#why did tolkien put this guy in here. what was he for

[unopenablebox]

can you believe it took me until now to learn that angmar is in the far north of middle-earth. like well north of rivendell. i swear i really did read the appendices as a kid but clearly i did not retain from them a damn thing

[kenlvry]

LISTEN TO ME RN HEAT ME TF OUT STANS GANG + CRAIG DOIGN THE LIPSTICK TREND FROM TICTOK WITH READER

the lipstick trend with stan and craigs team

an, I AM LISTENLING ANON DONT WORRY. no idea what you mean by heat out though 🤨 , 17-18 and gn reader but use of her in tolkiens

kenny

he was the one who suggested it, it came across his fyp one day and he sent it to you "lets do this come over rn." "you asked, why dont you come to my house? 🤨" "why don't i cum in your mom" "HUH 😧" "im here."

you both definitely argue on what lipstick you should wear "okay but i don't even use pink lipstick" "well you should" "its light colour its not gonna appear" "well fuck 😒"

the process of kissing his face is wild, he would suggest to do his lips as the first place "KENNY HOW ARE WE GONNA DO THIS TREND IF YOU KEEP TRYING TO MAKE OUT WITH ME" "ITS NOT MY FAULT"

after like2 hours you finally get the lipstick on his face. now the tiktok was even harder he wouldn't stop laughing. you'd give up and he apologises while laughing

thank god you guys were able to finish it under 1 hour it turned out really good, at the end of the video he kissed you and you wanted to cut that part but he said keep it for like and its true the comments were all about the kiss on the last clip

kyle

okay he too wanted to ask you first but he was kinda shy and waited for you to ask and you did!! woohoo for kyle

"kyle wanna do this" "OKAY" he insists on picking your lipstick and picks the ugliest colour like what 😐

to him there was no such thing as an ugly colour buy it didn't suit your face so no way.

the process of it was calm, he at first wanted to put on the lipstick for you but you looked like a clown has mans never put on lipstick??

he watches you as you kiss him and reapply lipstick and then kiss him again, he feels like a princess fr 🤭🤭

he hasn't seen his face yet so when you record and he saw his face he laughs out loud, "LMAO WHY DO I LIKE THAT??" "WDYM"

you would tell him to take off his hat which he refuses but you looked too cute, when it posted cartman was first to comment and you can already tell what he commented "ew gay" your followers defended you two though 🤭

stan

stan blushes internally when you ask him. "sure im down" DEEP DOWN HE WANTS KIDNAP YOY AND KEEP YOU TO HIMSELF

"what lipstick do you think matches me best, pink or red?" "id say my tip colour" "WHAT 😧"

he has to hold in the very urge to puke every time you kiss him because like you look so cute omg.

he looks in the mirror and is js like "damn, i did it". HE LOVES IT SOOOO MUCH YOU CAN TELL HE'S BLUSHING ONGG ‼️

he even directs you like "do here next, okay now here" its so cute 🤭🤭

when you record and the camera pans to him, he smiles and covers his face blushing bc he can't contain it. it was such a cute video and got iver 2 mil likes. cartman definitely commented "i bet you had to change your clothes 10 times"

cartman

"cartman lets do this" "what." "wdym? cmon its cute" "y/n no offense but that is the most gayest shit i've ever seen" " NO ITS NOT UTS CUTE" "my reputation is at stake if i do that be so for real" "okay I'm asking kyle then" "lets do it."

he actually been wanting to ask you for weeks now but doesn't know how so winwin. you take your absolute time picking your lipstick and he couldn't be more done with "hurry up this doesn't even effect anything" "shut up cartman if i use the right one people will ask what lipstick it is and i get views"

picking a lipstick was already a big deal just imagine the process "ew gay not on my lips" "cartman 😐" tbh he wish he could just make out with you rn but yk how mans is

now recording is even more a hassle "JUST SMILE IS IT SO HARD TO CRACK A SMILE" "NOT WHILE IM LOOKING LIKE THIS" the most he does is wipes your lipstick off and then he just gives a 🙄 look until the end of the video

the comments are just him getting teased at clydes commenting "NAHHH CAN'T BELIEVE HE AGREED TO THIS" kyles is "i can tell that this took a long time" and then wendys is "is that cartman or a clone of him". cartman is pissed af at the comment, he told you his reputation is at stake 😒.

he actually has it saved downloaded and also is his live wallpaper sooo.

butters

butters is the one who asked you this " um y/n can we do this? 😣" while twiddling his fingers, "OKAY"

he's all giddy and smily during the process, after every kiss his blushes intensifies and by the end of it he is just.. 🔴

even though it is the most simplest video ever he has to have a tutorial, he is asking questions for everything man, how do i wipe the lipstick, what do i do, do i smile when its on me , do i laugh??

you tell him what he thinks he should he and he starts kissing you bc rn the sexual tension between you two is intense (to him atleast, he thinks thinks hand holding is already intense)

everyone comments on how cute he is and yk how tiktok is so people comment "does he whimper" "submissive who?" and hes likw WHATTTTT 🧍

clyde

when you suggested this he nodded so hard his head probably was about to fall off. "clyde you wanna do this" "DO I???" ..... "well.. do you?" "i mean yeah it's like a way of- yes i wanna do it"

he loves any lipstick you wear so he lets you pick. after every kiss he looks in the mirror and kicks his feet giggling and you just stand there 🤨

he also tries to make it a makeout session like kenny, when you kissed on his lips he holds your neck and literally makes out with like cnon we have 9 more

when you first hit record and yk how the guy has to wipe your lipstick off, nah he grabbed you by the chin and slams his lips with yours "WHY DIS YOU DO THAT??" "its called content,you wouldn't know with your 9 likes and 70 views"

well you kept the clip and everyone in the comments were talking about it "need a boyfriend like you y/n" "why can't my boyfriend be like this" clyde is obviously gloating bc he had the idea.

tolkien

most romantic man you know, is the first to ask you. "y/n can we do this?" "OKAY BOO 😝"

"hmm which lipstick do you think babe?" "i think every lipstick makes you pretty, it doesn't matter if it doesn't suit you because in my eyes you look beautiful in anything ☺️" "what if i wore kim kardashians 2013 met gala dress" "might have to rethink what i said"

he smiles while you kiss him here and there, every once a while he kisses you back, it was such a cute moment for you two😝🤞🤞

when recording he looks at you while smiling during the whole video and it blew up fast because of that

"the way he looks at her" "wishing he was like this" "you got the bag that man is inlove", it blew in seconds fr

craig

"craig lets do-" "okay" "i didnt even ask you yet" "I'll do anything if its with you" "what if i asked you to have a threesome" ".....if its makes you happy idk.."

idk about you but i think he acts like he doesn't care but inside he is so happy you asked he's been wanting to ask you this but doesn't know how to start up the convo

he doesn't care what lipstick or where you kiss him, its just the way you press your lips on him and look at it then quickly reapply to do it again because it wasn't pigmented enough.

when recorded, he doesn't just wipe he makes you turn to face him by grabbing your chin, and he doesn't let go and just looks at you with those yk siren eyes.

people are simping over him ong "damn girlie share for us" "you mean OUR boyfriend" "tryna find someone as hot as him" and you are pissed fr he laughs at you cursing out the people, like bae dw my eyes only fo you 😝🤞

tweek

"tweek, wanna do this?" "but what if I can't remove the lipstick stain" "tweek what dw i have makeup remover" "WHAT IF THAT DOESN'T WORK 🤯🤯" "TWEEK"

okay so the lipstick may turn out ugly bc of how shaky he is but ITS OKAY BC ITS TWEEK DUH, "a-are you sure you dont want to redo this?" "tweek its fine"

he insists on redoing it the 2nd try turns our worse because he's even more twitchy because of how close you are☺️☺️☺️

his face is just red because he keeps wiping it off with his hands so you can redo it and its obvious too

recording it was so funny because you can't stop laughing at the smudge lipsticks

when posted the comments were so cute but... uh questionable some were "the way the smudges are so obvious 😭😭❤️" or "wishing my future relationship will be like this 🤭" and some were just "tip colour when?? 😜"

[wordbunch]

how they care for you when you’re sick/injured but refuse to rest

a/n: requested by @tolkien-fantasy!! 💕 since i already did sth quite similar with Frodo/Sam/Merry/Pippin, this time I decided to include only the “big guys”, aka Aragorn, Boromir, Faramir, Éomer and Legolas. Also Fíli doesn't go here but I decided he will be here.☺️ I hope you enjoy, let me know your thoughts and opinions, and reblogs are always super appreciated!!!🥰🥰🥰

Aragorn: He is literally just like that, even if he’s unwell he will keep pushing, and that is exactly why he immediately notices you do it too, and decides to put a stop to it. As much as he is loving and supportive and always respects your opinions and wishes, he is not taking ‘no’ for an answer when he deems that you really need to rest and recover. Luckily for you, he’s a legendary healer, so you will probably get better relatively soon. If he’s able to give you 100% of his attention and time during your recovery, he will literally feed you if he needs to, just so that you don’t exhaust yourself even more. Also he will quickly hush you if you begin to protest and insist that you’re fine and really have things to do! Sorry, king’s orders! Not just that, he will most definitely have your favorite food made for you, so that you don’t have to lift a finger (even though you want to). 

Boromir: You were both extremely busy on the day when Gondor was preparing for some big festival, and amid your errands you sprained your ankle, but you brushed it off because you wanted to personally oversee the flower arrangements. For the first and only time you were thankful not to see Boromir half the day because you knew he would make a small fuss about it immediately, so you limped on until you accidentally ended up tripping and stumbling backwards into a familiar strong chest. He looked at you suspiciously while you attempted to just brush it off as being clumsy, but he thought you looked a little bit pale and was not convinced. Before you could keep convincing him, he picked you up bridal style and carried you to your bed, having seen right through your act. Sadly he couldn’t have stayed with you the whole time as there were still some things to prepare, but he ran to you as often as he could to check if you were still resting, and to attack you with a flurry of reassuring kisses. Later in the evening he will 100% cuddle you until you both fall asleep wrapped up in each other, and he has no trouble carrying you around for days so that you don’t have to put weight on your injured leg - he enjoys doing it!

Legolas: Injuries and illnesses are not exactly something he is very familiar with, but he knows enough to be aware that they require rest and recuperation! His senses are sharp and he notices if you wince one time, and he is there in an instant. He will ask you what is wrong, what you need, etc. As much as Legolas he understands your restlessness and the constant need to be up and about, he needs you to understand that he’s worried and doesn’t want your condition to get worse. If it’s something very serious, he will immediately call Aragorn for help, but if it’s something minor, he thinks he should be able to handle it and support you through it. Before you know it, you’re not allowed to do anything under his watchful gaze but you’re bored!! No problem, though, he is more than ready to entertain you in any way he can, even if it means he has to sing you all the elvish songs since the beginning of time (and you will make good use of his promise to do that!). 

Éomer: Oh that is literally his BRAND because he’s out there being unstoppable even when something is wrong - and he is not letting his beloved be like that, not on his watch! He is also the type to carry you to bed despite your protests and you being like “I’m fine!” And he is like, alright then, but even if you’re fine, that doesn’t mean you can’t get some rest! No amount of your pouting is going to make him let up. Eventually when you finally admit you’re in pain, he will fuss over you a bit and he will literally try to cook something (he feels better when he can take action) and before you know it he’s making 4 different kinds of tea at the same time and things seem a bit chaotic… When you ask whether he’s sure he doesn’t need any help, he will insist that you just go and rest and that he has everything under control. Needless to say, you didn’t get to eat/drink everything that he started making cause he failed at many things, but you appreciate the love that went into it regardless!

Faramir: He can notice that something is off within like 0.3 seconds and multiple times throughout the day he will ask how you’re feeling and if something is wrong because he can sense that something is off, but he knows you well enough to know that you’d prefer to keep going on about your day, even when in pain. And then when you almost pass out you finally admit that you’re not feeling well, and you know he will immediately drop whatever else he is doing and just focus on you as much as he can until you’re perfectly recovered. More likely than not he is immediately looking for Aragorn because he is NOT taking any risks; although you try to reassure him that it might not be necessary. He knows how to be persistent and when he gives you puppy eyes with those gorgeous teal blue eyes… you have no choice but to let him do his thing.

Fíli: When it comes to you he is a very worried person and he likes to keep an eye on you as much as he can, so it doesn't take him long to become aware that you're acting...different. He is especially fussy if you get injured, and he will push everything and everyone else aside to nurse you back to health, and it literally becomes his number one priority. Fíli won''t hesitate to be even a little bit harsh if anyone comes to bother you or ask something of you before you're 100% recovered, so sometimes you gently reprimand him for it - you feel well enough to go and keep doing things! But good luck trying to convince him!

✨ taglist my beloved ✨ @lotrnonsense​​​​​​ @starlady66​​​​​​ @queenmeriadoc​​ @entishramblings​​​​​​ @thesolarangel​​​​​​ @silversword7000 ​​​​​​ @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @averys-place @valkyriepirate ​​​​​​ @emmaarenstarr @noldorinpainter ​​​​​​ @asianbutnotjapanese @adamgetawaydriver ​​​​​​ @fenharel-enaste ​​​​​​ @ironmandeficiency ​​​​​​      @starryeyedrogue ​​ @dinofromspac3  @wisheduponastar ​ @lady-of-imladris @frodo-cinnamonroll @unethicallypleistocene @deadlymistletoe @suncran @sillyvampireboi

[kiteblue42]

Is Eric Kripke America’s Tolkien?

So I started Supernatural for the first time around 6 months ago for which I blame Tumblr entirely (where do I claim compensation?). In fact it’s very good and fun and I can’t believe I missed it when it was live.

Ok so bear with me I’ve been sick for a few days a combination of high temperature plus rings of power trailer drop may be making me delusional, but I got to thinking … why did this show have such a hold not just on this site, but also on so many fan artists and fan fic writers. (I mean it has a strangle hold on Ao3)?

Then the RoP trailer dropped and I got to thinking is it because it world builds from a US stand point like Tolkien world built from a European standpoint?

Then because I am sick and can’t sleep I am sharing my stream of consciousness o: Kripke as Tolkien, Sam as Sam, John Winchester as Gandalf, Castiel as Beleg and Dean as Turin Turambar - and maybe now I’ve got this out of my head I’ll feel better….:

I attempted to put this under a cut so hope it worked!

:readmore:

Source material

Most modern fantasy stands on the shoulders of JRR Tolkien who basically ingested a ton of European myths and languages (with focus on Northern Europe) and spat out the middle earth legendarium.

Eric Kripke (plus writing team) seems to have ingested a ton of US urban myths and US pop culture and spat out “Supernatural-verse”. Because it is *US myth making* it is distinct from a lot of other US writing that builds off Tolkien and / or European myth arcs (I’m looking at you Star Wars, Westeros etc).

And the themes and sensibilities therefore pulled out by Kripke are *not* the same as Tolkien’s themes and sensibilities. This makes it different to a lot of modern genre fiction (in whatever form) that either builds on or seeks to subvert the themes in Tolkien’s work.

(There’s also a lot of genre fiction that is satire or allegory for the real world, but that is another category to me and not really world building in the same way - incidentally the Boys fits into that category along with Good Omens).

Both ofc back end off the Bible but this is English literature based story telling and no one escapes the Bible or the bard.

Structure

We usually think of Tolkien in terms of:

(1) Hobbit - entry level nicely structured “there and back again” story for children, darker than expected. Main hero arc -Bilbo.

(2) Lord of the Rings - the pretty perfect fantasy master piece - very accessible clear meaningful themes and tidy /satisfactory ending. A number of hero arcs, but clearest drawn are Frodo / Sam.

(3) Silmarillion (&etc) - this is where the legendarium really gets built. It’s not neat, it’s not accessible, some of it is *not* a good read but the ideas here build the world. We have a creation myth. The “good” “wise” guys turn out to be more complex and flawed than we thought. The evil guys are extremely toxic but entertaining and bring the drama. There are epic doomed romances between immortal beings and mortal beings. Everyone messes up and makes catastrophic world destroying errors on the regular. People get cursed and can’t escape their doom. I can’t think of any real traditional hero arcs (maybe Beren or Luthien??). Note Tolkien didn’t finish this and it’s put together by someone else.

Now let’s do Supernatural

(1) seasons 1-3 - Horror procedural-

Entry level solid procedural hunting / horror story. Sam W is here in the traditional hero role. Dean is like your Thorin initiating the adventure. John Winchester is in the Gandalf role (he knows what’s going on and holds the secrets but is not available to the adventurers at all times). Maybe there something deeper and darker going on? This is your Hobbit equivalent very accessible but not particularly unique.

