#that's worded poorly but I think this fic explains what I mean well

[wastefulreverie]

A couple days after his parents learned he was Phantom, Danny realized he didn't explain the nature of his condition as well as he could have.

"Can... can I talk to Phantom?"

His Mom seemed to regret speaking as soon as she'd asked.

"Uh, what do you mean?"

She bit her lip. "I mean, if you're not busy or anything. We only talked to him that first night after you, uh, switched."

"Mom," he said slowly, "you know I am Phantom, right? Like, we established this—"

"I know. I know you’re the same. It’s just that I wanted to talk to him for a second about ghost stuff.” She paused. “If that’s alright with you.”

His parents still weren’t comfortable with the ghost stuff. It probably took a lot of courage to ask him to change. He was grateful that she was willing to let him share this part of himself with her so soon.

“Yeah, sure.” He pulled on his core and made the change. White light washed over him and replaced his day-clothes with his HAZMAT suit. “So, what ghost stuff?”

She stared. “You heard that?”

“Uh, heard what?”

“About me wanting to talk about ghost stuff. I mean, I didn’t really want to go to into it earlier, but just how conscious are you and Danny of each other when you switch? Are you always listening under the surface, or like—”

“Mom, hold up.” He raised a hand. “Do you think that like, Danny and Phantom are two different, I don’t know, personalities? Or something?”

Her face went red. “Are—are you not?”

“Uh, no. I don’t think so? I’m me. Just—” he waved to himself “—me with white hair and cool outfit?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But you act so different?”

“Because I have a secret identity? Not like, whatever you’re thinking. Same Danny, I swear.”

“So, when you say that you’re Phantom... you mean that you don’t just share a body. You really are...”

“Yeah...” He tried not to waver under her shocked gaze. “Is that alright?”

“Of course! I just—I’m just surprised, is all.” She sat down on his bed. “So when Phantom told Vlad Masters to kiss his ass, that was all you. Danny.”

“Uh, I mean, Vlad is kind of complicated—”

“And the time Phantom phased some GIW into the ground by the wrists, pantsed them, and goaded a group of Casper High kids into using them as paintball targets.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I goaded them.” He shrugged. “They were eager to do it.”

“Or the time Phantom was found loose in the car wash, high on ghost nip and trying to fight the brushes.”

“Hey!” With a rush of ectoplasm, his cheeks suddenly felt cold. “That’s—that’s uncalled for.”

“Ghost nip! Really, Danny?”

“You left it in the kitchen! I didn’t know what it was! That’s your fault, if anything!”

His Mom shook her head. “Great. I thought at least, ‘Hey! Phantom’s the wild one! Danny’s the sensible one. No need to worry about him.’ You’re going to make me go gray at forty-two, Daniel James.”

He didn’t regret most of his escapades as Phantom, but he realized now that his parents were privy to all his antics he wouldn’t have the same freedom as he once had.

“I’m sorry.”

She pressed her hand into his. They were both wearing gloves, but it was still nice to feel her warmth. “You don’t need to be. I told you before, didn’t I? That I accept you no matter what you’ve done as Phantom.”

“You thought Phantom was some other person in my head, not me.”

“That doesn’t change anything, though. Ghost or not, you’re still my son. You will always be my son.”

Despite the initial miscommunication, they were bridging a clearer understanding of what life after the reveal meant.

It didn’t seem all that bad.

[nereidprinc3ss]

okay i know this is kind of a specific request but can you do something with professor Spence and uni reader where they get into a spat and argue bc she did something stupid and he gets mad and she’s like “noooo pls don’t be mad i hate when you’re mad at me I’m sorry🥺” bc she literally cannot function knowing she let him down (me with everybody) but he’s like super stubborn and goes all closed up and quiet so that he doesn’t like blow up on her until she finally says like “pls talk to me” and he’s all pissed and like “hell na bitch u crazy!🗣️‼️” but then later he’s like “it’s ok i love u but neva do that shit again ho” then they make up and it’s good again 🎀 ok i explained that so poorly (and comedically if i may) but i hope u get it and pls make it SO DRAMATIC bc I live for drama! like she steals test answers or something or does something that could like get her kicked out of school OR him lose his job 🤔 sigh … idk I’m leaving now. Also i LOOPOOOCE ORRKGOOVI love your fics. Luv em

hey girl (gender neutral) this made me laugh bc genuinely sometimes i write spencer so ooc that is what he sounds like. and i'm not sorry! anyway this is potentially a vyvanse fueled nightmare but i wrote it and i'm posting it MY BLOG MY RULES BITCHESSSS!!!! but genuinely read the content warning LMAO this one got a lil kick to it

warnings/tags: ANGST, HURT/COMFORT, fem!reader, spencer and r get into a for real argument like they're mean to each other, spencer is a lil toxic but its resolved, emotionally neglects reader just for a teeensy second but then he's really nice and sweet again, discussion of his past addic+ion, gets fluffy because i'm not EVIL, gets suggestive at the end bc i am secretly evil.......

a/n: i don't know whats happening. this confuses me just as much as it confuses you. its 3 am in the morning. im gonna post nice happy things soon. Gootbye

“I cannot believe you right now. I don’t even—I don’t even know what to say.” 

“Spencer, you don’t have to say anything. It has nothing to do with you, and I’m not looking for your approval.” 

He looks up from where he’d been rubbing his temples, like you’re a headache, eyebrows raised and lips parted in indignant disbelief. 

