cipher’s face darkened.  

  “Boss- look we-“

  “GET OUT.”  Eight-Ball was quick to rush out of the room as Bill’s typically yellow form turned a fiery red and twice its already exaggerated size.  

  After his henchman scampered out of the room, Bill let out a heavy sigh and laxed into his chair.  If he had temples he’d be rubbing them, but for now the space above his single haunting eyeball would do.  

  “Thirty years… thirty fucking years Stanford…”  Bill began talking amongst himself, “I waited.  I actually thought you weren’t dead!”  Bill’s voice breaks off into a cluster of unstable laughter.  The worst part of all this is that he knew it was his fault.  He pushed Ford.  He pushed him away.  He might as well have been the one to push him into that damn portal.  Ford was gone.  He always was.  That was it.  He has no one holding him back now.  Bill believed that the lack of anyone would push him forward.  He thought he’d be free… but if that were the case, then why does he feel so restrained?    He thought that if all connection to that nuisance was lost- he’d rather have the world than him.  Why is it the other way around?

  “FUCK!”  Bill yelled abruptly in frustration.  The world around him morphing with his emotions.  

  “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck- you stupid dumb- IDIOT!”  The demon groaned as he slumped back into his chair defeated.  Stanford was gone.  There was no denying that.  Cipher decided that it was time to stop throwing his little temper tantrum and cut himself off with a stubborn sigh.  

“I have living Pines to worry about. But first…”

  Bill snapped his fingers and two of his ‘friends’ popped into the room.  One of them looked like a pair of dentures with legs while the other was a pink woman with flaming clothes.  

  “Teeth, Pyronica.  I have a job for you two.  Go find the dumbass that destroyed the portal.  And make it pay.  Have fun!  -and I don’t want to hear that it’s even twitching!  Or I’ll be the one ‘having fun’.  Buy gold!  Bye!”  Bill didn’t give them a chance to respond as he teleported them to the remains of Ford’s lab with a maniacal laugh.  As soon as they were gone he ripped off his mask and groaned back into his chair again.  Or was that a sob?  He couldn’t tell anymore.  It’s not like it mattered anyway.  

  Sixer was gone.  

  And he was going to make everyone pay for it.  

~

  Sixer and Dipper conversed excitedly in the TV room.  It was as though they were two old friends reconnecting, even though they haven’t had much conversation until now.  The interaction began with Ford approaching Dipper about the modifications he made to the shield to keep Bill out.  Dipper explained that he found gnome hair to have a sort of repellency to unicorn hair- this caused the shield to nonchalantly cause the target to forget the shack was there. 

  “It actually ended up being surprisingly useful this far in!”  Dipper chirped, “it keeps us from getting any sort of Eye-Bat’s attention from up to 100 feet of the mystery shack.”  Ford nodded and began writing the new discoveries down in his journal while mumbling other theories.  Eventually the pair trailed off to talking about other topics and somehow got caught up on their favorite nerd game ‘Dungeons, Dungeons and more Dungeons’.  

  “Hey- if you’re up for it- I wouldn’t mind playing with you sometime.”  Ford grinned at his nephew.  

  “Yeah… after all this is hopefully over…” Dipper sighed.  

  “We must indulge in playing immediately!”  Ford claimed rising from his chair in enthusiasm.  Dipper was a little startled at the sudden attitude- yet appreciated the change from everyone else’s hopeless expressions.  While Dipper did seem to find some condolences in the gesture, fate planned on getting Ford back for his little scare anyway.  

  As Ford began to help Dipper search the shelves for their game, the door to the Mystery Shack suddenly slammed shut  rather clumsily.  Ford jumped in response and glared at the direction the door was in with a raised eyebrow.  

  The man took his curious expression with him for a moment as he paused his task and traveled to a nearby window.  Outside, he could easily distinguish where the barrier ended.  A trail of some of the survivors living inside the shack followed a certain Stanley pines out of the barrier.  

  “Stanley…” Ford muttered under his breath in warning as if the other could hear him.  

  “What is it?” Dipper asked curiously and followed Ford to the window.

   “Oh…” Dipper observed his Grunkle and his team leaving to get the supplies in the bunker.  

  “Does he even know where it is?  What if the shapeshifter is loose by now!”  Stanford sputtered.  Despite being much younger than the other twins, Dipper understood the feeling.  

  “You should go after him!  I can help too!”  Dipper said.  

  “No.  Absolutely not.  You are going to be staying in the shack where it’s safe.”  Ford commanded.  

  “C’mon!  Seriously?  I can do stuff too!  Why does Grenda get go then?!  She’s the same age!”  Dipper complained in response.  

  “I’m still your great-uncle Dipper.  We will play D, D and more D when I get back.”  Ford retreated from the window and began scouring around the shack for his coat- then realizing it was torn.  He grabbed all the items inside of it and placed them into his satchel.  In the meantime, Dipper followed him around like a lost puppy begging to come along on the adventure.  

  “Please Grunkle Ford!  I’ve been sitting around here for weeks!  Do you seriously expect me to just sit here?!”  Dipper pleaded.  

  “Yes.  Yes I do- now try and set our game up while I’m gone.”  And with that final sentence Ford left Dipper in the Mystery Shack.  

  Ford discreetly traveled behind the group set to the bunker.  He hid behind trees and trudged out of sight from his brother.  As the survivors and Stanford traveled, he noticed many familiar landmarks from the new Gravity Falls everyone was trapped in.  Weirdly enough, it seemed Stanley was leading everyone back to the lab.  Stanford supposed it wasn’t the dumbest idea.  The pure insanity of the state of the world has caused their usual surroundings to change immensely.  It was a decent idea to have a safe point in case someone got separated or they found the terrain has changed too greatly for them to find the bunker from memory.  It has only been a day and Ford found himself missing his now completely trashed lab.  After a few hours of walking, group finally made it to the lab.  The ghost of the mystery shack still stood atop of it.  The group decided to take a short break. 

  “I can’t believe boss did that?!  What’s up his ass today?”  

  “Yeah I know!  Seriously!  What’s so important about this dumb portal anyway?  We’re already out of that damned dimension.  I don’t see what’s so important about it.”  Everyone froze at the voices heard from the remains of the underground lab.  No one dared move a muscle as Wendy signed a few things to Stanley and everyone stayed silent.  For a moment all anyone could hear was sounds of Bill’s henchmen complaining while rummaging through debris.  Everyone began to slowly retreat away from the mystery shack silently- careful not to step on any sticks.  Ford observed with a clenched jaw, and he’d find five half-moons imprinted in his palm if he looked at his hands later.  One by one, each survivor made it out of the clearing and into the cover of the brambles.  The man still continued to stay in hiding until the final group member was out of sight.  

