Dr. Doorknocker

pls send fic requests!!

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

🌟 Fanfiction Requests Are Open! 🌟

Hi everyone! I’m cam, I’m way too old to be on here, and I especially am far too old to be writing fanfic, but alas, here I am. Please feel free to send me ideas/requests for anything you’d like to read! 📖✍️

Who I write for: ✨ ArthurTV ✨ George Clarke ✨ W2S ✨ Arthur Hill ✨ ChrisMD ✨ WillNE

What I can write:💌 Romantic pairings (any gender combinations welcome!) 🎉 Cute, funny, or awkward moments ⚡ Your most specific and wild prompts—try me!

Feel free to send me:

A character or pairing

A vibe or setting

A snippet of dialogue or even just a single word for inspiration

I’ll post snippets or full pieces, depending on the prompt. Ty for reading <3

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

fuck me up

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

Hiiii, I would love a ArthurTv x reader period comfort, I just feel like he’d be so sweet about it. Maybe the reader stains the sheets and is really upset?

Love your writing so much!!!!

had a lot of fun writing this way too relatable request!

how you think he'll react vs how he actually reacts:

The morning light seeped through Arthur’s thin curtains, slapping you in the face with the reality of a new day. You blinked against the brightness, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar bed, the disheveled man beside you, and—oh right. Last night. You let yourself fall back into the memory, replaying it like a favorite scene in a movie: the way his fingers had traced slow, deliberate patterns along your spine, sending little shockwaves down your body. The way his voice had dropped an octave. It was warm and teasing when he whispered something so dirty that still made your stomach flip just remembering it. The way his mouth found yours,, as though you were something rare and he had all the time in the world to savor you.

It had been better than you'd imagined. Perfect in the way that made your cheeks heat just thinking about it, your body aching in a way that was both delicious and maddening. Perfect in a way that made you want to weep for all the imperfect nights with imperfect men that had come before.

For a while, you just laid there, basking in the warmth of the sheets and the faint smell of Arthur’s cologne still clinging to the pillows. But then—oh no. That faint discomfort. That little tug in your gut. You shifted, and that’s when you saw it. The betrayal. A dark, undeniable stain on the pristine white sheets beneath you.

Your stomach plunged into the depths of hell. You stared at the spot like it had personally insulted your entire lineage. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Your mind raced through increasingly absurd solutions: burn the sheets, fake your death, join a convent. Should I just jump out of the window? Anything but face the reality of what had just happened.

Arthur stirred beside you, his hair a ridiculous halo of bedhead, and you froze, clutching the sheet like it was a parachute and you were plummeting toward earth. “Morning,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

“Hi,” you squeaked, trying to telepathically will him to not notice. But of course, he noticed. Because the universe loves to watch you squirm.

He blinked at the stain, then at you, and for a moment, you thought you might actually die right there in his bed. But instead of recoiling in horror or laughing in your face, Arthur did the unthinkable: he grinned.

“Is that all?” he said, his voice so casual it made you want to scream. “I thought something was actually wrong.”

“Arthur,” you hissed, your face burning hotter than the sun. “I ruined your sheets!”

“They’re just sheets,” he said, sitting up and stretching like you hadn’t just shattered every shred of dignity you’d ever possessed. “It’s fine. I’ll throw them in the wash.”

“I’ll do it,” you said, already scrambling to untangle yourself, but he shook his head, laughing softly.

“Nope. Not a chance,” he said, gently prying the sheets from your death grip. “You’re going to take a shower and relax while I handle this. No arguments.”

“Arthur,” you said again, but he was already halfway out of bed, stripping the sheets.

“There’s fresh towels in the bathroom,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll grab you some clothes. Go on, I’ve got this.”

You stood there for a moment, still clutching the corner of the duvet like it might save you. But his easy smile, his complete lack of judgment, made the tension in your chest ease just enough for you to nod and shuffle toward the bathroom.

Under the hot spray of the shower, you let out a long breath. The embarrassment still simmered, but it no longer felt like it might consume you. By the time you got out of the shower, wearing the oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants he’d left for you on the counter, the worst of it had faded.