“Oh! You’re not looking for my approval? Well thank god for that, because if you were one of my students I would recommend expulsion to the board.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me? I just said I don’t care about your opinion on this, much less your hypothetical opinion from some alternate universe where you have any authority over my education whatsoever.” 

“You distributed an answer key to half of your class! Objectively this is the kind of thing that gets people expelled. I don’t understand how someone so smart could do something so fucking stupid.” 

The words bite more than you were prepared for—but what hurts even more is how much he seems to mean them. In arguments past you’d both said things you didn’t mean, and then would immediately melt into I’m so sorry’s and the fight would resolve itself. Spencer’s clenched jaw and inability to make eye contact with you do not lend themselves to tender apologies. They cannot be attributed to miscommunication. 

You take a step closer to where he’s bracing himself against the countertop, arms crossed defensively in front of your chest. 

“Spencer, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was such a big deal. People cheat in college all the time.” 

Still no reply. His head shakes so minutely you wonder if you’re imagining it. Panic wells in your chest. 

“Please talk to me. I really hate when you ice me out. I’m sorry, okay? Just... please say something.” 

Finally, his eyes slide to you. They lack the fiery anger of moments ago but there’s not much softness there either. His normally warm gaze now feels too abrasive, too cold and sharp on your bare skin. You're exposed, much too soft for that grating look, and it feels like he can see everything that’s wrong with you. 

“Believe me when I tell you this. I am doing us both a favor by not speaking to you right now.” 

And then he’s leaving the kitchen—nothing but a breeze against your cheek and the sound of a door slamming to prove he was ever there. 

The apartment is silent. You stand in the middle of the kitchen, unsure of what to do next. Spencer very, very rarely gets angry at you to the point of neglect, and you know he’s doing his best with what was modelled for him as a child and his tendency to feel things so deeply it’s nearly disabling; but that doesn’t make it hurt much less. It doesn’t make you feel less abandoned or alone.  

You’re sad, and you’re still pissed, and maybe you’re in just a bit of shock as you robotically move back to your nest of blankets on the couch and resume your schoolwork. What else is there to do? Unless Spencer is right—unless you really are about to get expelled after getting the answer key for an upcoming test from a friend, who then gave it to another friend, and so on. But is that really your fault?  

It’s a struggle to stay focused as your mind keeps drifting back to Spencer in the other room, those cruel words and that cold steely look in his eye that isn’t supposed to ever be aimed at you. It’s not a secret that side of him exists, but it doesn’t belong in this apartment. It’s not something he needs to use against you. He’s supposed to be on your side. But instead, he’d said you should be expelled and essentially called you stupid. And now you’re doing homework for a class at a school you may not even be a student of come Monday. 

---------------------------------------------------

The sound of the office door opening forty-five minutes later spikes your blood pressure and simultaneously makes your heart flutter, because no matter how mad at him you might be, Spencer is still Spencer.  

He comes to stand behind the couch quietly, but you don’t acknowledge him. Maybe your typing gets a bit more aggressive, but aside from that you flat out reject his presence. 

“Can we talk?” 

You let him sweat for a minute as you finish your paragraph. 

“I don’t know, Spencer. Can we? Or are you not done with your temper tantrum?” 

“That is... well deserved,” he sighs, rounding the couch and tapping the bottom of your foot, signaling that he wants you to move your legs. You despise how automatically you comply, pulling your knees to your chest to avoid touching him as he sits next to you. There’s a long moment of silence, in which you resume typing. Spencer scoffs, leaning in slightly to peer at your screen. “Are you doing homework right now? I’m a complete asshole to you and you just... do your homework?"

“What the fuck else was I supposed to do?” you almost-yell, slamming your laptop shut and blinking away potential tears. “The only person I wanted to talk to called me stupid and fucking left!” 

The tears realize their potential once you admit the blunt truth. 

Spencer carefully moves your laptop and pulls you into his arms—and you just let him. There’s not much fight left in you. There wasn’t a lot to begin with. 

“I am so sorry, angel. You’re right, I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have yelled, I shouldn’t have said what I said, I shouldn’t have walked away. I overreacted.” 

“Yeah, you really did,” you cry, allowing him to run his hand over your hair. “Why did you do that? Why were you so fucking mean?” 

His voice shakes slightly as he responds, betraying his own anxieties, and a new, unwelcome sense of trepidation slithers through your veins. 

“I was wondering that, too. Even as I was saying it, I knew—I knew it wasn’t what I wanted to be saying. And then I was in the other room and I wanted to be out here, and I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t. But I think I was just scared. Which—I know, doesn’t really make sense, but... I think about when Ethan dropped out of the academy, and ended up doing heroin in New Orleans for three years, and I think about when I almost left the BAU because I was so convinced I’d never get clean that I didn’t even want to anymore, and—and the idea of you losing your education and your direction like that terrified me, probably unreasonably, and I took it out on you. And I’m sorry.” 

“But I’m not like you or Ethan. You don’t have to worry about that. Even if I... even I do get in some sort of disciplinary trouble. That’s a road you don’t have to worry about me going down, ever.” 

He fixes some unseen wrinkle on your shirt.  

“Yeah, but, remember... I used to not be like me or Ethan either. Do you think twelve-year-old Spencer would have ever even considered that of the infinite realities and universes which exist, he was living in one where someday he’d be shooting up in the bathroom at work?” 