(2) season 4-5 - myth arc - lots of fans will say this is the perfect part of the story and a masterpiece of genre writing. It’s neat with clear meaningful themes and a tidy satisfactory ending. A number of hero arcs though Sam’s remains the most clearly drawn. Dean is more like your Aragorn or Faramir at the end of 5, Bobby in the mold of a Theoden and a Castiel in sort of Gandalf type position. Baby ofc is Shadowfax. This is your LoTR equivalent

(3) seasons 6 - 15 - the Legendarium- this gets a lot of criticism but it’s where the legendarium really gets built. It’s not neat, it’s not that accessible, some of it is not great to watch, but the ideas here build the world out. We have a creation myth (hello Chuck & Amara). We have hero doomed by the narrative (most notably Dean Winchester, though also Castiel). We have epic love stories between mortals and immortals. Yes I am comparing Dean & Cas to Beren & Luthien (!) though Turin & Beleg would perhaps be more appropriate (there’s a good case for Dean = Turin in this universe). The good guys turn out to be more complex or darker than we thought. The evil guys are extremely toxic but entertaining and bring the drama.

There aren’t really any straightforward hero arcs which is one of the reasons Sam fades out a bit and Dean comes forwards as a character. The stories are messy and tragic.

Landscape

Middle Earth - if you read the books or watch the movies or show it’s clear that Tolkien’s (sub)creation is a love letter to the mountains, lakes and woods of England and Europe. It’s also a cry of anguish for their destruction. Both the beauty and destruction are heightened (Europe doesn’t really look like this and really never did - as for the movies they were shot in anew Zealand and then digitally enhanced…) This is as important as the characters and plot - and stands out in particular in the Hobbit and LoTR where there are long descriptions of landscapes (or long shots of the same in movies / shows).

“Middle Americana” - it’s clear that as much importance was put into the look of the landscapes in Supernatural as to the characters or story. In this verse the look is long open roads, beautiful mountains and big skies that are a declaration of love for America, and the run down small towns seem to present wistful sadness. But again it’s not real it’s heightened. The cinematography in first few seasons is particularly thoughtful (and perhaps Kim Manners is to be thanked for that). The show is shot in Canada and the motels / gas stations in middle of no where needed to be built because they didn’t exist in reality. Again the landscape - the open road, the small towns, the big sky, the motels / dinners / gas stations in the middle of nowhere are as much a character as anything else.

I could go on but I suppose if anyone read this far you get the point (and more importantly it’s now out of my head and I can think about something else!).

Ultimately it will take some time to see if this could be right - in terms of genre fiction Tolkien is everywhere and you can’t escape it (even if you never read or watched any Tolkien!). Time will tell if the Kripke verse has the same impact on creatives and audiences, but I just look at the A03 archive and notice how many people know what happened on Supernatural without ever watching it (!) and think hmmm these are the readers and writers of tomorrow after all.

[frodo-with-glasses]

More Reading Thoughts: In the House of Tom Bombadil

BEHOLD! ANOTHER CHAPTER! We’re making it at a magnificent clip nowadays

Eyyyy it’s Goldberry!

Frodo surprising himself with the poem that springs out of his mouth when he sees Goldberry will never not be hilarious and adorable

It does beg the question of where the heck that came from. Does Goldberry just have that effect on people? Does it have serving to do with Elf magic, like she implies? Does Frodo just have that accidental rizz?? Who knows!

Frodo: “Who is Tom Bombadil?” Goldberry: “Well, he is, of course, silly :-D”

Mighty convenient that Tom has exactly four beds for the four travelers

They DO take a bath before supper >8-D (Don’t mind me, just a comic idea percolating in my head. Some of you know what I’m talking about.)

Tom was waiting for them. Tom was waiting for them. He’d heard word that the hobbits were coming. He wasn’t actively trying to find them, but he wasn’t surprised when he did. I don’t know why that enchants me so much.

Merry and Pippin like “AAAHH NO DON’T TALK ABOUT THE WILLOW TREE” is simultaneously hilarious and heartbreaking depending on how you look at it

Heeheehee nightmare time

Frodo has a dream about Gandalf and Black Riders. Hmm, pity. You’d think he’d have a nightmare about water, given his near-drowning and the way his parents died…but I guess this is important for foreshadowing purposes.

Pippin has a dream about being inside the tree. He feels surrounded and afraid. Understandable.

MERRY has the dream about water and drowning?? Shut up!! If I were him, I’d be way more disturbed that a freaking tree was IN MY HEAD and threatening to kill me!!

“Sam slept through the night in deep content, if logs are contented.” Hilarious 🤣

Much apologies to my girlies on the server who headcanon the hobbits with phobias corresponding to the four elements; sadly, Tolkien is not on the same page as us this time.

Tom: “You’d better not be late to breakfast, or you’ll get nothing but grass and water!”

See, Frodo gets it. Rainy days are awesome. They are beautiful and force you to slow down and admire the world.

“The trees were here before you, mind, and they don’t much care for your shenanigans!”

Ooh, so the Barrow-wights are the ghosts of dead kings that the Nazgul woke up. Fascinating.

Nothing makes the world of Middle Earth feel old and rich in history more than Tom’s stories

Goldberry’s hand being partly translucent is such a vibe

WAIT. Tom and Goldberry. Differences. Tall and short. Blonde and brown. One graceful and ethereal, the other down to earth and joyful. Working together, not in competition. Frodo and Sam. SHUT UP GUYS I’VE CRACKED THE CODE—

Tom is friends with Farmer Maggot!!

FARMER MAGGOT HAS SPOKEN TO GILDOR

Dang where’s my fantasy epic about Farmer Maggot you guys

And this is the part where Tom puts the Ring on his finger and doesn’t disappear, and if they’d ever included this in the movies it would’ve destroyed the gravity and mystique of the Ring altogether

Merry having to bite back a yell like “HOLY CRAP FRODO’S GONE” 🤣

WAIT I CAN MAKE THAT ANGSTY TOO aw heck the brainrot is setting in

“Frodo laughed (trying to feel pleased)…” Relatable, Frodo, relatable

Tom: “And remember, DON’T GO NEAR THE BARROW-DOWNS!” Meanwhile, the hobbits, in the very next chapter:

[aipilosse]

Why Pengolodh of all people is able to stoke such rage within me on his behalf is so bizarre. Like, he's a non-character, a name and some facts Tolkien came up with in his carousel of in-universe authors to keep the layers of narration he loved, but the way he is maligned in this fandom is tragic.

I've touched on before that treating the Silmarillion as if it were written and relayed by a single author is entirely incorrect so I won't go into that here, and honestly I'm sure I've said this all before BUT

The idea that Penny is for some reason *least* suited to write most of the events of the Silmarillion is PATENTLY ridiculous, and I would challenge anyone who says that to a duel, either intellectual or physical (even in my current weakened state... Tulkas is on my side I cannot fail). First of all, the one place where nobody else knows anything about what happened is GONDOLIN, so I think if anyone is going to be writing about most of the events of the Silm, they either need to be from Gondolin or need to live in Sirion with survivors.

OH WHAT'S THAT.... SIRION?!?

Yeah, Sirion! The place where not only are there survivors of Gondolin, but there are survivors of Doriath and Nargothrond AND any remnants of the Beorians, Hadorian, and Haladin. Like, I can think of no other place where the Mannish legends would be able to be recounted, and put on the same level, as the Elvish ones.

"But the Feanorians," you squall. "He's so *unfair* to them, and how could he know ANYTHING about them? That's why we know sooo little about the Feanorians and why they are soooo unjustly maligned."

Ok, first of all, ya basic. Second of all, HE HAS ACCESS TO FEANORIAN SOURCES TOO.

There is Celebrimbor, and all the other former followers of Curufin and Celegorm that could of course tell Penny what was up in Himlad and afterwards while he was in Gondolin. Also, there were probably Feanorians who lived after turning on Maedhros and Maglor during the sack of the Havens who could fill in what happened after The Luthien Incident. So, actually, Pengolodh had multiple sources to literally all of the essential events of the Silmarillion.

OH YEAH THE SACK OF THE HAVENS. Despite living through what is described as the worst atrocity of elf v elf, despite having people we KNOW were friends with him KILLED during that fight, despite having his home destroyed by fellow Noldor, he *really* gives Maglor and Maedhros every excuse. "they felt bad, they're so tired, love grew between them and their victims" etc etc. The Silm is sympathetic to the Feanorians and you can't convince me otherwise (you're not some crazy rebel because you like them!) (They are also Doomed by the narrative, but attributing that to an in-universe author requires getting into the territory of events that occurred not actually occurring and... what's the point if you're going to say that the things that the book is about didn't happen? why are you even here?)

I see people say that the bias is against the 3 Cs, Caranthir especially, which is an ABSURD statement to make in conjunction with the 'Pengolodh, sole conveyer of the Silm' theory. Like, Pengolodh most likely never met any of the 3 Cs or if he did he was very young -- why would he dislike them more than the brothers that massacred his friends? I think the theory here is that he's just such a huge Turgon fan and just absorbed Turgon's opinions on the 3 Cs, which is just conjecture on top of conjecture with no solid footing.

I think there is more credence to him being biased against Maeglin on account of the Fall of Gondolin. But, I ask you, is it really *bias* when the guy is partially responsible for the sack of the city you spent most of your life in and likely the deaths of most of your friends and relatives? And Maeglin too in the published Silm is not without his good qualities! If you hate someone, it can be very hard to admit they're handsome and smart, but Penny does not have that issue.

Anyway, justice for Pengolodh. You didn't write the whole thing, Penny, but what you did write was I'm sure fucking fantastic.

[not-freyja]

For the director's cut, I would love to hear more about Legend's thought process and motivations once he met Hyrule in Adjuration! 🥰

Thank you for an actual scene selection everyone else had me pulling out a random number generator. Fucks sake. Love you guys. Also sorry this took like… a month, writing is hard.

This is going to be long. And though it might be analysis for chapter two, it will contain spoilers for the whole story.

Key: [quoted text in brackets] my analysis out if brackets.

[Time to deal with the strange Hylian. The same strange Hylian who came out of a now-vanished portal that also spat out a monster.

Link did not get this far in life by being the trusting sort.] Okay this sets the tone. Legend is immediately suspicious. He knows something fucky just happened, and that this person is involved.

[“So…” he says to the figure now sitting up on the ground. “Who the hell are you?”

There’s a faint mumble from the Hylain shaped pile of dirt at his feet.

Link sighs. “You need to speak up a bit.”

“I’m…” the kid's voice is raspy, as if he hasn’t used it in a while. He coughs, trying again. It’s a bit better this time.] Crying in Rulie-loving sorrow. This boy has such a hard life. I wanted to make sure the readers understood that without rubbing it in. I also wanted to make it clear that Legend was noticing these things. [“I’m no one. Just a traveler.”] Nick name establishment. Also secret world-building. I have so many thoughts about the world-building of each of their eras. And I was holding myself back chomping at the bit not to pull a Tolkien and overshare.

[“Bullshit.”

The kid’s eyes go wide. “No, really!” There’s an almost raw edge of panic to his voice now, and Link almost feels bad. “I’m not anybody important, I’m just passing through. I’ll be on my way now, thank you for the help.] They have known each other for about two minutes and Legend is already aware of a few things. This kid is involved with some kind of Dark Magic, he’s on the run, and he does not want to reveal his identity. This is ringing some trauma bells for Leggy. He is seeing himself, and he is getting sympathetic.

[And before Link can so much as laugh at such a pathetic attempt at a lie (and it is a lie, he’s been on enough quests to be able to tell a nobody from a somebody) the traveler scrambles to his feet.] Little meta joke here. We the player, we the reader can tell an NPC from a main character. Legend, who thinks in meta terms, can too.

[The thing is, Link is retired. He’s put in the work, done his time. He’s spilled enough blood and lost enough of his life to goddesses and princesses and lost wayward souls that this is the point in the story where he wants to take the guy at his word.] So… Link. Not Legend. Link. He is so tired, and so done. Its been four lifetimes of misery and he is done, thank you. [Link wants to shrug, turn around, and continue on his way home. He wants to turn and run through the woods, back to his house and slide the bolt in the door and have Ravio tell anyone who comes calling that the hero] This is the only time that Legend thinks of “hero” in the general lowercase noun and not “Hero” as a proper noun. Why? Well because a hero would do such a thing as to hide from a quest. A Hero would not. [is not home because he is not going to be answering any more calls to greatness. There will not be one more quest.] oh buddy. *sobs* Rulie’s “got one more in me” later down the road as the direct foil to this thought. Rulie’s death is the catalyst for the rest of Legend’s character arc, like his entrance into Legend’s life is the catalyst for the plot.

[He’s retired, by the Three.] Yeah man keep telling yourself that.

[But right before he can do just what it is he wants, the stranger goes to leave first. And the poor thing takes one step, yelps like a kicked dog, and crumples back to the forest floor.

“Fuck.” Link can’t help the curse] The sympathy is now at a boiling point. Legend cannot help but care. Cannot help but try to help. [and he strides forward, towards the kid, away from home.] OKAY so the “away from home” bit is both directionally in the scene and narratively in the plot. [It’s only a few steps, but it’s the wrong way, and Link has done this enough times by now to know that it really is those first few steps that count.

Those are the ones that you can’t take back. The ones that all the rest come after.

Link takes them anyway.] I can’t even start with this part. The repeated theme of Legend “going the wrong way” of him doing the dangerothing anyway, despite his well-earned survival instincts. I… listen, Legend was suicidal. From day one. He knows he can’t undo this. He knows that another quest will probably get him killed. He does it anyway.

[“Hey, easy there,” he all but whispers, dropping to his knees next to the filthy kid. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay, Traveler?”

Big eyes stare up at him. They are full of fear and distrust, and a painful glint of hope. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Link sighs, takes another deep breath. “Is it your leg?”

That gets a weird combination of a nod and a shrug. “Ankle, actually.” The kid smiles at him. And it really is a nice smile, soft, and a bit shy. “I got my foot twisted under a tree root.”

He can’t help but wince because, yeah, been there. “Well that’s not too bad then.” Link grins. “A brace, a red potion, and a few days rest, and you’ll be good as new.”

The traveler nods, some of the stress seeming to bleed out of his shoulders. “That’s what I thought too. Thanks.” He pauses, gulps before continuing. “Thank you for handling the moblin for me. I… I’m not at my best right now.”] This whole section is about deepening the sympathy. He is looking at Rulie amd seeing his younger self (I have Rulie at 16 and Legend at 20) and he just wants to help. (Time: “Let me help.”)

[“No need to thank me.” Link’s smile, previously genuine, turns bitter. “That’s what heroes do.”

Just as he was starting to loosen up, the stranger tenses again, every muscle going taut as a bowstring.] So they have different reasons for the same action (getting tense). Legend is a ball of angst. Hyrule is afraid if being recognized.

[“You alright?”

“...What do you mean ‘hero?’”

And that tone of voice right there? Suspicious and untrusting? Waiting for the other shoe to drop? Link knows that tone of voice. He uses that tone of voice on the daily. He loves that tone of voice. But only when it’s coming from him. Out of another mouth, it just sounds sad.] Here Legend is an inch away from self awareness. So close. But more importantly, his recognition if the self in Rulie is getting even stronger. Every moment is another moment that they are more alike in Legend’s eyes.

[But hey, in for a green rupee, in for a gold.] LOL.

[“That would be me,” he says with his most winning smile. “Link, Hero of Legend, savior of Hyrule, chosen by the Goddess… you get the gist.”] Here I have Legend give the titles of three out of five Heroes that Link will be. Chosen, Legend, and Hyrule. This was foreshadowing no one noticed because why the fuck would you? What I did to this boy was unhinged no one saw that coming.

[And the kid just stares.

And stares.

And stares some more.] Me too buddy. Legend is so pretty.

[This is getting ridiculous. Link shakes his head. “Listen, I’m not really in the market for any missions, or quests, divine or otherwise. Firmly out of the whole kingdom-saving business. And the princess-saving gig as well. So why don’t you just tell me where you’re heading, and I’ll make sure you get to the nearest town in the right direction in one piece and we’ll call it even?”] Last attempt to avoid the situation, and he is still trying to help. What a dumb bitch.

[Those deep green eyes staring up at him suddenly roll back, and the boy goes limp.] Baby boy! Also the green here. Yes it is Rulie’s eye color. But it os also Ravio’s eye color, and every single detail Legend notices about this kid gets him more attached.

