#IF YOU WROUGHT MORE HAVOC

[dutifullylazybread]

OH nO.

I just had another soul-destroying scene come to mind for this fic...

...ima write it. And I'm gonna see if it fits anywhere.

If not, then I think I'm going to officially create a series for the Rolan x Tav fanfic on Ao3, and I'll make this chapter into a one-shot that connects to the main fic.

BUT OH NO IT IS DELICIOUSLY AGONIZING.

IT HURTS AND I LOVE IT.

[qismet]

i honestly don’t have too many thoughts on #268 other than i get why people on twt are saying it’s rushed and they don’t like the outcome but it’s like, what did you expect?

[icarryitin]

Workplace Hot

spencer reid/gn!reader

look i don’t know what this is or where it came from, all i know is one day i woke up normal and then by the end of it i had started CM from the beginning and fallen in love w this man

series masterlist

word count: 1.2k//warnings: literally zero, just vibes

summary: It’s just a crush on a coworker. That’s normal, right?

Things never go smoothly, do they?

Never quite to plan, there’s always something missing from the final draft, or something unexpected lurking in the background of the big picture.

This surprise comes gift wrapped just for you, in stupidly attractive, nerdy, beanpole patterned paper.

The first time you lamented about your unfortunate crush on Dr Spencer Reid had been over mojitos at your favourite little hole-in-the-wall bar. Sitting at the raised table with the remainder of your girl group from college, staring dismally at the bottom of your glass, they’d tried to convince you he was just Workplace Hot. Proximity Hot. Work crushes are commonplace as anything, they come just as quickly as they go. God, you wish they’d been right.

You’d tried to convince yourself of it, anyway, and that worked for a little while. You were happy enough to sit at your desk, the man in question mirroring your position somewhere on your right, five days a week. You could do your paperwork in his general vicinity and not feel like you were about to catch fire every time he leaned over the aisle to pinch a file from your stack. And then, there was The Incident.

The Incident - named for the absolute havoc wrought on your nerves until the early hours of a Sunday morning in May. Uncoordinated nights out though they had been, with your own friends out celebrating a birthday and his little group with their own agenda for the evening, it would have been rude not to wave across the bar at him. The rest of them had been too far gone already but one of your friends noticed your shy grin, arguably your best - friendship forged in the fire of back to back forensic psychology classes would be hard pressed to die. She noticed, because of course she did. So you’d told her, because of course she’d have worked it out. And then, to your horror, she’d walked right over to him. Because of course she would. She’d wandered back over to your group only a few minutes later, a solemn look on her face under the dulled bar lights.

“Do you get what I mean?”

“Oh, I get it, my condolences.”

You had been doomed from the start - cursed, bewitched. Lulled into a false sense of security via cardigans and wide eyes and odd socks until you find yourself here. Six months into your new job, and six months into an embarrassingly cumbersome crush on the good doctor.

Which probably would have been fine if either one of you stayed behind at Quantico regularly, but you don’t. Instead, you’re burdened by six months worth of knowledge of all his little quirks thanks to case after case after case.

You know he’ll commandeer the couch on the jet when he can, because he likes to stretch out when he naps. You know exactly how much sugar he takes in his coffee, too much - you feel mildly nauseous every time you make him a cup, but you still make it. You know that he chews on the inside of his lip when he’s thinking particularly hard about something, just as well as you know he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. And sure, it’s not just him, you’ve learned these silly little things about every member of the BAU team. But Reid’s just seem clearer to you. More significant. You’re a little more self conscious when you find yourself looking at him. Even in conversation, even if he’s looking to you for an observation about the Unsub. You can’t hold his eye for very long.

He knows, you’re sure of it.

There’s a rule - don’t profile the team. The golden rule. The golden rule that gets broken about fifty times a day.

Spencer likes the rule, even if he doesn’t always respect it. Sometimes it needs a little disrespecting, he thinks so anyway. Sometimes his colleagues, his teammates, his friends - they need somebody to prod them a little, letting people in goes against every fibre of a behavioural analyst’s being. But trust has to be built somehow.

He’s about this close to cracking you.

Which hasn’t been easy by any stretch of the word. You’d held him at arm’s length for much longer than the others, and at first he’d thought he annoyed you. It made sense enough, he’s been called annoying enough times in his life to know he definitely can be, and the way you’ve never really been able to look him in the eye would suggest you don’t want to get into the situation where he could be. He tries his best not to ramble at you, even now, just in case. Though that initial ice has long since melted.

You’re a lot more open with him now, even if there’s still parts he has to chip away at thick stone walls to get to. Silly things, that not everyone would care to know about their co-workers, but Spencer absolutely needs to know about you.

Which is where the stakeout game comes in.

It’s silly, really. Twenty questions - who plays twenty questions as a grown adult? FBI agents who desperately want to get to know other FBI agents whilst they’re stuck in the confines of an SUV’s backseat for hours on end. That’s who.

Derek and Emily sit up front, watching the quiet street, the way they’re supposed to be - as Spencer desperately tries to guess your favourite movie. He’s narrowed it down to two in his mind, in only three questions. The traditional rules of the game had gotten boring after the first few cases, you’d laughed and told him that he’s too good at guessing. He’d told you that you’re just not asking the right questions on your turns. You’re watching him carefully in the dark now, the way you’re meant to be watching the Unsub’s house. You don’t make eye contact but you’re studying his face all the same, he wishes you would. He’s become a little too dependent on the way his heart seizes when you allow him that kind of vulnerability.

He doesn’t have time to pick a film or ask another question anyway, because the Unsub is flying out the back door of the house, he’s jumping out of the SUV with everybody else, and the Unsub is surrounded. Thanks to your work, your observation being the final piece of the puzzle that had clicked everything else into place.

You’re chatting to a local officer when Spencer calls out the title of your favourite movie across the street. His guess, twenty questions completed in just three. How very Spencer Reid of him.

He’s right - obviously. He doesn’t need to watch the way your head drops and your shoulders shake with a giggle, interrupting your conversation to turn to him. But he watches all the same, he always does.

Your eyes sparkle in the dark when you look back over your shoulder, finally catching his under the orange haze of the streetlights, and sending a kaleidoscope of butterflies surging in the pit of his stomach. Paper thin wings clog up his throat, spindly legs tickle his lungs.

Work crushes are commonplace - but this one might just be the death of him.

[iisasarcasticlittleshite]

I know you can be louder than that (Lucifer)

BIG warnings for this one guys! Major NSFW! Minors, Do NOT Interact! Warnings: FEM!AFAB MC, Semi public sex, voyeurism. Lucifer uses MC to punish his brothers, mentions of pact use.

Summary: Lucifer's had a helluva week, his brothers have done nothing but contribute to the chaos. MC's been doing her best to help, but maybe he's got one more use for his favourite human.

Lucifer is tired.

This is not news, he's a hardworking demon with enough on his plate on a good day to make lesser demons buckle, but this week had been...hellish, for lack of a better word.

The prince has been swamped with extra requests from the house of lords, which means Lucifer has been swamped with Student Council papers which would otherwise be Diavolo's workload, as well as his regular duties, and on top of that, his brothers have wrought absolute havoc.

Asmodeus started an internet fight with some important modelling agency which needed smoothing over, Belphie missed roughly 80% if his classes this week, Beel caused damages in three separate restaurants after eating their entire stock, and of course Mammon sold one of Lucifer's cursed records.

Lucifer hasn't even had the time to track the record down again and punish his brother properly because he's so swamped, and his only saving grace-

"Can I come in?"

MC pops her head in, having knocked gently at the door, a wrapped package tucked under her arm and a steaming mug balanced carefully in her hand.

She's giving him that look, the look of a woman who knows he's overworked and stressed and wishing he could do literally anything else.

"That depends, have you more news of my brothers causing further damage to our reputation?" Lucifer huffed, to which MC chuckled.

"Your brothers are in the dining room, doing their damned homework and student council papers that they've neglected lately." MC explained, handing him the mug of steaming coffee and sliding the slim package onto his desk.

"And how in the Devildom did you manage that?"

MC chuckled and perched herself on the edge of his desk beside him, her leg brushing his. She met his gaze, and her eyes swam with the colours of his brother's magics. She's used her pacts.

Rarely does MC use those pacts to get the brothers to do anything, more often she can talk them into behaving, but she's been stretched just as thin as Lucifer trying to keep things under control.

Lucifer chuckled, his gaze alight with pride in his little human's use of her power and sipped his coffee before drawing his attention to the envelope. "And this?"

MC watched him open it with eager eyes as he slid the missing record from its case. "That was harder to track down than I thought it would be. Mammon gave the buyer back their grimm."

"You are a wonder, MC." Lucifer couldn't help but grin, inspecting the record for damage. It was still in immaculate condition, a trace of her magic still clinging to it protectively. He slid out from behind his desk and slid the record back into its rightful place on the shelves of his office attached to the library.

He looked back at his desk, the pile of papers still awaiting him, and the smiling human perched beside it, smiling at him, legs dangling over the edge of his desk.

He stepped closer, and MC spread her legs to let him step between her thighs, his gloved hand sliding over her cheek, smiling as she leaned into him.

MC's hands slid up his chest, settling around his neck to play with the hair at the back of his neck. "What do you need from me, Luci?"

His heart swelled, cold and unfeeling as it had once been. Dear human, who already does so much for his family, whose absence he's convinced would spell the end of the world.

Lucifer's hands slid to her hips, drawing her closer. What does he need?

He needs those papers to disappear, he needs his brothers to learn their place, he needs a damned break, but none of that could happened-

Or maybe it could.

MC arched a brow as the demon's eyes damned near lit up, and his magic reached out, pulling his office door open. She thought he'd ask her to leave, but instead, Lucifer came down upon her with a passion, his lips crashing into hers in a searing kiss as he stole the breath from her lungs.

He pushed her down until she was flat on his desk, stationary and papers shoved carelessly aside. More work for later? Perhaps, but he's got something else on his mind now.

Lucifer nipped at her lower lip, smirking at the quiet whimper she let free. "Correct me if I'm wrong, my darling, but my idiot brothers are all gathered in the dining room, correct?"

"Yes..."

"And they cannot leave without your permission, correct?"

MC gulped, realising what he was getting at, why he'd opened the door...the other 6 have only the library between them, and the doors are all open.

