#layvau

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this is what selfshipping feels like

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mid investigation ice cream break

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is it love, or can you feel it?

unexpected winter yaoi from the christmas neutral-disliker in the big 2025; rave it up!

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"Hershel, I never thought to ask myself whether I was good at dancing—"

"Nonsense. You have performed admirably for an amateur."

layvau playlist cover coming at ya HOT and swagalicious. plot accurate, even. rejoice my nation

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me when im stuck in a Never Defining The Relationship deathmatch with my friend— professor— partner— dont worry about it

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“Layton,” you try, then by a stroke of boredom, decide to try again. “Hershel.”

His eyes do an ever slight swipe your way, but you’ve no idea if he's registered anything by the glossy look he keeps as he runs his pen through his students’ work. These papers hold all his attentions, evidently. Each assignment and essay is being annotated with detailed remarks, underlines, cross-outs, praise, and grading despite how, inches above them and their coherence, their writer mutters syllables in quasi-correct order to himself.

It’s a sorry sight, but you’re no better yourself. Of course, you’ve thought before, the two insomniacs found each other in this world. Perhaps a hypocrisy you should think that; he keeps himself up for work and other such noble feats, while you keep yourself up fiddling with everything in his office tonight because, as has been a rule since the beginning of time itself, you physically cannot relax. An obligation and a flaw cannot compete in good faith.

One of his strange knickknacks rolls under your fingers, and you twist it over in your hands absentmindedly. “Hershel–”

“Please don’t touch that,” his voice breaks through with the hand that takes the stone from you and puts it on a shelf.

Now he’s beginning to get on your nerves. In any case, at this instant your priorities lay in getting things through his skull while you have his attention.

“You should really be calling it a night now.”

“I’m almost done. I pray you’ll give me a minute to finish up.”

“You’ve said that three times now.”

Going home is always an option. Neither you nor Bearik need to stay here for any particular reason (even if the creature has already made this place his second home, sleeping very soundly on the green felt couch). But you have reservations about it, the idea that you’d leave him here to keep at this — this… insane routine, of his. And until when? Until dawn breaks through the trees? There must be something you can do to at least rid yourself of worrying about him. Waiting around won’t get you anywhere.

Subsequently an idea comes to mind. Careful not to make a sound, you unfurl an arm from the nest you’ve made beneath your chin and hover your fingers behind him. No reaction. Had this been any other time (and had you known him a little less than you do), you would have been worried. Or, you wouldn’t have been — you would have clouded your intentions with a joke at his expense. Tonight you were trying something out. Still hid behind something like you can’t be seen for who you were lest something catches up with you.

You doubt he was so stupid so as to have not noticed you by now. Shaking fingers fumbled for some few torturous seconds before settling, comfortably, to small circles on the edges of the back of his neck. It was going to start slow, steady, and small. (Not like you know advanced masseuse techniques, but you think your fingers work magic given the effort.)

At some point he makes a sudden noise — “Ooh,” he shivers — to which you jump and retract your arm.

“Ah.” He blinks and clears his throat. In the dim illumination of his desk lamp you start seeing darker hues on his cheeks. His voice softens when he looks at you. “My apologies. Did I startle you?”

“No.”

When he chuckles it makes you feel like you’ve given yourself away somehow.

“I must say, I feel quite relaxed now. Many thanks to you and that wonderful massage just now.”

While you work to right yourself — and hide your face away, for it is now undeniably red — Layton has, with a decisive yet gentle push of his desk, gotten up from his chair. Stretching. Yawning. Looking still as tired but much less tense now. Your chest drops itself in warmth. Even when he's up and delirious he maintains such a clear vocabulary, with the kink of his somewhat slurring them the single indication that something was off.

“I suppose I should retire for the night,” he turns to you, a fond sort of half-smile playing on his lips, too tired to be pulled into a bigger one. “As should you, Vaughn.”

Oh, that's right. Now that you've stayed up so late, you'll spend hours beyond schedule trying to sleep as per usual, and this time with the added delay of having to wake up Bearjollnr and drive all the way back home. This was a strange idea on your part. A very unhealthy one which gains you nothing useful at the end of the day.

Speaking of delirious minds, yours has just caught up with you. Layton’s face is a little funny in this light, and you're sure you're smiling funny, too, but for some reason… though you should be pissed clean off that it's this late and you're still here, everything is so great right now. Something pulls you to holler a laugh of triumph.

“I've finally got you to bed! Yes! Take that, Layton!” you cheer and pump your fists.

And he laughs along with you. “Oh? Why the sudden formalities? I thought you were set on calling me Hershel tonight.”

Now you regret everything you've ever done in your life. Everything is horrible forever and should blow up this instant. Forever. Your face heats the cold night asunder as your palms grip the wooden desk as if demanding for it to do something about this man. If you were any more hunched over you'd be a bridge. Perhaps he was delirious after all.

And perhaps you have let a delirious man persuade you with his stupid “logic” and “reason” to not drive back home tonight on account of your fading consciousness, instead letting him lead you back to his bedroom while he insists on taking the sofa. Stupidly, in a state where you can easily pull him to take the bed with you. Which you do.