  Everyone was breathless as they silently waited for the monsters to leave the area.  It was quiet other than the loud clacking of metal from underground in the lab.  

  “Hey- where’d they go?”  A pre-teen boy emerged from the same direction the group and Ford had come from just minutes before.  He ignorantly stepped out into the clearing with a huff.  The entire group’s eyes swarmed the familiar voice.  Ford felt his hair stand on end at the tense atmosphere.  Ford began to sweat as Dipper carelessly walked away from all cover.  Wendy popped her head out from the bushes.  

  “Dipper!” Ford acknowledged the panicked look in her eyes as she frantically waved him over back towards the forest.  He also noticed Stan had poked his head out of the brush as well- attempting to aid Wendy in trying to get some sense of alarm into Dipper’s skull.  

  “Oh!  Hey Wendy!”  Dipper exclaimed- being too far away to accurately read her facial expressions.  Ford found himself among the two others that desperately tried to get Dipper to safety.  It was only about a minute when Ford realized the pace of Dipper’s understanding was much too slow for him to accurately comprehend the danger in time.  The boy’s newest uncle took note of the way his twin’s eyes widened in shock before scowling in disappointment as he revealed himself into the clearing.  

  “Hi Grunkle Ford!  Why are you all over there?”  The named Grunkle winced at his nephew’s volume as the noises in the bunker abruptly stopped followed by chattering.  

  “Did you hear something?”  

  “Yeah actually!  Almost sounded like one of those brats…” Ford grabbed Dipper’s arm and pulled him behind himself.  He carefully backed away in order to not make any noise.  He held his breath as he looked back at the distance between himself and the forest.  

  “Well, well well!  Look what we have here Pyronica!”  Ford’s attention darted to the voice that came from the teeth demon.  It then went to the named pink one who towered over him.    

  “Look, it’s the old man and his nephew!  Love the new look… didja… do something with your hair?”  The pink demon flicked the floof of his hair as he pushed himself further in front of Dipper.  

  “What do you say we do with ‘em?”  Teeth asked.  

  “I say, we feed it to the wretch that destroyed our best friend’s portal!”  Pyronica grinned- pinching Stanford’s cheek.  He glared as his hand slowly moved to his satchel.  

  “Aww… I wanted a few bites…”  Teeth said disappointed.  

  “Oh, I’m sure you can have your fair share-“ Pyronica cut herself off as she noticed Ford’s movements towards his bag, “oh!  That could’ve been bad now couldn’t it?” She gleamed as she tore Ford’s satchel off his shoulders and tossed it to the side.  Ford fell backwards- pushing Dipper aside and held his shoulder to lighten the impact.  

  “Hey!  You leave my Grunkle alone!”  Dipper exclaimed fiercely.  He sat up- but Ford held him back.  He gave his nephew’s shoulder a squeeze to signal to him to stop, but the fire in his relative raged on.  

  “Oh!  So we got ourselves a yapper!  How cute…” Pyronica said tipping Dipper’s hat as she leaned menacingly over the pair.  

  “I say we eat them now!”  Teeth jumped in.  

  “Oh- but Bill would be so much more pleased if we brought Stanley back… you know how much he despises him.”  Pyronica pointed out as she reached for Ford and Dipper.  

  “Hey!”  Everyone’s heads darted towards the new voice- shocked to be seeing double.  Stanley stood fiercely and moved in front of his brother and Dipper.  He had Ford’s bag draped over his shoulder and his brother’s gun pointed at the monsters.  

  “Is- is this just me?  Or am I a little crazy here?  I think I had too much Time Punch…” Teeth exclaimed.  He then got abruptly shot right on one of his front teeth.  

  “AHH A CAVITY!”  Teeth exclaimed taking shelter back in the lab.  

  “You stay away from my family.”  Stanley said sternly before pointing the gun at Pyronica who continued to look between the two.  She grumbled with her hands up and rolled her eyes.  

  “And what is that stupid little gun gonna do huh-“ Pyronica was caught off guard as a zap of an unknown blue energy zipped past her face- giving her a nasty burn on her cheek bone.  She hummed before snapping her fingers expecting the injury to heal immediately.  When she still noticed a burning sensation, she snapped again.  The pink demon began snapping repeatedly until realization finally got through her thick skull.  Pyronica huffed in defeat.  

  “Teeth!  We’re leaving these cowards.”  She growled before following teeth back into the abandoned lab.  A large force of pink energy shot out of the top.  Ford presumed this to be an indication of teleportation.  

  Stanley still stood there tense long after the demons retreated.  The gun was still pointed at the lab where the demons never reemerged.  Ford brushed himself off and helped Dipper up before placing a hand on his twin’s shoulder.  Stanley sighed before lowering the gun and standing there for a moment.  

  He slowly turned around and pulled Ford into a hug.  

  “See?  I told you!  I would’ve thought you remembered…”  Stanley mumbled.  Ford hugged his twin back- knowing exactly what he was referring to.  

  “What that you’re always right?”  Ford asked.  

  “Yeah,” Stanley pulled himself away, but firmly gripped Ford’s shoulders, “Now can someone tell explain to me what was going on inside of that stupid head of yours!  I told you to stay in the shack!  But then you not only go off but bring Dipper with you?!”  Stan glared at his brother. Ford opened his mouth to respond before Dipper cut in.  

  “…it’s my fault Grunkle Stan… Grunkle Ford told me to stay in the shack.  I followed him.”  He admitted with his eyes aimed at the floor.    Stanley let go of his brother’s shoulders and sighed.  

  “Hey Dipper… look at me…” Stan said in an earnest manner.  Dipper followed his instructions as his uncle put a hand on his shoulder.  

  “That was stupid,” his uncle said bluntly, “very, very, very, very stupid.”  Dipper awaited a second stanza to his Uncle’s statement but received none other than a sly ‘you too’ towards Ford.  Stanley gave Ford’s bag back to him and the gun (with slightly more hesitation and borderline begging to keep it).  The group emerged from the forest.  Wendy even came up and slapped her boss on the back in victory.  

  After that fiasco the resource retrieval team decided they needed a proper break.  They all sat down in a group and quietly chatted amongst each other, sipping water, and savoring rations.  Ford took to savoring the peace.  He leaned his back up against a tree as he began writing the recent events into his journal.  His knees propped the journal open sufficiently, tucked about a foot from his chest.  Dipper was huddled closely beside him, anxiously asking questions with the excitement of Mabel.  Eventually Ford caved in and stretched out his legs- putting the journal at a better angle for Dipper to see.  The boy quaffed the words  written as soon as he was given a chance.  As Dipper read, Ford ruffled through his bag.  