“Mm-mm,” you hum, shaking your head and burying your face in Spencer’s shoulder. The sound is more of a plea for him to be less descriptive than an answer to his rhetorical question. It’s still much easier for him to talk about that part of his life than it is for you to have to actually imagine it. You didn’t know him then, but you’ve seen pictures, and you know Spencer now, and it’s... it’s just too much. Too sad. 

“Okay,” he agrees soothingly, still playing with your hair. “I digress. My point is that literally anything is possible, and while it’s not necessarily likely, I more than anyone know that anxiety even over the most improbable of things is never completely unfounded.”  

You sniffle in response, too emotionally and physically exhausted to contribute much to the conversation by this point. Thankfully, Spencer can talk for two. An idiosyncrasy which you love and comes in handy every once in a while. He can play his own devil’s advocate; in this case, you. 

“But that doesn’t mean I get to take it out on you. Ever. I truly, truly, sincerely apologize for that. I never want to hurt you.” 

You let the apology sink into your skin like a salve, soothing every abrasion those earlier words had left in their violent wake. 

After a few minutes, you find the energy to ask a question that might best remain unanswered. 

“Are you still mad at me?” 

He’s quiet for a beat, seemingly contemplative as his fingers trace abstract patterns in a language all his own on your arm. 

“I’m not thrilled. But you were right earlier. It’s not my place to be mad at you for something like that.” 

“Mm... it’s a little bit your place. You’re an actual professor.” 

He chuckles. 

“At an entirely different university.” 

“Thank god,” you laugh. “You and me at the same school would be such an HR clusterfuck.”

While it’s almost a serious matter, the smile in his voice is evident. 

“Yeah... I, uh... try not to think about it.” 

“Okay, but seriously. In your professional opinion. Am I fucked? Like, do I need to prepare an appeal and character witnesses or whatever?” 

Spencer sighs. 

“It was incredibly reckless and irresponsible. You should be ready for disciplinary pushback from the schoolboard if you get caught. That being said... because over sixty of you got a hold of the answer key, I doubt anyone is getting expelled, and even if they did, it would likely only be the TA and the student he gave the key to. It’s my tentative, professional opinion that you’ll probably be fine.” 

You relax slightly, allowing a tension you didn’t realize was there to shed like an old skin. 

“I’m not gonna cheat again,” you promise on an exhale. It’s simply too much risk for too little reward.

Spencer’s response is quiet, and comes much faster than you’d expected. 

“Oh, I know you aren’t. Because if you do, you’re going to have to worry about disciplinary action from me. And I’m not nearly as nice as the dean of your school, darling girl.” 

But something about the way he says it—a thinly veiled threat/promise contrasted by a sweet kiss to your forehead—doesn’t exactly make academic honesty look all that exciting.

[marvelsswansong]

hey babesss

could you do an eddie x fem!reader fic where they have a fwb situation and they both end up catching feelings so eddie decides to break it off, not really explaining why, causing the reader to think she wasn’t good enough or pretty enough for him to feel the same, so starts to ignore him and almost all her friends (exept steve and robin). and then she goes to talk to him and sees him with chrissy, and ‘realised’ that he broke it off with her because she’s not chrissy. so she gets either really angry or drunk or something and calls him, confessing her love for him, and he just hangs up, causing her to think he is weirded out her but he shows up at her window and confesses his feelings. angst to fluff <3 tysmmmm

a/n: ayo my first Eddie request! I changed a few things but kept 95% of the request in tact because yes yes I love it, I hope I did it justice!!!

tags: semi angst, fluff though with happy ending, bit of Jason x reader, Eddie means well but he's an idiot, allusions to sex, mentions of getting drunk and throwing up, Steve and Robin are grade A best friends

☆ word count: 4.2K+ (omfg I thought I wrote less but this is what ended up happening haha) ☆

⚠️ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞.⚠️

Eddie's not sure how it happened.

He's not one for cliches, and yet here he is: having fallen in love with his supposed 'friend with benefits'.

You'd been complaining about body aches and migraines from the stress of school - what in between college applications, extracurriculars and trying to graduate with honors - and Eddie had always found you quite attractive whenever you'd come by to pick Dustin up from Hellfire Club session as the Henderson's babysitter.

Then you two had run into each other at a random house party, neither of you really knowing anyone there except for each other. You were buzzed on a few cups of beer, Eddie was tipsy and high, and you'd been wearing a midi dress cinched right at the waist, stopping right above your knees. He was certain, that every boy in the house had been making a pass at you, but you'd been oblivious to it all.

"Don't you have a boyfriend who can... help you out with that kind of pain and stress?" Eddie had teased, taking another sip from his red solo cup. You'd groaned, leaning against the back of the bath tub with a sigh.

"I broke up with Jason two weeks ago, remember? Also-" you raised your hand, pointing an accusatory finger at Eddie. "He was lousy in bad. Real terrible."

Eddie laughed at that piece of gossip as you took another swig from your can of beer, wiping away the excess liquid poorly.

"But you're right. If only I could have someone satisfy me physically without having to get my heart broken again..." you trailed off. Eddie's senses heightened suddenly at your suggestion, his eyes narrowing in on the drop of beer that was still hanging by the edge of your lips. The bathroom you two had locked yourselves into was still quiet, the loud house music muted behind the four walls. Eddie moved to sit at the edge of the bath tub, placing his ring clad hand onto your knee, testing the waters.

"Well... I'm happy to be of service, if you know what I mean." he suggested slowly, causing you to choke and throw your half-empty can to the side.