You found him in the kitchen, humming tunelessly as he fiddled with the kettle. The sheets were nowhere in sight, already banished to the washing machine. But on the counter was a grocery bag, overflowing with… tampons? There must have been at least eight boxes of them and..chocolate bars? You looked at him like he had gone insane.

“I ran to the shop while you were in the shower,” Arthur said, turning around with a grin that was entirely too proud of itself. “I didn’t know which kind you’d want, so I got… all of them. And the chocolate just seemed like a good idea.”

You continued to stare at him, speechless, as he casually unpacked what looked like an entire aisle of feminine products and enough chocolate to stock a small candy shop.

“Arthur,” you finally managed, your voice somewhere between incredulous and laughing. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Are you kidding?” he said, handing you a mug of tea like he hadn’t just gone on the most unhinged errand of all time. “This is boyfriend training 101. I’m acing the course.” He smirked his boyish smirk that had you falling for him since day one.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you and filling the kitchen. And just like that, the morning didn’t feel like a disaster anymore. It felt like a warm cozy blanket.

"Thank you for being so cool about this," you say. "It means a lot."

"I guess you could say I like to go with the flow." He says before laughing entirely way too hard at his own joke.

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

Can I have a Chrismd or George Clarke fanfic where reader has a young daughter from a previous relationship?

had to scour the internet for decent pics of chris...

Chris was fiddling with the edge of his sweatshirt, a nervous habit you’d picked up on during the past few months you’d been seeing each other. He was sitting on your couch, looking just a little too out of place, like he hadn’t quite figured out where he fit yet. You’d planned to bring this up eventually—the talk, the thing looming over your otherwise perfect moments together—but now that it was here, the words stuck in your throat, as though they’d been dipped in wet cement, and were having trouble coming out.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was soft. “I know we haven’t really talked about it, but… what’s the deal with me meeting her?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, staring at the threadbare patch on the armrest of the couch like it held all the answers. It wasn’t that you didn’t want him to meet your daughter. If anything, you’d imagined it too many times—his easy jokes pulling her in, the way he’d probably overcompensate, trying so hard to impress her that he’d embarrass himself. But that was a fantasy. Real life was so much messier. Real life didn’t have montage music or clean conclusions where we'd all gallop off into the sunset together.

“I just… I don’t want to rush it,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just… it’s a big deal, you know? For her. For us.”

Chris nodded, his expression quiet but thoughtful, like he was chewing on your words. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I get that. I mean, I don’t get it, because I’ve never been in your shoes, but… I get that it’s huge. And I don’t want to mess it up.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the raw honesty in his tone. There was no defensiveness, no frustration, no attempt to smooth things over with a joke. Just Chris, sitting there like a lighthouse in the middle of your internal storm, shining a steady beam of 'I’m here, and I mean it.

“I think she’d like you,” you admitted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. They felt fragile and heavy at the same time, like glass marbles. “But I need to be sure. For her sake.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice cutting through the swirling anxiety in your head. He reached over, his hand warm and solid as it covered yours. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.”

And just like that, the tight knot in your chest loosened—not completely, but enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to believe he meant it. What did I do to deserve him, you thought.

-

Two weeks later, you stood in the doorway to your living room, leaning against the frame as you watched Chris and your daughter sitting on the floor in front of the television. They were each covered by her princess blankets, a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously between them. The screen flickered with the bright colors of a Disney movie, your daughter laughing so hard she looked like she might vibrate right off the couch.

Chris looked utterly delighted. He wasn’t just tolerating the movie night; he was in it. He was making the worst jokes, gasping at all the right moments, and somehow acting like this was the highlight of his week. And you almost believed it could have been.

You knew he’d been studying for this moment. A few weeks ago, you’d walked in on him scrolling through a list of Disney princesses on his phone. When you asked what he was doing, he’d flushed and mumbled, “Just… brushing up. Can’t meet a Disney fan and not know my stuff.”

Now, here he was, putting all that studying to use. When your daughter mentioned Ariel during their first conversation, Chris launched into a passionate defense of why the mermaid was the ultimate Disney princess. Your daughter, delighted, declared that he “actually knew his Disney.”

You couldn’t stop the smile creeping across your face. The coil of anxiety that had been living in your chest for weeks had finally unraveled, and was replaced by something warmer, softer, and brighter. Hope, maybe.