  “What are you looking for Grunkle Ford?”  Dipper peaked from the book for only a second.  

  “One moment Dipper… ah.  Here we are!”  Ford’s six fingered hand removed itself from the bag, holding out a second pen to Dipper.  The boy looked at it questioningly.  

  “Well, I wanted to write about our encounter just now.  I thought that maybe you could help.”  Stanford shrugged, still having the pen held out to Dipper.  The 13-year-old took it eagerly, looking up to Ford in admiration.  The Grunkle put the book between themselves- giving each other about a paragraph.  The first few sentences were messy trying to figure out some sort of system in journaling with twice as many people.  Though, they both figured it out just fine in the end.  

  Stanley sat by a tree across from them- nonchalantly eating a can of brown meat.  Ford couldn’t help but notice the occasional longing glances his brother stole from them.  Ford sighed with a fond smile before motioning for Dipper to pause when they got to retelling the events that just occurred.  

  “Is something wrong Grunkle Ford?”  Dipper asked stopping mid sentence.  

  “No, no Dipper.  In fact- everything is great.  Though… I thought that maybe the man of the hour should write his own part.”  Ford shrugged.  

  “Really?”  Dipper looked skeptical before shrugging, “Fine.” 

  Ford nodded satisfied before calling his brother, “Hey!  Stanley!”  He waved his brother over.  

  Stan perked up as soon as he heard his brother call him, but then immediately slouched again.  It was as though he wanted to suppress the smile that came from a feeling he thought he lost with his brother 31 years ago.  Stanley lazily sauntered over.  Though Ford could see the gleam in his eye whenever he chatted with his family.  

  “So what’d you nerds need?”  Stan sat down in front of them.  

  “Oh!  Grunkle Ford wants you to help us write an entry in his journal.”  Dipper exclaimed- sliding the book over to his other great-uncle.  

  Stanley’s eyes widened at the gesture and gave Ford a questioning look.  He never let him touch his work.  Stanley always thought it was because he believed that he’d mess it up somehow.  Ford only nodded in responds and handed Stanley a pen.  He grinned and began jotting where the other two left off.  

[wannabehockeygf]

Good Graces | Conor Garland

"With your favorite athlete, Shoot his shot every night, Want you every second, Don't need other guys."

request: "I was thinking of a fluffy fic between him and a fem!team medic who he is good friends with because of how often he ends up getting hurt, putting himself in the middle of scrums and everything. I know that's kind of just a general premise, but I wanted to leave it up to you where you want to take it from there :)" summary: two times conor wanted to kiss you, and one time you kissed him.

word count: 5.3k

pairing: conor garland x fem!reader

warnings: blood & injury

notes:

hiiii welcome & thanks for requesting. hope I fulfilled your wishes!

i don't know much about garland but I love making players divas so I inserted that here lmao :3

keep requesting new & different players guys!! i love doing it.

You signed your contract for your job with one goal in mind–don’t fall for a hockey player.

Pretty easy, right? Especially since, as a team medic, you largely dealt with them all sweaty, bloody, and generally in a state of chaos. Not attractive at all. Definitely not. Yet here you are, hovering over him again.

Conor Garland, number 8 on the ice and, in your opinion, number one in "most likely to get into a fight over nothing." You fold your arms as he limps into the med room, wearing a ridiculous grin despite the cut above his eyebrow. “That bad, huh?” he teases, his voice holding that familiar playful edge. He’s pretending to wince as he climbs onto the exam table, like it’s a whole ordeal for him.

You roll your eyes, but you’re already reaching for the gauze, your hands moving on autopilot. “You know, if you stopped fighting for five seconds, you might actually get through a game without needing stitches.”

He chuckles softly, but the sound is laced with something else. It’s subtle, but it’s there—a little too relaxed, too content, considering he just came off the ice. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You look up at him, raising an eyebrow, but the sight of him smiling, like he’s enjoying himself a little too much for someone who’s supposed to be injured, throws you off. He’s been doing this a lot lately, showing up with bruises and cuts that could’ve been avoided. You’d never say it out loud, but part of you suspects he’s getting into these scrums on purpose.

His eyes flicker to yours, just for a moment, before he quickly looks away, feigning a deep interest in the ceiling. “What?” you ask, crossing your arms again.

“Nothing,” he says, far too quickly.

Right. Sure.

You press the gauze to his eyebrow a little harder than necessary, and he winces, though you can’t tell if it’s real pain or exaggerated for your benefit. You narrow your eyes. “Stop squirming.”

He gives a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. There’s always this easy back-and-forth with him, like the two of you have fallen into some unspoken routine. You patch him up, and he finds new ways to annoy you, all with that same boyish grin on his face.

You finish dabbing at the cut, the soft pressure of the gauze soaking up the blood that’s already drying around the edges. As you work, the steady rhythm of your movements almost feels too comfortable, like this is the hundredth time you’ve patched him up—because, well, it probably is.

"Conor," you murmur, half to yourself, half in warning, as you reach for the antiseptic. His skin smells of sweat and ice, a mix that’s become weirdly familiar, like the scent of the rink itself but so uniquely him.

He tilts his head a little, trying to catch your eye, but you focus on the task at hand, avoiding the gaze you know is waiting for you. Your fingers brush against his temple, and for a split second, you swear you feel him tense up under your touch. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual casual grin.

“You gotta stop doing this,” you sigh, and it comes out softer than you intend. The antiseptic stings as you swipe it across the cut, and he flinches again, though not as much as he should.

“Doing what?” he asks, his voice low, almost playful. He’s watching you again, those brown eyes darkened by the fluorescent lights of the med room.

“This.” You gesture vaguely at his face, at the various bruises and cuts that seem to accumulate each time he steps onto the ice. “Getting into pointless fights. You think I don’t notice? You’re not even supposed to be a fighter, Conor. Half the time, you’re chirping at guys twice your size. Why?”

The silence between you stretches just long enough to make you uneasy. You feel the weight of his stare, the slight twitch of his mouth like he’s holding back from saying something.

He shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something else behind the movement, something unspoken. “Part of the game, right?” he offers, too nonchalant, like he’s testing the waters.

You don’t buy it, not for a second. But what are you supposed to say? Call him out directly? Admit you’ve noticed the way he lingers around the med room a little longer than necessary, how his smile stretches wider every time he manages to make you roll your eyes? It feels too much, too real, to acknowledge the way your heart stutters just a little when you hear his name over the PA system.