"Seriously? Are you offering to be-"

"Friends with benefits?" he finished the sentence for you, leaning closer. You could smell his cologne as well as the cheap beer on his lips, his hooded eyes staring into yours. It was dangerous and tempting. "Absolutely, princess. Just say the word and I'm all-"

He didn't even get to finish his sentence before you fervously pulled him downwards, his legs tangling with yours in the bath tub, his hand reaching down to grab your ass as your dress rode up and bunched around your waist.

If Eddie hadn't been so drunk on your moans and gasps, he probably would've felt bad for the other partygoers who couldn't use the second floor bathroom for an hour straight.

The routine was rather simple. Slip in a note into each other's lockers whenever you two wanted to blow off steam. Exchange calls. Hook up whenever you had to pick up Dustin and you two were in the same place. Sometimes, Eddie even drove to Family Video, knowing that you'd be keeping your best friends Steve and Robin company, before driving you back to his place to fuck.

It was feral and physical, sure. But it was also weirdly... domestic. You were just so sweet, so thoughtful. You slipped him copies of your notes in classes where he'd fallen asleep from exhaustion. You packed him extra snacks for whenever you dropped off Dustin, insisting that you wanted to make sure Eddie was eating right too. You attended his rock shows whenever you could, sticking around long after to compliment his songs and asking when the next gig was.

It was easy to fall when you were so perfect. He made excuses for having you sleep over and stay the night. He cuddled into your shoulder, made a habit of always having his hand somewhere on you - on the small of your back, wrapped around your waist, teasing lacing your fingers with his. He barely even called you by your name anymore, opting for 'princess', 'babe' and one time (when he was high out of his mind) love.

You were one of the few people at that damn horrible school who made him feel appreciated. Like he was worth something, worth being seen, worth being more than the school's resident freak. Maybe that was why he fell for you.

All he knew was that the nail in the coffin was seeing you in the Hellfire Club shirt, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as Eddie finished up cooking breakfast in his kitchen. You'd placed your sleepy head on his chest, mumbling a quiet good morning, and his first instinct had been to reach down and place a soft kiss on your forehead. It dawned on him, then and there.

This was domestic.

This was what couples did.

And damn it, he loved you.

The realization scared him shitless. Especially when he'd been hearing rumors that Jason was making efforts to win you back. After all, why the hell would you choose someone like him - a repeat senior, school dealer, complete loser - when you could have your old boyfriend back: the star basketball player of Hawkins High.

'I just need to dial down on the affection. And maybe see her less.' was what Eddie had been telling himself for the past few days post-realization. Then, Eddie had been cornered after math class, with Jason practically shoving him into a spare supplies closet.

"Woah, buy a guy dinner first before you wanna get frisky." Eddie teased, grimacing at the force with which he was thrown into the closet.

"Shut the fuck up, Munson." Jason commanded, seething with anger. "The only reason I even came to talk to your punk ass today was to tell you to break up with my girlfriend."

Eddie raised an eyebrow at that, amused.

"Your girlfriend?"

The blonde rolled his eyes, his fist coming up to pull at Eddie's shirt.

"Yeah, you fucking dumb ass. (Y/n). Apparently, she's somehow settled for a loser like you."

"We're not together, Carver." Eddie spit out, which just caused the jock to chuckle.

"Well whatever the fuck you two are, you'd better break it off."

"And why should I listen to you again?" Eddie mocked, but Jason simply stared at him in silence. The look in the blonde's eyes was disturbingly sinister, his knuckles turning white against the door handle.

"I'm sure you're well aware that her dream school is Columbia. Well, let's just say my dad's best friends with the Dean. And if she rejects my proposal to get back together tomorrow after the game, her chances of getting in will be... absymal, shall we say."

The threat causes Eddie's heart to shatter, a phantom vice grip on his throat. You've worked so hard the past four years at a shot at that ivy league. You were extremely passionate about what you'd study after Hawkins High, and now Jason was threatening to take it all away from you just because of him.

"I'll break it off. I promise." Eddie gruffly managed to say, and a wicked grin appeared on the blonde's face.

"I know. Just do it damn quickly."

The door slammed shut, engulfing Eddie in the dark.

Eddie knew he had to make the 'break up' final. It had to hurt. It had to seem genuine. So he'd slipped you a note in your locker, asking him to meet you by his car in the parking lot immediately after school. Your eyes were still bright with joy as you bounced up towards him, your skirt flying behind you as you smiled at him.

"Hi Eddie!"

Masking his true emotions, Eddie forced a harshly neutral expression on his face, not returning your smile.

"Hi."

The smile on your face faltered for a brief second.

"So... what did you wanna talk about?" you questioned slowly, trying to gauge his headspace. But nothing could have prepared you for what he said next.

"I think we should stop seeing each other."

"W-what?" the flash of hurt on your face was unmistakable, the worst sight Eddie had ever seen, and it took all his might to not begin immediately apologizing and taking his words back. But Jason's threat still rung in his head and he knew he had to do it.

'Break her heart, Munson.'

"You're getting too clingy, (L/n). You're a great lay and all but this was never meant to be a you falling in love type of ordeal." he chuckled, leaning against the side of his car with his arms crossed. Your knees wobbled and your voice shook, your hands anxiously wrapping around your backpack.

"But... you let me sleep over at your trailer. You gave me your shirts. You were even calling me nicknames-" you try to rationalize it, had you been reading it wrong? But then you remember all the teasing remarks from Dustin and the boys, the sly comments made by Steve and Robin, the dusted red cheeks on Eddie's face whenever someone referred to him as your boyfriend.