“You’re missing it,” Chris called out, catching you watching them from the doorway. “Come on, we need backup. She’s trying to tell me Sven’s not funny, and I’m not sure I can handle this betrayal alone.”

You laughed, stepping into the room and settling onto the floor beside them. Your daughter immediately curled up against you, still giggling. Chris handed you the popcorn bowl, his hand brushing yours for just a second before turning his attention back to the screen.

And just like that, it felt like he’d always been there.

-

After the movie ended and your daughter had reluctantly gone to bed, the house felt quieter. The buzz of the evening was gone, leaving just you and Chris on the couch. The air between you felt softer and lighter now, like a sweater that had been worn enough to feel familiar.

“She likes you,” you said finally, breaking the silence, and sipping your glass of wine.

Chris leaned back, his grin crooked, his hair a mess from where your daughter had insisted on ruffling it earlier. “Yeah? She’s not bad herself. Although, I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m an idiot for confusing Sven and Kristoff.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “She’s particular about her Disney trivia. But honestly… you were great with her. Better than I could’ve imagined.”

He turned to look at you, his expression serious now in a way that made your heart twist. “I meant what I said before,” he said. “I’m here. For both of you. I know it’s not going to be easy. I know it’s going to be… a lot. But I’m ready for this. For us.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, leaning into him. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer until your head rested on his shoulder.

“Anytime,” he said. Then, with a grin, he added, “Although, I might need flashcards for the next Disney round. Your daughter’s a tough critic.”

You laughed again, and for the first time in months, you had hope about a future with Chris.

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

hi arrest me pls

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

me when i have to sneeze

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

the laugh i pull out my ass when my manager makes the same ass corny joke every day in the breakroom

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

hiiiii !!! if ur taking super specific requests i’d KILL for a george clarke mutual pining roommates fic xx

(request aside super excited to read anything you put out love having more writers in this space !!!)

You had been living with Chris, Arthur, and George for a little over a month, and things had settled into a comfortable routine. The initial chaos of moving in, unpacking, and learning everyone’s quirks had given way to a strange sort of domestic harmony. Chris always made a mess in the kitchen, Arthur had a tendency to leave shoes everywhere, and George? Well, George had a quiet way of slipping into your day without you even noticing.

It started small. Sharing tea in the morning before the others woke up. Folding his laundry when you were taking yours off the drying rack. Helping you hang a picture in your room because you couldn’t quite reach. Little acts of care that seemed so innocent… until they weren’t.

It was the way George looked at you that had your heart racing. Long glances from across the living room, his hand lingering on yours when he passed you something, a certain softness in his smile that you hadn’t seen him give anyone else. It was almost impossible not to notice—and apparently, Chris and Arthur had noticed too.

“Mate, just marry her already,” Chris teased one afternoon when George made you a cup of tea without even asking how you liked it. He’d just… known.

Arthur smirked, lounging on the sofa with a packet of crisps. “Yeah, George, why don’t you just whip up a candlelit dinner while you’re at it? Maybe a little violin music? And a horse-drawn carriage? Go big or go home, mate.”

“You two are insufferable,” George muttered, his cheeks pink as he avoided your gaze. “I’m just being polite.”

“Sure,” Chris drawled, winking at you. “Polite. That’s exactly what I’d call it. You’ve practically turned into a Victorian butler. Shall we start calling you Jeeves?”

You pretended to laugh it off, but your chest felt tight every time something like this happened. And it happened a lot.

When George suggested filming a video together for his channel—“It could be fun, and my viewers love seeing you pop up”—you’d agreed, thinking it would be a good way to shake off the awkwardness. But as you sat together on the living room sofa, the camera rolling in front of you, you realized you had underestimated just how hard it would be.

“Alright,” George said, adjusting the camera, his voice casual but his hands slightly shaky. “Today we’re ranking the best and worst British snacks, and as the resident American”—he glanced at you with a teasing smirk—“you get to tell us why everything we love is terrible.”