[“Well, shit.” Link grumbles, running a hand through his hair. What could have been an hour-long detour on his day is now a problem with a capital P. Because as much as he might want to, Link isn’t actually capable of abandoning some poor homeless-looking teenager in the middle of the woods. Especially not one who fainted at the sound of Link’s name.

That thought makes Link pause. Did he faint? A monster was chasing him, it could be blood loss. It could be more than just his ankle.] Standard worrying here. He feels responsible for this kid now.

[He reaches out tentatively with a small brush of magic and almost sighs in relief.] OKAY BIG MISTAKE. Rulie is the Triforce. Legend loves the Triforce. And the Triforce loves Legend. They magically harmonized here. Imprinted. Zinged. From this moment on they were both attached. [The issue is clear now. There’s an empty well where the kid’s natural magic should be, almost drained but nowhere near dangerously so. The fainting wasn’t about Link at all, it was the adrenaline fading off and the strain the poor kid’s body was under finally catching him.

The memory of that strange portal flares in his mind. That incident coupled with this guy being certifiably drained of magic after falling through makes Link realize a couple of things real quick.] Smart Leggy. Good Leggy.

[First, this kid probably made that portal. Second, he came through it as a last-ditch resort. He was running from something, or someone. Third, this poor Hylian has a lot of magic at his disposal (not only did he make a stable portal but he and a moblin went through it before it collapsed), magic that still pushes out in a wave, nauseatingly strong despite its low levels.] Bitch that’s the fucking Triforce.

[Link is almost afraid to learn how much the kid will have after he recharges.] Again, the Triforce.

Now to fast forward about three paragraphs, because while I like those paragraphs very much they can be entirely summarized as: Legend is so suicidal. How did none of you notice?

[One arm slides under bony knees, the other behind the prone Hylian’s back. Nayru’s tears, he won’t even need a power bracelet for this, he’s so thin.] So… I’m not crying, you’re crying. Their first moment together perfectly mirrors their last, and that is fine, that is so fine. Nothing is wrong here, I am okay.

[The Hero rises, an unconscious stranger held delicately in his arms.] Here we go. The pivot to Hero as a proper noun. The acceptance of the call. The attachment is personal and magical, and our journey begins with Legend carrying Rulie to safety, when he knows it will kill him. (And kind of hoping that it does.)

…this is a loop. The beginning is the end.

[imagineitdearies]

Congratulations on completing PS 🤍

I'm curious, how did you decide on Tyrus Aman'del as a name?

Thank you, feeling pretty proud! 🎉💃

Haha you guys are really out to expose my nerdiness, aren't you?

I admit, I just liked the name Tyrus when I was looking at names for this character. Less-common, but nothing too fancy or hard to pronounce. We can always save that for the last name, right?

Lol speaking of--I admit it, I'm a huge LOTR/Tolkien fan, so whenever I name prominent elves in my d&d campaigns I'm often looking at character names from the Tolkien-verse to borrow from or modify, or checking in on Quenya/Sindarin translators (here's my fav one). This time, I was browsing and saw the name "Amandil"--who is the father of Elendil, for anyone who knows what that means!

The name itself means "Lover of Aman," and Aman is the blessed realm where Tolkien elves sail to and the Valar live (also known as Valinor, the Undying Lands, etc.). Besides being a place, the word Aman means "unmarred" in Quenya, which I liked the idea of right off the bat given Tyrus has a near-death moment as a baby before he's saved from the sacrificial altar. But even though he does end up 'marred' and changed in many ways, when you put it all together "Amandil" means "Lover of Wholeness/Unbreakable-ness."

Aka . . . lover of Astarion 😉😂

And then I didn't want it to be exactly that name, which is where forgotten realms elf naming conventions come into play--apostrophes show up constantly (easy examples: Drizzt Do'Urden, Jarlaxle D'aerthe), so why not in this case? Which would leave us with "Aman'dil", except I didn't quite like the sound or look of that 😂 So changing it to "del" was just for my own sake.

I later learned that "del" on its own means "horror" in Sindarin?? Whoops? Or maybe a perfect mistake . . .

[letrune]

You know what annoys me in Harry Potter?

And let us imagine for a moment that the author is Hatsune Miku. That it is an adaptation of Neil Cicierega's Potter Puppet Pals. That Warner Bros is not holding the franchise with patents and trademarks well beyond the powers of even millionaires.

Ah, nice to imagine, isn't it? Still with me?

The books are wasted potential. Every new thing coming in helps to show how the magical world is as flawed and xenophobic as regular, mundane version of it. Slavery, segregation by "blood purity", racial segregation, magic supremacy and cishet white male magic supremacy, too.

And then a downtrotten guy shows up. He is a hero, has loads of cash and a fame beyond his age. You would think the dude from the literal closet would CHANGE THE SYSTEM. To push along a new, better, more liberated, more equal world. Maybe even prevent the next bad guy from rising by removing the key aspects that made him rise to power, like slavery, the segregations, the supremacist ideas, and so on. Even if just pushing it in a way.

You would think the main character would fix the system. You know why?

Because every fantasy story, even if by just getting the just and wise king or queen on the throne, does that. The Lord of the Rings does not end by blowing up Sauron. It goes on, the world has to be changed to prevent a new, different Sauron. We saw glimpes on how anyone, even the purest heart, could go down that path.

So why can't this boy who lives in a closet? It is WASTED POTENTIAL. Imagine the stories you can tell! Now that you got a better world coming, would the old jerks not hate it? Would some change? What new issues arise? It is a fantasy, so you can do whatever you want - and then go the Man in Black route and have the magical slowly dripped into the mundane. Or, again, as with the (comic book) Men in Black, we had shown how even the utopian parts get issues not seen before, all based on xenophobia, human folly, etc.

You make a status quo that sucks, and then GO AND CHANGE IT. The big bad in a bad system is not the guy with the biggest gun, but the system that fails.

Oh, sure, you can make a story about the cyclical nature of revolutions - and yes, a bloodless revolution is the best for the little people, but in fiction, we may have the bad guys represent issues. So, you can make a story where a revolution leads to another in the next cycle. But...

You have to change the bad systems. Say that some things may change. Even if it is just a new school being put forward in the end, with empathy, and two characters talking about how the world will change if they keep going on... You have to change. The utopian status quo is the only one what the audience may like to be returned to.

When Bilbo comes back to the Shire, it is almost the same, but Bilbo himself changed. It was a bit for the better, but not that much that new stories could not be told... and what he thought as the status quo is shown to have changed. He became more artistic. He wrote a book, inspired by his "miserable adventure"... and then, later, Tolkien slipped in the ring from the sequel. It was not in the original draft! The ending did not changed, but we had a plot hook.

Though, Tolkien already had given us all the potential in the story. He hinted at a bigger world.

So imagine Miku, writing a thing but then she does not develop the things. The potential goes wasted, and when it returns, it has this "stop nagging me, here, a stupid retcon for your stupid questions" thing. Potential squandered! Wasted! No wonder the fans would go to write their own, for better or worse.

I am so happy Hatsune Miku is a talented writer and not some woman slipping into right-wing hatred, akin to some dude who loves gold and the aesthetics of power, and having none of it in his tiny hands or something. That would be-

Oh. I just realised the intro to this rant. Well, now that the train is deralied, what is my point?

If you write a story with systemic issues, you should at least attempt to resolve some of them. You got slavery? Have the main character and their friends free slaves and ban slavery when they get the power to do so.

You got a sort of space cyborg wizard nazi movement? Your character has the potential to punch them in the face, alongside B. J. Blazkowicz and Captain America, WHILE ALSO breaking the systems the space cyborg wizard nazies rely on. In fact, it should be what you do, because while your heroes give the cool action scenes, they also show their intelligence and empathy by PREVENTING new space cyborg wizard nazies coming into existence and fixing the inequalities in the world.

Sure, it is not as cool to see Mr. Potter to write a new constitution about equal rights than seeing him in a wizard duel with wizard nazies, but you can have both. This is fantasy!

You can get the audience to believe that a man can fly, that a single guy can save the world by throwing a ring into a volcano, or that a boy living in a closet is a chosen one - letting them change the world for the better is not a stretch, it is catharsis! That is where the happy ending happens.

[rey-jake-therapist]

Celeborn doesn’t need defense, in my opinion. Tolkien wrote him in a way for his character not to upstage Galadriel and that’s actually groundbreaking for his time (we are talking about a early 20th century man here, no matter how brilliant he was). That’s probably the reason why Celeborn is absent from most of her more memorable scenes. Tolkien wanted Galadriel to have the spotlight, and was aware readers (mostly male) would pay more attention to the husband than to the female character in the center of the scene. Now, Celeborn was heroic and a good husband to Galadriel, of course, he was one of the “good guys”. She chose him over all of her endless suitors for a reason. They were married and by Noldor law couldn’t divorce (blame it on Feänor’s mess), but that doesn’t equal “eternal love” in the lore, as many are trying to make it sound just to sink Saurondriel (or even the show itself). Galadriel and Celeborn led separate lives, and there was no passion there. To say there was, is the same as me saying it’s canon that Galadriel and Sauron mind-f*cked on a regular basis throughout the centuries. I mean, folks like to bring up the “Virgin Mary” inspiration for Galadriel in every way, except when it comes to her marriage to Celeborn. Suddently it’s this soulmates fairytale-type of marriage, as if they weren’t closer to good friends than to actual spouses. If it’s hard to keep the flame of passion alive for over 20/30 years of marriage (and nowadays most marriages don’t even last that long), imagine what it’s like after thousands of years (even for non-human beings). Galadriel and Celeborn are comfortable with each other, cool with doing their own things in separate, and that is enough, and that’s how Tolkien wrote them to be. No need to pretend they were madly in love and danced together under the stars, just to undermine Galadriel’s feelings for Sauron in RoP. They aren’t mutually exclusive, because Galadriel and Sauron won’t end up together, and Celeborn will eventually return.

I wrote a quite long response to your ask, but my computer did a blue screen of death and for some reason, answers to asks are not automatically put in the drafts?!

Anyway : I agree with pretty much everything. Relationships and feelings are complex. It's possible to love several persons, in different ways. With some people, there will be passion, with others, it will be more down to earth but also more stable, and affectionate. I think Galadriel needed someone like Celeborn to give her stability. In my opinion, the writers chose to sideline him for the time being, because had he been around, Galadriel would have not dived head first when it'd come to Halbrand. She would have not been in the same state of vulnerability, she would have not felt so alone. And maybe she would have seen the red flags sooner !

[ineedmorethananap]

Some Kenny headcanons!

ok so, I really really wanted to do a one-shot kinda thing but I just couldn’t- I don’t know why but my brain just refuses to like any of the one-shots I wrote so I made headcanons and my brain loved it Soooo! Here you guys go!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I like to think a date with Kenny would be a small cute one.

Think a picnic, or a casual drive around town, 

See I like to think Kenny, while yes he works and if you wanted to do something fancy he would do it for you, but most of his check goes to helping with his little sister.

He gets her stuff for school, new clothes, things like that. 

He has always wanted Karen to be happy.

That’s why it was no surprise when you guys were talking, that parenting was brought up. 

Kenny told you that he honestly loved the thought of being a dad, but at times felt nervous about it.

Some part of him believes that he could be like his dad, negligent, abusive, cruel, but you tell him that he could never be like that.

Kenny has always loved when you comfort him.

You have this way to make most of his worry’s disappear.

When his friends would sit there and talk shit about how he doesn’t know how to treat you, you would shut them up real good.

“So what! He works hard and he loves me! That’s all I could ask for! He does everything for me! He doesn’t need to get me fancy things, all I want is for him to love me!”

To say Kenny bought a ring for you shortly after would be saying something.

See Kenny like the idea of marriage, making you his wife, settling down and just being happy was something he looked forward to.

While Kenny couldn’t afford a pretty diamond engagement ring, he made a paper one. It took him like 3 hours to make one he liked.

The proposal was perfect.

See when Karen found out about his idea she was all in!

She helped set up this cute area in the park.

Tolkien actually helped too! He bought some lights to string in the trees and helped get some nicer foods.

Kenny was against that part at first, he was afraid of it being to fancy but Tolkien was like your brother and he thought Kenny and you were good for each other and wanted to help so after a quick talk Kenny was back on board.

Kyle helped too. Not a lot but him and Stan got you where you needed to be.

See everything was set up like a scavenger hunt,

There was a riddle and each answer was about the dates you went on or where you first met. Kyle and Stan were with you as help while everyone else told the riddles.

All in all it was cute, well thought out and honestly, you really loved it.

When you eventually made it where you needed to be Kenny was there standing happily in the middle of the clearing with a picnic basket in hand.

He looked so gorgeous. 

He had a cute red flannel and blue jeans, with these boots that were slightly worn. But nonetheless he looked amazing.

You saw his smile and gosh your knees turned to jello.

You walked up to him and your first question was;

“Kenny…? What’s all this for? It’s beautiful don’t get me wrong but-“

He chuckled and put a finger to your lips.

“Babe don’t over think it, I just wanted to do something special, because you’re special to me.”

You flushed so brightly.

He proceeded to ask you to marry him in the most cheesy, 16 candles esc ways. 

(Well actually I’m not sure if it was 16 candles? Maybe the proposal…no that was more businessy at first…look it’s been a minute ok-)

He got down on one knee and opened a small cardboard box with a pink bow on it to reveal a delicate, little pink ring, it was paper and the top was folded to be a heart.

“I know we are still young, but every part of me wants you to be mine forevermore…to hold you to love you, to have a family with you to grow, to support each other…”

At this point you were crying. It was just so…sweet you could tell how much effort went into this.

“Y/N…Will you marry me?”

All you did was nod your head and jump into his arms, he was so happy. 

All in all it was a beautiful night, you loved it, you loved him.

You can’t wait till you get married. 

Nothing sounds as perfect as that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Hopefully you liked it! I might do some one-shots in the future but no promises!

Also! I wanted to thank you for giving me the motivation and inspiration to write even if it was just some headcanons!

@sp-by-april @by-april-march

[heytherehowdyworld]

Saturday Night Frights

Summary: Eddie's an angel. Your boyfriend kind of really sucks.

Disclaimer: Y'all I haven't written anything narrative in months and this popped out. The pacing is weird, there's more show than tell, and I do not have time to edit it properly. Bear with me, man. This content is like totally relatable to other people, right? Right?

WC: ~13k

Warnings: language; obviously MDNI bc this is NOT a blog for kids; poor characterisation and general story flaws; way too many commas. Enjoy.

“And that’s what I said!” You say emphatically into the phone, the grimace lining your face bleeding into the theatricality of your tone.

“But he still said no?” One floppy-haired Munson replies, pure derision lining his voice. “You went over the importance of Tolkien’s amendments in The Hobbit as they relate to the Lord of the Rings and he still ‘doesn’t get why you need two copies of the book’? What a loser.”

You snort, ever-amused at how intensely Eddie reacted to fantastical media matters. It was nice to have someone with common interests, especially since your boyfriend of six months felt no need to learn anything more about you than your shift start and end times.

The door to the bar smacks lightly against the opposite wall as you open it. “Right? But I’m supposed to remember the names of every World of Warfare character?” “What a dick.” The phone echoes weirdly as you reach the backroom, Eddie’s voice ringing through both in person and on the mobile. You end the call with a smile. “Tell me about it.”

Eddie startles, grinning when he sees you. He slips his phone into one pocket of the Tardis-like denim jacket he always wears, tilting his head at you.

“Why do you still hang around this guy, then?” The smile on his face tells you he’s not entirely serious asking the question, but with all the other flaws in your romantic relationship — which you’ve spent time telling Eddie about — it feels abrasive.

You sigh. “He’s nice to me, Eds. We get along.”

“We get along too,” he shrugs, “so?”

“It’s different between you and me, you know that. Matt and I are dating so it’s good to have our own things, right?”

“There’s a difference between ‘having your own thing’ and ‘ditching your girlfriend on date night because the boys asked you to play another round with them’,” Eddie gives you a pointed look, shucking off his jacket and hanging it up on a stray hook. He busies himself by tying the customary apron around his narrow hips, unaware of the way your eyes linger on the flex of his fingers as he does so.

“That only happened twice,” you rebut, shrugging off your own coat and hanging it neatly by his, “and he apologised for it.” Without saying more, you offer Eddie your apron by habit. He takes it from you gently, brows furrowed in thought.

“You could ask Ted to get you an apron with longer straps,” he deflects, his careful fingers wrapping the material around you, tying it with practiced precision. This action had become commonplace since a few weeks after you’d started working here, when Eddie had noticed your trouble with tying the narrow threads behind your back. And while yes, it was true you had a problem with securing the apron on you before your shifts, it was specifically Eddie you went to for help because there was something far too comforting about the way his large hands circled your waist whenever he did.