It didn't matter now though. Especially when Eddie just rolls his eyes at your response.

"So what? I do that with all my hook ups."

Hook ups.

The phrase feels dirty. It feels harsh, too, when he's been calling you nothing but sugar, princess and babe the past few months.

"So that's it? I was just a hook up to you."

A tear escapes your eyes and you quickly brush it aside, but Eddie doesn't seem moved. His expression is stone cold, almost bored, as he begins to pick at his nails.

"Yeah. So I think it's best we break things off. You're still welcome to come pick Dustin up or whatever since that's like, your job."

"O-okay."

There's so much you want to say. You want to grab his shoulders and scream, you want to break down in his arms and cry, you want to forget any of this ever happened. But you only have the strength to walk off to your car, slam the door behind you, and drive home as fast as you can, the road blurred through your tears.

-----------------------------------

Wednesdays used to fill you with joy.

You'd fly through your classes, attend student council meetings, hang out with your friends at lunch, before rushing to the Henderson household to pick up Dustin. You and him would exchange jokes and stories in the car, whatever song the boy wanted blasting from your car radio, before you dropped him off for Hellfire Club. You'd wait around afterwards, knowing that Eddie and you would eventually go to his trailer to hang out and have sex.

Now, Wednesdays are like any other. Most of your schedule's in tact. Except you tactfully avoid questions about Eddie and disappear as soon as you drop off Dustin.

You're back with Jason now too. You're not too sure why. He's not particularly different from the last time you two dated. But you're lonely. You're angry. You're hurt. You want some company and he's there to provide it.

You don't ever praise or join in on Jason's insults against Eddie. But a part of you is glad to hear it. Fuck him, you think. Fuck Eddie Munson. The asshole who broke your heart with no remorse.

"Baby, can you pick up my weed for me today?" Jason begs as he slams your locker shut for you, his face peering from behind. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes, biting your tongue.

"I have babysitting duties today, remember? With the Hendersons?"

Jason waves it off.

"Yeah, yeah, and that's cool and all but I promised my teammates we could get high as hell after the game this Friday and I forgot I have detention today so I can't pick it up."

You sigh, wanting to refuse, but you know there's a good two hour gap in between when you drop Dustin off and when you have to pick him up again.

"Fine. Who's your dealer again?"

"Eddie Munson."

The mention of his name makes your skin crawl, ice running through your veins, but you mask it with a brave smile.

"Ah yes, of course. Sure. I'll pick it up for you."

Jason smiles, but it's not a smile you adore like you adore Eddie's. It's just obnoxious and cruel, and you're already tuning out the rest of the conversation.

"Thanks hotstuff, you're a lifesaver. I'll see you after the game on Friday."

"Cool."

Sitting in the front seat of your car looking into the forest, you feel like a fucking idiot. All you need to do is go up to the damn trailer, knock on his door, tell him that you're here to pick up Jason's stash and then leave. But you're pinned to the driver's seat in fear and anxiety.

Letting out a shaky breath, you climb out of the driver's seat, the leaves crunching underneath your boots as you trek closer towards the trailer. What stops you in your tracks is the sound of someone giggling and Eddie's voice following soon after, and you begin to walk towards the noise.

Chrissy Cunningham, blonde bombshell and most popular girl in Hawkins High, is talking to Eddie. She has a bright smile on her face and she seems to be flirting with him, though you can't make out the specifics of their conversation. Eddie seems more than happy to indulge her in her flirting, making exaggerated movements and giving her his signature smirk.

Realization sinks into your stomach when it becomes clear to you that you really were nothing to him. You were just a hook up that got too clingy. And he's upgraded from you, it seems, in the blink of an eye. Chrissy is a good choice, you bitterly think. You can't even be mad because again, Eddie isn't yours. And he never was yours.

And Chrissy is also a really nice girl.

You can barely breath through your tears when you pick up your phone and dial Family Video, knowing that Robin is manning the counter today. Robin picks up after a few rings, her voice monotone and bored until she realizes it's you on the other side.

"This is Family Video, your number one place for VHS rentals and purchases. My name is Robin, how may I help you today-"

"Robin, I-I need a favor." you managed to croak out, your throat dry from all the tears. You can hear Robin shift in the background.

"(Y/n)? Woah, hun, what's going on?"

"I-I need you to pick up some weed from Eddie. Jason's stash. H-he needs it before his Friday game and I can't pick it up today. P-please do this for me. Please..." you can't even finish the sentence through your tears and you vaguely hear Robin yelling at Steve to cover her shift.

"I got you, okay? I'll pick up the stash, no problem. Do you want me to come by tonight and drop it off?"

"Yes please."

You hang up before Robin can ask you any further questions, as you only have one thought on your mind: drop by the gas station, flash your fake ID, get drunk and cry to whatever sad song is playing on the radio today.

---------------------------------------

"(Y/n)! (Y/n)! HELLOOOOO-" Robin pounds on your front door loudly, anxiously looking into your front windows. Your parents are out of town and all the lights are off, despite it being night time, so Robin can't even tell if you're really home. She pulls back, defeated, before looking at Steve with a raised eyebrow, daring him to do something.

"Stay here."

Steve then climbs onto the nearby tree to scale up to your bedroom window, knocking on the glass precariously, almost falling off the roof with the force with which you leap forward and hug Steve.

"STEEEVEEEEE YOU'RE HERE!!!! MY HERO!!!" you're clearly drunk, your hair is frazzled and you smell like wine. Your room's a semi-mess, a pile of freshly done laundry scattered across your bed, your socks bunched up awkwardly by your feet.