"Lucifer-ah!"

The first born dove for her neck, one hand nimbly unbuttoning her shirt, exposing her soft skin as sharp teeth nipped marks into her delicate skin.

The material of his gloves raised gooseflesh in his wake as he cupped her breast and squeeze, thumb and forefinger gently tugging at her sensitive nipple as the cold air greeted her.

MC whined, tangling her fingers in the demon's hair, her nails gently scraping against his scalp as he shoved his hips forward, grinding against her clothed heat.

"Lucifer, they'll hear!"

"You're damned right they will." He growled against her skin, nipping at the shell of her ear, smattering hungry kisses against her skin. "They've acted like menaces all week, they deserve punishment in kind."

MC would have laughed at the pettiness of Lucifer's actions if not for the sight of him pulling off his gloves with his teeth, his gaze dark with lust as heat shot down her centre and she squirmed against the desk.

This was out of character, for Lucifer to flaunt her so to his own brothers, but perhaps the stress of the week had piled up enough. He needs a release, and he's chosen her.

His bare fingers were cold against her hips as he pulled at her waistband, demanding she lift her hips while never forcing her. She could always stop him, if she wished.

MC lifted her hips for him to slide her leggings down her legs, reaching hungrily for him, but Lucifer took her hands and guided them to her knees, his eyes on her quickly wettening centre.

"Hold yourself open for me, love..." The Avatar of Pride dropped to his knees, sinking his teeth into her soft thigh, driving another whine from her lips as he dragged a finger through her glistening folds.

Lucifer wasn't one for teasing, not when he knows what he wants, but he paused barely an inch away from her heat. "May I, my darling?"

"Yes, please...Lucifer!" She gasped and arched as he dove forward, licking a long stripe from her entrance to her pearl, collecting her wetness on his tongue before circling her clit with confident strokes.

Saccharine moans tumbled from her lips, clinging to the backs of her knees, keeping herself open for him as Lucifer suckled at her clit.

She felt the tug at her magic, the brothers had noticing something was off.

As if Lucifer had sensed the shift in her magic, he licked more firmly, lightly dragging his teeth over her sensitive skin, drawing a muffled yelp from MC as she struggled to keep hold of those leashes. "Luci-I can't-"

"You can hold them." He filled his palms with the globes of her ass, yanking her closer to him so he could gorge himself properly. "And I know you can be louder than that."

MC's eyes went wide, but the demon buries his face in her cunt and shoves his tongue inside her, curling it just right and she sang for him, her voice flowing free as she forced her will behind her magic and slammed down on the pacts. Those brothers had driven her mad all week, she wasn't above petty revenge.

Pride surged in Lucifer's chest as he wrapped an arm around her trembling thigh, fingers toying with her clit as his tongue plunged in and out of her heat, his own desire restricted by his trousers as he chased the pleasure out of her, relishing every cry that fell from her lips, every shiver and whine.

His brothers could hear, his phone was exploding in his pocket, and Lucifer was glad of it, they got to hear what they could not have. He couldn't think of a better punishment.

Her walls quivered around his tongue, close to her end, and with his eyes he demanded she be loud, and his dear, sweet, reliable human delivered.

She tumbled over the edge, practically wailing his name and other pornographic noises and she tumbled over the edge, her slick wetting Lucifer's chin as he drove her through her orgasm.

"Don't relax too much, my darling. My brothers haven't been punished enough."

[embarrassedanon]

Ski Bum

As an Aspen local, Chester loathed the hours he spent giving ski lessons to the progeny of America's rich and famous. These spoiled brats were airdropped in on private jets by the dozen from New York or LA and wrought havoc on the slopes each winter. But helping them perfect their form earned him a pretty penny and free season lift pass so it was worth it.

Chester saw rather quickly that no matter how much these rich kids claimed they wanted to improve they weren't used to taking constructive criticism. Chester learned that lesson in a humiliating fashion when Walter, the 20 year old son of an oil magnate, joined him for a private lesson.

Despite a decade and half of winters spent skiing, Walter never managed to conquer anything but the bunny slopes. He was more keen to spend his time reading by the fire in the lodge or ogling the snow boarders in the sauna.

To Chester it was no wonder why Walter's skiing prowess plateaued before he even finished elementary school, Walter was convinced he knew everything.

"Your stance is all wrong dude, there's no way this is how you learned to ski!" Chester said a bit amused.

"It most certainly is not, and you'll call me Walter or Sir, not dude, I'm not one of your townie friends."

Prick, Chester thought, plastering a smile on his face.

Walter, not remotely remorseful, began absentmindedly scrolling through his phone.

"Is there somewhere you'd rather be? Cause if you don't want to do this lesson there's no point in either of us freezing our asses off."

"You seriously ought to rethink your language if you wish to continue working at a resort with high-end clientele. And if you must know all of my friends from University are in St. Barth's. But of course daddy forced us to go to this dreadful mountain hideaway."

"Well if you're such a competent skier and you don't need the lesson you'll have no problem getting your phone back from me.”

With that, Chester lunged for Walter's phone and stuffed in his pocket. In a flash he was off down the slopes. Shakily Walter gave chase.

"Get back here this instant!" Walter yelled.

"You'll have to catch me,” Chester taunted in a singsong voice as he whipped around to face his pursuer before turning around and speeding off.

Propelled by rage rather than any athletic prowess, Walter sped after Chester in a haphazard manner. As he neared the instructor, far faster than Chester could have predicted, Chester began to bob and weave as to avoid Walter's grasp. This only made Walter's attacks more erratic.

In one fell swoop, Walter reached to grab his phone from Chester's back pocket. The speed with which he was hurling down the mountain put an undue amount of force behind his grasp. While Walter was able to secure his phone, he sent Chester flying out of his skis and his pants and long johns tumbling down.

With a thud Chester fell face down ass up in a heap of snow, his pale cheeks looking almost sun-kissed compared to the alabaster snow. Walter gasped and then let out a hearty laugh. Chester shot up and spat snow out of his mouth.

"It's not funny!" Chester pleaded, over his shoulder.

"Oh it certainly is, and this serves you right for taking what's mine!"

Chester struggled to right himself and his he slipped on the packed snow. Bent over with his bare ass facing Walter he tried to pull up his pants when he heard the clicking of sound effect of a phone camera.

"Did you just take a picture of my ass?"

"Language, Chester! And my friends just sent a beautiful picture of the moon over the ocean, figured I'd respond with my own picture of the moon over the mountain. Anywho, thanks for this lesson... it was so very revealing. Ta Ta!"

With that, no less shaky than before, Walter traveled down the mountain alone. Leaving Chester to get laughed by a group of snow boarders before he came to his senses and pulled up his pants.

...

Back at the lodge, Chester was certain that everyone was staring at him as he headed to the locker room. It was clear that word of his embarrassing mishap, and maybe even the picture, traveled fast down the mountain.

In the locker room, guys were in all different states of undress, but the way they all laughed and whispered to one another when Chester walked past made him feel the most naked.

As he sat at a bench in front of his locker and removed his boots, Walter rounded the corner in a white terrycloth robe. He was at a locker just two doors down from Chester. He gave Chester a wicked smile and opened up his locker.

Chester noticed his expensive skin tight ski suits hung up neatly in the locker. Walter made quick work of shucking his robe and donning a crisp white pair of briefs, chinos and a knit sweater. He didn't bother to lock his locker before he once again flashed Chester that devilish grin and exited the locker room.

Still seething from his earlier embarrassment, access to Walter's locker was something Chester couldn't pass up. Working quickly, Chester grabbed a multi-tool from his work bag and deftly weakened the rear seam on all of Walter's ski suits. With any luck Walter would be splitting his pants right down the ass the next time he hit the slopes.

...

The next morning as Chester was getting a few runs in with his coworkers he noticed Walter and a friend walking toward the ski lifts in matching skin tight jumpsuits.

"Isn't that the asshole that pantsed you yesterday?" Chester's buddy Rich asked while laughing.

"Yes, and with any luck he'll be flashing his asshole anytime now."

Chester filled in his buddies on the plan and they were more than happy to let Walter and his friend grab the next lift in hopes of witnessing Chester's plan in action.

As the arrogant douchebag leaned back to sit on the lift, Walter's suit burst open flashing his ass and his black thong. Of course his suit was too tight for his briefs and he wouldn’t be caught doing anything as uncouth as freeballing. His own pompous rules compounded his embarrassment.

Within an instant, his friend was laughing, the lift operator was laughing, and Chester and his friends were in hysterics.

Walter shrieked as the lift scooped him up parading his ripped suit over the mountain top like a Thanksgiving balloon.

"No don't look at me!" Walter plead which only drew more eyes to his unfortuante wardrobe malfunction.

"Hey Walter, you were right! The moon over the mountains is gorgeous." Chester yelled.

[coolattas]

thinking about lucretia adventurezone and grinding my teeth down to the gums because holy fuck dude. holy shit. she was impossibly, horribly young on the starblaster. three hops and a jump from being a fucking baby. the two-sunned planet is devoured by the hunger in the same year that she graduates from high school. she is easily the youngest of the birds, even considering the differing rates of aging amongst the rest of the crew. teenaged astrophysicist, wizard, author, artist, without ties solid enough back home to keep her from the starblaster's maiden voyage. she writes and rewrites every moment she can wring from her memories into enough notebooks that it's damn near arthritis-inducing to step within 50 feet of the stacks upon stacks of field notes, of detailed accounts and gentle, domestic benignity. she loves and she loses and it still can't ever prepare her for the next decade. a century dwarfs the time she spends alone running the bureau, but the sheer magnitude of her loss is incomparable. lucretia learns to live in the stolen century, learns to rely on others, learns to trust and care and laugh and build, create, sacrifice, indulge. she pries these things away from herself in the name of a greater good, to what she believes to be their only hope. she sees the agony they're in, and she inadvertently compounds that anguish when she tries to fix it. she is 18 and 118 when she feeds fisher her journals. she is 30 and 130 and 50 and 150 when taako holds a staff to her chest and counts down like it means anything to her anymore that she dies. maybe it's atonement, but even that sounds far too holy a word to describe it. her brother grips her life in his hands, and she thinks it's only fair that he is the one to soundly smother it at last. the lonely journal-keeper is so young and so impossibly old and she is so, so tired. her family will outlive her by centuries. she will be a fine powder, dust beneath the crust of the planet, long before she believes their forgiveness will ever be known. if that day comes at all. everything she has ever done is soured by a guilt so weighty that she spends every day trying to play damage control with the havoc she feels solely responsible for having wrought. she lives within the confines of dichotomy, of red and blue and good and bad, even when she knows she's lying through her teeth, because its easier to live with herself (it's not) when she justifies it, when everyone else lives and dies by the idea that she got it right. she spends 12 years alone, sitting in the thick of her own grief. she mourns men who are right in front of her face. she sees the way they have changed, so fundamentally, sees the ways her choices have ruined them. 12 years is such a long time to be alone. 12 fucking years. she ages 32 in the same span, shedding decades in wonderland in the blink of an eye, and she knows she's running out of time. she's willing to give up whatever she has left, without question. lucretia loves so fiercely and so unquestionably and still she believes herself to be irredeemably cruel when really she was just so scared, tethered to any sense of hope only by the idea that she was doing right by her family. in a position that no one should have to be in, a situation that virtually no one else could truly understand. she was so young and she suffered so, so much. more than any person should. she is flawed but she is not the monster she convinces herself she has become. lucretia adventurezone they could never make me hate you lets kiss on the mouth ok?