“Only if you can handle the truth,” you shot back, grinning. The banter came easily, the tension easing slightly as the video went on. But it was still there, simmering beneath the surface. Every time George’s knee brushed yours, every time his laugh lingered a little too long, every time his eyes flicked to your lips when you weren’t speaking… you felt it.

And you couldn’t stop noticing him. The way his hoodie clung to his shoulders, the curve of his jaw when he laughed, the way his hair always seemed just a little messy in a way that made you want to run your fingers through it. God, you needed to get a grip. This was George. Your roommate. Your very off-limits, very kind, and… irritatingly attractive roommate.

At one point, you leaned over to grab a bag of crisps, and George instinctively reached out to steady you. His hand on your arm was warm, his touch lingering a beat too long. Your eyes met, and for a moment, everything else fell away. You could feel your breath catch, the space between you charged with unspoken words. You weren’t sure if you wanted to kiss him or jump out the nearest window. Maybe both.

“Should we… uh, move on to the next one?” George asked, his voice breaking the silence. He pulled his hand back quickly, like he’d been burned.

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a smile. “Let’s do it.”

When the video finally wrapped, you let out a shaky laugh. “Well, that was… something.”

George rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “Yeah. Thanks for doing this. I think it’ll turn out great.”

“Anytime,” you said, meaning it. Despite the tension, you couldn’t help but want more moments like this with him. Except maybe next time you wouldn’t have to fight the urge to crawl onto his lap and ruin everything.

That night, you found yourself in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. George wandered in, barefoot and wearing a hoodie that was just a little too big on him. He leaned against the counter, watching you in silence for a moment before speaking.

“You don’t have to do that, you know. We can leave it for Chris tomorrow… payback for all the times he leaves us his dishes.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d rather not wake up to that disaster zone. Besides, it’s… relaxing.”

George stepped closer, taking the plate from your hand. “Let me help, then.”

The two of you worked in companionable silence, the sound of running water and clinking dishes filling the space between you. Every so often, your hands would brush, and every time, your heart skipped a beat. When you finished, George turned to you, his expression soft.

“You’ve really… settled in here,” he said. “It’s nice. Having you around, I mean.”

“It’s nice being here,” you replied, your voice quieter than you intended. You wondered if he could see the chaos behind your eyes, the absurd fantasies you’d been indulging, like the two of you kissing under the glow of the open fridge or him lifting you onto the counter just because he could.

For a moment, it felt like he might say something more, but then Chris’s voice rang out from the living room. “Oi! Are you two coming back, or should we start the movie without you? Or better yet, just tell us when the wedding is! We’ll plan the stag do!”

George stepped back, the moment slipping away. “We’ll be right there,” he called, his voice steady.

As you followed him back to the sofa, you couldn’t help but wonder how much longer you could dance around this feeling without it consuming you completely. Or worse, making you completely lose your mind.

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

jesus fucking christ

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

cracks me up that these men are so damn fine and normally photogenic, and the one chance they have to be models, they pull this shit

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

what the fuck

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

mega thirsty for this man today

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

happy trails are underrated

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

Hey! Would you be able to do a George x Male OC fic?

It's fine if not!

okay maybe not everyone's cuppa tea but I liked this request a lot. my favorite queer films are all filled with longing stares and will they/won't they tension so I think that definitely inspired this! let me know if you were looking for something more relationshippy or cutesy..

The fire crackles, but I barely notice it. My eyes are on George.

He’s sitting just across from me, his eyes flicking between me and the others. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t realize how often he’s looking at me. But I do. Each time our gazes meet, I feel something shift. Something unspoken.

It’s nothing major—just the way his lips curl into a half-smile when our eyes lock, or the way he’s a little slower to look away. But it’s enough. Enough to make my heart race. Enough to make me wonder what’s going on behind that calm expression of his.

I try to act casual, like I’m listening to Will’s latest nonsense, but my mind keeps drifting back to George. Does he know what he’s doing to me?

There was that time earlier, when I handed him the snacks. His fingers brushed mine. Our eyes met for a second too long. It was quick. Barely noticeable, really. But it sent a little jolt through me. I can still feel the warmth of his skin.

His gaze lands on me again, this time lingering just a bit longer. I don’t look away. I meet his eyes, holding the contact, letting the silence stretch between us. Then I see the slightest smirk, a mona lisa smile as his eyes darken. My chest tightens. This time, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. 