"Hold on. Let me let Robin in first." Steve chuckles, sitting you down and closing the window behind him. Your eyes light up at the mention of your other best friend.

"ROBIN'S HERE? YAY...."

Steve hurries downstairs and unlocks the door, letting Robin in, who is staring at Steve with a confused expression. Steve sighs.

"She's drunk. Very drunk."

As the two of them walk up the stairs, you call out to Robin.

"ROBIN CAN YOU PLACE THE STASH BY THE BATHROOM? HIDE IT UNDER THE SINK PLEASE THANK YOUUUU-"

"You don't have to yell, hun, I can hear you just fine." she chuckles, before walking off to the bathroom. Steve hears you walk around the room, shuffling through some items, which puts him on high alert.

"(Y/n)? What exactly are you doing in there?"

"Oh, I'm... I'm gonna call Eddie. And tell him what an ASSHOLE he is and why I'm actually HAPPY that he's out of my life!" you lament out loud, your body thudding against the door as you accidentally slam against it, your sense of balance completely gone. Steve and Robin look at each other, panicked, before Steve's hand is on the door handle.

"Uh, I don't think thta's a good idea-" he tries to get you to change your mind, but you lock the door.

"NOPE I'M NOT LETTING YOU TWO... CHANGE MY... MIND! I'm calling him right now and you can't stop me."

You're basically slurring your words now and Steve and Robin continue to bang on the door, begging for you to open up. But you don't care, your vision is hazy and you feel fucking amazing (euphoric even), the distant ringing of the telephone keeping you company before Eddie picks up on the other side.

"Hello?" he answers, confused.

"Listen up, asshole. You know, when you first told me I was a 'hook up', I was hurt. I really liked you and I thought maybe you really liked me, so I was VERY sad for a long time." you begin to rant, swaying from side to side. You hear Eddie sigh on the other end.

"Listen-" he tries to interrupt you, but you don't let him.

"And THEN I SAW YOU WITH CHRISSY TODAY. And it totallyyyyy made sense. I'm not good enough for you."

"What?"

"Eddie, I may still hate you, but you're a catch." you hiccup. "You're hot, you're good at guitar, and you're funny. Chrissy's really pretty, she's really nice and she's not as clingy as I am. You two are really-" you have to pause, your head starting to spin with nausea. "Really good for each other. So good for you."

"(Y/n), you're clearly drunk and talking non-"

You interrupt Eddie once more.

"BUT IF YOU BREAK HER HEART LIKE YOU BREAK MINE, I WILL END YOU, MUNSON! I know where you live, don't forget that."

You hang up before throwing your phone onto your bed, setting down your glass of wine before opening up the door for Robin and Steve. Your best friends are staring at you, wide eyed and shocked, which quickly morphs into expressions of horror and worry when you look visibly sick.

"I don't... feel so good."

Robin is holding your hair away from your face as you throw up into the toilet, Steve cringing at the horrible sounds. He knows you're going to have a killer headache and stomachache afterwards, so he disappears into your kitchen, pulling out some painkillers and a warm cup of tea to soothe your stomach.

The sound of a car screeching to a halt outside, followed by hurried footsteps and fervent knocks on the front door, cause Steve to stop in his tracks before opening the door. Eddie's standing there, looking scared out of his mind, trying to look over Steve's shoulder.

"Is she here?" Eddie tries to come forward but Steve puts forth his hand, stopping the metalhead in his tracks.

"Back up, Munson. Why should I let you in to (Y/n)'s house?"

"Come on, Steve. I know she's here and I need to talk to her-" Eddie begs, trying to shove past him again, but Steve doesn't budge.

"No. You HAD all the time to talk to her. But she told us everything. You're one sick asshole, playing with her heart like that. If she was just a hook up, you shouldn't have strung her along just to dump her for someone so soon afterwards."

Steve's words pierce his heart and Eddie feels even more desperate to make things right.

"It's all a misunderstanding, I-" Eddie pauses, his hand coming up to tug at the root of his hair in frustration. "Jason. Jason threatened me and I couldn't let her chances of getting into Columbia be ruined because I love her."

The confession makes Steve blink in confusion, his words settling in slowly.

"Jason... threatened to block her chances from getting into university if you didn't break things off with her?" Steve slowly repeats, only frustrating Eddie further.

"YES! And I can't have her drinking herself to death thinking that I never loved her, please, I know I screwed up but I have to talk to her-"

"Fine."

Eddie's brushing past Steve already, practically sprinting up the steps and bursting into your bedroom. Robin opens her mouth to argue but sees Steve nodding from the background, motioning that it was okay. Glaring at Eddie, she whispers into your ear that her and Steve will be waiting outside, before she joins Steve out in the hallway to give you two some space.

"Hi, princess."

You slowly turn your head at the sight of Eddie kneeling beside you, worry etched into his beautiful face. God, even when you hate his guts, he still knows how to make your heart flutter with anticipation. You groan, the stinging headache starting to set in, before you avert your gaze forward.

"What are you doing here?" you mumble.

"You called me, remember?" he laughs quietly. You glare at him.

"Doesn't mean I wanted to see you, asshole."

It's clear that you're upset at him. Scratch that, you're furious. You're heartbroken. And he knows it's all for a good fucking reason. Sighing, Eddie sits down next to you, taking off a towel by the side to wipe your mouth.