You sigh again, grabbing the butterfly stitches and nudging his chin up with more force than necessary. His skin is warm, too warm for someone who just came off the ice, and you have to focus hard not to notice the way his jaw clenches under your fingers.

“You’re gonna end up with a permanent scar if you keep this up,” you say, and there’s a softness in your voice now, one you can’t quite hide. The words come out before you can stop them. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, and the quiet stretches on again, filled only by the sound of your breath and the subtle scratch of fabric as he shifts on the exam table. Then, his voice cuts through the stillness, quiet but sure.

“I don’t mind it,” he says, and it takes you a second to register what he’s talking about.

You blink, pulling back slightly to look at him. He’s still smiling, but there’s something different in his expression now, something that catches you off guard. “What?”

“The scars,” he says, shrugging again, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t mind them. Means I get to see you.”

Your heart does a ridiculous little flip at his words, and you curse it for betraying you so easily. You try to play it off with an eye roll, but you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. “You could just... I don’t know, say hi like a normal person instead of getting into fights?”

He chuckles, but the sound is softer now, almost fond. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You press the final stitch into place, leaning back to assess your work. His face is still bruised, still battered, but somehow, he looks completely unbothered by it all. And the worst part? You can’t help but think he looks good like this, even with the mess of bruises and dried blood.

As you’re cleaning up, you feel his eyes on you again, watching with that same stupid grin, like this is all just some kind of game to him. But there’s something else in the way he’s sitting, the way he’s still lingering on the table long after you’ve finished patching him up.

“Are you just going to sit there?” you ask, pretending to be annoyed, though you know the act isn’t fooling anyone.

“Maybe.” He leans back, propping himself up on his elbows, looking far too comfortable for someone who was limping in here five minutes ago. “Depends. You gonna kick me out?”

You roll your eyes, but your chest tightens at the implication, your heart doing that traitorous little skip again. You turn around, crossing your arms, meeting his eyes this time. He’s sitting there, propped up on his elbows, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. And maybe that’s what’s been throwing you off lately—the way he looks at you. Like these moments mean something more to him than just routine check-ups and bandages.

“Conor,” you say, and this time, your voice has more weight to it, though you can’t bring yourself to say what you’re really thinking. Instead, you gesture toward the door, trying to salvage the situation with a teasing edge. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Not really,” he shrugs, still not moving. “Besides, where else would I go? The ice isn’t as fun as this.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, though it’s a losing battle. He’s always had this way of disarming you with a few words, like he knows exactly how to find that crack in your armor.

“Well, you can’t stay here,” you say, but there’s no real bite to your words, and you both know it.

He swings his legs off the table, wincing slightly—more from habit than pain, you suspect—and stands up, but he doesn’t head for the door. Instead, he lingers, too close now, and you find yourself staring at the small cut above his eyebrow, the one you just stitched up. Your fingers itch to brush it gently, to make sure you did it right, but you keep your hands firmly crossed in front of you.

“I think I’m fine now,” he says, his voice quieter than before. “Thanks, doc.”

The nickname always makes you smile, even when you don’t want it to. “You’re welcome,” you reply, but there’s a softness to your tone that wasn’t there a moment ago.

He takes a step closer, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker. For a second, neither of you says anything. His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to read something in your expression, something you’re not even sure you understand yourself. But whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it—at least, not yet.

“I’ll try not to get into too much trouble next game,” he says with a smirk, though there’s a warmth behind it, something genuine. “But, you know, no promises.”

You shake your head, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Of course not.”

He starts toward the door but pauses just before stepping out, his hand resting lightly on the frame. He turns back to you, his eyes softening in a way that makes your chest ache a little.

“Hey,” he says, and there’s no teasing in his voice this time, just something real. “Thanks for always looking out for me.”

You nod, swallowing the lump that suddenly forms in your throat. “Just… try to keep yourself in one piece, okay?”

He grins again, that easy, boyish grin that somehow makes you forget for a second that he’s a professional athlete, bruised and battered from a game most people would never survive. “I’ll do my best,” he promises, but there’s something in his tone that makes you think he’ll be back sooner rather than later.

Another game, another set of bruises.

You’re halfway through patching up another player when you feel it—his presence, the familiar, teasing energy he brings with him. Conor walks into the med room, limping just a little too dramatically to be real. He’s cradling his arm like it’s hanging by a thread, his expression an exaggerated picture of pain.

“Doc, I think this might be the one that does me in,” he says, his voice a mockery of seriousness. The guy you’re helping, one of the newer players, snorts in response, shaking his head as he slides off the table.

You shoot Conor a glance over your shoulder. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Garland.”

The younger player leaves, chuckling under his breath, and suddenly it’s just you and Conor again. You can feel the shift in the air, like it always does when it’s just the two of you. The playful banter, the teasing looks, that undercurrent of something unspoken hanging between you like a thin thread.

You turn around, and there he is, still putting on that ridiculous act. He’s cradling his arm as if it’s broken, but the glint in his eye gives him away. “Oh, I’m sure you’re in agony,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes but unable to hide the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Conor leans against the table with a dramatic sigh, giving you a pained look, as if he’s the one who should be annoyed by all this. “It’s bad, doc. Might need surgery.”

“Surgery, huh?” you quip, folding your arms as you walk over to him. Your eyes roam over his jersey, scanning for any real signs of injury, but all you see is his usual scruffy, disheveled mid-game self. “I can’t really check if you’ve got something serious going on with all that gear.”

He raises an eyebrow, still in character. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, keeping your tone casual, but there’s a hint of something else in your voice now. You tap his arm gently, feigning impatience. “Take off your jersey if you’re so hurt.”

For a split second, the playful energy between you shifts. His teasing smirk falters, his eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place, and suddenly, Conor’s posture straightens. The banter evaporates, leaving only the echo of your words hanging in the air. His hands hover near the hem of his jersey, clearly caught off guard by your request.

He stares at you like you’ve just asked him to do something much more intimate than you intended, and it takes a moment before he recovers his composure. “Uh… right. Yeah. Okay.”

You watch as he hesitates, tugging at the fabric, trying to hide the way his fingers fumble with it. And for once, he’s flustered—really flustered. It’s not the usual Conor Garland confidence or playful bravado. His face is flushed, the pink creeping up from his neck to his cheeks, and you can’t help but find the sight... oddly endearing.

You shouldn’t be enjoying this, but you are.

He finally manages to pull the jersey over his head, tossing it aside without meeting your eyes, and you catch the briefest glimpse of the toned muscles under his shoulder and chest pads, the faint sheen of sweat from the game still clinging to his skin. You swallow hard, trying not to let your mind wander too far as you force yourself to stay professional.