[contentloadingandstuff]

Ascension - Ningguang x Male!Reader

CW: There may be some details contradicting with Ningguang's backstory. Otherwise none.

Poverty is the source of friendship. 

In the countryside, where denizens must fight for every meal and endure the merciless struggle for survival, youth and elders alike find solace in these simple truths. The scholars and intellectuals of the big cities often criticize the saying, bringing up data, facts and examples that paint it as false. The exception proves the rule, but the men of science fail to consider the mindset of the common man as well. 

Not many know that Ningguang, the cold, elusive and professional Tianquan of the Liyue Qixing, stems from such a background. Even if she would not admit it openly, she believes this statement to hold water. Partly because she is more than familiar with the origins of the phrase, but mostly due to her discovery of more than friendship in the unforgiving conditions of her upbringing. 

If one were to ask Ningguang to describe the story of her relationship with you using one adjective, she would label it cliché, albeit with a noticeable fondness in her voice - and, objectively speaking, it was. 

Her very first memories include you. There was no shortage of work that needed to be done. Ningguang spent most of her days helping her mother with chores while her father worked tirelessly in the fields. Her duties left little time to interact with other kids. Ningguang had learned about you through her father.

Y/N's hardworking, he said, a good kid. Maybe you should get to know him? 

It didn't take long for you two to get along. In comparison to other boys of your age, you were quieter and more toned - much more pleasant to be around. Despite working diligently, your chores weren't your main interest. Ningguang found herself sharing dreams with you, imagining how a life of luxury would feel. Of course, that required earning the appropriately humongous sum of Mora. Ideas weren't an issue for you - from more realistic concepts centered around farming and manufacturing to more silly ones, such as taming Geo Vishaps and offering short rides for money. You often played pretend, painting yourselves as young entrepreneurs, earning billions upon trillions of shiny, golden Mora. Even if the coins were just leaves and gemstones were common rocks, with Ningguang by your side? They were the most precious of treasures. 

Soon, however, life did what it was best at - it struck without warning, shattering your peaceful routine. 

You've never met your parents, and so your grandparents were your caretakers. A harsh winter came, bringing with it an epidemic of flu. With how tightly-knit the community was, it spread like wildfire, striking yourself, Ningguang, and everybody else. The young and mature survived, but the elderly perished. Even if your grandparents were experienced by many a plague, malnutrition wrought havoc in their bodies, giving them no fighting chance against the affliction. 

There was little time to grieve, however. Without their support, you were lost, completely alone with danger of extreme poverty and imminent starvation lurking just behind the corner. Ningguang offered to convince her parents to take you in, but you didn't want to subject her and her loved ones to further limitations - accepting another mouth to feed was no insignificant decision. Faced with this problem, you chose what most poor men of your age did. You joined the Milelith. 

The farewell was heartfelt, full of tears and fairly overexaggerated. Even now, Ningguang smirks every time you bring it up. Both of you were certain that your decision would surely result in your death. You said goodbye like it was the last time in your lives. 

Soon this misconception was completely disproven. Even though your age technically allowed you to fight, it was decided that you would do less dangerous tasks before you aged sixteen. The jobs were mostly menial - deliver this document here, send a message there, tend to your senior officer's horse. Even if this wasn't the most exciting kind of work, it granted you a roof over your head and ample food in your stomach. After just a few weeks of service, you returned to her and passed the news. The happiness in her heart was pure - so genuine, in fact, that Ningguang planted a shy kiss on your cheek. 

Your ascent through the ranks was slow, just as expected. Meanwhile, Ningguang did her best to support her aging parents. As their health worsened and they couldn't work anymore, she knew that what they already had was far from enough. This called for her creativity and wit - without them, there could be no chance of survival. First, she leased the farmlands her parents owned to a wealthier neighbor, and in return she would receive just enough Mora to get by, but that wasn't enough. She didn't want to just survive - she wanted to thrive. Even despite her restricted movements, her mother was still able to sew, and really well at that. For a share of the lease money she would purchase some fabric and, aided by her mother, she would make affordable clothes and little baubles. When a larger portion was done, she would go to the beach and sell her wares off for a small profit - just enough to make it worthwhile. But she wanted, no - needed more. 

The opportunity came after a few years. You were old enough to join the regular ranks, but your commanders found a better use of your skills. You were sent to the logistics division, tasked with assisting the quartermaster. Seeing how the production of military equipment went gave you an idea. Aside from forging, The Milelith needed clothes and shoes that required sewing. Ningguang was, of course, more than willing to act on this new offer. After presenting some clothes sewn by her mother as a proof of skill, your recommendation landed her a stable and decently-paid job. After some more time, however, a new fact came to light. 

Of the provided equipment, a percentage was always faulty and thus unusable. Crooked weapons, brittle armor, damaged fabric - all of it ended up scrapped in hopes of getting back at least a portion of the materials. Seeing a new and exciting venture in these items, you suggested that these could be sold as surplus, and thus return the cost in Mora. The quartermaster agreed, and gave you enough resources to jump-start your idea. You weren't proficient in running a business, and neither was Ningguang - but, to be fair, her experience went far beyond yours. She created the framework, rough, but good enough to work, and advertised the booth. 

"Certified Milelith equipment at an affordable price! Come, see, and try out the tools of our brave soldiers!" She would cry out, attracting a sizable crowd and selling most of the stock in a single day. 

Thus, the surplus of faulty equipment turned into a surplus of Mora. 

Your senior was genuinely surprised at how well you handled things. Being both fair and generous, he redirected a lion's share of profits to you, and in turn, you directed most of it to Ningguang. This way, everybody was satisfied with the process. Since you, not Ningguang, were the official founder of the project, the prestige for its success fell on you. In a span of just a few months you rose multiple ranks and gained renown as a skilled manager. Obviously, you were just learning from what Ningguang did. Her entrepreneurship was crushingly better than yours, but she was still pleased. You had a good reputation, and she had Mora. 

This was also the moment from which things started looking up for you two. Ningguang could not only afford the livelihood and medicine for her sick parents and herself, but also spend the profits on repairs and the general improvement of living conditions. You, meanwhile, stocked up the money to buy your own home - average sized as it was, it sufficed for living and hanging out with Ningguang. The financial cooperation tightened the bond between you and her greatly. You were everything she could ask for - not only a competent and intelligent business partner, but also a handsome, smart and caring… boyfriend. 

You learned of this change when, one day, you found two sets of sheets in your bedroom. 

Company loyalty was not a concept young Ningguang believed in, and soon she set her eyes on a new means of earning her living. Among the faults there were some affecting just the visual aspects - they were up-to-code in technicalities, and could be sold as such. You would help her set these aside, and Ningguang would later pass them to the Adventurers' Guild… for a small fortune, of course. After all, her wares were military-grade. Using the large sums of money she earned, Ningguang purchased shares in increasingly bigger companies. Using her experience to ramp up their earnings, she would earn millions upon millions of Mora. 

Mora can't buy everything, however. One of these elusive wares is health. Despite the best medical care Ningguang could afford, her parents eventually succumbed to old age. You stood with her at their funeral, holding her hand as tears fell from her eyes. You whispered words of comfort into her ears, embracing her in your shared bed, protecting her in a rare moment of vulnerability. 

Despite this soul crushing blow, she prevailed. Both of you pushed onwards - you increased your rank and prestige while Ningguang amassed Mora. It was just a matter of time before you reached the top. When Ningguang rose to the position of Tianquan of the Liyue Qixing, you were already a general of supply and logistics. 

The ambition of the youth is impressive indeed. 

Moving into the Jade Chamber alongside Ningguang marked the end of rapid development in your lives. You reached the top, the summit - there was no way of climbing higher in the hierarchy anymore. This new period of stability granted you the chance to look deeper into your relationship with Ningguang. Throughout the years she was the only constant in your life - she aided you, she comforted you, she made you laugh and held you while you cried. There was no doubt in your soul that this woman was the one you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. 

But did she feel the same about you? 

That you needed to find out before you made your move.

The simplest way to find out was through conversation. You wanted to keep the element of surprise present, so asking her outright wasn't an option. Settling on small hints, you started including mentions of aging together and having kids, as well as small tidbits of silly wedding plans. Ningguang reacted very well, going along with your imaginings. You shared plenty of laughs over the image of your wrinkled frames, holding hands while rocking back and forth on rocking chairs. This was your sign. 

There could be no engagement without a ring, of course. But what ring would suit Ningguang the most? She can buy every piece of jewelry in existance, after all! But just as all seemed bleak, you recalled what your girlfriend told you some time ago: a treasure is worth more than just its material value - the history behind it makes the most Mora. You didn't need the gift to be immensely valuable, but heartfelt. On the other hand gifting her something worthless isn't a good Idea. It's all about striking the balance. 