"I know that you hate me. And you have every reason to. But I have to let you know: you aren't just a hook up for me. You were never just a hook up for me."

"W-what?"

"Jason, he... he threatened me. Said his dad was best friends with the Dean of Columbia and that if I didn't break things off with you, he'd make sure you wouldn't get in. I loved you, I still do, but... I couldn't be the reason you didn't get into your dream school." he slowly confesses, and you feel the cool touch of his metal rings against the side of your face as he strokes your cheeks lightly.

"Also, Chrissy was just there for a poorly attempted drug sale. She's a nice girl, but I don't think of her in any romantic way. Not when I have someone like you in my mind 24/7." he chuckles, throwing your towel into the laundry bin behind you. You look up at him with wonder and surprise this time, slowly taking in his words.

"So... you love me?" the question comes out hesitant and muted, as if you can't believe it. It breaks his heart again and Eddie's pulling you onto his lap, holding your face in his hands and speaking slowly, emphasizing every single word.

"I love you. I love you so fucking much. You'd never be just a hook up for me. And you never were. Please forgive me, princess."

His eyes are searching for any indication of forgiveness. Then you break into a watery smile, nodding quickly before wrapping your arms around his neck, crushing him in a hug. The force with which you embrace him causes him to fall backwards, his back hitting the bath tub.

"You know, angel, this is kind of like our first date." Eddie mentions, motioning to the bath tub. You roll your eyes.

"The first time we had sex was NOT our first date." you counter, pouting. Eddie smiles.

"You're right. We haven't had a proper first date. I'll have to take you out some time soon."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He tries to lean in for a kiss, but you scrunch up your face and push him away with a scowl.

"Eddie, I look like a mess. Not to mention I've been drinking and I just threw up."

"You look perfect." he insists, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. "Though, you're right. We should hold off on making out until you've brushed your teeth."

"Then we can make out?" you eagerly ask, causing Eddie to laugh. God, he's missed you.

"Yes, princess. Then I'll kiss you until your lips fall off."

-> a/n: oof besties when I tell you I have like a million projects being written for Eddie... I'm especially hyped for you all to be able to read the one I just finished writing today, not too sure when I'll post it (probs some time next week, maybe Thurs/Fri night). As always, if you liked it, please leave a like/comment/reblog so I know!

❤️ Drink water, nourish your body and be kind to yourself today ❤️

[worriedvision]

Flowery tea - Wriothesley

Gender neutral reader, hanahaki fic because I'm a sucker for those. Readers basically from Liyue, but has started working alongside Wriothesley in terms of monitoring finances. Unhappy ending here.

--

"Sir, would you like some tea?" You ask him, knowing full well he will respond positively.

"Of course. Any time is a good time for tea." Wriothesley chuckles, sending your heart racing.

Truth be told, you had been visiting Liyue more often to get the latest types of tea, in the hopes of gifting them to your boss. As embarrassing as it was, you gushed to Zhongli - someone you got to be friends with - about Wriothesley. How he talked, how he treated those around him, the general attraction you felt for him. Zhongli teased you about travelling to Liyue to treat Wriothesley, but understanding Wriothesley was important to you.

"Wow, this tea has an...interesting taste." Wriothesley hums, taking another sip before continuing. "The aftertaste is nice, but the initial taste is strong."

"A friend of mine in Liyue recommended it." You explain, rubbing the back of your head.

Before Wriothesley responds, Chlorinde walks in.

"Oh, Chlorinde! Perfect timing, you have got to try this!" Wriothesley suddenly has a burst of energy, resembling a husky when talking to her. "C'mon, try it for me!"

"... I'm here for work." Chlorinde sighs. "...but I'll do it for you."

"Aww, thank you! I love you!" Wriothesley teases, Chlorinde wincing at his responses.

You, however, feel poorly after hearing that. Specifically, you feel like something is growing in your lungs. You go to excuse yourself, only to see the full in front of you animatedly talking. Not wanting to inconvenience them, you head to the head nurse for a check up.

"I can sense an anomaly in your chest, dear one! Unfortunately, this is a foreign item, and I don't understand how it's gotten there." Sigewinne states. "I'm sorry, but I haven't seen anything like this."

"It's alright, thank you for checking this for me." You smile, the feeling in your chest feeling worse by the second. Hunching over in pain, you startle Sigewinne before passing out.

--

You were not waking up.

That worried Wriothesley, so he decides to contact your friend to request he comes to see you before you, possibly, die.

Surprisingly, Zhongli showed up a few days later with the invitation letter in hand. Upon arrival, he was escorted to where you were, the head nurse explaining your condition.

"A foreign item, you say?" Zhongli hums out. "And there was a sign of growth? Did you perhaps sense some sort of...flora energy?"

"Yes! How did you know?" Sigewinne gasps, Zhongli closing his eyes in thought.

"This is a case of Hanahaki disease. My friend has feelings for someone, and they must have realised they do not return the sentiment."

"Oh...that is such a cruel condition."

"There is a cure. At this point, there is only one form of treatment that will help." Zhongli explains. "This will lead to the love in question being not only forgotten, but the chance of love being formed with them as well."

"Well what are we waiting for? Let's do it!" Sigewinne jumps, Zhongli opting to do this.

He would have a word with Wriothesley once the surgery is complete. For now, his top priority was removing the foreign item in your lungs. Your life was more important than your boss's opinion in his eyes.

--

"Come again?" Wriothesley tilts his head, taken back by Zhonglis words. What did he mean, '_ will not remember you'.