You step closer, eyes focused on the faint bruise blooming across his ribs, though it’s clear he’s milking the situation. “This?” you ask, pressing your fingers gently against his side. “You came in here for this?”

You stare at the bruise, your fingers resting lightly against his skin. It’s small, nothing serious—a faint discoloration, more from the impact than anything worth worrying about. But you both know this isn’t about the bruise. It never is with Conor.

You don’t pull away, and neither does he. There’s a moment of quiet, the banter fading into the background, leaving just the two of you in this strange, charged silence. You can feel the warmth of his body under your fingertips, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The tension in the room shifts, thickening like a storm cloud.

“You really thought this was worth all that drama?” you murmur, your voice soft now, not teasing, just… there. You trace the edge of the bruise absently, the pads of your fingers barely brushing against his skin.

Conor swallows, and you catch the movement of his throat, the way his eyes flicker down to where your hand rests on him before darting back to your face. His voice is quieter when he responds, less of that exaggerated confidence he usually carries with him. “Well, I figured… might as well get some attention while I’m at it, right?”

You don’t miss the way he says attention, how it lingers between the two of you, a little too close to the truth. Your heart skips, your pulse quickening in a way you hope he doesn’t notice.

But he’s staring at you now, the teasing smile faded, his brown eyes more serious than you’ve ever seen them. The air feels thick, almost suffocating, but in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. Like something is about to happen, something you’ve both been tiptoeing around for too long.

Your hand is still on his side, your fingers barely moving, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body, the way he’s watching you like he’s waiting for something. Maybe you are too. The room feels impossibly small, the space between you shrinking with each breath.

“I… probably shouldn’t have made you take off your jersey,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them, a weak attempt to break the tension, to say something, anything, that might diffuse whatever’s building between you. But even as you say it, you don’t pull away.

He doesn’t either.

“Nah,” he replies softly, his voice lower now, the usual playfulness gone. “It’s fine.”

You’re not sure if he means the jersey or the way your fingers are still pressed against his ribs, or maybe both. Either way, the tension doesn’t break. It only tightens, drawing you both closer without either of you moving an inch.

You can feel your pulse in your throat, your breathing shallow, and for a split second, you let your gaze drop to his lips. It’s a brief, unconscious movement, but it’s enough. He notices.

Conor shifts, barely perceptibly, but you feel it—the subtle lean, the way his eyes flicker to your mouth. Your heart pounds, the room spinning around the two of you like everything else has fallen away. You’re not even sure how you ended up here, this close, this vulnerable, but the pull is undeniable.

Your hand slides down slightly, resting at his waist now, and his breath hitches. You feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body seems to react to your touch, and for a second, you think maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment you’ve both been avoiding for so long, the moment where everything changes.

His lips part, and your breath catches. You’re so close now, close enough to feel the heat of him, to see the soft curve of his mouth, to—

The door creaks open behind you, and the spell shatters.

You both freeze, the tension shattering as one of the assistant coaches pokes his head in. "Hey, Garland, you still in here?" The coach looks between the two of you, oblivious to what he just interrupted.

Conor jerks back so quickly it’s like he’s been caught doing something illegal, while your hand falls from him. His face flushes, but not from the game—this time, it’s from almost being caught in a moment he’s not ready to explain.

"Uh, yeah," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly flustered. "Just, uh... icing my bruise."

You bite back a laugh, feeling the heat rise to your own cheeks. The moment is gone, but the weight of it lingers in the air.

"Well, hurry it up. Coach wants to talk to you before you head out," the assistant says, already halfway out the door.

You both stand there for a second after the door shuts, the silence deafening. Conor looks at you, the tension still simmering under the surface, but neither of you speaks. It’s like the almost-kiss is still hanging between you, unfinished and waiting.

Finally, Conor clears his throat. "Guess I should... go."

"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "Guess so."

He hesitates, lingering in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, his eyes catching yours one last time. And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the weight of what almost happened.

You’ve been replaying what happened in your head, the way his eyes lingered, the warmth of his skin under your touch, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. It’s like a loop that you can’t quite break free from.

But now, that moment feels distant, swept away by the frenetic energy of another game night. Only this time, it’s different.

The door slams open.

You jump, turning on instinct, and what you see makes your heart plummet. Conor’s standing there, but he’s not limping theatrically this time. Blood runs down the side of his face, stark against his pale skin, dripping onto his jersey, which is streaked with snow and sweat. His eyes are wild, his chest heaving, and for the first time, there’s no playful glint, no teasing smirk. Just anger.

"Garland," you breathe, stepping toward him, already reaching for the gauze, but he doesn’t even seem to hear you. He’s pacing the length of the room like a caged animal, his jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscles working beneath his skin.

"Stupid," he mutters under his breath, swiping a hand over his face, smearing the blood. "Stupid, stupid hit."

"Conor," you say softly, trying to get him to focus on you, to stop moving. He doesn’t. His eyes are unfocused, his movements erratic, as though he’s still stuck in the heat of the game, reliving whatever hit sent him flying into the boards.

You step closer, cautiously. "Hey, come on. You need to sit down. Let me look at that cut."

He finally stops pacing, but when his eyes meet yours, they’re blazing. "I don’t care about the damn cut," he snaps, though the anger in his voice isn’t directed at you. It’s frustration, bubbling just beneath the surface.

You swallow, trying to maintain your calm. "I know you don’t, but I do."

He blinks, his brows furrowing, like your words hit something in him, pulling him out of his angry haze. But then he shakes his head, as if he’s trying to brush it off. "They’re out to get me," he mutters, more to himself than to you, but you hear it.

Your chest tightens. You’ve seen him frustrated before, of course. Hockey’s a brutal game; it comes with the territory. But this… this feels different. Conor Garland is many things—annoying, playful, sometimes overly dramatic—but angry? Not like this. Not pacing the room with his hands curled into fists like he’s ready to punch the wall. You have to do something—anything—to bring him back to himself before he loses it completely.

"Conor, sit down," you say again, firmer this time. "Please."

Something in your voice must reach him because he stops, his shoulders slumping as if all the fight has gone out of him in an instant. He sits on the edge of the exam table, and you move quickly, grabbing the gauze and antiseptic. His eyes follow you, but they’re distant, like he’s not fully present.

You stand between his legs, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, and gently tilt his head back to get a better look at the cut. It’s deep, angrier than you expected, but not the worst you’ve seen. Still, the blood has matted his hair, trailing down his temple, and his breathing is shallow, labored.