“Henry, you alright? You’re not yapping like you normally do.” Chris’s voice yanks me out of my thoughts. 

“Yeah, just—thinking,” I reply, though I’m not sure what I’m thinking about anymore.

I look over at George again. He’s still looking at me, but his face softens. There’s something in his eyes that I can’t quite read. Maybe it’s just me, reading into things. But... maybe it’s not.

Could he be...?

I try to push the thought aside but it persists. George has always been the reserved type, maybe he just keeps certain things private, offline. I’ve never heard him talk about anything like that, but there’s something in the way he’s acting tonight, in the way he keeps looking at me. I’ve caught him staring more than once, and I can’t tell if he’s just being friendly, or if there’s something more there.

He shifts slightly, turning towards me, and I swear I feel it in my whole body. Not an accident, not this time. He feels it too.

“You good, mate?” Will asks again, but this time, George looks at me too, his eyes a little too serious for a second.

“Yeah,” I say, suddenly feeling unsure. 

The fire crackles again, but the heat between us is something else entirely. Or am I imagining it? 

After a moment, George stands up abruptly. “I’m going to grab some more firewood,” he says, though it’s pretty clear we’ve got enough to last for a while. “Henry, you want to help me out for a sec?”

My heart jumps and I can feel the anxiety-induced sweating already. Maybe he’s just being polite. Maybe he wants to get away from the group. Maybe... it’s more than that. I take a deep breath and calm myself.

“Yeah, sure,” I answer, pushing myself to my feet, my hands suddenly feeling a bit too clammy. We both head off into the trees, the sounds of the others fading behind us. It’s quieter now, just the two of us in the darkness. I can feel the tension, like the air itself is holding its breath.

George stops, leaning against a nearby tree, glancing at me with that same intensity that’s been there all night. “Henry,” he says, his voice lower than usual, “you know, you’ve been looking at me a lot tonight.” 

He wiggles his eyebrows in the joking way he normally does. I can no longer tell if he’s trying to flirt with me or if I'm being delusional. Regardless, my feet turn to lead. I freeze.

“Have I?” I finally manage to ask, my voice sounding a little breathless. I take a step closer without meaning to, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Are you flirting with me?” he asks. It’s teasing, but it’s also... a little bit serious. My heart is in my throat. What do I say? 

I cough awkwardly, running a hand through my hair.

 “What? No, I—” I stumble over my words, but he can see it. The flush in my cheeks deepen. I look up and catch the playful look he’s giving me as he lets out his signature giggle.  Is he toying with me again? 

There’s a long pause. George doesn’t say anything, just rests his eyes on my flushed face. We stand there like idiots just staring. His gaze flicking down to my lips for a moment before snapping back to my eyes. The space between us feels impossibly small. The tension is so thick I can taste it.

Is he going to say something? Or—

Then, just as I think he might, just as I prepare myself for whatever’s coming next, George shifts, his hand brushing mine as he pushes himself away from the tree.

“Never mind,” he mutters, his voice soft but almost... regretful. “We should probably get back before they start thinking we’re lost or something.” He grabs a bundle of wood.

My chest tightens yet again and I’m surprised that I haven’t had a heart attack yet. The air between us suddenly colder. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but the words catch in my throat. He’s already turning back toward the campfire, leaving me standing there, the unanswered question hanging between us. Was he waiting for me to make a move? 

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

okay I have a specific request — Ethan’s sister dating george???? I just feel like ethan would be a really fun but protective brother.

I'm sorry this took me so long to put together, my job has me in a chokehold this week! anyway I hope you like it :))

I’m not sure if I’m here for the free craft services or for the existential bliss of standing next to George Clarke. My brother—Ethan, Behzinga to the world—thinks I’m just bored. He thinks I’m tagging along for some wholesome family bonding or maybe to post behind-the-scenes TikToks featuring him and his goofy friends. He has no clue that what I really want is to watch George from every possible angle until I can’t breathe.  George and I are used to this—little side glances, inside jokes, a teasing tap on the shoulder that feels dangerously electric. Nothing official, but enough to make my chest tighten in anticipation every time we land on the same shoot.