The first step was getting her measurements. This wasn't notable, as the solution stood right right before you - Baishi. Baishi knew every single millimeter of Ningguang's body, which was a little suspicious, but she was an obvious pick nonetheless. Her bashfullness while talking about your lover was quite amusing, and getting all of Ningguang's secrets wasn't a problem. You also picked gold to be the frame of the ring, since Baishi suggested it would match her outfit's color palette. 

The second step was figuring out what would be the main point of interest of the item. Every ring is unique in some way, and, being the loving partner, you wanted hers to be such. Ningguang wasn't impressed by most precious metals and gemstones - their value was obvious and all were easy for her to acquire. You had to pick something else, and thus you asked a few acclaimed researchers. One name repeated in their replies - The Archaic Stone. Allegedly, only true experts could recognise it's true worth, and Ningguang was nothing if not an expert on valuable minerals. Sadly, Archaic Stone is quite rare. The only hint you had was a few oral reports from officers patrolling The Chasm. Unwavering, you went to look for it yourself - it wouldn't be special if you had just told someone else to fetch it. Sure, the quest demanded a fair amount of climbing, but it was nothing your fit body couldn't handle. 

Picking the crown jewel was next in your to-do list. The selection was obvious, but you wouldn't use just any random piece of Cor Petrae. Ningguang deserved only the best and purest of ore. Surely, The Adepti wouldn't mind if you just borrowed a piece from underneath Mount Aocang, right? After all, they punish only the treacherous and wicked of heart… 

Arriving at the spot, you discovered a far more real threat residing in the cave - a sizable Geovishap with a small group of its hatchlings. Disturbing them would be a suicide, so you needed a more reasonable plan if you wanted to see the ring completed in one piece. The depth of these lizards' sleep is a thing of legend, so you decided on sneaking in after nightfall. Everything went smoothly, up until the excavation of the gemstone. Luckily, long legs and spacious lungs let you escape from the angered dragons. 

After delivering the materials to Mixing Jewelry and waiting a few days, you could finally hold the item in your own two hands. It was breathtaking. The framework was made of the purest gold money could buy, yet was nothing but a background for the two slim, polished pieces of Archaic stone, making up the seat for a cut piece of Cor Lapis. The gemstone shone with faint orange light, mesmerizing. A most beautiful ring for an equally beautiful woman. 

No amount of luxury could make a lasting impression on Ningguang. The moment you understood that, the final step was a problem no more. Using your color guard to clear out the area, you took Ningguang to your place of origin. Although ruined, the village was just as picturesque and romantic as you remembered. You hired Xiangling, but ordered her to cook simple, everyday fish dishes - just like those you ate back in the day. 

After an evening of reminiscence over old memories, gentle laughs over the cute and silly actions of your younger selves and a fulfilling meal, you took her hand and guided her back towards the Jade Chamber. 

Just after a moment you stopped, dead in your tracks. Ningguang froze as well, her eyes filled with worry. You allowed the small box to slide down from your sleeve and straight into her gloved hand. Looking into her ruby eyes, you asked the question with no words - Ningguang understood. She smiled. 

"I thought you'd never ask."

She handed you the unopened box and outstretched her hand. Your body shook with joy and excitement as you placed the ring on her finger, and planted a soft kiss on her hand. 

The moment you looked back at her your lips met with hers. 

Thanks for reading!

[donationwayne]

WIP WEDNESDAY

tagged by @disasterbuck

He lights up when Bobby and Athena arrive with Harry and May in toe. May sits behind the booth in Buck’s chair and happily eats cupcakes, paid for by Bobby. Harry on the other hands goes in search of Denny and Chris on the playground. Bobby gives him a hug and Buck smiles big and wide. “Thanks for coming!” “Hey, baby.” Athena says, looking over his table. He leans down to allow her to place a kiss on his cheek. “Hey, ‘Thena,” He glances over at Bobby who is inspecting the display. “Why don’t you just call her mom already?” May asks with a catty grin, tossing a cupcake wrapper into the trash. Buck is saved from responding by the appearance of one of the counselors. “Hello, you two must be Mr. Buckley’s parents. Its so nice to meet Chris’ grandparents, I’m glad you two are already getting so active in the school. We love our little community.” May from her spot behind the table appears absolutely delighted by the turn of events. Buck isn’t sure who is more shell shocked: himself, Bobby, or Athena. Athena recovers the quickest, “That’s us.” Buck feels a bit like a teenager all over again while Athena and Bobby talk about Buck’s accomplishments, or lack there of in front of the table of sweets. “You’re the talk of the bake sale, people are raving about those cupcakes.” The counselor tells him and Buck feels himself blush in embarrassment. “Anyways, just wanted to introduce myself, thanks for coming out tonight.” “Where’s Eddie?” May asks, around a mouthful of cupcake, now unimpressed by the havoc the counselor had wrought after the lack of drama. “Also if anyone asks about ages, I’m just going to tell everyone Buck had a teen pregnancy.” “You’re worse than Hen and Karen,” Buck threatens throwing a napkin at her head. “I take that as a compliment. Now, where’s your fiancé?” “Wandering,” Buck says, ‘He went to check on Chris earlier but he hasn’t come back yet.” “He abandoned you, are you sure he’s the one?” May teases and Buck comes around the table to attack her. She giggles and screams when he throws her over his shoulder and heads towards the doors where he knows there’s a fountain. A few of the other parents and staff look at them fondly. He holds her over the fountain while she scrabbles to hold on to him, apologizing and shouting and giggling. When the return they’re both wiping away tears of laughter. That’s the moment Eddie chooses to show back up. “Hey Cap, Athena!” Buck turns and sees Eddie closing the distance, there’s a smudge of strawberry something on his cheek like maybe he’d been off eating sweets not created by Buck himself. “Are you cheating on me with another pastry? Is that what took so long?” Buck accused teasingly.

Hello, this fic won't be out for roughly forever but this is mostly what I've been working on. This is my first sneak peak at the big bang fic I'm working on!!!!

If you want to be tagged when it finally releases please let me know!!!

Context: Buck is working a bake sale at Chris' school. Eddie and Buck are faking as fiances so Eddie could get Chris in (was it necessary? No. Did they do it anyways? Yes.)

Anyway, have a scene of a Buck and May siblingism.

Its the end of the day already so I won't tag anyone but if you wanna do it please tag me so i can see!!!!! <3

ALSO IF THERE IS TYPOS PLEASE IGNORE THIS IS DRAFT ONE BABY

[afewproblems]

Difficult Days Part Two

You can find Part One Here

CW: Homophobic language (F-slur), period typical homophobia, and anxieties about being perceived as gay by homophobes. The slur is used once in this by the main character in reference to the above anxieties.

***

It's solidified for Shawn in junior year that he's never had someone in his life like Gus.

It feels like it should go without saying, Gus has always been someone he could lay out his darkest truths to and his best friend wouldn't bat an eye. 

Sure, there would be a joke to cut through the tension in Shawn's shoulders, something to make him laugh, nothing less than what Shawn would do for Gus in return.

This is what family is supposed to do. 

This is what Shawn keeps repeating, over and over like a mantra, psyching himself up to tell Gus something he's only just now realized about himself.

They have the house to themselves this afternoon, luckily Henry is working late, and Gus has been talking for the last ten minutes, but Shawn hasn't taken in a single word. 

Shawn nods as Gus continues, keeping up the appearance of listening while trying to find the words to begin his own conversation in stops and starts as Gus pops their rented tape into the VCR in Shawn's room.

Every Wednesday, no matter what, Gus and Shawn have a dedicated one on one hangout night. It’s one of the last traditions from their childhood, though they still haven't grown much beyond reading comic books, taking turns playing Donkey Kong, camping in the backyard, or grabbing a rental from Blockbuster with their allowance. No matter how busy either of them got with homework or extracurriculars, both admittedly would not have stopped Shawn, they made time to hang out.

So Wednesday nights are always Shawn and Gus time, even when one of them is hiding earth shattering news that could potentially ruin everything--

Gus crashes into Shawn as he jumps on the bed, slamming him and the vicious thoughts playing on a loop in his head back onto the mattress, whooshing the air from his lungs. 

Gus crows out a victorious laugh, “in comes Gregarious Guster with the chair, taking out the villainous Supercilious Spencer from parts unknown!” 

Gus cups his hands around his mouth as he sits up, “Guster, Guster, Guster--”

“I swear that spelling bee wrought absolute havoc on your vocabulary,” Shawn huffs from the bed, still flat on his back. He manages a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and that is when Gus finally seems to see how quiet Shawn has been.

“Okay, what's up with you?” Gus demands, poking Shawn’s side with a rigid pointer finger, hitting right smack in between his ribs and eliciting a pained squawk from Shawn.

He rolls away slightly, hiding his face and his bruised ribs, wracking his brain trying to find something to stay, because, how the hell does he even begin with something like this?

Because, hindsight being what it is, all the signs were there and for someone with his observation skills it was incredibly embarrassing to have missed this.

Around freshman year, right around the time the other boys in their grade started talking about girls and their smiles, about supermodels and their legs. 

And it wasn't as if Shawn didn't notice these things, he absolutely did. 

Abigail Lytar with her waves of brown hair flecked with copper, her heart shaped face and big brown eyes? Talking with her always made his hands clammy and his stomach feel like it was rolling in summersaults.

But when Anthony Llewellyn knocked Shawn's backpack out of his hands after slamming into his back freshman year and didn't stop apologizing until he had picked up the bag and given it back to Shawn, it felt like the earth had stopped spinning.

Anthony's warm hazel eyes, that were more green than brown, and crooked smile made Shawns face feel strangely numb and his chest fluttery.

Almost the same way he felt with Abigail earlier that month. 

Shawn watches him leave, rendered speechless for the first time in his life, and finds himself waving stupidly as Anthony leaves for his next class with a dimpled smile stretched over his face.

It isn't long before Anthony becomes a fixture in Shawn and Gus’ life, hanging out at lunch, sitting together in class when their time tables do manage to match up. 

The three of them get along like a house on fire…for the most part.