"This might sting," you murmur, pressing the gauze to his forehead, dabbing at the blood. You try to stay focused, but you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves, his body coiled tight like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white.

"That guy…" he starts, voice low and bitter. "He didn’t have to hit me like that. It wasn’t even about the puck."

"I know," you say quietly, your fingers moving methodically as you clean the wound. "It’s not fair."

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You focus on your work, but every so often, your gaze flickers to his face, to the way his jaw is still clenched, to the way his chest still rises and falls with that uneven breath. You can feel the anger radiating off him, but there’s something else too—something vulnerable, hidden beneath all that frustration.

"Why are you letting this get to you?" you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Conor doesn’t answer right away. His gaze is fixed on some distant point over your shoulder, like he’s trying to hold it together, trying not to snap. But then his shoulders sag, and he drops his head into his hands. "I don’t know," he admits, voice muffled. "I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much."

You swallow the lump in your throat, feeling your heart ache for him. You’ve never seen him this rattled, this shaken. It’s unsettling, seeing him like this, and you don’t know what to do other than be here, right here, in this moment with him.

Gently, you reach out, resting a hand on his shoulder. His skin is warm, muscles tense beneath your fingers, but the contact seems to ground him. He lifts his head slowly, meeting your eyes for the first time since he walked in.

"It’s just… one hit," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper now. "But I can’t shake it."

"It’s not just the hit, is it?" you ask, watching him carefully.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "No. It’s not."

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You finish bandaging his cut, your hands moving slowly, deliberately, trying to draw out the process because you’re not ready for this moment to end. You don’t want him to walk away like this, all pent-up frustration and unresolved tension.

He’s quiet now, his chest no longer heaving with anger, but his eyes—his eyes are still filled with something heavy, something you can’t quite place. He’s staring at you, and you can feel his gaze, warm and intent, as though he’s trying to find the right words but can’t. You’re not sure if you’re ready to hear them anyway. Your pulse thrums in your ears, loud and persistent, and for the first time, you realize how close you’re standing.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how his legs are framing your hips, how his knees brush your thighs every time either of you moves. His hands rest loosely on his lap now, no longer clenched into fists, but the tension hasn’t entirely dissipated. It’s just shifted into something else, something quieter but no less intense. You can feel it humming in the air between you.

"Conor," you begin, your voice coming out softer than you intended, barely more than a whisper. "You’re… it’s going to be okay." You know how inadequate the words sound, but you don’t know what else to say. You just want to fill the silence, to soothe whatever storm is still brewing inside him.

His eyes flicker, and his jaw works as though he’s chewing on something he can’t quite get out. "I’m not—" He stops himself, eyes dropping to the floor, and you watch as his shoulders slump again. "I don’t usually… I’m not like this."

You don’t respond immediately, just watch him, the way he avoids looking at you, the way his hands flex on his lap like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something. It’s strange seeing him so out of sorts, the guy who’s always cracking jokes, always looking for a way to make you laugh, now sitting here, raw and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

You take a breath and move closer, letting your fingers brush against his shoulder again. "You don’t have to explain anything to me. Everyone has bad days." Your voice is soft, reassuring, but your heart is pounding harder now, louder, as if it’s trying to force its way through your ribcage.

Conor looks up then, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His gaze isn’t wild anymore, but there’s something else in it, something that makes your breath catch. His lips part, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to say something, something that will change everything.

But he hesitates, his throat working like the words are caught there, and suddenly you’re all too aware of the closeness, of the heat between you, of how your bodies are aligned. You don’t move, don’t dare to, because if you do, you might shatter whatever fragile balance you’ve found.

"I don’t know how to say this," he finally mutters, his voice rough and low, almost pained. His eyes flick down to your lips, just for a second, and your breath stutters.

Your heart is racing now, louder than before, and you can feel the room tilting, your pulse in your throat as the tension pulls taut. He’s so close, his face inches from yours, the scent of sweat and blood mingling in the air between you, and you realize with a jolt that this is it. This is the moment where everything shifts, where the teasing, the faked injuries, the lingering touches, all of it finally snaps into focus.

Conor shifts again, his knee pressing slightly against your thigh, and his voice drops even lower. "I’ve been trying to tell you, but I—" He stops, his eyes dark and searching, like he’s looking for something in your face. "You’re more than just… I mean, I’m always…"

You don’t let him finish. Because before you know it, you’re moving, and you’re pressing your lips to his.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if you’re both unsure. His lips are warm, and you can taste the faint tang of his blood on them, but you don’t care. For a moment, everything stills—no tension, no frustration, just him, here, with you. His hands, which had still been clenched on his lap, slide up to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss. The anger, the frustration that had been radiating off him moments before, melts away, replaced by something softer, something unspoken but understood.

When you finally pull back, your breath comes in short, uneven bursts. You meet his eyes, half-expecting him to pull away, to say something to ruin the moment, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans his forehead against yours, his fingers still gripping your waist, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“That’s one way to shut me up,” he mutters, his voice low, teasing, but there’s a softness there too, a warmth you haven’t heard from him before.

You can’t help but laugh softly, your heart still racing. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you, his eyes darker now, softer. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly against your hip, sending a shiver down your spine. His gaze flickers down to your lips, and for a moment, it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of you, like nothing else exists outside this room.

For the first time all night, he smiles—really smiles—and it’s like the tension finally breaks. His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you even closer, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. The frustration, the anger, the game—it all fades away, leaving just the two of you, wrapped in a moment that feels fragile but perfect, like you’ve found something you didn’t even know you were looking for.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, and his eyes soften, the vulnerability still there, but less jagged now, smoothed by your words. “But you need to go out there and win that fuckin’ game.”

“Okay,” He says, but leans in again, pressing another soft kiss to your lips, this one slower, gentler, as though he’s savoring it. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek, and his smile lingers, the tension from earlier now a distant memory. “But, we’re doing a lot more of this–” he gestures between the two of you, “Later.”

[sinswithpleasure]

Addressing My Ask Box

Hey guys, Sins here.

I'm sorry if this might seem rude and/or entitled, but I feel that I have to get this off my chest.

First of all, I really appreciate the flood of asks just off today. I like that you readers are actively willing to engage me and reach out in any shape or form, but I have to set some ground rules.

Nearly every ask since my last fic in July has been the same variation of "idol and idol cuddling" and "idol x idol sex", and I'm really getting burnt out on these. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate that you all have put in the time to type all of it out, but I'm really not sure if you want a fic, you're just dumping random things, or...?