“Longer straps won’t stop my fingers from getting caught in the knot when I try to tie them, Eds.” You nod your head in thanks, stepping away from him to put your hair up in a comfortable bun.

Eddie hums, still deep in distracted thought.

“We’re good, Matt and I.” Your voice is hardly above a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the ice machine in the serving area of the bar. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

Eddie makes a slight sound of disagreement, but before anything more can be said of the matter, your co-worker Nicola walks in.

“Hi guys,” she waves, pierced lips parted in a grin. Her leather jacket creaks as she hangs it up, tinny metal music still playing through the headphones balancing around her neck.

“How was your weekend?” Eddie asks as you watch Nicola check her eyeliner in the mirror hanging above the oddly-placed backroom sink. As per usual, she’s used a graphic liner to test out a new pattern — spiders hanging from the outer corners of her eyes to tide in the hallowe’en season today.

She groans, eyes rolling up in annoyance. “My fuckin’ landlord decided to play music all night Friday,” Friday being the one day off Nicola had for the week, the others filled with classes and odd shifts at the bar, “which was terrible. Then, when I asked him to not do that again on Saturday, he threatened to evict me. And then he did it again! Saturday and Sunday!”

A sympathetic ‘humph’ leaves your throat, and you make an attempt at humour by outlining a plot to exact revenge on her landlord. Nicola laughs kindly, focussing behind you at Eddie once more.

“And yours?” Nicola braces herself on the edge of the sink, one brow arched in artful inquisition as a finger plays with a few loose strands of hair.

Flirting with him.

You suddenly feel a little out of place, existent, but no longer necessary to the conversation.

Eddie shrugs at her, signature grin igniting the dimple in his cheek. “Worked closing on Saturday, slept all day Sunday. The usual.”

You slip away, into the bar, and begin arranging liquors for tonight. The sounds of Nicola and Eddie engaged in happy discussion are quieter here, easier to ignore.

It feels wrong, bad, to be in a relationship and still yearn for your coworker and friend. There’s no reason for jealousy to pool in your stomach at the thought of Eddie and Nicola in a relationship, but it does anyway, and it makes you ill.

Really, if you hadn’t been dating Matt before you’d started working here you’d also try flirting with the man in question. And that fact disgusts you.

“Where’d you disappear to, sweets?” Eddie slides in next to you, the narrow space between each side of the bar resulting in the heat of his body warming you as he passes. The tip of his thumb brushes against you as he moves, trailing a hot line across the small of your back.

You cough, trying to dispel the want for his warmth blooming in you. “Just wanted to get ready for opening. It’s almost five.”

Eddie nods, glancing behind you as Nicola enters the small bar. Together, the three of you ready the space in preparation for its opening time. Chairs are taken off tables, odd dust is wiped away, and glasses are dried in advance.

The night itself passes steadily enough, and gossip is passed around between serving tables and shaking up cocktails.

It’s the next evening that Matt comes to visit you, all bright smiles and sparkling eyes as he greets you where you stand behind the bar. He’s brought you a treat, as a surprise, a small coconut-flavoured cupcake. You thank him, grinning, all the while mentally planning to pass it off to Nicola. She likes coconut, you never have.

It’s fine though, an easy thing to forget, and you take the kind gesture for what it is: thoughtful.

“Do I get a kiss, baby?”

“Matt, I’m at work, you know I can’t.”

“No one’s watching us.”

He’s right, a glance to either side of you will prove as much — Eddie is busy chatting up one of the groups of older women that frequent the bar, valued regulars who you’re convinced only come because they have a crush on him; Nicola and Robin are working alongside you but on the far side of the bar, busy prepping some complicated-looking cocktails and chatting up the patrons.

“Matt,” you implore, voice almost a whine.

“Just one kiss.” Matt leans over the bartop and into your personal space, drawing the attention of some regular who comes around often enough that you’d consider him a friend.

“You alrigh’?” The man asks, tone gruff.

A soft smile mollifies him enough to return to his drink and stare once again off into the middle-distance. Matt garners your attention again, and you nod in the hopes that it will pacify him.

“Just the one?” You double-check.

Matt smirks, “mhm.”

You bend at the hip, almost on your tiptoes to reach Matt over the high bartop. He leans the rest of the way over, thankfully, and you grant him a chaste peck. Before you can pull away, however, his hand wraps around the back of your neck and draws you back towards him.

The kiss deepens, turning into something that’s half tongue and all messy, and a sound of disgruntlement leaves your throat.

You finally manage to push Matt away, hands braced against his firm chest. “You said one, Matt,” your voice is chastising, but there’s no malice in it.

“Couldn’t help myself, baby.”

Your brows furrow, and you can’t help but remember the last time something similar happened. He’d aid the same then, too, pacifying apologies and sugar-sweet smiles to win your forgiveness. “Matt, I’m at work. Please help yourself next time, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll try to, baby. It’s hard to around you.”

“You said the same thing last time.”

Matt scowls, the action sprouting wrinkles across his nose, up his forehead. “Baby, why are you getting so stuck on this? It’s not even a big deal. Just a kiss. I don’t know why you’re getting all mad at me for it.”

He stands up, and you panic.

“I’m not,” you reach over the bar to catch his hand as he begins to stand, worried that you’ve said something wrong. “I’m not mad, honey. Just don’t want to get fired, y’know? Company policy that we can’t french the customers, and all.”

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes, scowling. At least he’s sitting again.

“Are you mad at me?” Your voice is wan, scared.

Matt crosses his arms, shrugging. “No.”

“It’s just, you sound mad…”

“Jesus fucking christ, I’m not mad, okay? You wanted me to leave you alone so I’m leaving you alone.”

“Right.” Somehow, you don’t believe him, that aching in your chest that you’ve screwed up blossoming into something near-lethal. The urge to apologise consumes you. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“Whatever.”

The rest of the night goes in much the same way, with you checking in on a moping Matt every fifteen minutes to make sure you haven’t irreparably damaged your relationship. You offhandedly notice him watching Nicola and Robin, calling them over to order drinks instead of you, and it hurts.

Even more so, you’re slightly offended when Robin comes up to you with sorry eyes and apologises for it, as though it’s her fault he’d been giving her attention. You’re not mad at her, you don’t think you could ever be, but you do find your mind drifting to comparisons between your appearances.

And that’s the state of mind Eddie finds you in minutes later, still stuck in a rut where you’re listing all the ways Robin and Nicola are better than you. Shorter, because guys like that, right? Skinnier, maybe he thinks clothes lay better on her? Hotter, because of the tattoos? Funnier, because-

“Y’alright, pretty girl?” Eddie braces his elbows against the bartop, clearly taking a break from his club of adoring fangirls.

“All good,” you smile at him, eyes uncontrollably woebegone.

Eddie hums, leaning down to get closer to you. “Do you want me to believe that?” He asks, somehow reading you to dirt despite your best efforts to mask the insecurity biting at you.

“Most people believe the truth, Eds. So, yes.”

The sound he makes in reply is less than agreeable, but he nonetheless backs off. “How’s Matt?”

“Eds,” you say, a degree of warning lacing the word.

“What? If you’re all good then why shouldn’t I ask about Mr Skulk over there. Especially since he’s staring right at us.”

Hands busy cleaning off a glass, you glance slightly to the side to find that Matt is indeed glaring at you.

“Bad day at work, probably. Nothing you’ve to worry about.”

Eddie shrugs, silent for the moment, and leaves you be with a gentle squeeze to your shoulder.

“What the fuck was that?” Matt asks the moment you’re seated in his car.

“What do you mean?” You’re tired, your cheeks hurt from smiling all shift, and your head is starting to hurt with the terrible thoughts you had circling your mind the entire time you worked.

“Don’t play dumb, okay? I know that guy was flirting with you.”

You press your fingers against your temples, the action helping none. “Eddie wan’t flirting with me, Matt. He just wanted to know if everything was okay. Just checking in on me.”

“Oh, so you’re saying he didn’t touch you, then?” Matt starts the car, movements abrupt and aggressive.

“He touched my shoulder, Matt. It was just a friendly touch.”

“You’ve got to be all sorts of dumb if you don’t think he’s into you. I don’t want you being friends anymore, okay?”

“Matt…" “Me or him, babe. Take your pick. I don’t want you being around men who want you in their beds, and I don’t think that’s a big thing to ask of my fucking girlfriend. Unless you’d rather be his girl?”

“Matt, you know I love you.” Matt speeds through a red light, and your hands grip either side of your seat. “Matt… Matt, please slow down, I love you.”

“If you loved me, you’d stop being friends, or whatever you call it, with that freak.”

“We work together, Matt. It’s not that easy.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to make it up to me some other way,” he says, looking at you with a kind of feral gleam in his eye that causes goosebumps to rise along your skin.

You know what he wants, it’s what he always wants, and for all the love you hold for him you really don’t think you’re ready for that step.

And his reaction is the same as always when you tell him so.

He drops you off at your place, speeding off before you can say much more, and remains radio silent for the next week.

He texts you on Wednesday, eight days after the “argument”, asking you to meet on Monday before work. You agree, thrilled that he still cares about you, hoping you can make your inadequacies up to him.

Sunday is a difficult day, the first weekend shift you’ve had to work in a while. There’s customers filling the small bar from opening until closing, and because you offered to take over Robin’s shift so that she could flirt some more with a girl at her other job — in a bookstore, no less — you’re utterly exhausted. The thought of seeing Matt the next day truly does smooth things over, though, makes it easier to smile for the men who insist that they’d treat you right, if you just gave them a chance.

So, when you wake the next morning with your legs throbbing and tired as they always are after a long shift, it’s with a grin.

You’re excited to see him. It’s been a while since you’ve been able to spend time just one-on-one with each other, without the addition of either his friends or his roommate or your coworkers to lessen the intimacy of your shared moments.

This will be good, it’ll quell the worries flurrying within you, the thought that maybe Matt doesn’t feel for you what you do for him, the thoughts that maybe Eddie would be better.

Your phone, buried somewhere beneath yesterday’s clothes, rings. “Robin?” You say by way of greeting, mind still sleep-addled and groggy.

“Ok, so you know that girl I was telling you about?”

Yawning, you hazard a guess, “Lisa?”

“Aimee. Well, I asked her out and she said yes!” Robin’s voice turns almost shrill as the phone struggles to translate her excitement, a squeaky glitching that makes your ear hurt. “So I need you to help me pick out something to wear. Something that says I’m a lesbian, but my soulmate is a guy, but I like, really really love women.”

“That might be hard to do, Robbie. Why don’t I just get you a shirt that says all of that instead?”

“Come on, please? You’re my last hope.”

“Why can’t you ask Steve for help?” The duvet rustles beneath you as you stand, finally ready to prepare for the day ahead. “Since he’s your soulmate and all.”

“‘Cause he’s a dude. He’s gonna tell me to wear a low-cut shirt and a short skirt and like, that is hot, but does it really look gay?”

You chuckle, heading to the small kitchen of your apartment. “Sounds like you’re stereotyping here, Robs. Tsk tsk.”

“You know what I mean,” she whines, “if I take advice from a straight dude on what to wear, I’ll end up being appealing to other straight dudes. I need your feminine sensibilities. Make me look like I’m a pussy-eating champion.”

“Robin,” you laugh, feminine sensibilities shocked by her brashness. “Fine. What time is your date?”

“Six.”

“Alright,” with your phone knocking on death’s door, you manage to send a quick text to Matt alerting him of this new appointment — ‘Is it okay if I meet Robin later today?’. “I’m meeting Matt for breakie in a bit, and afterwards I’ll head over to yours?”

“Text me when you’re on your way.” The phone call ends with the customary ‘love you, love you too’ alongside best wishes on your breakfast date. You look at the clock, surprised you’d managed to wake up with so much time in the day to spare.

Matt had asked you to meet him for eleven, so you have two hours to shower and dress. You decide to pull out all the stops in an effort to impress him.

After a thorough shower — body hairless as one of those raw-chicken-looking cats and shining with some shimmer body lotion you’d been gifted a birthday or two ago — you look over your closet. It’s warm today, but cloudy on the horizon, so you opt for a comfortable sweater and dark-coloured skirt.

By the time you’ve done your makeup to a degree that suits you and twisted your hair into something comfortable, it’s ten forty-five. You decide, then, that it’s time to head over to Matt’s place. He always had valued punctuality.

Matt’s apartment is on the third storey, and you feel a cosmic gratitude at that fact because the lift is still out and you don’t think you’d manage to climb more flights of stairs than you already have to. Finding his flat when you’ve passed this obstacle is easy enough, front door marked by evidently college-boy humour.

The “babes this way” doormat stares at you as you knock on the door, afraid to ring the doorbell because last time you had it Matt had gotten so startled he’d hit his head against his bedroom door. The impact had been so hard that it had cracked almost in two, logwood splintering with every touch. It had taken you a few hours and a lot of grovelling to make sure that his landlord didn’t blame Matt for the accident — after all, it had been your action that had caused his reaction.

Needless to say, you were now wary about using the bell unnecessarily.

You knock again, rolling from the balls of your feet to your heels as you wait for an answer. When still you hear no sign of life, and the clock on your phone says it’s eleven-ten already, you try the doorknob.

It opens under your hand, pushing in to reveal the apartment expanse to you. While normally you’d have no qualms with entering Matt’s house, the idea of doing so without him stalls you some. Would he consider it invasive? But you had plans today, for this time, so maybe he lost track of time while getting ready and left the door open for you to enter when you got here?

The latter option does seem likely, although you can barely count on one hand the times he’s done something similar. Still, by Occam’s Razor, it makes sense.

You step into the short hallway and toe off your shoes, calling out for Matt. No one answers, but somewhere within the flat you think you hear muffled conversation.

You make it to the door to his bedroom before realising the sounds for what they really are — hushed moans and laboured grunts that make you nervous. Maybe he’s working out?

“Matt?” The door opens quietly as you step into his room.

The first thing you notice is its general disarray. Clothes are thrown about everywhere, feminine and masculine alike. You spy a pair of panties tossed over Matt’s study desk in the corner of the room. On the carpet, a heel eyes you mockingly.

Next, your eyes focus on the small pack of condoms on the nightstand that has been completely torn open. Little metal packets glint in the mid-morning light, spread about the small table and around the floor beneath it.

And of course, the most notable thing you see is the woman balanced on your boyfriend’s hips, riding him into oblivion. Her motions don’t stop as you enter, don’t stop as you take the whole scene in, don’t stop as you finally realise what this is and scream because how else should you react?

The girl screams too, shocked utterly. She hides beneath the blankets, and you can’t fault her for being surprised at the invasion. Hell, if it were the other way around, you’d be hiding too.

But Matt looks at you in a way that makes you think he’s not fully present, mentally. Generous as you are, you decide to bring him back into his body by tossing some odd socks lying on the floor at him.

You turn and leave, quickly, as he begins shouting. His bedroom door slams against its frame, the thin wood even less of a barrier than you thought it would be because now that you know what’s going on behind it, it’s difficult to mistake the sounds for anything else.

Matt lets loose some strangled cries, somewhere between pleasure and panic. You don’t care to figure out what he’s trying to say through them, pulling on your shoes with blurry eyes and throwing open the front door.

You make it halfway down exterior hallway before he catches up to you, swinging out his front door to yell “stop!” in your direction.

“Save it, Matt.”

“Please, baby, it’s-“

You round on him, pissed beyond belief at yourself for not seeing the signs, at the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks, and most of all at him for doing this to you. “It’s what, Matt? ‘Not what it looks like’? ‘Not real’?”

“God, what is fucking wrong with you? You barge into my apartment and then get mad at me when you see something you didn’t want to? Are you fucking insane or something, thinking you can invade my privacy like that?”

“Invading your privacy, Matt? We had a date today, one that you clearly forgot about, and I thought you’d left the door open for me. Must’ve been stupid to think you’d ever even imagine doing something like that for little old me.”

“It’s all your fault anyway, you know? ‘Cause you’re such a prude, frigid, bitch I had to find entertainment somewhere else.”

Your throat closes around any words that you might’ve begun saying, hurt taking over where anger had burned.

“What?” The word comes out more broken than you would have liked, and you make up for its weakness by running through the stairway door. You don’t want to hear the answer to your question. You don’t want to break down in the middle of the hallway, in front of Matt.

He walks after you, leaning over the third storey railing to call you a “bitch” a few more times. “Wouldn’t have to fuck other women if you just did your job right.”

In your car, you beeline for Robin’s place. You know that it’s probably not right, helping her prepare for the flush of new love when your relationship is falling to pieces, but you also can’t let her down. You said you’d show up, so you will.