“Looks like they're pulling out all the stops for the next Governor debate,’ Anthony says in lieu of a greeting as Shawn and Gus arrive at their usual cafeteria table, he has a copy of the Santa Barbara Independent in front of him and is lazily flipping through pages as Shawn takes a seat beside him while Gus sits across from them both.  “Why do you have that?’ Gus asks with a frown, ‘scratch that, how do you have that?” Anthony raises a single eyebrow at Gus, looking down at the paper and then at Shawn with a conspiratorial grin, “you're hilarious Burton, like you don't walk past the news rack on your way into the building every morning, besides, I need it for my Current Events unit. “See, Shawn here gets it,” he continues throwing an arm, heavy and warm, across Shawns shoulder, tugging him into Anthony's side. Shawn feels his ears burst into flames at the contact and can't quite stop the goofy grin from taking over his face. “Well, this isn't History,” Gus says, reaching into his backpack for his brown bag lunch that Mrs. Guster packed for him. Bologna on brown with an apple and Wagon Wheel, like they're still little kids. Shawn slowly reaches for his lunch bag, prepping to swap sandwiches with Gus, trying his hardest not to dislodge Anthony's arm from his shoulders. Gus continues, oblivious to Shawn’s herculean trial, “it's lunch time and I for one can't wait to talk about the new Evil Dead movie--” Anthony scoffs, “that slapstick gore fest?” he removes his arm from Shawn and closes the paper. Dammit. “Yeah, it's supposed to be the best one yet,” Gus takes a bite of his apple for emphasis, “I don't know how they're going to top the last one though--" Anthony snorts and starts to get up from his seat at the table, his chair scrapes loudly against the linoleum flooring, cutting off Gus. “As stirring as this conversation was I'm going to head to the library before class, see you in fifth Shawn,” Anthony salutes the pair of them, as he pushes his chair back in and slides the paper off the table before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and making his way out of the crowded cafeteria. Gus lifts his wrist to his face, taking a deliberate look at his watch before leveling Shawn with an unimpressed look, “I think Anthony set a new record for finding any excuse to bail on something other than school”. “Yeah, yeah,” Shawn huffs, reaching for Gus's saran wrapped bologna sandwich and sliding his turkey on rye across the table which Gus takes immediately. “Seriously,” Gus continues, “that guy needs to chill, Sam Raimi's no joke”. “Anthony's super chill, I'm sure he's got a test or something coming up, now where do we think that worm hole spit out our beloved chainsaw wielding Ash?” 

Shawn does his best to try and make it work between his new friend and his best friend.

But, Anthony is usually busy after school, between studying and his debate practice he doesn’t have nearly as much free time as Shawn and Gus. 

Which Gus seems to have no problem with whatsoever, something that baffles Shawn to no end.

It's only ever been something discussed exactly once. 

“Anthony is funny and nice and smart and laughs at my jokes, sure he doesn't play video games but pobody's nerfect Gus!” “Nobody's perfect?” Gus snorts as they roll their bikes towards the racks just outside the mall.  The Santa Barbara Plaza finally brought in new copies of Star Fox after the first shipment sold out nearly overnight, which the pair of boys had been waiting to hit the shelves for weeks.  “I've heard it both ways,” Shawn grins as he locks up his own bike next to Gus who rolls his eyes. They make their way into the air conditioned space and breathe out twin sighs of relief as cool air rushes over them, before making their way into the heart of the Plaza. “It’s not like I hate the guy,” Gus tells Shawn after a beat. “Oh come on Gus, don't be the summer of 68," Shawn says, throwing an arm over his friend's shoulders, “you're still the only one invited to Thanksgiving, not many else get that honor”.  “Well, you know that's right”, Gus smirks briefly before his face shifts into something pensive. “It’s just,” Gus says slowly, carefully, his eyes trace over Shawn’s face before he continues, “the guy’s a bit of a…” “What?” Shawn says sharply, wincing at the clear annoyance in his voice.  Gus seems to chew the inside of his cheek as he takes a breath, “a bit of a--no, you know what he's a snob Shawn--” “No he’s not--” “He’s literally at debate practice Shawn, and it’s not even a school program!” “So what!” “So, why is it so important that I like him?”

And to that, Shawn doesn’t have an answer. 

Over the next year Gus still doesn't warm up to Anthony as much as Shawn --which…it's, it’s fine. 

Really. 

He still doesn't quite understand why he wants Gus to like Anthony so badly, but the need claws against his ribs in a way Shawn can't quite pinpoint.

Contrary to popular belief, Shawn isn't stupid; a fact that his dad would use endlessly to hold him to a higher standard. 

But it isn't until their junior year that the need begins to escalate, and the butterflies intensify until Shawn finally puts two and two together.

It’s at lunch, on a random Wednesday in February, that Anthony leans over to grab his backpack from underneath the cafeteria table, bracing his hand firmly on Shawn's shoulder, and Shawn is met with the overwhelming urge to kiss his friend. 

Oh holy shit.

He wants to kiss Anthony Llewellyn. 

It hits Shawn like a freight train. 

This is why he's always a little flustered whenever Anthony is around, this is why he wanted Gus to like him--to approve of Anthony.

Oh god. Oh god, how was he going to explain this to Gus, how was he going to explain this to his dad.

Shawn’s stomach clenches at the thought of how Henry would react to having a--

Shawn shakes the word from his head, even as the echoes of it continue to reverberate. 

No. 

There aren't any other gay kids at their school, not that Shawn thinks he's…he still likes girls as near as he can tell.

But the apparent lack of gay kids doesnt seem to stop the rest of the student body from throwing the word faggot around, as though it will eventually catch someone out.

He swallows down panic at the thought of the accusation being thrown his way, if Tommy Decker and Marcus Boon were assholes when they were kids, they were nothing compared to some of the jocks in highschool.

Shawn continues to spiral through fourth period science, one of two classes this year he thankfully doesn't share with either Gus or Anthony, before the bell finally rings, releasing them for their final class of the day. 

But Shawn detours, making a beeline for his locker, his heart in his throat the entire way. He dumps his textbooks and notebooks --there's no way he's going to be able to concentrate on homework tonight, slams his locker shut, making a few other teens startle and glare at him as they make their way to class. Shawn breathes out slowly and calmly makes his way to the side door before slipping into the muggy afternoon.

*

Shawn is wallowing faceup on his bed with a pillow on his face when he hears Gus calling his name downstairs. 

Shit. 

Because it’s Wednesday. 

And Gus had excitedly bragged about picking up the last copy of Jurassic Park after waiting over a year for it to finally come to home video.

It's just one night, Shawn thinks as he hears Gus bound up the stairs two at a time, he can get through this without saying anything. He just needs more time to really think about how to phrase it, that’s all.

“Okay, what's up with you?” 

Or not. 

Shawn sits up from the mattress, rubbing at his tender ribs where Gus has jabbed his finger, “I don’t think that chair was regulation, did the commissioner sign off on that thing? Also have they ever explained where ‘parts unknown’ is supposed to be? How can I truly get into character without--”

“Nope,” Gus cuts him off midstream, “nope, you haven't made a face like that since they announced Alicia Silverstone wouldn't be in the Clueless TV show”.

“ABC is nuts if they think we'll accept a lesser Cher,” Shawn hedges, avoiding Gus's sharp stare. 

“Shawn, come on,” Gus says as his eyebrows pinch in a worried frown, “what's going on?”

So much for trying to make it through today without spilling his guts, Shawn thinks to himself.

“Today has been,” Shawn says slowly, swallowing the next words he wants to say, stressful, panicked, hopeless, what if, what if, what if--

“Difficult,” he lands on eventually.

“Okay,” Gus says calmly, though his shoulders have tensed and his eyes scan Shawns face, worry lines intensify as puts the remote on the mattress.

“So, you know,” Shawn says haltingly, trying to breath while looking anywhere but Gus, “do you remember--shit, this is hard”.

Gus stands up from the mattress and Shawn immediately hates the distance, “just spit it out Shawn, how bad can it be? It's not like you have a thing for my sister or something right?” 

Shawn winces slightly at the accusation and Gus freezes briefly before snatching at the discarded pillow on the floor with a groan and presses it into his own face.

“Please,” Gus says, the word muffled by cotton and polyester, “don't tell me you want to date Joy?”

Shawn grins a little at that as he pulls at a loose thread on the corner of his comforter, “uh, no, I mean you're sister's great and all, maybe in another life we'd--”

“Dude!”

“Right,” Shawn tries to take a deep breath as his heart rate begins to increase, it feels like the temperature of his bedroom has climbed ten degrees in the last five minutes, “that actually uh, helps me uh, explain this, sort of?”

Gus nods for him to continue. Well, in for a penny, in for a Kennel --or whatever the saying is.

“So you know how your sister is a girl?”

Brilliant.

Gus levels Shawn with yet another unimpressed glare, “yes Shawn, I live with her”.

Shawn tries to breathe out slowly but the words suddenly begin to fall out of his open mouth, strung together nearly incoherently, “okay, okay, well what if I think she's hot, but I also, I also think I might maybe think that--

“Shawn,” Gus sighs, pinching his nose with a heavy hand, he looks like he's ready to take his tape back, revoke their Wednesday hangouts and Shawn hasn't even confessed anything yet. 

“You have to swear that this stays here,” Shawn blurts out. He swallows heavily as Gus’s eyes widen even more than before, “even if you never want to talk to me again after”.

“Shawn what the hell are you talking about?” Gus yells, his voice panicked now as he steps back to the bedroom door, looking around the hallway once before slamming it shut and whirling around, “explain now!”

“I like Anthony”.

The words hang in Shawn's small bedroom between them, the silence that follows swiftly after only punctuated by Shawn's breaths that come too fast, in and out.

“I-I think, I mean, I, god, I didn't realize it until now but I just…”

Gus stares at him, his normally expressive face completely unreadable now. Shawn can’t stop his lungs from stuttering, it’s like he can’t catch his breath.

“And I do still like girls but I--Gus can you just say something or shoot me so I stop talking, please”.

Gus brings his hands up to wipe at his face, it’s only then that Shawn can see the way they shake slightly.

“Okay,” he says between his fingers, before letting his hands drop to his sides.

Shawn licks his lips, “just…okay? Thats--you’re not--”

“I thought you were going to tell me you murdered somebody or you stole your dads car after which, you would be the murdered one,” Gus snaps, shaking his head with a long slow sigh. He makes his way back over to the bed and sits down beside Shawn.

“Look, I can't say I fully get it, especially the Anthony part of it all, but you're my best friend Shawn, and that trumps everything else”. 