I claim a spot near the plastic folding chairs—flimsy thrones for YouTube royalty—and pretend I’m not devouring George with my eyes. I sip water I don’t need just to have something to do with my mouth. At any moment, I’m convinced I might say something desperate, like “Can I live inside your ribcage?” which is not generally acceptable small talk. But the heat in my spine is so intense that my entire body is basically a tuning fork for desire.

George glances in my direction and a hush slides over me like a weird spiritual wave, but then I remind myself: girl, you are on a set full of cameras. You can't be caught thirsting over one of your brother's best mates. Everyone here sees everything. Except Ethan, who’s too busy ignoring me for the sake of “content” to notice the entire soap opera I’m staging in my head. Thank God for that.

Eventually, the filming starts—some big wheel of dares. It’s silly. It’s comedic gold. I laugh at appropriate intervals, feeling the headache of a forced grin. My face is so stuck in performative cheer that I worry I’ll never be able to frown again. But every so often, George’s eyes drift my way. Then it doesn’t feel forced at all; it feels like someone just pressed an espresso shot of lust into my bloodstream.

I imagine the corners of my mouth still have hints of a smirk when Ethan glances over, eyes full of big-brother protectiveness. Great. His “friendly, easygoing vibe” is over. I can’t help but roll my eyes in a cosmic sense of sibling dread. Because Ethan is the barrier between me and the arms I want to fling myself into. He’s the moat around the castle. He’s the guard dog who barks at everything.

The video ends. Confetti of half-laughter, half-exhaustion litters the air. I hover near the edge of the set, my phone clenched in a death grip. Across the room, George sets down a water bottle. I decide I need to do something dramatic, or I’ll spontaneously combust.

I walk over casually—at least I hope it looks casual, like I’m in total control of my heartbeat. “You did great,” I say, trying to sound breezy instead of delirious. George smiles his classic, impossibly warm smile.

“Fancy seeing you here,” George says, stepping to me with that crooked grin. There's something boyish in the way he leans in, like we share a secret the rest of the room couldn’t possibly understand.

“Right?” I laugh, a little breathless. “Almost like we planned it.” We’ve run this dance so many times, bantering on set, one-upping each other with witty remarks, smiling in ways that promise everything and nothing. But it still feels new—a micro-thrill every time he tosses me that look.

He brushes an imaginary speck of dust off my sleeve, an excuse to close the gap between us. “Oh, I definitely planned it,” he teases, voice low.

Then I hear Ethan’s voice: “Oi! What’s going on over here?” My brother, a sentinel, standing with arms crossed like his biceps can ward off romance. 

“Nothing,” I say. “Just being friendly to your guest, Ethan.” I infuse his name with a sweet venom. 

Ethan narrows his eyes but doesn’t push it. He stalks away—still suspicious— probably to the snack table where the rest of the guys are rehashing the best jokes of the shoot. 

George leans in, breath brushing the shell of my ear. “Text me when you’re free, yeah?”

My chest throbs with that old, familiar longing. “I will,” I whisper, feeling the ghost of his presence on my skin long after he’s stepped back. We share this conspiratorial nod, like two secret agents swapping contraband info.

He steps away and salutes me in a mockingly polite way, turning to follow Ethan and the guys. And I’m left there, fidgeting like some starry-eyed fool, full of swirling fantasies about how our next off-camera rendezvous might go. Maybe it’s crazy to think we can keep up this flirtation without someone catching on—especially my brother—but for now, it’s perfect: the hush of a secret too sweet to keep bottled up forever.

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

heads up to all my fellow bookworms ! 🪱

arthurtv is officially on goodreads and he's added many of the books discussed on the bachandarthur podcast if you want to add them to your reading list 📚

p.s. feel free to send me book recommendations, it's a resolution of mine to read more nonfiction this year 🤓

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

i am 24. George is 10 months older than me, Bach is less than a month older than me

no such thing as too old

I just turned 26 :(

If I'm not mistaken, George and I share a birthday which would make me exactly one year older than him. Hope he likes cougars...

Jokes aside, it's nice to see some people around my age on this website. It turns out 26 isn't as geriatric as I once thought; it's not all fiber bars and denture fluid.