You’ll bury the hurt because Robin deserves for this date to go well.

“Hi!” Robin is smiling more widely than you think you’ve ever seen, practically glowing with excitement.

“You seem excited,” you let her joy be contagious, revelling in the purity of it.

She blushes, inviting you in by way of walking further into the house and assuming you’ll follow. “Me? What reason could I possibly have to be excited?”

“None, I suppose.” You pull off your shoes, placing them neatly beside each other in the doorway. “Have you thought any more about what you’ll wear? Maybe had some breakthroughs?”

Robin shakes her head, bobbed hair twirling around her with the force of the movement. Her room, when you enter it on her tail, is in utter disarray. Skirts, shirts, dresses, pants, and all sorts of hard-to-discern items of clothing lay about the place in a way that makes you question just how she managed to make such a mess by herself.

“You’re earlier than I thought you’d be,” she says, pointing to a pile of clothes in a way that you presume means they’re contenders in the race for tonight’s outfit. “It’s only twelve thirty.”

“We, uh… ended up cutting it short. Matt had some things to take care of. No biggie.”

“Oh, babe, I’m sorry.”

You shrug, putting on a sweet smile for her, “it happens. So, tell me more about this Aimee?”

And Robin does, the adorable nervousness of going on a first date shining through in her words. This Aimee character, though you’ve never met her, seems absolutely wonderful.

Robin manages to spend almost an hour listing her attributes, and another hour just gushing over her. In that time, you manage to piece together a few potential date outfits, weed out some items of clothing that Robin had long since forgotten she owned, and found a few things to borrow from her.

“Ok, I’m thinking this is good?” Robin twirls, flare-leg pants following the movement. The outfit itself is simple enough, and considering they’d decided on a casual movie date, it seems fitting: jeans, a tight-fitting button-up vest, and a turtle-neck underneath that. She looks good, and you have the impression that she feels good too.

“I’m thinking hell yeah, Robs. You look great. I’ll be surprised if Aimee doesn’t jump your bones the second you meet her.”

“You know I never put out on a first date.”

You laugh, and it doesn’t feel as forced as you thought it would.

Spending these few hours with Robin has been lovely. It’s been refreshing, and the weight on your shoulders is lessened some as you say goodbye to her, heading to work.

Everything is good — greyscale, still melancholy, but good — until you walk into the backroom and Matt is standing there and you gasp and Eddie immediately just knows everything. His face falls as he looks between you and Matt, grin disappearing, and no amount of prompting from Nicola drags his attention back to her and the conversation they’d clearly been having before.

With a quick apology in her vague direction, he steps over to you.

You can’t control it, can’t stop it, and luckily Eddie envelops you in a hug before the first tears fall. He manages to manoeuvre you into the small bathroom across from the bar, the resounding click of the lock working as almost a trigger to the sobs fighting free of your throat.

“What’s going on?” Eddie whispers against your head, running a soothing hand through your hair. “Tell me what’s happening, darling?”

“Matt and I…” You don’t manage to finish the sentence, the burning “I walked in on him with another woman” sour in your throat. You don’t have to, though, because Eddie always knows.

Eddie wraps his arms tighter around you, if such a feat were possible with the way he’s already positively squeezing you. “I figured it was something like that when he showed up here, askin’ about you. Sorry I couldn’t get rid of him.”

“S’not your fault, Eds.”

“Maybe, but you’re still my responsibility.”

Your heart soars. “You’re too nice to me,” you say, warmed by his concern as always.

“As nice as you deserve,” he presses his lips to your forehead, “wanna tell me what happened?”

You did, you did, because you wanted the support of your friends and you couldn’t ruin Robin’s date, but now Eddie was here and asking you and it was nice. Your chest bloomed with warmth.

And then bloomed with embarrassment, fear, mortification.

“Just, uh…”

“No judgement,” he said, hands tracing a comforting line up and down your back. And you knew there wouldn’t be, this was Eddie.

You inhaled and exhaled a few times, hoping the action would soothe you, steady you. “Matt, he, uh… we had plans for breakfast, and I got to his this morning… I guess he forgot, or something, and there was this girl there and I…”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. What a dick, I should’ve known you shouldn’t trust him based on his choice of DnD class. I mean, who picks a bard and then plays it straight?”

You giggle, wiping away tears with the palm of your hand with a sniffle. Eddie’s eyes flicker across your face, small grin dimpling his cheek in reflection of your expression. Shame still squeezes your throat, though, choking you up.

Eddie, ever aware of your emotional state, notices. “Is there something else, sweets?”

Before you can answer, Matt’s voice rings through the door, angered. The door creaks as he knocks on it, and Eddie gently moves you behind him.

“The fuck do you want, man?” He yells over the noise, one hand wrapped around your bicep and other spread out in front of him.

Matt’s voice is loud in the silence from the cessation of his action. You shiver, not necessarily scared that he’ll hurt you but worried nonetheless. You don’t want him to shout at you, don’t want to see him mad in your space. Don’t want Eddie to see your reaction at Matt being cross with you.

“Is she in there with you?” Eddie looks down at you, silently asking for the next move.

“Yeah,” you call out, “I’m here.” The three steps to the door feel like a mile, but you manage to reach it and click open the lock. Matt stands there, Nicola behind him, and if you hadn’t spent six months getting to know his habits you’d think the slouched stance he sports is casual. Instead, your eyes focus on his flaring nostrils and clenched fists.

You step away from the door, waving him in. He declines.

Matt is abrasive as he asks, “can he leave?” chin jutting in Eddie’s direction.

It’s impossible to look away from Matt, but you can picture Eddie’s face at this moment — concerned, caring. “I’d rather he not.” When Eddie, behind you, makes a noise as though to disagree, you reiterate the sentiment.

“I’d like him to stay, please."

Matt rolls his eyes, entering the small bathroom and shutting the door behind him. Nicola’s prying eyes look through the crack as it closes, and you don’t blame her for the interest. You just hope the door is thick enough that she can’t hear the conversation to come.

You start, worried that if you wait Matt will explode. “I’m sorry for running away from you today.”

“Not going to apologise for barging into my apartment, no?”

The pebble in your chest grows into a boulder, air leaving your lungs. “I’m sorry for walking in on you.”

“Dude,” Eddie cuts in, “doesn’t matter what she did, you cheated on her.”

Matt’s brows pull together, stress lines marking his forehead. He steps forward once more, hand reaching for yours, and his mouth shapes a grimace when he feels the tremor in your fingers. It looks real, genuine, but his eyes are sharp and dangerous.

“Baby,” Matt implores, “I’m so sorry. It didn’t mean anything to me, she doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s just hard, y’know?”

You nod, a slight movement that brings a frightening sparkle to Matt’s eye. He trails a hand up your arm, embracing you closely, and you let him pull you into the hard planes of his chest.

It feels awkward, sure, Matt’s hugs always do, but it’s the sentiment in the hug that counts.

“Just been hard to not get that kind of attention, baby. You’ve been holding out on me, right? Needed to go to someone else to take care of me, didn’t I?”

Eddie grunts somewhere behind you.

Matt’s words hurt, but on the best of days he makes you feel wanted. Makes you feel desirable, even if you’re not ready for that step. He’s been patient, you think, kind with the way you’re uncomfortable with intimacy.

“Yeah,” you agree, halfheartedly.

“Yeah.” Matt’s arms tighten around you, breath catching in your chest. “You forgive me, right?”

You nod, then vocalise again, “yeah.”

Eddie coughs, and it’s fake in a way that you know is meant to make a point.

Matt lets you go, slightly, just to look over your shoulder at Eddie. From your vantage point pressed against his ribcage, you can only feel as Matt’s muscles prick with the movements of what you’re sure is a silent conversation with him.

Eddie leaves the room, the clunk of his boots only ceasing for a second as he reaches the space where Matt is holding you close. “Are you okay?” He asks, voice pitched low not for the purpose of privacy, but to make it apparent that his words are only for you to respond to.

“‘M okay, Eds. Thank you.”

And Eddie leaves, the door closing softly behind him.

Things were good for two weeks.

Almost as though he were crushed by guilt, Matt played the part of the doting boyfriend with all the vigour of an actor shooting for an Oscar.

Flowers showed up in the backroom every day you had a shift, red roses and lilies, and you’d come back to your flat with him having cooked a meal often enough that you worried for the state of your pans — though, of course, it was the thought that counted, you were tired of spending hours scrubbing the burnt-on food off of them after dinner, as Matt relaxed with a movie.

Still, things were good.

Eddie still checked on you every once in a while, kind touches on the small of your back as you read the little notecard supplied with the flower bouquets; versions of “love you baby”, “would wait forever for you”, “whenever you’re ready”. You’d smile up at him, make an off comment about how kind Matt is, how considerate and thoughtful, and go on with your day.

If only the flowers made you feel as confident in your relationship as Matt seemed to be. He’d show up at least once a day when you were on shift and shower you with praise, go for kisses and hugs even though you were working.

Things were good.

They had to be. Matt was putting in so much effort, trying his absolute best, and yet there was this niggling feeling that something was wrong. Shit, you felt guilty at the thought.

“Baby!” Matt leans over the bartop, lips pursed for a kiss. With a quick look around the limited clientele here at five in the evening, you give him a quick peck and dodge his hand before he can deepen the kiss.

“How was you day, love?”

“Good,” he answers, voice light.

“Good,” you echo, painted smile crinkling the corners of your eyes.

Things were good for two weeks, and it’s the next day when that fortnight ends.

It’s a Saturday. You don’t usually work Saturdays.

You’re only working today because Robin and Aimee are having their sixth date in as many days, swept up in the excitement and nerves of new love. From their first date on that fateful days two weeks ago, they’ve spent nearly every moment possible together.

As a joke, you’d bought Robin a little Hallowe’en present of a tiny U-Haul truck key charm, which both her and Aimee had loved. The keychain became a staple decoration of the checkout counter at the bookstore they both worked in, hanging on a little hook for all to see.

Working closing isn’t particularly familiar to you, having only taken late shifts once or twice in the months spent under Ted’s employment. The basics are obvious: clean the bar, the bar floor, and the backroom; kick out the stragglers. Still, you call up Eddie to chat with him and maybe double check some of the standards.

Normally you’d just ask the other people on shift — Wren and Mindy — but neither of them seemed particularly poised for helping today.

Wren, you’d interacted with before, so you knew they preferred to just stand threateningly in the corner until closing as opposed to interacting with either staff or patrons. You didn’t mind that much, introversion was a trait you managed to share with them most of the time.

Mindy was nice too, and you chalked her lack of willingness to talk to you to the rush of people. It was difficult to get to know someone, after all, when there were rowdy folks yelling after a pint over one another.

And on another level, you’d felt as though you’d seen her before, but it was difficult to place when. Maybe she’d visited the bar once during your shift?

“So, are the toilets usually this bad?” You grit out, utterly disgusted at the toilet paper that has somehow wound up wrapped around each leg of the bathroom stall.

Eddie laughs on the line, “pretty much. Has everyone left?”

“Yeah.” You check the time on your phone quickly, nothing humourlessly that the sun would be rising soon. “Sorry to have woken you up so early.”

Eddie barely lets you finish the apology before interrupting with a fierce, “I was already awake. And anyway, I would’ve woken up just to talk to you.”

You thank any stars still in the early-morning sky that you’re alone in the bathroom, flushed at Eddie’s kindness.

“Insomniac.” You say.

“Slave to the Man,” he rebuts.

“Are you going to have an early night today, then?” You’re asking off-handedly, mostly concerned with cleaning your hands after having to touch — even through gloves — that disgusting mess.

Eddie laughs. “At least pretend that you know me, sweets.”

It’s your turn to chuckle, feeling light despite how bone-tired you are. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning with your three-sugars, half-full of cream, oat milk latte, Eds, to settle this.”

Finished washing up, you tidy away the cleaning supplies and lock down the bathroom. Odd lights are shut off as you scoot around the outer corridor of the bar, the hallway leading to the main serving area.

You hear voices, one you recognise as that of Wren saying their goodbyes and the others as Mindy and, well, someone.

“Are you going straight home after this?” Eddie asks, stealing your attention away from much more consideration of the voices.

“I should.” The heavy wooden door creaks open as you step out of the side hallway.

You gasp.

Eddie’s voice rings out from your phone speaker, but it sounds distorted and fuzzy and wrong.

The breath leaves your lungs in one exhale, one pitiful whimper.

He turns.

Mindy is balanced on his lap, one hand wandering under the hem of his shirt and the other disappearing into his pants. Matt is in no less a compromising position, clearly having been in the process of pulling down her jeans as you had walked in.

Mindy breaks the silence, voice rubbing against some feral, angry part of your brain. “Oh,” she says, “I thought you left.”

I thought you’d left.

“Still here,” you trill, already feeling the prick of fresh tears on your waterline.

You look at Mindy, who looks at Matt, who looks at you. He turns around, faces Mindy, and tucks some hair behind her ear.

“Is this a friend of yours?” he asks her, and you feel chest crack, your heart break. Again.

“I was just leaving,” you direct your words directly at Mindy, “sorry to bother you.”

Things were really good for two weeks.

Matt starts ringing you at midday, and continues to do so until you answer his call.

It’s dinnertime, and you’d managed to rustle up a hearty meal of some grapes, two grilled cheese sandwiches, and a handful of odd cereal you’d found laying about in your cupboard.

“Why haven’t you been answering me?”

You don’t want to talk to him. You don’t. You can hear Eddie’s voice in every corner of your skull saying “no! Don’t do this!”. Robin is chiming in with her two-pence, too, ever and annoyingly right: “this is a bad idea!”

You suppose you don’t owe him this, closure, after he’d managed to betray your trust twice — that you knew of. But you wanted it for yourself. You wanted to be able to talk about Matt as a silly little mistake you’d made in the past and learnt from.

“What do you want, Matt?”

“So sorry, baby.” He sounds tearful, you think, but maybe you’re projecting. You had spent the better half of the morning after returning home curled up in a little ball, overstimulated from equal parts exhaustion and anger at yourself.

You allow his ramble, allow him talk about how shocked he was seeing you there this morning, confused because he didn’t know you were on shift and why didn’t you tell him you were on shift? You should have told him you were working, it’s really an asshole move that you didn’t, so really it’s your fault, anyway.

It’s difficult to interrupt him, but you manage. “Matt, we’re over.”

There’s silence on the line.

“Matt?”

“You can’t do this to me. I’ve been so patient with you, been waiting months and months for you to put out, done everything a good boyfriend is supposed to do. I listen to you whine and mope about mean guys at the bar, don’t say a damn thing when you ask to just cuddle, and when I go see other girls to make up for what you don’t wanna give me you break up with me?”

You’d cry, if you could, but you feel dreadfully empty inside. In lieu of making any more of a fool of yourself than you already have you offer him a quiet “goodbye,” and hang up.

The phone feels heavy in your hand.

The food on your plate is unappetising.

The kitchen light above you is too bright.

You call Eddie.

Eddie shows up as quickly as he always does, heady wafts of cigarette smoke floating under your doorframe far before he knocks on it.

He’s rushing to embrace you when he steps in the room, warm touch so comforting you could die.

“Are y’alright sweets?”

“I think so…” You’re not. “Just kinda sad.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart, he didn’t deserve you.”

You can only laugh, self-deprecating, still mad that you’d let yourself get fooled by him, that you believed him when he said it was only a mistake he’d made.

If you were being truly honest, when hurt most was the fact that this all came about as an issue of sex.

More specifically, that you weren’t in any place to have any sort of relations with him. Was there something wrong with you, that you couldn’t find it in you to be sexually attracted to your boyfriend when it was so easy to find comfort in the hands of the man currently squishing you to his chest?

Fucking hell.

“That’s nice of you to say.”

Eddie makes a very noise of disagreement, the sound reverberating in his chest and into your eardrums. “It’s the truth.”

“I’m not sure that’s right, Eds. But I appreciate it.”

He pulls away from you just enough to even a mock-glare your way. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shake your head, shrugging. “Just, y’know, no one’s a saint.”

“‘M pretty sure you are, sweets. Saint to put up with me.”

At that, you do cry.

A few weeks pass. You’re dealing as well as you can, which is surprisingly well considering Ted has signed you on for a few more closing shifts — closing shifts with Mindy — so you’d had to watch her and Matt exchange spit often enough.

There had been a point right after the breakup when you’d tried to tell her about you and Matt, but she’d brushed you off with a “you don’t think I knew?” Which, needless to say, had not really improved your working relationship.