Shawn feels something in his chest that has been coiled tight around his heart since his revelation at lunch begin to loosen. He blinks against the sharp sting at the backs of his eyes and releases a punched out laugh. 

“And I’m relieved Henry isn’t going to murder you” Gus adds, startling another bark of laughter out of Shawn which draws Gus in as well until they’re both laughing like idiots, flat on their backs on the mattress. 

Shawn doesn’t want to think about what Henry’s reaction to this might be, not right now. 

He pushes the thought away, locks it into a box of future worries, because he’s never had someone in his life like Gus, that will accept him as he is. 

And Shawn wants to hold onto that for a little while longer. 

After the credits roll and the sun has deserted the horizon, Gus nudges Shawn with his elbow with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

“So, which one’s hotter, Dr. Grant or Dr. Sattler?”

Shawn snorts out a laugh, his chest bursting with a warm mix of relief and happiness, “Tough call Gus, it might be a tie”.

Tag List: @adaed5 @drakkywolf @newgrangespirals @riverofrainbows (If you want to be removed or added to the tag list please let me know!)

[the-demonus-aunt]

More.

CN Lucifer x reader. Fluff. Bit of angst. No major trigger warnings.

He stared at his own name, a rumble in his stomach and a distinct pressure deep in the back of his skull signaling yet another headache. He'd been staring for a while, sick of the way the lines of his handwriting curved and flattened out, curved and flattened out.

If he had to sign one more paper, open one more file, he'd throw it all away and walk to the other end of the Devildom.

At least, that's what Lucifer dreamt about as he sighed and finally continued his work.

Lucifer Morningstar. Stamp. Lucifer Morningstar. Stamp. Lucifer Morningstar. Stamp.

It was the easiest part of his day and yet the most tedious. It left room for thinking. Contemplating. Yearning.

Room for the idea of more than a life bound to a desk, his quill his best friend, coffee his most important partner.

Because while Lucifer was known for his work ethic, praised for his accomplishments, admired for his discipline - millennia of work were not what he had always pictured for himself.

Sure. He couldn't really help it. Between his Pride, his oath to the Prince and the havoc his brothers wrought - what choice did he have?

But sometimes, in moments of quiet like this, he wondered what it would be like. To have some free time. To not have the highlight of his day be the glass of demonus and a few mellow tunes from a cursed record right before bed.

Speaking of quiet... Why was the HOL so still? The only sound to be heard the crackling of fire - and the knock on his door.

"You may come in." A knot of anxiety formed in his stomach: Would it be Mammon bringing in more dept? Or Satan bringing in more guilt? Might it be Barbatos with another stack of paperwork?

The knot was quickly untied by little bats, fluttering about within him, as you stuck your head into his study.

"They're all in their rooms, studying...or pretending to", you proclaimed, knowing very well he was expecting bad news.

"I thought you could use a break."

Your soft smile was all Lucifer needed to snap out of his misery. At least for now.

"Do you want to go into town with me? There's this flea market that should be open for another few hours."

He looked down at the last two documents that required his signature. Maybe there could be more. Maybe just a bit.

At least, he could see a flimmer of it in your eyes, as you beckoned him to join you.

[samhatch]

Tamlin's fight against plant discrimination

I had this idea kicking around in my head that Tamlin really hates the term 'weeds'. Because a weed is just a misunderstood plant who's in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That developed into this little story featuring a future Lady of Spring.

I had always loved gardening. And ever since entering the Spring Court and becoming Lady of Spring, I had more time and resources than I ever could have dreamed of. Not to mention a perfect climate all year round. I was limited to spring crops, but I had no qualms with that. If planted and cared for properly, I could grow a number of herbs and vegetables, including some edible flowers. The only problem was the damned weeds.

I tended to my garden every day, putting my love, my energy, and my magick into the soil. But the ragweed and the dandelions threatened my harvest, reappearing in droves every morning. I dealt with them ruthlessly, pulling them up by the root and tossing them onto the burn pile.

After a long, sweaty morning battle against the weeds, I finally prevailed. I sat for a moment appreciating my flourishing vegetables before heading inside. “My beautiful beets, you're doing so well! And my darling dill and precious peas, I'm so proud of you!”

When I entered the house, I stopped into Tamlin’s study to see what my husband was up to. He was always working away at some kind administrative task in the mornings. He noticed me hovering in the doorway immediately.

“Hello darling, what have you been up to?” he said cheerily, but kept his eyes focused on his work.

“Just weeding in the garden,” I said with a smile, removing my sunhat and loosening my kerchief. “I think the strawberries are nearly ready to bear fruit!”

He set down whatever he was working on, bearing a slightly annoyed expression. “Rebecca, we've talked about this,” he scolded. He only used my full name when he was cross. I sighed and rolled my eyes, knowing exactly what he was going to say. We'd had this argument a dozen times.

“There's no such thing as weeds. It's incredibly offensive to the foliage. Just because a plant is growing somewhere you don't like, it doesn't give you the right to call them names.”

“I know, I know!” I interrupted before he could give me the full lecture. “But what would you have me call them then? They're not just any old plant, they don't belong in the garden. They'll choke off the vegetables!”

“You call them what they are!” He replied, exasperated. “Dandelion, Thistle, Curly Dock, Oxalis. They all have names.”

“Alright! Yes, I understand they have names,” I capitulated quickly. There was no point rehashing the same tired argument I knew I wouldn't win. “But whatever they're called, they have to be removed. They're jeopardizing the harvest.”

“Do you talk to the plants in the garden?” He asked pointedly.

I was confused where he was going with this, but I answered, “Well, obviously, of course.” Even the mortals understood the value of talking to crops. The relationship between gardener and garden was its own kind of magic.

“Mhm,” he hummed as if confirming something he already knew. “And do you talk to the dandelions and thistles?”

That put me at a loss for words, stunned out of any kind of quick response. The thought had never occured to me. “Er, no. I've never talked to them before,” I admitted sheepishly.

“Do you think that maybe the other plants are jealous of the garden’s attention?”

I felt a pang of guilt throb in my chest. “Plants can get jealous?” I asked naively. Not only had I ignored the poor things, but I'd ripped them out by the root and discarded them.

Tamlin's expression softened. He could feel the remorse I had for the havoc I wrought on the poor ground ivy this morning. He rose from his seat and maneuvered around his desk to stand in front of me. “Of course they do, darling,” he said in a consoling tone, wrapping his strong hands around my dirt covered fingers. “There's not a single living plant or creature that wouldn't want to be closer to your warmth.”

I rested my face on his chest. I finally understood why the term ‘weeds’ upset him so. “In all the times we've had this discussion, I never realized the plants were capable of such complex feelings. I knew the chard was always excited to see me, but I didn't know the others might feel the same way. Maybe I didn't want to know.” It's easier to destroy something if you don't acknowledge it as a living thing.

“The blame isn't entirely yours,” he admitted. “I should have done a better job explaining things to you. I hardly ever go into the garden and speak to the greens myself. If I'd been more attentive to the garden, you might have learned from example. I'm sorry I never gave you the opportunity.”

“I'm sorry too.” It finally felt like this old argument would be laid to rest.

Tamlin grasped my shoulders and pulled away to look at me. “I have an idea. Would you like to have a picnic for lunch? We can go to the meadow and visit the dandelions and bittercress. The more we visit them, the more content they'll be to leave the garden alone.”

“That sounds marvelous,” I smiled. “I'll just need a few minutes to freshen up.”

“Wonderful. I'll have the kitchen put something together for us.”

As I left the study, a terrible thought suddenly came to mind, and I turned back to Tamlin. “Tamlin, is it alright that we eat the plants if they have feelings?” I was horrified by the idea that I’d been eating sentient beings.

He chuckled slightly at the expression on my face. “As long as you never harvest more than the gifts they have ready for you, it's alright.”

I sighed in relief, and made my way to the bedroom to change out of my gardening clothes.

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think!

[bunji-enthusiast]

𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐨 𝐎𝐦𝐧𝐢𝐚

A Drabble in which dear old undead Toji struggles with feelings.

[⚠️] Idfk how tags work, be surprised. Reader is strongly omitted in Toji’s perspective.

Being the guiding shadows to the most worthless temptations of a clan, higher in the three powers of the Jujustu world had truly become an infallible moral to a man like Toji.

A walking, talking devil, whom wrought a disease upon the Zenin clan. He made his mark the day he had been treated like a lineless stain, a markless solider left free to wreak havoc.

But what was it that he had been such a kind and gentle man once upon a time? A period of time that he had fallen to the clutches of an angel, free of the abuse he was so used to living with?

That’s right, the living world had waged a weight of love upon his heavy—barren heart. To room with a creature so bright and beautiful he felt he had to hide himself away, to not taint the beautiful creature with his dangerous gaze.

Toji was a confused, lonely man. He wasn’t taught to love, let alone to treat love like it wasn’t any sort of moneymaking affection to benefit from.

Yet the further he fell, the stronger this newfound—… hold he wasn’t so familiar with had tightened its grip on him.

How didn’t it not fall to black, the crackling stones of harnesses laid him bare before the very thing he wasn’t so fond of? So unfamiliar with?

Toji wanted to kill it, to make it stop.

Yet he couldn’t do something, to kill as he had always done.

Killing was the one thing he was so sure of. To be so sure that nothing was in his way as he made it through with his onslaught path of destruction, feigned propriety disproportionate to true means of death.

To justify the killings he does—but even then a man like Toji had never needed words. He simply was only fulfilling his contracts. To move through the world without fail.

The only thing he had failed was moving past this strange light, the burning and gnawing feeling that had picked at the flames of his every inch of being. Cracking away at the blinding folds he felt that had blurred his vision.

Toji looked around at the blurring environment for a moment. He was taking note and seeing the pillars of cracked stones, the constricting pupils of light, and the spine-chilling whispers that disturbed even the Sorcerer Killer himself.

Suddenly his head snapped to a certain direction upon instinct, hearing a faint whisper of light. The gallows of laughter he once held with such a deplorable weight.

To wither and to gains, Toji felt he could burn upon the stake once again if he could hear that same sound.

“—Oji!”

What?

Was it really… that same thing? He began walking, his slow lumbering movements resounding footsteps left to his ears alone.

“To—Toj!”

Now he really was running, running to the source of that voice, it sounded so warm and forebearing.