I've seen my fair share of "top 5 idols whose pits u wanna lick" to just, pure statements that i can't reply to, such as "i think chaewon has great tits" or "wony can't stop eating gaeul's cunt". Most of the time, I'm actively not sure what to do with this—I'm very lost on your intentions and would prefer more clarity.

I've actually said this privately to a lot of other writers: low effort ask means low effort reply. Any ask I don't understand either gets deleted or answered with one word only. I really don't want to give low effort replies because to me, being a writer is akin to being a customer service representative—my job is to serve up stuff that makes you enjoy yourself, and part of that is giving you good replies to the asks that you put time into to type into my ask box. However, there's really not much I can work on with one liners without context other than "nise" because I really don't know what to do with them, and I do not want to delete asks so readily since you have put effort into them.

I've always found how sapphics send asks to wlw blogs here, as well as on platforms like CuriousCat or Retrospring so wonderful. For example:

kmj saying on live that the other members would be different baseball positions and she would be the cheerleader...three way gang bang for mj in a tiny little skirt please

was a literal ask a friend of mine on twt got about aespa, and it's stuff like this where I can expand on and help you realise a fantasy. Not only that, it's also fun for me because there is context. I need more than sex to build up any piece of a fic for you—idea generation is not as easy as it seems. The example above at least has a setting I can imagine, characters that I can explore, and all in all has space for inspirational expansion.

Tldr—Help me help you. Give me more context, give me something more than the sex acts. This goes for a lot of suggestion-type asks—the more effort you put into an idea to suggest, the more receptive most writers will be.

Thank you.

Sins.

[augustinewrites]

For the ask game

Love song western Monday late night + Wriothesley

Its crazy how specific daylists will get

drunken confessions

alcohol makes for loose lips and loose lips sink ships. you may already be in an underwater fortress, but the saying is still apt. especially with the way wriothesley is leaning against you, cheeks rosy and eyelids beginning to droop. clearly sigewinne was a little heavy-handed with her cocktails.

"am i dreaming ?" he asks, the arm draped over your shoulders pulling you in and smothering you against his chest, stalling your attempt to drag him back to his room. "actually, no. if i were dreaming then we'd be making out right now."

your heart stops, and the two of you almost fall over. "you dream about kissing me?"

"only every night."

daylist ask game

[staraxiaa]

lena. tell me ur kiribaku-in-a-different-font, violent-mc-who’s-a-hero-or-a-drummer fic idea. now. ♥️

ur actually the best. thanks for validating my need for yapping LMAOO ill drip market it in tags,,,

[cerealmonster15]

i do love sneaking in side ships to fics where they arent the focus but also i think the only reason i have the cater/trey mention in this story was bc i needed a reason to prevent cater from giving silver and kalim more thought out advice kflsjdfklsjd i had to interrupt him and make him LEAVE!!!

[weltraum-vaquero]

What are your most realistic predictions for Jayce in season two?

1. He cries snotty style, and 2. the fortiche animators finally cave after my 158 complaint emails and give him fuzzy hairy boobs.

Preferably they kill two birds with one stone and have him crying snotty style while he’s shirtless.

[sxfterhearts]

omg chat why is writing kinda hard???

ok so this is a bit of an aside (warning: this post is long) but @348kg and i talked about this and honestly writing fanfics is a way for us to express ourselves creatively while using our idols as inspo for our work. and it’s fun most of the time.. but like honestly, 70-80% of the time, writing is hard. it’s not easy, like… it’s actually quite hard work.

and i know everyone has seen posts of like “pls reblog instead of just silently reading” or “pls like at least to show your appreciation” etc etc etc and ur probs sick of hearing it but like, it’s so true???

writing is honestly hard. and for most of us fanfic writers.. im sure you know but we have lives outside of our blogs. we are students, or we work normal jobs, we have life responsibilities, we have problems to deal with, and yet somewhere in between our busy lives we manage to find the time to sit down and create these pieces of writing for you, the reader, to read.

and tbh, i don’t really know where im going with this? i just want to let you know this: a typical 1-2k words one-shot probably takes me around 2-3 hours to write (on average, on a good day - sometimes longer or shorter). but it takes you maybe 10-15 mins, at most 30 mins to read depending on your reading speed. isn’t the time gap a little wild 🫠 on a typical work day, i get home from work at about 6, i cook myself dinner and eat, i shower and clean up, and if i know im writing that night, i make sure to clear my schedule (ie no overtime, no phone calls to friends or parents etc) and i sit on my laptop and write from about 10ish to about midnight. then i pause and i edit, and set things up to get ready post (think: pictures, title, word count, writing the warnings, summary, doing the tags) and by the time i post, it’s probably 1am.

i breathe a sigh of relief because it feels good! it feels really good to release my labour of love (literally) out into the world. and honestly, you know who you are, but those of you who constantly read and reblog my work, i see u!! (Alexa play i see u by p1harmony) and those who leave comments or reviews in the tags, i also see u (that’s why i like to reblog and respond to your tags too)!! it honestly brings me so much joy when someone comes and talks to me about something i wrote and how it made them feel. or even when someone recommends a fic i wrote. all these things that are so little and take so little of your time actually mean so much to me and im sure other writers as well.

and so i guess what im trying to say to everyone is: if you are a fic reader, if you read any fics, i just want you to know that the fic you loved reading took the writer a lot of resources to write (brain power, creativity and importantly time). i hope this gives u an insight into the process of a writer/writing a fic because im hoping it might help with whether or not you decide to hit that like or reblog or comment button in the near future!!

(also, i think it’s a shame that as writers sometimes we have to compromise on what we actually want to write vs what to write to get more engagement, likes, rbs etc. personally i have been writing on tumblr since 2020 on and off so ive been on here for four years now and i have a good sense of what is a good formula for a “successful” fic - usually it’s smut, usually it’s for the most popular member in terms of fic reading, and usually it’s of a certain length posted around a certain time etc etc. but i guess i don’t rly care anymore bc im a kinda old tumblr writer who isn’t bothered about the notes as much as i am just grateful for the little comments people send me saying that what i wrote made them feel seen or resonated with them. cos i think that is priceless 🥹)

PS. in no way am i complaining about the engagement or lack thereof that i personally get, nor am i complaining about the mere fact that writing is hard bc yes i am aware that i wanted to write in the first place and so it was my decision haha

[cuteniaarts]

Wine stains on porcelain

(Alternatively: @katkastrofa and I have created 5 OCs in 3 days and I suffer from chronic “I wanna draw the little guysssssss” disease)

[sysig]

It always seems like such a good idea in the moment (Patreon)

The first four are in reference to a great idea I had of - since I’ve finished my lower-limit page number testing for making books; shorter fics take up less page space, and just increasing the font size isn’t as handsome! - simply making a mini book! All it would take would be to halve the pages again, right? Just cut them right down the middle! Easy peasy!