Matt hadn't approached you at all during that time, seemingly happy to just let your relationship end with the knowledge that you had nothing more to say to him. Or, maybe he was just happy that he had a girlfriend who was happy to engage in relations with him whenever he wanted it. Whatever.

It was fine though, really. Fine that Matt had been going behind your back for months longer than you’d known, fine that you still had to see him, fine that Mindy didn’t seem to care that he was a rotten old prick.

And fine, most of all, that it was sex that was the final factor in him cheating on you. Not, say, the way you chewed your salads, or the way you insisted upon setting three alarms just to get up in the morning.

Whatever, and just fine and fucking dandy.

“And then she invited me over, and well, I had forgotten that vibe I like-“

“Robin,” you snap back into reality. “I don’t want to hear about your vibrators in the middle of work.”

“But you haven’t been free for coffee lately,” she whines, “when else are we gonna gossip?”

“Just been a little caught up with stuff, y’know?”

Robin’s face falls, hands clasping at her gasping mouth. “Oh my god! I didn’t mean… I know it’s been hard and you take all the time you need to to heal, obviously. I’m not-“

You place a kind hand on her shoulder, interrupting her “you’re okay, honey. I know what you meant. How about you come over Saturday night? We can do a movie, wine, gossip, stay up painting our nails and stuff. Yeah?”

Robin still looks apologetic as she nodes, and you suddenly feel so grateful to have someone missing your appearance in their life this desperately. “Yeah. I feel like we haven’t had a nice shit-talking session for the town bike, either, so this should be super-healing for you.”

You laugh, hugging Robin to you as well as you can over the bartop. “I think I need one of those.”

And it’s Saturday night that you realise you might be attracted to one scraggly-haired Edward Munson.

Robin is sitting across from you, seventh glass of wine clutched loosely between her fingers as she recounts the night of wonderment that was Aimee’s proposal to be official. If you’re being honest, you had thought they were official ages ago, but you also weren’t the kind to turn down a good story.

You hadn’t quite zoned out, still listening in on her excitement, but somehow something she says manages to trigger a memory of that one time Eddie had told you a similar story, and you were spiralling.

You loved Eddie, that much had always been certain. Loved the way he always cheered you up, always called you first to share a funny story he’d just heard some strangers trade on the bus. Loved how kind he was to everyone, loved his sense of humour.

Loved the way he always felt warm and solid and comforting against you, grounding and caring all at once. Loved the way he remembered the little things, like that you always had to tie your shoes a certain way or you feet would go numb, or that you hated gloves and preferred mittens.

Loved him utterly and deeply.

Platonically, of course.

So just maybe you were attracted to him.

Shit.

But…

Maybe you could use this. If you loved him, platonically, of course, and trusted him, and were attracted to him, perhaps you could get over some dam in your brain that hadn’t let you take that last step with Matt.

It was a good idea, right?

Right?

Monday morning you were starting to think differently, but you’d resolved to at least ask him. Eddie got around, you knew that. He’d told you plenty about the many girls he took home by virtue of being a bartender in a band.

This would be just like that, except he’d also be doing you a favour. Right?

Right.

So, you’d cornered him at the start of your shift and asked him to take a smoke break with you — he’d looked at you funny, as you didn’t smoke, but followed you out nonetheless.

“So?” He probed, the second the door pressed closed behind you.

You take a steadying breath. “Wanted to talk with you about something.”

Eddie “mhm’s” at you, lighting a smoke and sticking it between his lips.

“Eds, I…” you start, fear drying your throat and making your words all sticky. “I want to ask you something.”

Eddie makes a small noise of assent, urging you to carry on with a movement of his head down to catch your eye. You turn away, too embarrassed to look directly at him, and clear your throat.

“Could you… so, you know how I’ve been with Matt? He, uh… he wanted to,” you make a nonsensical gesture with your hands, self-soothing and meaningless, “y’know and I just never could and I was thinking if I did do it with someone it would be easier to do it in a relationship next time and I really trust you so I was hoping…” you trail off at the incredulous look on Eddie’s face.

A few seconds pass, neither you nor him saying anything, and you begin stuttering out an apology when he grasps your hands. His voice is muffled slightly by the cigarette sticking out the corner of his mouth.

“Are you asking me to… to have sex with you?”

Your face warms, humiliation running through your veins. “Sort of? I’m asking you to take my virginity, Eds. I think that might be the problem.”

“Oh.” As mortifying as it is, you manage to glance up at him. You find him already watching your face, eyes flickering across its span to read your expression. Instead of disgust, or anger, however, he replies with “are you sure?”

“I trust you,” is your immediate response. It takes no thought, that had all been expended these past few weeks after your breakup with Matt, after your assessment of who Matt — who Eddie — was to you. Even if Eddie didn’t care for you in the way you did him, you wanted it to be him to do this. You wanted to have this memory with him.

“If this is just because of Matt…”

“It’s not. It’s not.”

“Okay.”

“You’re sure?”

Eddie exhales sharply, extinguishing his cig on the wall beside you before crushing it under his boot. “Sure I’m sure, sweets.”

And that’s the last thing said on the subject for the next three days.

It’s a slow night, tonight. Small crowd, just the regulars who liked to show their support for a small local business, or something like that. Maybe it was just the draw of liquor after a week of working, but you preferred to believe that the number of regulars recently had to do with your dazzling personality.

Eddie slips in next to you, hand finding a loop in your apron to brace his thumb on. “I wanna take you out,” he says, and the surprise at his words almost makes you drop the cocktail you’ve been shaking. For a split second, you truly do believe that he’s asking you out, before remembering your conversation from earlier this week.

And, okay. Maybe since you’d had that chat you’d come to the realisation that you might have the smallest, tiniest, minusculest crush on him. But that wouldn’t change anything, because Eddie didn’t like you like that. So he’d do you this favour and you’d find someone else and you’d be able to go back to being friends.

Still, your response is less-that-intelligent. “What?”

“If I’m going to be the one to take care of you for the first time, I wanna do it right, y’know?”

“You don’t have to do that, Eds. This isn’t like a,” you search for the words, mind and body betraying logic with the way they absolutely preen at the thought of him taking you out. “This isn’t like a,” you start again, swallowing around a lump happily lodging itself in your throat, “dating thing. It’s really not necessary.”

Eddie makes a sound of disapproval, but you can’t imagine what he’d have to argue with. It’s a sound thought, as this was an unemotional matter for the both of you. Mostly.

You manage to finish the cocktail, garnish it, run it over to the forty-something pretty woman in the corner who was clearly going through something dour, and return to start on another drink before Eddie says anything more.

“Please?” He asks, brown eyes large and pleading.

There’s not a bone in your body that can resist him at his most annoying, and the doe-like quality of his features right now is rendering you to barely-functional goop.

“Okay,” you finally nod, trying to quell the beating of your heart. Even though you know this is just Eddie helping you to the best of his abilities, it does nothing to stifle the want blossoming inside your chest.

It’s Saturday night again. You could almost laugh at the coincidence; it’s been a week since grand revelations, and here you are getting ready for a sort-of date.

It’s getting dark already, and somehow you feel more stressed than you have done since you met Eddie for the first time. Not even your first date with Matt rendered you such a mess, and that in and of itself was scary enough as your first venture into the dating world.

You dust off your dress again, the polyester-blend as clean of lint as it had been the last five times you had done so. The selection at your local shops had been slim on clothing in your style, so you had ended up wearing an old dress you’d bought once for a college party.

It's nice, overall, if unimpressive. A dark red, the neckline dipped low enough that you’d had to buy new undergarments specifically for it and its bodycon silhouette. You’d decided to just go all out and buy nice lingerie too. Go big or go home, right?

It would be untrue to say you were regretting the choice now, because the lace bralette and underwear lay nicely on your body and were soft to the touch, but it could definitely be said that you were rethinking it. Would Eddie find it too presumptuous? Too forward? Would he think that you were implying this was something more?

Well, you supposed it would be, to you, but he didn’t need to know that.

You could dwell in the thoughts circling your mind, endless and restless and quite frankly annoying, but a knock at your door struck you from your train of thought.

Eddie stood behind it, grinning as widely as ever. His dimples stood out against his cheeks, and he was beautiful. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes unable to focus on just one thing to admire.

He had made even more of an effort today than you had, band tee replaced by a deep red dress shirt, ripped jeans traded for straight-leg dress pants. His chain-linked wallet sticks oddly out of his pocket, hanging on to a belt loop. Through all this, though, he still wears a well-loved leather jacket.

It’s impossible for you to look him in the eyes, mind too invested in the sinful stretch of material across the meat of his thighs. The fact that him wearing fancy clothing marginally less tight than normal has you more pent up that seeing him in his customary skinnies is somewhat curious to you, but it’s something to assess when you’re alone in your room some other night.

“And to think I was going to go with the black one,” Eddie says, striking you out of your stupor.

“Hm?”

“Black shirt. Good thing I wore the red one instead,” he gestures at your dress, then back at his shirt, and dips his head to meet your eyes. You blink at him blankly, images of his lean muscles showing through tight fabric still pervading your thoughts.

You watch his eyebrows draw together, worry lining his features. “Are you still sure about this?”

Unable to vocalise a response for fear of telling him just how sure you are, you nod.

“Gonna need you to tell me, sweets.”

With a shaky voice, you manage a slight “yeah.”

Eddie quirks a brow, clearly looking for more of an answer.

“Yes, yes I’m still sure.” You take a steadying breath, smiling at him for the first time this evening.

He nods, reaching out a hand to you. Its rough callouses feel warm against your skin, inviting. His kind eyes look down into yours, and any anxiety you’d felt before leaves at the care in them. He pulls you out the door towards him.

“You’re right,” you say, mind finally caught up to what Eddie had said before. “It is funny you picked a shirt the same colour as my dress.”

Eddie gives you an amused smile, not quite laughing at you but not quite just laughing either. “Some would call it fate.”

“I call it similar taste in fashion,” you joke, then remember that your hand is still holding tight to his. Using the excuse of locking your door behind you, you let it drop back to his side and turn away. “So, where are we going tonight?”

“Can’t tell you that, sweets.”

“This feels very much like the start to a Forensic Files episode, Eds.”

He chuckles, slinging an arm around your waist as you face him once more. Using the grip on you, he pulls you down your flat hallway, to the lift, and into the front car park.

A motorcycle is waiting for you there, the only vehicle you don’t recognise.

“Isn’t she lovely?” Eddie asks as you walk up to it.

“Very nice,” you nod, eyes roving the metal appraisingly.

Eddie takes a helmet out from some compartment in the bike, handing it to you. When you look at it dumbly, he makes a motion of question and at your permission secures it on your head.

His fingers are gentle as he closes the clasps under your chin. “Wasn’t asking you.”

Before you can say anything at all, he closes the visor of your helmet. The motion shocks you into silence, not least because of his words prior to it.

And before you can manoeuvre the visor up, Eddie’s already got his helmet on and is sitting comfortably against the bike, hands spread as though to tell you he’s waiting. You suddenly feel very grateful that you decided on boots for this occasion instead of heels.

It’s somewhat hard to get up behind him, your balance always having been askew. Eddie helps you, hand placed firmly on your arm and waist to lift you upwards. When you’ve made it up, you’re not sure what to do with your hands. There’s no seatbelts here, no handles to grasp. Thankfully, Eddie, ever aware of your moods, takes your hands in his and settles them securely around his lithe waist.

Your face warms. For all the times you’ve heard about riding with someone on a bike (once… you’d heard of it once, and it had been from Robin, who had gone on a date with a biker chick in her experimental phase) you’d never expected this to be so intimate.

Your heart pounds at the proximity to him, fingers itching with the need to trace along the clasps and contours of his leather jacket, consumed by the hope they might feel what lays underneath it.

How were you supposed to breathe under these conditions?

“Ready?” Eddie says, and it takes him squeezing your hand to realise he’s asking you.

You make a “mhm” of agreement, then remember his words from earlier. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

And he revs the engine, the harsh motor sounds louder than you had anticipated them to be. Everything lurches forward and you fall flush against him, arms tightening around his waist with the fear that you’ll fall.

Eddie chuckles, and as sad as you are that you can’t hear it, can’t see the way the action lights up his face, you do have to admit that it’s an entirely different experience to feel the reverberations in his chest.

“How far away is this place?” You ask, and it takes you five tries, as you zoom through chock-blocked streets and near-empty alleys, to realise that Eddie can’t really hear you over the rushing wind.

The drive to… wherever… is short, barely five minutes. You’re not sure where you are, and you’re also not sure you can let go of Eddie. Your arms feel stuck to him with glue, and you distantly wonder if he will be able to scrape you off him.

“We’re here,” Eddie says, voice a husk from the frost lacing the air.

When Eddie steps closer to you, the streetlights bouncing off his helmet in a way that haloes him and creates the silhouette of an alien. Almost as though he can sense the thought, Eddie flips up both of your visors and grins at you.

His fingers, gloved and leathery, trail up your neck in a touch reminiscent of a kiss. You lean into it, into his careful touches moving towards the clasp secured under your chin. He’s much slower undoing it than he had been closing it, and you’re almost tipsy with the contact.

The helmer finally comes free, sliding up and over your head. Eddie chuckles, helps you fix some fly away hair strands, and takes his own off.

“Where’s here?” You ask as a way to distract from the heat blossoming in your chest. Maybe to also distract from the flaring burn rushing your veins at the leftover sensation of his touch.

Eddie shrugs, “somewhere.”

There’s a few shops on the street he’s decided to park on, a few restaurants that look relatively inviting. Music streams out from a few of them, interior lights spilling onto the pathways and road that paints this part of the town in shadow.

“C’mon, Eds,” you beg, “tell me?”

He sighs theatrically, and it’s with his entire body. “There’s this nice Mexican spot here. Thought you’d like it.”

“That sounds lovely. Which way?”

He lights up with a giant grin, dimples stark against his cheeks, and offers you his elbow with gentlemanly courtesy. You take it, giggling, and feel that rush of excitement in your throat that’s nothing less than juvenile and pure.

The small restaurant is nice, and the smells wafting from it are nothing less than inviting. There’s music spilling from the open door, too, light and joyous.

It doesn’t take long for Eddie to secure you a table, and your waiter comes over promptly to introduce himself. He seems happy to see Eddie, who seems less happy to see him.

“I didn’t know you were working tonight,” Eddie says, fingers tapping the table.

“I’m Steve,” the waiter tells you, hair quaff bouncing as he turns away from whatever eye-contact battle him and Eddie had been having.

Steve leans again smiles kindly when you tell him your name, and then connect the dots.

“Steve? Like, Robin’s Steve? Like, Platonic Love of Robin’s Life, Steve?”

He laughs, “yeah, I mean. I think so. How can I get you two started?”

You turn to Eddie, who’s already looking at you, and ask him his opinion; you figure he has at least an idea of what’s good given he knows Steve.

And he does, ordering several small dishes that he praises highly. Neither of you drink, Eddie because he’s driving and you because you’re dead stressed about getting back on his bike — worried that if you drink you’ll lose your balance or something and fall off it as he drives.

Dinner passes so wonderfully, brilliantly, amazingly well that you almost forget this is just a plot to get laid by someone you trust. Steve comes by a few more times, complimenting you on your outfit and sharing a few stories you’re sure you can use to blackmail Robin.

Before you know it, Eddie is pulling you with a tight — but gentle — grip on your hand and leading you out the door.

You assume this means the end of the date.

You’re wrong.

Eddie, still holding you by the hand, pulls you down the main street to a little shop filtering warm light onto the pavement. It’s beautiful, if somewhat run-down looking, the paint peeling and flaking off the open door knocking lightly against the opposite wall with the breeze.

“What is this place?” The words aren’t quite breathless, but something close, suddenly very aware that this street is fairly empty and as attracted as you are to Eddie, you have no proof he’s not a murderer.

He smiles at you, winks. “Saw you reading a tattered copy of The Colour of Magic one day, so I figured I’d get you a new copy. Where better than the best bookshop on this side of the ocean?”

Oh wow.

Actually, that’s not intense enough to cover the pounding of your heart and the weakness you’re feeling in your knees.

Oh fuck me, is decidedly better.

“You didn’t have to…”

“It’s family owned, which I thought you’d like. Samara is at home today but if you like it here I can bring you back sometime. To meet her, that is.”

Never mind, actually, because even “fuck” isn’t strong enough to cover the whirlwind of emotions spitting through your head.

Eddie’s looking at you, so kindly, and you need to answer him somehow but you really can’t. This might just be the kindest thing anyone has ever done for you, definitely the nicest thing a man has ever done for you, and the words just won’t work in your mouth.

Eddie, angel he is, asks if everything is alright and you can only nod for fear that if you do try to say something you’ll start crying right in front of him.