The sudden connection to the miscellaneous creature before, the sinking weight of a feeling he was scrambling in finding himself in once more.

His feet were instinctively pumping, soles pushing into the ground to make one powerful leap after the other to reach the light.

Hand outstretched, he could feel the light crawling and worming its way into the veins of his body. Toji didn’t mind for once.

For once.

Once he had made himself a terrible man, once he had married and once again he had re-married. But once no better he had left it all behind.

To come find himself running from the gravities of burdens weighing heavily on his heart, gambling and trades. He wasn’t a generous man, no he wasn’t a kind one.

Yet he was a man finding himself to be surrendered at the words of the very one whom had snatched his heart.

“Ah! Toji!”

Finally the world came into view, the fading light of a distant domain and the distressed presences of many people alike. Some few who were confused and some whom were shocked, all by what had occured.

It seemed like the only one who recognized this strange man, Toji Fushiguro.

Was you, that beautiful and strange creature.

It was you who grounded him through his blindness, his blunt instincts to fight upon pure raw strength and invulnerability witnessed upon reactions alone.

“Leaving it all behind?”

“To your presence?” He chuckled, a deep rasp trailing behind the vocal impetus of his words.

“I hope not.”

[whumpwillow]

Demon’s Haven 7

*drops in after a year’s disappearance and vanishes* 

uhhh yeah here have a thing 

—

masterlist

warnings: conditioning, fucky headspace, implied past torture

—

There was a demon in her house. A demon in her house.

One of her worst nightmares realized, a fear that came to her through all the stories she’d heard of the creatures of the dark, of the way they plagued the witches of the city whenever they appeared. The terrible deals, the havoc, the chaos, the violence. Rogue, unleashed demons escaped from their binds, or from the gates that closed off their realm from hers.

Haven never had any experience with them and had hoped she never would, aside from carefully controlled deal-makings. She’d warded her house so she could have a safe place they couldn’t enter, lest they invade her section of the city as well.

Wards that had hurt the very creature she now sought to protect.

If a demon had ever managed to enter her house, she’d have thought there’d be a awful brawl. Perhaps a snarling, smirking menace, prowling the halls in search of her blood, her magic, her lifeforce. She had not expected a pitiful thing curled up underneath her breakfast bar, wedged in between the barstools. A shivering boy trying to make himself as small as possible.

It took a while to get him inside the house, both from the pain of his injuries and from the diminished trust the protection sigil incident had wrought. He’d still followed her when asked, despite the terror written clear across his face. Haven had a feeling he’d do anything she requested of him, even if it hurt. The realization made her sick to the stomach—even when she knew that was exactly the kind of thing she’d heard demons did to witches.

This one wasn’t trying to hurt her though. She was trying to make sure he knew she wasn’t trying to hurt him.

She’d lead him into the kitchen—the closest place he could sit—and eased him onto one of the barstools, then left to go collect all the first-aid supplies she could find. She came back, her arms laden with gauze and antiseptic, to find the demon huddled on the floor under the bar.

Haven sighed, setting down her supplies on a nearby table. She approached the demon slowly. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, watery and viridian, standing out against the redness from his profuse crying.

Haven crouched down and moved to sit beside him. He didn’t say anything, and neither did she. If this was enough to comfort him, she didn’t know, but at least he hadn’t tried to scramble away like he had back in the summoning circle. His body quivered, pitching every so often with quiet sobs.

“You can lean your head on my shoulder, if you want,” Haven said.

The demon turned to look at her, questioning, painfully hopeful. Utterly soft. Haven gave him a short nod and a sad smile to reassure him that it really was alright.

He shifted, then winced. Haven had to hold back from reaching out to him when he did; she didn’t want to move too fast and scare him. By all the stars, all she wanted was to hold him. He leaned his head on her shoulder, slowly at first, more than a little hesitant. The touch of his silken hair against her cheek was feather light, and she knew he wasn’t putting all the weight he could on her, so she settled a hand on his head. He didn’t move away, and she rubbed a thumb back and forth over his hair until he finally, finally, let himself relax. His body drooped with the weight of exhaustion and Haven felt him sag against her. He nuzzled his head into the crook of her neck just as he’d done on the way to the vineyard and Haven placed a gentle kiss on the crown of his head.

“You’re gonna be okay. You’re safe now. I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” she murmured, keeping her voice low and soft.

She continued whispering reassurances to him until her limbs began to go numb, but she refused to move. His wounds needed tending, but he seemed so tired. She had to give him what must have been the first bit of rest without fear that he’d had in…who knows how long. She understood something had happened to him. That much was obvious. But it occurred to her that she had no idea how long the pain had gone on for—was it one night? Two?

Looking over his wounds and his skittish behavior, she knew in her heart that it wasn’t.

Demons lived forever. What had been done to him could have lasted months, even years, and he never would have died no matter what had happened.

Haven gulped, sick to her stomach. Her eyes burned with unshed tears and she experienced such a rush of protectiveness like nothing she’d ever felt before.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Hey, demon.”

She didn’t even know his name.

“Demon,” she tried again. He turned his face up to meet hers and she was again struck by his beauty. His dark lashes fanned over high cheekbones, tears glistening among them like stars. “I need to clean your wounds.”

Clearly, the wrong thing to say.

The demon screeched, a high-pitched wail that shattered any of the peace Haven had managed to bring to him. He scrambled away, toppled over, and hit his head on the leg of the barstool. He whimpered softly, holding up hands to push away whatever torment he imagined might be laid upon him.

What had been done to the poor thing?

Haven swallowed down the uncomfortable feeling in her throat and held up her hands, palms out. “Hey, hey it’s alright. It’s alright.”

The demon had gone back into his usual pleas, saying that he would be good, whatever that meant. Haven fetched the supplies she’d dumped on the table and came back, ignoring the clenching of her heart as she saw the demon draw away from her. She set the supplies on the breakfast bar and held out a hand to the demon, which he took, albeit hesitantly. It seemed like one of those things he didn’t want to do, but thought he had no other choice but to obey, which Haven didn’t like, though it was necessary for now. The demon had so many injuries and she had no idea if they would get infected like a human’s wounds would, but she certainly didn’t want to leave them long enough to find out.

She helped the demon up and settled him on a barstool, the wicker weaving of the seat barely creaking under his dismal weight. Haven tutted at his emaciated form—so thin she could see his ribs, as well as every cut and bruise. She wasn’t sure if he’d bounce back from the malnourishment any time soon.

One thing at a time.

Haven poured some water into a bowl and set it on the table. The demon eyed it with ferocious dread.

“It’s just water,” Haven said. “I’m going to clear away the blood.”

The demon nodded, tense. His muscles were taut and his face scrunched up as if he were bracing for something, but he complied all the same.

“Yes. The holy water will make me pure,” he replied to her, his voice rote and mechanical, like this was something he’d been made to say many, many times before.

Rage surged within her, but Haven tried to keep it off her face. It wouldn’t do any good to display anger in front of him, not when he was so afraid.

And holy water? Really?

No wonder he was afraid of her cleaning the wounds—he thought she was going to hurt him further. That the holy water would seep into the cuts and burn—

Haven shook her head, trying to clear away the mental image. She didn’t want to imagine the demon in front of her, writhing in agony as some nameless horror doused his skin in what would send a roaring fire through his veins. To imagine the sharp, endless scorching that would tear through him, mixing with his blood and travelling through his body until he was nothing more than a searing husk, melted from the inside and begging for release—

No. No, she did not want to think about that.

She set a hand on the table, then gave the demon a steady gaze. “I’m not going to hurt you. I will never hurt you—” she thought of the protection ward incident, of her own inexperience with this strange situation of taking care of an injured demon. “…Not intentionally, anyway. I don’t want to hurt you.”

The demon blinked at her, as if he couldn’t quite process the words. She’d tried to fill her voice with as much conviction as she could without making it sound unpleasantly forceful, but she wasn’t sure he believed her.

“But I am…evil,” he replied. “I am a sinner and must be made pure.”

Haven typically didn’t swear as she felt it reduced the potency of her words, but right now she really wanted to.

She set a hand on the demon’s cheek, looking into those fathomless emerald eyes. “You are not evil. You do not need to suffer to be good.”

A crack. Not a physical one—Haven had heard enough of those in all the times the demon had accidentally injured himself. But a breaking point, a seam in the appearance of a person that had been through so much and lost everything. The tears came again. Gasping, hitching sobs, and he broke. He laid his head on her shoulder and she set a hand on his hair, and told him what she knew he needed to hear.

“You did not deserve what they did to you.”

This. This was everything the demon hadn’t ever dared to hope for.

—

next

taglist:  @whumpsday @whump-cravings @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @elrys-creates @cupcakes-and-pain @emcscared-whumps @wolfeyedwitch @inpainandsuffering @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @moss-tombstone @myhusbandsasemni @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @cicatrix-energy @chibichibivale @whump-queen @hollowgast1 @the-magpiesystem @monochrome-episode @forestfanders

[tavyliasin]

WIP Thursday/Friday/Saturday?!

I was tagged by @redroomroaving and meant to do this post but ended up just finishing the fic....oops?

No pressure tags for @morb-untamed @eldathsgrove @sweetmage and @miradelletarot Sample and fic link below the cut~ Though this one is Bloodweave with CW for Menstruation~

As I mention in the notes: I will continue to give the men of Baldur's Gate 3 periods and let them deal with the menstruation in soft, sweet, sexy and soothing ways until someone stops me. And I'm afraid you'll have to catch me first~ I hope this series continues to provide a little comfort to a time so many of us deal with regularly, it's the least I can do for you all~

-- Sample --

Astarion knelt quickly beside the half crumpled wizard. He was no stranger to the havoc that nature could wreak upon a body, nor the feeling of agony one was unable to endure. Neither was he unaware of the softness of Gale’s hair as his fingers threaded through it, lifting the man’s blushing face to look at him. Permission was more than a “maybe”, and he would hear it first.

“Eclipse.” Astarion held the wizard’s gaze, ensuring he understood. “Should you wish me to stop, just say eclipse and I will. But first…tell me that you want to even begin .” 