As I’m sure you can tell by the second, no. Not easy peasy. Difficult painful un-fun >:(

Obviously I still did it tho! What do you take me for, someone who could have the idea of an even tinier book and then not do something about it?? No It’s also the only one so far to have a paper bookmark rather than a ribbon!

All told it’s a bit smaller than your average manga (I love the monochrome covers on these under their dust jackets haha <3) - you can see even with effectively doubling up the pages by halving their size, it was still very small-spined!

A quick shot while it was still being made hehe ♪ It’s Out! Paired here - and the earlier one, just without its dust jacket haha - with my Zarla SC2 collection (ft. Family, Negotiations are Going...Well, and With No Obligation) - I absolutely kicked myself after the fact for not including Out as the run-up to everything, I was really trying to make a full collection in probably-chronological order! Out would’ve been a perfect start! And it only would’ve taken like four pages!!

Ah well, it was still quite a learning experience - I probably wouldn’t make another standalone of under 4k-ish just for formatting reasons but I did get some good ideas of how to do so if I wanted to! Although, my next project is going to be even more of a formatting nightmare........I’ll get there when I get there! Lol

[compacflt]

wip wednesday: hoping to have all the fic revisions up by saturday (long shot tbh) or wednesday!

[horsegirlhob]

I absolutely respect people who do like nuzlockes and other stuff like that to make pokemon games more challenging and therefore fun for themselves, but I simply cannot do it. My equivalent to doing a nuzlocke is inventing an intricate character in my head and building an in-game pokemon team that makes sense for that character. Then while I play the game I keep a fully in-character journal to more easily keep track of the character arc I construct for my little pokemon guy. Because I have too much time on my hands, apparently.

[goldendoodlerlockerlove]

4 for the wip asks :)

Thank you so much!! :D

Sincerely, Me is a very rough WIP name for this WIP fic. It takes place in the universe of the musical Dear Evan Hansen, and it came about because I had the biggest desire in the world to write something Kleinsen-related (Evan Hansen x Jared Kleinman). It actually technically takes place in the movie universe, and I don't even particularly like the movie (I have thoughts). I don't hate it or anything, but it could've been done so much better. Anyway, I made it part of the movie universe so some good content could come from there. So, I guess I'd have to call it Kalsen (Evan Hansen x Jared Kalwani) because they changed his last name for the movie.

It's mainly centered around their daughter, Paige, and her best friend, Tyrone. Paige is Cis and Panromantic, and Tyrone is Trans Masc and Straight. They were definitely a fun duo to write, even though I didn't write that much for this fic. I was actually planning on it being a big, multi-chapter fic, but I might just try to make it a Oneshot so I can just finish it and post it. I'm not sure I can make it a big, multi-chapter fic with this concept, anyway.

Here's a little excerpt for you:

She didn’t answer, opting instead to glance at the trees. “I’m surprised you didn’t mention Jared being Indian first.”

She was well aware of his distaste for her calling her dads by their first names. In her opinion, it was entertaining watching his mouth become agape whenever she did this, so sometimes she’d do it on purpose. It never mattered to her--it was sometimes necessary, to distinguish them, and the two of them weren’t fretful of this habit. However, Tyrone always suggested she call Evan “Dad” and Jared “Pitā” instead, which is the Hindi word for Father. 

She never listened to this advice.

Tyrone began chasing a pebble with his shoe, “Well, he mentions being Jewish a lot more than he does being Indian.”

She sighed, crossing her arms as a sudden, harsh breeze cut through them, “I guess you’re not wrong.”

He didn’t stop harassing the pebble even when they approached her house. It was pretty average, as far as regular houses in suburbia went, being all beige and harsh corners, as well as a roof sharp enough to poke Santa on his journey every Christmas (she stole that joke from Jared).

Annnnd here's another excerpt that comes a little later!

“Paige?” She heard an all-too familiar voice float from the kitchen. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, Dad.” She began striding towards the source as Tyrone shot her a look. “It’s not as if I call them by their first names all the time.”

Jared was perched over the stove, nursing a bottle of water as he continued frying something on a pan. He enjoyed nursing a bottle of alcohol instead on some late nights, but he was trying to consume less for Bri’s sake. “Sorry about your sister. I thought she was going to be napping around now, but I guess it was my mistake assuming she would do anything I expect.”

Paige let out a snicker, “It’s fine, you know Ty loves her anyway.”

She leaned closer, trying to sneak a peek at his latest concoction, “I thought you wouldn’t be home. What is that?”

“I took the day off. It’s Rosh Hashanah, remember? This is chicken breast with leeks and potatoes. Your dad should be coming home soon from the park.” 

Paige felt her hand connecting hard with her face, “Oh God. Oh no. I can’t believe I forgot!”

A strength she always prided herself on was her ability to remember dates more so than everyone else in her family. The fact this one slipped by her was frustrating, to say the least--not to mention Rosh Hashanah was always her favorite Jewish holiday to celebrate. Perhaps Grace was making her more distracted than she first thought.

She turned towards Tyrone, “I’m sorry, I still can’t believe I forgot about this. I was hoping we’d be able to hang out tonight.”

“Well, I can’t see why he can’t stay for dinner.”

Her mouth agape, she turned on her heel to face Jared again, “Who are you and what have you done with my father?”

When he gave her a questioning look, she continued, “You’ve never let anyone stay over for Rosh Hashanah. It’s family time.”

Tyrone gasped, bouncing on the toes of his feet, “Does this mean… you consider me family?”

Paige grit her teeth and elbowed her friend, a fruitless attempt to calm him. One of the things that annoyed Jared the most was people who weren’t part of the family trying to insert themselves into their tight-knight dynamic. Sure, it seemed for a while Tyrone was the exception, but it was still thin ice to tread. A reason why was because someone else, someone older, tried doing the same some time back, and ended up uprooting all of their lives once it was revealed they were a no-good scam-artist. And, for irony’s sake, that person ended up being Grace’s current foster father.

Just for some context, Bri is Paige's little sister (So Evan and Jared have two daughters) and Grace is Paige and Tyrone's bully (mostly Paige's). And I was planning on having it be revealed to Paige the first time all of the events of the musical (Connor's death, The Connor Project, Evan's speech, etc.), which was never mentioned to her before because Evan and Jared were too embarrassed by it all. They kind of wanted to sweep it under the rug, which evidently wasn't the best way to handle the situation.