“That’s really kind of you, Eddie.”

He grins, says “only the best for you,” and beckons you into the bookstore with him.

It’s as beautiful within as it was externally, dark oak shelves lining every wall of the small building. There’s a smell of old tomes in the air, floral, woody, and it feels like a promise of home.

“I know I said I brought you here for good old Pratchett, but you can go wild if you want.” He’s causal when he says it, and you’re surprised at it.

You eyes go wide. “Eds, I can’t ask you to buy books for me,” you lower your tone, eyes examining your surroundings in case of an eavesdropper. “They’re expensive.”

Eddie laughs.

“To ease your mind, let’s say I get a family discount.”

“Eddie…”

“Come on, let me treat you.”

He buys you The Colour of Magic, and one more book that he’d been adamant you’d enjoy. He almost looks disappointed when you refuse to let him pay for more, treat you more, but you’re stubborn and he’s too engrossed in the look in your eyes to argue back.

You’re floating on pure joy all the way back to his apartment. Everything feels light, even the lengthy books stuffed in your bag.

There’s some level of dread that scratches at the back of your throat when Eddie parks, but you logic it out of your mind with the knowledge that you trust and love him so deeply. And nothing that happens tonight — or any other night — could change that.

You make it inside lightening-quick, worried to seem too eager, but encouraged on by Eddie’s wide smile.

He fumbles with the keys to his front door, fingers shaking with what you hope is nervous anticipation. It doesn’t really make a difference, when your own muscles are quaking in excitement.

You make it inside, and Eddie helps you shuck off your boots before latching onto you in a searing press of his lips against yours.

It’s explosive kissing him, gentle and kind and passionate all at once.

It’s suddenly very difficult to remember that he’s doing this by request, that this evening had not just occurred naturally.

Somehow, amidst the kissing, you make it back to his room. You’ve been here before, hanging out before concerts at one pub or another, but its atmosphere is so different this time.

Eddie’s arm slides around your waist, hand splaying against your back as you lie on his plush bed. His mouth travels down, down, over your neck and to the dip in your dress.

You lean up, hands winding into his hair, pushing him back towards your mouth. He groans against you, restless hands trailing your body and catching on your invisible zipper.

Your hands push his away, pulling it down and welcoming him between your legs. The dress catches on your elbow as you pull it over your head, and Eddie giggles. The sound draws heat to your cheeks, temporary embarrassment flushing you.

“Need some help with that, sweets?”

You nod, then realise he probably can’t see you, and whisper “yes.”

He laughs agains, peeling the finicky dress up and off you. “Hi,” he smiles, eyes flickering between yours as the fabric finally falls away from your face.

“Hi,” you giggle back, giddy and excited despite yourself.

Eddie kisses you again, hand wrapped around the back of your neck. He leads you to lie back on the bed, hair spread across his pillow and thighs caging his narrow hips in.

Sitting back, he looks down at you and sighs. His eyes are heated as they flicker across your form, especially appreciative of the assets pointedly left on display by the lacy lingerie just barely covering your modesty.

You stare up at him, waiting for his next move, unsure of what you’re supposed to be doing.

Eddie’s brows furrow, and he rolls away to lie beside you on the bed. Everything collapses around you.

“I can’t do this. I… I’m really sorry, sweets. But I can’t.”

Tears well in your eyes, but you still manage to reach a comforting hand towards his form. You rub circles into the flesh there, “it’s okay, Eds. It’s a lot to ask of you.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“I know. It’s okay.” You gather your dress, the shoes you had dropped somewhere along the way, and leave.

You manage to make it to the lobby of his apartment before the waterworks start, painful sobs wracking your chest and squeezing your lungs. Half the pain comes from holding back the mournful sounds rising in your throat like bile — careful not to worry the kindly older woman walking towards to lift with your emotional state.

The other half of the pain comes from the pang of rejection that echos in your heart, crushing and somehow expected all at once. You can’t blame Eddie for it, can’t get mad at him, can’t fault him for the massive bruise on your ego. This was a favour between friends, and the consent of both parties was important above all.

Still, though, it hurts to be here in this moment. It hurts to know that tomorrow night you’ll have to see him again in work after the evening you’d shared. For all the tears running spilling over your cheeks and running down your neck, your heart still yearns for a few hours ago when Eddie had been holding you to him, looking at you as though you meant the world and the stars.

So, needless to say, you enjoyed a large bowl of ice cream and some wine when you finally arrived home.

And you enjoyed a nice sleep-in the next day, as well as a nice scroll through various social medias. When that got boring, you napped, then read some good, old, supportive fanfiction. Then napped again. Then dodged a call from a friend, and ate an exquisite meal of grilled cheese before your television while rewatching that comfort show for the fifth time.

The next day passed much the same, though with an inclusion of several miscalls from Eddie. It’s slightly harder to fall back into a groove of not thinking about him after you see the notifications, but you still manage well enough to put him out of your mind for the rest of the day. Even your sleep remains dreamless, thankfully.

All things considered, the weekend passes well enough. You spend less than five hours thinking about Eddie, and less than three crying about the sting of his dismissal. The confidence, then, that you’re fine now, over it, keeps you warm as you walk to work on Monday.

Any faked pep in your step tides you through the front door, through the bar space, and truly does last until you enter the backroom and see Eddie. His smile, as per usual, greets you, and you’re keenly aware that it’s only you two standing within the room at the moment.

You test a smile, even if your ribcage feels as though it’s collapsing in on you. It feels wrong. Too wide, too sharp, too tense.

Eddie notices, of course he does. He winces, makes a move as though to step closer to you, and stands still. Well, as still as Eddie can manage, because even with muscles rigid he’s in motion; arms swinging by his sides in what could be read as careless, but you know is just from nerves.

Neither of you speaks.

Ted, your never-present boss, walks in.

Ted does the talking for both of you, plenty of it, about his wife and kids and the fourteenth birthday party his son is asking for — no theme, dad, if you’d believe it, as though he didn’t beg for a superhero party just last year — and he makes a point to mention how tired you look today. You tell him it’s just schoolwork that’s got you staying up late, recently, that it’ll pass. You promise that you’ll get some sleep tonight, and leave the backroom.

Eddie tries to catch your eye as you pass, and fails.

A while week goes by like this, the only change being that you’ve elected to come to work later so as to avoid Eddie. You did try to beg Ted to give you more closing shifts, but it had turned out that his nephew needed a job to save up for “his first Valentine’s with a girl” — or something — and that took precedence over your unsure excuses. When Ted had begun prying — was something wrong between you and Eddie? — you’d quickly shut him down and shrugged the entire ordeal off.

Whatever.

It’s not like it could get worse between you and Eddie. He was practically hanging off Nicola at this point which, well, was good. Maybe if he and Nicola got together you could get over your silly little crush on him, and the cut of rejection that it had made feel so much deeper.

You doubted it, though. Truly and genuinely.

Because even with staying away from him, being barely civil, there was only an insurmountable love running through your veins. It hurt to be away from him, but it hurt, too, to be around him.

And because you were a grown-ass woman with a grown-ass sense of emotional intelligence, you took the smart path and avoided him.

Mostly.

“Can I talk to you?” Eddie slips in next to you by the bartop, leaning so he can look you in the eye.

You try to look anywhere else but at him, you do, but somehow he manages to get close enough that his face fills up your entire view, his puppy-dog-eyes front and centre. And fuck, man, stronger people than you wouldn’t able to hold out against him.

You nod.

Eddie beckons you to the back alleyway, patrons filling the bar in a way that presumes the toilet isn’t the best place for privacy right now.

You follow him. He lights a cigarette, leans back on the wall. His fingers are jittery, tapping, tapping, tapping against any surface they can. His rings clink as they rub against each other, catching sunset-light and shining it across the bricks of the alley walls.

He speaks, and his voice is broken. “Why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not,” is your instant response, because even if you are, you’re not doing it for the fun of things.

He gives you an incredulous look, eyebrows raised so far they disappear into his fringe. Some smoke blows out of his mouth, just the corner, because his fingers are too busy moving incessantly to remove the cigarette.

You’ll compromise, “maybe a little.”

“Maybe a lot-le.”

“Just, uh…” words are disappearing from your mind at an alarming rate, and really you’d be worried about why if you were anywhere else but here, with anyone else but him. “Just wanted to give you some space. Figured you’d want that after…” it’s a little pathetic, honestly, how you can’t even string enough words together to finish the sentence. Bile rises in your mouth, bitter and acidic and anxious. “After what happened.”

Eddie’s speechless, you think. His fingers stop their dancing.

“I’m sorry,” he says, just like he did that night, and you don’t think you can stomach him saying it again.

“Please stop apologising.”

“I-” He starts, then stops. He’s back in motion, suddenly, toe of his boot scuffing the dusty ground in front of him.

“I asked a lot of you, Eds. It’s fine. It’s not your fault it got to be…” your stomach is doing cartwheels, “too much for you.”

Eddie drops the cigarette, squishes it with his boot, and runs a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t… I wasn’t.”

“It’s really okay, Eddie. I forgive you, if that’s what you need.” And suddenly you feel like crying again, and it sucks, because you thought you’d done that enough these past few days. Whatever’s going on in your stomach spreads upwards, towards your chest, and it’s like a crippling punch. You barely manage not to double over with the way the pain spreads throughout your muscles, flares against your skull.

“I-”

“Please, Eds. Leave me be.” As you turn to re-enter the bar, strands of your hair stick to the wetness coating your cheeks.

Eddie mumbles a soft “fuck” behind you, and you hear his movements before you can feel his presence step closer. He stops just short of you, not touching you but reaching a hand around to close the door before you can open it.

“I couldn’t fuck you because I’m in love with you.” You imagine he whispers the words due to your proximity, but it sounds like yelling. Blood thrums in your ears. What the fuck?

“What the fuck?” You don’t turn around, you can’t, because you don’t want to see if this is just some huge ill-timed Eddie-typical joke.

“I just… I couldn’t have you, and then lose you, y’know? Which sounds so shitty and misogynistic and fuck, I know that, but I’ve just been thinking about it for so long and then I saw you and you were looking up at me and I-”

The word vomit stops, and it takes you a second to realise why. You come to your senses when you feel Eddie’s lips against yours, soft and gentle as you remember.

Finally, your brain manages to reason that you must’ve turned around and kissed him.

You step back from him, and the tears keep coming. Eddie’s hand reaches up, fingers hesitant as they reach towards your cheeks.

“That was really shitty of you,” you say, and as happy as you are that Eddie likes you, loves you, even, you can’t forget the blow your ego took when Eddie had you vulnerable before him and rejected you. “It really hurt, Eddie. Like, a lot. I trusted — I mean, I still do trust — you, and I opened myself up to you, and you just…” destroyed me, devastated me, made me feel unworthy, “it hurt.”

“I can only imagine, lovely. I’m so-”

“Don’t apologise again. Please.” You meet Eddie’s eyes, and everything hurts. You’re so, so, happy, and so, so sad.

Eddie nods, then moves again. His motions are slow, questioning, and careful as he wraps his arms around you. He’s comforting against you, solid and caring and so much your Eddie that your heart skips a beat.

He’s whispering against your hair, uncaring of the tear-stains drenching his shirt. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, sweets. I don’t want you to. Gotta earn back your trust. Gotta show you I deserve you first.”

A/N: Thank you for reading this mess! I will let this fade into obscurity if it comes to that bc I couldn't sleep without getting it down in a doc, and I suggest you do the same. Or don't, I don't control you (or do I?). The amount of brainrot I still have for this man is actually embarrassing.

[gaystan]

average catg segment

CLYDE: Okay, so, before I forget, okay.

JIMMY: (laughing)

CLYDE: The other day, I can’t believe I haven’t told you guys this yet. So I was eating at McDonald’s for breakfast,

TOLKIEN: McDonald’s for breakfast?

CLYDE: When I sat down for my feast a guy walked into the door, looked at me and said, “Idiot can’t even make his own pancakes. How pathetic,” and walked out.

JIMMY: (laughing)

CLYDE: Don’t laugh at that!

CRAIG: I mean, it’s a- it’s a power play.

CLYDE: I tried to enjoy my meal, but all I could taste were dejection and tears. How can I track this guy down, explain how restaurants work, project the image of a man who definitely understands the concept of making pancakes to every stranger I encounter?

CRAIG: (laughing)

TOLKIEN: Here’s the thing. This thing this person did was… wrong? But also, I think very funny maybe? Also?

JIMMY: I think the alternative is you walk into a Pizza Hut and go “These fuckin’ idiots don’t know how to make their own pizza, BYE!”

TOLKIEN: There’s a nicer way of doing this. Walk into a McDonald’s. See someone eating a stack of pancakes. Hand them a recipe for pancakes, and then walk out.

CRAIG: Mhm.

JIMMY: That’s the suh-suh-sweet way of doing it, you’re right, Tolkien. You walk in, you hand them a recipe for pancakes, and you say, “for next time!”

CLYDE: (Laughing) For next time, try this!

CRAIG: I wanna be.

TOLKIEN: If you do it wrong, they’re crepes.

CRAIG: I wanna be in the head of the person who’s walking by McDonald’s, sees someone eating a stack of pancakes, is like, “I gotta go in there and say something.”

CLYDE: Fuckin’ double parks-

JIMMY: (doing a voice) Victoria, just go ‘round the block. I’m just- I’m just gonna be a sec.

CLYDE: I think he went in wanting to buy something, and just-

CRAIG: Pancakes are very easy to make at home-

TOLKIEN: Deceptively. Deceptively difficult, Craig.

CRAIG: You didn’t learn how to cook until you were twenty-three,

TOLKIEN: Getting the right pan temperature?

JIMMY: Now, it is undeniable that McDonald’s does have d-d-duh-dark, arcane, breakfast treats, that like, you tell me how they make that McGriddle, with the fuckin’, with the biscuit, with the syrup nugs,

CLYDE: They have these magical crystals of syrup-

JIMMY: A wuh- a wizard gave ‘em. A syrup wizard. A Canadian syrup wizard. A maplewitch. That’s why it was such a big deal when they did breakfast all day, ‘cause they’re burning through the non-renewable resource of syrup crystals so fast.

CLYDE: (doing a voice) You’ve run out of syrup crystals?? We’re running low on syrup crystals!! Call the maplewitch!

TOLKIEN: Clyde, it’s not funny that you got bullied and it’s not funny that this person was an ass. What’s funny is the idea of walking into a restaurant just- pre-angry, that people here are eating things that they could just as easily make at home.

CLYDE: (laughing)

CRAIG: Does he walk into autobody shops and say “Change your own oil! Idiots!”

TOLKIEN: Idiot doesn’t even know how to do a triple bypass!

JIMMY: Just saying, if this happened to me it would make my fucking week.

CLYDE: Really?? It totally bummed me out!!

JIMMY: Seriously?

CLYDE: I went to McDonald’s and someone put me on blast for eating pancakes at McDonald’s! I felt-

CRAIG: Let’s start with the big problem. One, you’re eating in the McDonald’s.

CLYDE: We’ve talked about- yeah. You guys have found some problems with eating inside the fast food establishment.

JIMMY: Fast food restaurants are, by definition, a gun that sh-shoo-shoots burgers at you.

CLYDE: So for you to go inside the gun and retrieve the burgers like a dragon’s horde, is, um-

TOLKIEN: What if it was at a different location? Something nice?

CLYDE: If a stranger yells at me about the food I’m eating I’m not gonna give a fuck- I don’t care if I’m at the Jiro Dreams of Sushi restaurant. Somebody kicks in the door and is like, “Can’t make your own sushi!” I’m like, “Oh, my dinner’s ruined.”

CRAIG: You’re at the fancy sushi place and a guy says you can’t even make your own sushi and your first reaction is “he’s right” ?

CLYDE: No, my first reaction would be, “Oh no, a stranger yelled at me.” How are you not getting that? I don’t want a stranger to yell at me in any situation, any circumstance!

[underworld-park-offical]

STAN: Dude what the fuck

STAN: Why didn't you tell me the new kid was a DEMON

STAN: I could've done a WHOLE conspiracy video

STAN: I could've shown the WORLD I'm not crazy!

STAN: You YouTube gatekeeping supreme covered ass muncher!

KYLE: Woah dude

KYLE: Calm down

KYLE: Life isn't just about views

STAN: DON'T YOU KNOW KYLE??? STAN: IT'S ALLLLL ABOUT THE VIEWS STAN: ALL THAT CRAZY SHANE DAWSON ESC SHIT???? STAN: IT WAS ALL A LIE STAN: I JUST WANTED ATTENTION STAN: DID YOU THINK I WAS ACTUALLY SERIOUS???? KYLE: YES????????