Gale blinked a couple of times, the meaning of the words seeming to register far slower than Astarion might have assumed the man’s intellect would catch on. “You mean to…so we would…and you…” Faltering a while, Gale accepted the soft kiss pressed against his lips, taking the meaning of the chaste gesture in even as it soothed his wrought nerves. “Yes. I understand.”

Astarion smiled, perhaps a little more genuinely than he intended. Through their conversations in the past, he knew Gale was no shy virgin, however it had also been some time since the wizard had known a partner outside of the Weave. Perhaps a goddess might be an intimidating act for most to follow, but he wasn’t particularly concerned. The only thing that might cause an issue would be that willow bark. 

-- End --

[vinyatar]

OC Questionnaire Tag Game

I was tagged by three people (thank you friends!!) so my rambling will be in a 'read more' below. My own questions for you all are at the end.

As the relative of several notorious kinslayers and the last representative of her House, she must work harder than others to gain people's trust and love, even though she does not feel responsible for her family's deeds.

from @linden-leaf - answering for Eilian (arantea cinnamon roll)

What’s a core lie your character believes about themselves or the world, and where did it originate?

Who are/were the most important people in their lives? Did they choose those people for themselves (and would they choose them again)?

Is there a choice they’ve surprised themselves by making? (And did they learn anything about themselves through making it?)

- her fiancé, one of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. Before he died in Eregion he requested that the betrothal rings were returned to her, technically releasing her from the arrangement. His fate shapes her role in Middle-earth for the next two Ages. They choose each other again when they are reunited.

- her adoptive brother Naerchil, brought together by the trauma of Dagor Bragollach as children. They were sent away from the Fëanorians together and he was her guardian. They are somewhat co-dependent.

Despite knowing the havoc that oaths have wrought on her family, she ends up swearing her own oath of vengeance (to either destroy Sauron or herself die in Middle-earth). She fights many battles and takes many lives and upon introspection, begins to understand a little more the rest of her family.

What is their biggest regret, and why?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

from @yellow-faerie - answering for Teithril (marsh elleth)

Teithril has reconstructed many texts and preserved countless stories but was not able to save Dírhaval (the mortal author of The Children of Hurin, and a close friend of herself and Pengolodh) from the Kinslaying at the Havens of Sirion.

Do they have a craft? When and where did they learn it, and from who, and why?

She's no Therindë but is a resourceful sewer and weaver using various basic/foraged materials, due to her upbringing in a small marshy Sindar village in Nevrast.

She is an excellent scribe and learned from Turgon's people in Nevrast (her characteristic small neat script is due to a tendency for manuscript-hoarding after the fall of Gondolin)

How do they sleep? Is it restful, or full of nightmares? Do they only sleep in short bursts or are they the sort to sleep deeply all night?

she combines these two skills to make Pengolodh a quilted coat, but it's stuffed with manuscript copies in tiny font. It's arrow-resistant!

She sleeps restfully but dreams vividly due to all the stories she's accumulated through the Ages

Has your OC ever burned or otherwise destroyed something that reminded them of unhappy times or experiences in their past? Was this part of an arranged event? Or something they did spontaneously or in anger?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

from @the-journey-was-the-point - answering for Ancalimon (the bright trashlord)

many of Ancalimon's possessions from pre-Angband were destroyed by his mother during a grieving period. She does not recognize that he ever returned.

Ancalimon destroys the watchtower belonging to his father during the Dagor Bragollach, removing all traces of his family. It was spontaneous but intentional as it had been overrun by enemy forces

What is your character's preferred way of coping with stress or difficult situations?

Who's a character your OC cannot stand! It's on sight when they see them! (whether other OC or canon)

externally:

- inside or outside the Fëanorian circle, among peers or if social norms are in play: by being annoyingly charming and facetious

- outside the Fëanorian circle, if anything goes: with violence, ruthlessly

- inside the Fëanorian circle, among rank superiors: efficiently and with competence. If hard pressed on a personal level (relating to his past or the Lúthien incident) he withdraws into himself

internal issues: doesn't deal with them at all

Finrod: too wise to fool, too powerful to harm, too important to ignore during the Fëanorians' time in Nargothrond

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Here are my questions:

would your character step in harm's way for someone else, and who are they? would they do the same for your character?

how does your character handle betrayal?

if your character were a video game boss, what do the game guides say about them? What is one piece of loot they would drop?

I'm not tagging anyone in particular because I am so late in answering, and many people I would have tagged have already gone through some questions! Please feel free to answer if you'd like - I'd love to hear more about your OCs!

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Everything is weird and everyone is wrecked. This is maybe the biggest and least acknowledged truth of life in the United States and a lot of places beyond right now. It’s the pandemic; the eight years of Trumpism; the distortions, disruptions and corruptions Silicon Valley has promulgated and other looming menaces, including climate chaos. We all know this, because we’re living it, but maybe we should talk more about the fact that our political catastrophes are inseparable from widespread psychic devastation, that the public and private, political and personal, are entangled – or rather that the former has wrought havoc on the latter.

The wisest people I know are aware that the stresses, atrocities, divisions and divergences from norms of recent years have made them (and everyone else) exhausted and brittle. The less wise but no less brittle either lash out with the sense that what’s wrong is definitely someone else or take refuge in cults and oversimplified versions in which they are at least in control of what it all means.

Public life has private impact; some of it breaks our brains, and some of it breaks our hearts. Not to leave our consciences out of this – to watch so much malice and willful destruction, to witness so much injustice, from genocides around the world to gross injustices at home, has an impact. That impact is probably best described as moral injury, which a veterans’ organization defines as “the psychological, social and spiritual impact of events involving betrayal or transgression of one’s own deeply held moral beliefs and values occurring in high stakes situations”.

Most of us have a sense of what’s reasonable or possible based on what’s happened before; but we are now lost in a sea of unprecedenteds. We have not had authoritarian threats like this arise in all three branches of the federal government (if you count a former president aspiring to be a dictator as well as the supreme court and Congress). We have not previously had the wild corrosion of information and our ability to pay attention to it the way we do now, thanks to an internet dominated by corporations eager to offer us addictive social media and distorted search results and algorithms.

For those paying attention, climate change is also an immense moral injury, a reminder that we are part of a system shredding the beautiful tapestry of life on earth and devastating beloved species. Although Covid was a scourge across the globe, far more people – about 8 million – die every year from breathing air polluted by burning fossil fuel, and that’s only one aspect of the devastation, and only to our species.

Nevertheless the pandemic was devastating. I was surprised when the fourth anniversary of the global coronavirus pandemic was met largely with silence. Apparently almost no one wants to remember it, and of course it’s not exactly over, since people are still getting sick and dying of this new disease. Trauma, a term resorted to constantly these days, is an experience so devastating you cannot forget it; it dominates you. The opposite of trauma, in which you refuse to remember and process an experience, is also devastating, if not in the same way; you suppress an experience at the cost of operating with a reduced sense of self and reality.

One of the positive aspects of many kinds of disaster is the sense of shared experience. But we had wildly different experiences of the pandemic: it killed some of us, bereaved some of us, bankrupted some of us, made some of us frontline workers facing danger and death, or unemployed, or suddenly isolated from the sociability of school or work and everyday life outside the home. The impact was profoundly different depending on your age, financial circumstances and domestic situation, among other factors. I hear a lot from teachers and professors about how their students have not recovered well from two years of isolation and online learning that often involved too little learning and too much being online.

It is hard to imagine how different the Covid pandemic might have been had the country not been headed by someone who himself became a major source of divisive misinformation about Covid. In the US, a huge factor in the crisis in our psyches is four years of Trump in power, followed by nearly four more years of Trumpism. When the most powerful people in the country say and do whatever they want mostly without consequences, we are launched into incoherence and meaninglessness.

A US flag flies upside-down in front of the supreme court justice Samuel Alito’s home for several days in early 2021, in seeming support of the January 6 insurrection, but he declines to recuse himself from matters concerning Trump. Justice Clarence Thomas, whose wife was an active part of that insurrection, also declines to recuse himself or account for the outrageous gifts he’s accepted from billionaires. The evangelical Christian who became the speaker of the House shows up to support Trump in his criminal election fraud trial due to hush money paid to a porn star and decries his guilty verdict and with it the justice system. The corruption is open and the loyalty to the ex-president rather than the rule of law is obvious.

In any previous era, these outrages and dozens of others would have been treated as shocking scandals; now each outrage seems to crowd out the next so that, for example, Trump’s dinner with fossil fuel executives, in which he asked for a $1bn campaign contribution in return for slashing climate legislation, has been reported on almost with complacency. That a man who was found liable in civil court for rape is a leading candidate for the presidency has been likewise normalized.

The examples are well-known – but perhaps more should be said about the impact. Trumpism has inspired Trump’s followers with the transgressive boldness he demonstrated first and best: that actually you can say anything you want, truth be damned, deny you said it, or contradict it. And with enough accrued power, you can break the law with impunity.

Authoritarians want control not only over the economy, military, courts and media, but also fact, science, history – over meaning itself. To violate the independence of truth and fact, to insist they are whatever you want them to be, is to enter the realms of meaninglessness. Authoritarianism is nihilism. As Hannah Arendt said, “The result of a consistent and total substitution of lies for factual truth is not that the lie will now be accepted as truth and truth be defamed as a lie, but that the sense by which we take our bearings in the real world – and the category of truth vs falsehood is among the mental means to this end – is being destroyed.”

Another crisis of our times is that the internet has isolated us, shattered our capacity to concentrate, undermined existing news media and created fertile ground for the spread of hate, misinformation and propaganda. The internet has isolated us from more face-to-face forms of contact and put us in spaces where combative shouting is normal and emotional honesty risky and rare, where in-group performativity is everywhere and dissent is dangerous. The loneliness epidemic Vivek Murthy, the US surgeon general, has talked about has everything to do with the internet and how it’s sucked us in in ways that have made other forms of contact wither away.

That’s my diagnosis. My prescription might be simple: be kind to each other, remembering the distress we’ve all lived through; defend the facts with ardor; fight fascism and climate chaos in the ways you’re best equipped to (and if you’re lucky, that will connect you to other good people doing that crucial work). And if you’re lonely know that even in that you’re not alone; millions are, in large part because of how our world got rearranged. But diagnosis is the first step of treatment or cure, and just talking about how personal the impact is of this chaotic new era matters.

[Rebecca Solnit]