He accepts your dastardly plan as reality with so few rumblings that you don’t care to hear from him in regards to this. You’ll both think about this situation in a clearer fashion in the morning, but for now there is only the bed, and the rustic smell of pinecone, and the blankets draped over you while you fall asleep in company.

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selfship page we finally finished tonight (ft. bearik & e.p.'s selfships as well)

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i believe ive learned a lot abt u and asa but not yet for my goat layton so Please tell me anything abt layton becuz that's like my uncle you know (btw i only noticed how your blog is them-centric its so good. the colors go so nicely. my sunset goobers)

HELL YEAH. made this theme having full confidence itd look good cause i only fall for fellow warm toned people (¬ᴗ ´¬ ) HEH. still at the part where i fight him in physical combat so i have not a lot but the s/i and lore is going! slowly! funny thing about him is that he proves i have a trend of:

thinking character is hot > finding that funny > joking about it through my hubris > few days pass > i'm genuinely in love with them > i now have to get rid of them somehow

but other than that, there's nothing big or fun to really talk about. other than i've written quite a bit of stuff with us in it! here's an exclusive snippet i wrote mid playing diabolical box? unwound future maybe idk? when i was trying to vent my crush out of my system:

With the music, my arm found rest in the lower etches of his side near where I thought his waist may have laid. Cold air pierced my back in waves as if to scold me. I knew it was useless — I’d already resolved to push my luck tonight until someone killed me for it. I had it on somewhat good faith that this was a hilarious way to spend my night, or else I'd die trying to waste my time like this. My resolve proved weaker than I thought. All of it wavered in droves when the smile he’d graced me with all this time disappeared for but a moment.

My humor took me again after noticing the slight warmth of his cheeks beneath his hat. When it struck me that he might have dipped his gaze down and away for a reason.

“My, you're forward,” he muttered.

Perfectly. With all the restraint of a gentleman, he scolded me. An unwilling smirk took over my lips, turned ever the grimace by my trying to pull it off of my own face. It must have annoyed him, when accompanied by my next thought.

“Sorry. Something must have come over me. Have I made myself lead?”

I played the innocent and feigned a look around for this source of misdeed as if to find him and stop him in the act myself, aware once again that there were surroundings in my sight.

His gaze settled on me again after brief hesitation. “No, not to my knowledge. Would you like me to teach you how to dance?”

Compose yourself.

“It would be quite the honor.”

Layton guided my every step with the sort of gentle patience which, of course, befitted a teacher like him. Oftentimes one could easily forget. That world renowned puzzlemaster, traveller, and adventurer Hershel Layton — that very same man who had many times stared death in the eyes and won — he occupied himself with an average job to tend to on the daily.

While half of my mental faculties remained in lesson, my other half strained to retain composure. The arm he held on my shoulder would, on occasion, slip down to my forearm to hold it in place, and on my end I fought to pretend it felt like nothing. More than outing my secret, there was this inherent need in me to dance well now. He, of all people, needed to see that I was a quick learner. This was my only chance to gain his recognition, if only for one thing.

By irony, I nearly tripped as he did so; the professor gave appraisal so casual I found it a scare when it happened. Nevertheless, I must remain normal. I will say I remained good enough in my adjustments to keep him talking of average matters, things he came to this city to discuss.

“Have you, by chance, heard of the Theatre Ophelia?” he’d asked of me, for example.

“Ah, yes, the ever-changing maze of mirages," — I spun him about and brought him back, as the light glistened off his silk red band — "Those who go there return in different faces; no doubt you have heard and that your journey here has been apropos to the legends.”

“...An astute observation. I was wondering if you would be so kind as to tell me more of the phenomenon.”

“Now would I be so kind, I wonder…”

“Have you a favor in mind? I would be happy to assist.”

Always so eager to please.

“I don't mean to unnerve,” I lightened my hold on him only to feel tortuous electricity as he pulled me back in place. “But, ah — well, you in particular I have had my eye on for a while. Aha. Who hasn't, really? You must know your fame.”

And I must know the extent of which my face has burned. This is embarrassing.

“You flatter me."

I hope I do. From the corner of my eye, Luke sat on the wayside tentatively watching us dance. He made it impossible to do anything with that piercing gaze on me. As if waiting for me to pull something dastardly, waiting for me to back myself in a corner, waiting to prosecute me for my sins. It was all I could do to ignore him that night.

s/is OUT OF THE WINDOW, this is just "what if i was toned down and whimsically victorian british for the purposes of fitting into the pl vibes" - and this might have been BEFORE unwound future or miracle mask. i might have predicted that man was a pouty princess before anything happened 🫵 remember this

honestly i like what i was doing in this time period, i've posted some stuff with him and my evil creature freak s/i for the pl universe. and honestly i should keep doing that if making a normal human s/i proves to be too difficult KENIDJFJE

ohhhhh hes so stupid and his puns are so nothingburger and he was such a dweeb and i still crumble into a million pieces when i hear or see tiny 🤏 layton from azran legacy and hes so fluffy hair oh i hate him hes SUCH a princess how did i do this to myself AGAIN