CRAIG: STFU CRAIG: THIS IS LITERALLY NOT MY FAULT CRAIG: FUCK OFF

STAN: THIS HAS ALWAYS BEEN YOUR FAULT, CRAIG

STAN: YOU’RE SUCH A DICK

CRAIG: EVERYDAY I WAKE UP IN FUCKING OHIO

STAN: WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN????

STAN: WHATEVER

STAN: THE POINT IS BECAUSE OF YOU THERE'S DEMONS RUNNING ABOUT STAN: THIS IS GONNA BE THE NEXT PEWDIEPIE VS T SERIES WAR

CRAIG: FUCK YOU DUDE CRAIG: YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS OF MY SUBSCRIBER COUNT STAN: WHY DON'T YOU LISTEN?! STAN: YOU DID THIS STAN: EVERY APOLOGY YOU’VE EVER DONE HAS BEEN SHIT STAN: THIS IS NO FUCKING DIFFERENT STAN: YOU KNOW WHAT?

STAN: I DON'T CARE IF YOU BREAK YOUR ELBOW CRAIG: (gasp)

CRAIG: BITCH

KENNY: Can all of you SHUT. UP.

KENNY: This is NOT the time to be arguing with each other!

KENNY: This is damn near close to a Zombieland type situation!

KENNY: We can’t be causing more problems than we already have!

KENNY: So NO CHANNEL WARS!

KENNY: Got it?

CRAIG: Fiiiiiiine

STAN: Sure.

CLYDE: Tolkien,

CLYDE: hey

CLYDE: Hey 

CLYDE: Hey Tolkien

CLYDE: Tolkien

CLYDE: Tolkien

TOLKIEN: What. I'm not talking to you right now

CLYDE: Yeah yeah yeah

CLYDE: Okay

CLYDE: Do you think I could 

CLYDE: Do you think

CLYDE: Do you think I could

CLYDE: Do you think I could ask out Tweek?

TOLKIEN: Are you fucking serious?

TOLKIEN: We just broke up.

CLYDE: I know but like

CLYDE: Do you think I could?

TOLKIEN: No, and I hope he rejects your sorry ass

CLYDE: :(

CLYDE: Hhhhhhh my chest hurts

CLYDE: My hands unwashed

KYLE: Fucking ew

CLYDE: My boyfriend left me

CLYDE: Life is pain

CLYDE: …

CLYDE: Guys?

CLYDE: I think I might become emo

CRAIG: Ew

CRAIG: Just when I thought you couldn’t be more cringe

CRAIG: Don't touch me

CRAIG: Gross ass

CLYDE: Fuck you!!! You guys are so mean!!!

CRAIG: Cry bitch <3

CLYDE: (Damn near sobbing)

CRAIG: Boy kisser

KYLE: Guys?

CLYDE: (Full blown crying, fucking bitch)

KYLE: GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CRAIG and CLYDE: WHAT?!?!?!

KYLE: INFLUENCER ALERT!!

CRAIG: OH HELL NAH

STAN: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK CARTMAN: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

TOLKIEN: FUCKING BOOK IT

GREGORY: GET BACK HERE YOU-!!

CARTMAN: WHERE'S CANCEL CULTURE WHEN YOU NEED IT?!?!??!?

CRAIG: ONLY IN FUCKING OHIO STAN AND TOLKIEN: READ THE ROOM CRAIG!!!

STAN: QUICK STAN: GO TO THAT PRESUMABLY HAUNTED BRIDGE TOLKIEN: WHY???? STAN: I HAVE SALT KYLE: WHY'S THAT RELEVANT????

STAN: DON'T YOU KNOW??? STAN: SPIRITS HATE SALT!!!

KYLE: JUST LIKE CLYDE HATES BATHING??

CLYDE: HEY!!! STAN: EXACTLY

STAN: IF I SPRAY THE BRIDGE IN SALT THEY’LL LEAVE US ALONE

TOLKIEN: WHY DON'T WE JUST PUT SALT ON OURSELVES????

STAN: I DONT HAVE THAT MUCH

KENNY: IGNORE THE STATISTICS LETS GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!

CRAIG: Wait

CRAIG: Hol up

CRAIG: I smell British

PIP: HEY! BITCHES!

STAN: Oh god

STAN: We gotta get rid of the salt

STAN: They know our plan

KYLE: DAMNIT

CRAIG: Not a slay moment

PIP: I know you crusty hoes have salt!

PIP: You think that can repell us demons, imps, etc so easily?

PIP: HAH!

PIP: That's more laughable than Stan's tin foil fuckery!

STAN: FUCK YOU, DUDE!

PIP: I can't hear you! Lalalalalala!

PIP: Now, I think we’re missing the only tolerable person on my team!

PIP: Gregory, could you do the honors?

PIP: OHHH HELL YES PIP: IT'S PARTY TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CRAIG: Lmao literally who?

STAN: Shit

STAN: Kyle help me toss this

KYLE: Okay fine

KYLE: Fuck

TOLKIEN: Ew, what's wrong with his eyes?

TOLKIEN: Why are they uglier?

CLYDE: My my!

CLYDE: How rude!

CLYDE: And don't waste that salt!

CLYDE: It's still a full container!

CLYDE: This boy should really take better care of himself, I mean my word!

CLYDE: There's fecal matter all over his hands!

CLYDE: Not to mention he also hasn’t taken off his binder, nor has he shaved

CLYDE: If you all weren't so hesitant on the idea of us I would have cleaned up this poor lad!

CLYDE: Anyhow, WHY ARE YOU ALL ON THIS BRIDGE????

CLYDE: THERE'S NO SAFETY SIGNS OR ANYTHING!!

CLYDE: You could all fall and hurt yourselves!

CLYDE: Look at how shallow these waters are! Combined with the rocks, I mean REALLY! This is an ER trip waiting to happen

KENNY: What the hell is he saying?

CLYDE: My pronouns are she/her, thank you very much

CLYDE: I believe I've dragged on long enough,

CLYDE: It's so nice to meet all of you!

(Edits made by @pissblanket and @zemoleinyourtrashcan)

[dukeofriven]

Y’All Should Actually Read Barthes (Or: Why Your ‘Rings Of Power’ Critique Is Bad)

I think what really gets under my skin about the many, many lousy critiques about Rings of Power[1] on Tumblr dot Com and Reddit[2] that I see out there is that, firstly, they frequently seem to come from people who don’t seem to realize that their understanding and memories about Tolkien are shaped far, far, far more by the Peter Jackson movies (which were hardly ‘canon-compliant’) than they are by the original text. Second and more crucially, I think, is that everyone really wants to get pissed about canon that Tolkien never actually codified. Here’s what I mean: Tolkien didn’t ‘write’ the Silmarillion. He wrote a whole bunch of essays, letters, notes, scraps of ideas, poems, plot outlines, and ramblings, some of which he earmarked for a project he one day planned to compile as something called The Silmarillion. Then he made a slight error in his scheme by dropping dead. So his son Christopher Tolkien and his pal Guy Gavriel Kay stared at this enormous pile of stuff that went back decades, pulled out some of the bits they thought were most polished, did their best to link them into some kind of narrative, edited the crap out of it, added punctuation, and published a book they called The Silmarillion after JRR’s planned, but never completed idea. And was what was in The Silmarillion everything JRR planned to be in the final volume? Not necessarily. In many cases, not remotely, but Christopher Tolkien and Kay tried to take the stuff that was most polished, even if it was thirty year old material that Tolkien had changed his mind fifteen more times on, because the old stuff often had a clarity of completion that the later revisions did not. They usually took the stuff that complete sentences over the stuff with sentence fragments, even if the latter was more ‘fresh.’ Because they realized that The Silmarillion was more a simulacrum of Tolkien’s ideas than anything definitive, Christopher then put out The Unfinished Tales, which contained some more of Tolkien’s ideas: spme that had made it in other versions into The Silmarillion, some that had not. And since the very large pile of notes and scribblings and essays and letters and old recipes didn’t seem any noticeably smaller, he then spent thirteen years publishing The History of Middle Earth, comedically large tomes stuffed to the brim with Tolkien ideas, variations, variants, and late night side-table Kleenex notes. And then they kept putting out more books. And more. And then Christopher made the same silly mistake of dropping dead too! But other people put out even more books, with even more untouched material. There’s a new book coming out in November and JRR Tolkien’s been dead for fifty years! None of this was published under JRR’s aegis. And let me tell you, JRR Tolkien had a pretty weighty aegis: the man was famous for berating his publishers for edits and corrections. Part of the reason he never got around to completing a definitive Silmarillion was the fact that the man never wanted to publish something with which was not completely satisfied. Everything that has come out after his death, compiled with all the love and care in the world, is nevertheless pretty damning evidence that Tolkien was rarely satisfied. What we know about old JRR is that he changed his mind again and again, and we can’t know that on his death bed, his last thought wasn’t some brilliant revelation that finally made the One Ring work in the context of Sauron’s timeline in the Second Age. If he did, he didn’t get a chance scribble it on a napkin for his son to later try and make sense of. And so we will never really know what his true canon decision on, say, elven pregnancy was: sometimes he thought it should take about 108 years. Sometimes only 9 years. He would change his mind, or change his math, again and again.. So when you talk about the ‘canon’ of Tolkien, it’s important to remember that even if you’re just speaking about ‘definitive’ works, you’re left with those published with his approval in his lifetime. namely The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, and The Road Goes Ever On songbook with Donald Swann. Even with those four books there’s complexity: what version of The Hobbit are you talking about? The original? Or the one he rewrote after he changed his mind about the entire nature of the ring Bilbo found in a cave and decided that actually it was the most important piece of jewelry in existence. Honestly, given world enough and time Tolkien probably would have made a third edition of The Hobbit because those two ‘canonical’ books, The Hobbit and it’s ‘sequel’ Lord of the Rings, don’t even fit together very well, as poor Peter Jackson learned to his sorrow and our pain with his wretched, tonally disjunct Hobbit films. It’s funny, because everyone on here loves talking about Roland Barthes’ Death of the Author. Almost none of you have ever read it, but it sure is a thing that’s a super important, inviolable concept... until we talk about an author the internet isn’t mad at, and suddenly the author’s word is inviolable and all adaptation choices are wrong. I don’t know how to get this across any clearer: anyone who has ever dug deep into Tolkien’s lore knows that speaking of things like ‘canon,’ ‘definitive,’ ‘authoritative,’ and all similar adjectives is often a fool’s errand. Tolkien left us with a lot of ideas about the second age, but very little in the way of clarity, much less ‘this is the true thing unchanging.’ Even the ‘authoritative’ timeline of the Appendices in LOTR is stuff he was changed in the writings he did in the years after. So I am begging you. Please. Please stop giving the Akallabêth a level of authoritative definition that even its compiler admitted it did not possess. Until you can prove to me you brought the shade of JRR Tolkien back from beyond the Veil to speak True Authorial Intent,[3] I am going to treat your recourse to ‘but the canon’ with the level of exasperation it deserves. --------------------------

[1] Besides the general problem on this website that everyone’s heard of critical theory and almost nobody’s ever read any. [2] There are plenty of valid critiques to be made, especially about pacing and awkward racial optics, but it’s really not the unhinged shit I’m seeing, as usual. [3] Let’s be honest: in the fifty years since he shuffled off his mortal coil, the shade of Tolkien will unquestionably return with a ghostly second pile of essays, letters, notes, scraps of ideas, poems, plot outlines, and ramblings, and they won’t be remotely definitive either. And we’re all going to be super disgruntled when the ghost insists that the only good adaptation is his work is Khraniteli.

[the-red-butterfly]

20 Questions for fic writers

Tagged by @bad-at-names-and-faces and @i-did-not-mean-to

Thanks guys!!

1. How many works do you have on AO3? I have 96 works in Ao3 BUT I have 104 on Fanfiction (yes, I still post there don't judge me.) I think there are just like 3 works that I have on Ao3 that I didn't pu up on FanFiction.

2. What's your total AO3 word count? 411,089 (Not too bad, not too bad)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Primarily I write for Tolkien works, Star Wars and Batman (bat fam to be more specific). But I'm very much a, write one for each thing I love kinda gall. Honorary mentions include Sandman, Frozen, Twilight Avengers, Merlin and Teen Titans.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Lonely Stars Drifting In The Black (Star Wars) (so not surprised XD)

Kudos: 2,276

The Unexpected Pop Of Things (Lucifer TV)

Kudos: 1,265

This Isn't What It Looks Like (Lucifer TV)

Kudos: 762

Death of a Star (Lucifer TV)

Kudos: 760

Alone Never More (Batman comics) (you are just an okay story, why are you here? 😭)

Kudos: 729

(I'm kinda surprised and offended that I didn't put Lucifer on the honorary mentions and it still took places 2, 3 AND 4 👁)

5. Do you respond to comments? Oh yes (though I might take a couple of months if I some slip my mind). Almost all of them. I tend to not answer back to emojis because I'm like... I don't know what to answer?

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? This was kind of a hard question and it took me way too long to answer, so here, have the three runner ups.

A Crime Of Passion (Twilight: New Moon)

Ends with: Carlisle being forced to drink blood and being unable to deal with it.

At The End Of The Earth (Hellboy del Toro movies)

Ends with: John Myers being mauled by wolves and his last thoughts being of how alone he feels and of dying alone.

She's not a very good mother (Batman comics)

Ends with: Janet Drake dying as she chokes on poison and regrets she wont be able to do better by her son. She always thought she'd have more time.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Unlike the last one, this one was so easy to pick because, yeah... I'm an angsty girly for sure so the pool for REALLY happy endings was SMALL.

Drizzle Bt The Sea (Teen Titans cartoon)

It's quite short and all around just happy in vibes. Just Robin and Jericho playing by the sea under the rain.

8. Do you get hate on fics? I don't remember that I ever have? Thought I thought a couple might get hate, they didn't.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? I tired it ONCE. And you know what happened? The sex was interrupted by trauma and they characters had to top to talk about the whole thing.

There is also that other one time but we're not going to talk about it.

But all in all I'm much more interested in exploring gen stories ✨

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? I LOVE crossovers. I don't have many, but I am plagued mentally by them. I have 3 posted (only one on Ao3). And I'm not sure which one's craisiest. But the 2 on FF are both Rise of the Guardians crossovers, one with Avengers and the other with LES MISÉRABLES. What was younger me smoking? I would really like to know.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I'm aware 👁

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? I think someone might've asked one or two times? But I honestly don't remember, if it ever happened, it was ages ago.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Oh yes! It's always so fun to me. I've done it a couple of times with @slightly-crimson-tornado and I'm currently working on one with @pushing-daisies-renaissance ✨

14. What’s your all time favourite ship? Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Steve Trevor x Diana Prince I think. Close runner up is definitely Satine Kryze x Obi-wan Kenobi. And I'm VERY fond of Bruce Wayne x Selina Kyle.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I have a stupid amount of wips so I'll just go by posted ones. I have this story idea that I REALLY Like but I came up with it ages ago, and though i still like the idea I'm doubtful that I'll ever give it the time it deserves to go back to ):

Because the truth was too terrible (Avengers)

It's a story about Natasha being trapped inside her mind and Thor getting in to wake her up. I'm still pretty fond of the general gist of it. But it's OLD now.

16. What are your writing strengths? Aaaaaahhh. Trauma management? Like, they way people go about it and navigate it; how they talk about it with others? At least I THINK that's my strength. People keep complimenting those things XD

17. What are your writing weaknesses? I am too flowery with wording and I get sick of myself. It's out of control and I sometimes can't help it.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? I love it. If I can't get help I'll just wing a google translate, or god forbid do some research on structure. I'm BAD at it, but I love it and use it frequently.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Inazuma Eleven (anime) hehe. Love of my youth, protect me.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written? I love this this Twilight one-shot I wrote some years ago. It made me suffer a lot (for reasons you can find in the author's notes) but the idea has always had a tight grip on me. I really like it (and hope to got I can get the sequel out one day).

A Crime Of Passion (Twilight: New Moon)

BUT two honorable mentions. One, my Star Wars series where Obi-wan get's rescued from Death Watch by Jango Fett. And Two, my VERY self indulgent crossover between Avengers x Merlin, I love the story and I'm really super fond of what I've gotten down so far.

Celestial Bodies Of The Lonesome Variety (LSD) (Star Wars)

Of The Old Things Hidden In The World (Merlin x Avengers crossover)

Ya know, just in case you feel like it, tagging @slightly-crimson-tornado , @cilil , @dottie-wan-kenobi , @fishing4stars , @arlenianchronicles , @scary-grace