"The condition was caused by you. I know feelings cannot be helped, and you cannot be forced to reciprocate, however this surgery will lead to them forgetting everything about you." Zhongli explains calmly. "In addition to this, they will no longer be able to form a romantic bond with you."

"But they'll be alive and well?" Wriothesley asks, Zhongli nodding. "Then that is fine. It is unfortunate that I don't think of them that way."

"Thank you for understanding." Zhongli smiles, before getting up to leave.

"Hold on." Wriothesley stops Zhongli, getting up. "would you like a cup of tea?"

--

In the months of working with Wriothesley after the surgery, you couldn't help but feel out of place.

Wriothesley seemed disappointed that you forgot everything about him - including the fact he was your boss. Even after the clearing up of misinformation, you still didn't act friendly with him. You no longer had a personal relationship with him, keeping things professional.

During an argument you initiated after Wriothesley had yet again asked you to relax around him, he said something he regretted after you left his office.

"If I knew I was going to lose you because of feelings, I would have pretended to love you." Wriothesley grunts, your eyes widening in shock at the statement.

"So I was just a form of tea collection for you, huh? Fine, I quit." You storm out, Wriothesley calling for you to come back so you could get past the past. Unfortunately, he was the one who needed to move on.

You already had.

[solomons-finest-rum]

I SAW YOUR REQUESTS ARE OPEN! I know this is such a basic idea but I adore the idea of Alfie and his wife going to get another puppy or doggo as a sort of 'companion' for Cyril bc Y/N would definitely believe that "Cyril deserves his own companion too Alfie 🥺", I love your fics so much and thank you for the blessing of your work angel ❤️

Hi love! Thank you so so much for the very kind words! 🥰🥰🥰

Initially Alfie wasn't really on board when it came to getting another dog, but not for the reasons you might think.

He was afraid Cyril would feel replaced by the new puppy.

Yes, he was a more caring man than he'd initially let on, but still Alfie was convinced that you fell for his whole song and dance about "no more bloody dogs an' that is final, that!" and he wouldn't have to explain.

Of course you didn't believe him, not even for a second. You knew Alfie better than anyone, but not even your reasoning could get through that tough and stubborn exterior.

Sometimes Alfie got too deep in one of his foul moods and you just had to wait it out.

He of course remained convinced that you believed his poorly constructed facade and that would be the end of that.

Unfortunately for Alfie, his wife remained something of a certified expert in dealing with his moody nature and so you devised a plan.

A plan as cunning as that husband of yours.

You already knew that with Alfie the more revealing truths of his character were the things carefully left out of the narrative and so tricking him remained the only option.

But tricking a trickster, well, that looked roughly as easy as stealing from the king of thieves.

So you took a page out of your husband's book and terrorised Ollie until he joined your little charade.

"Mrs. Solomons, I'd rather we didn't sneak around the office..." "But I am Mrs. Solomons, aren't I?" "Well, yes...?" "So what's mine is his I reckon, blah, blah, blah, 'till death do us part, all that jazz, now hold the door for me, will ya?" "Mrs. Solomons, but your husband doesn't like it!" "Cheer up Ollie, darling, I'll just be a second! Now, where does he keep the bandages?" "Mrs. Solomons, are you... Fuck! What is that?!" "That is a dog, darling, don't look so shocked... Hand me that bottle." "Mrs. Solomons, I know what dogs are and this ain't it!"

You see, the charade had to be believable.

It had to work.

So the dog had to mean something more than just a dog, you had to give it all a believable story.

As fate would have it, you overheard your neighbours gossiping about a gang holding illegal dog fights near Whitechapel.

So you recruited four biggest members of Alfie's gang and got yourself a dog.

Or two.

Or ten.

"Got" would be the term used loosely here, truth be told you stole them all and ordered the men behind the ring executed, but potato, potat-oh.

All of the poor creatures were given a good loving home, except one that looked both the scariest and the most injured.

That one you decided to keep and with Ollie's reluctant help you managed to clean up most of his wounds.

Perhaps the greatest surprise of all was Alfie's reaction.

Contrary to his usual habits he said nothing as soon as he entered the office.

He looked at you, then at the dog, then at Ollie.

You chose your best impression of a deer in the headlights for the occasion.

(Granted, Ollie got the worst of the squinting and a very menacing hum thrown in there just to let him know who's boss and that the aforementioned was very much disapproving of the impromptu gathering in his own private office, thanks very much.)

As soon as Ollie left, though, the dog was given a proper introduction and all your worries left you when you saw Alfie smile under all that beard and initial suspicion.

You figured, though, that if you were to keep your husband on your toes, you'd expect nothing less in return.

[chawarin-panich]

Totally OBSESSED with Mew in Sand's POOR BOY shirt, sleeping next to Ray and Ray finding that so extremely irresistible that he did something that he knew was 1) morally wrong and more importantly against his own moral code and 2) would definitely not be received well. And this is not a run of the mill occurrence either because Mew would definitely not stand for it happening twice and also Ray re-confesses his feelings, meaning that up until this point Mew didn't know that Ray was still harboring feelings for him. One of the things I was trying to get at with my Ray character study fic (yes you should read it!! I put my whole heart into it) is this idea that Ray doesn't see Mew and Sand existing on the same paradigm of his life and therefore his feelings for Mew and Sand are not actually in conflict (in his mind). The reason why I thought that was because of how uncomfortable he looks in this scene where he's directly put into a situation where he has to choose between them. There are many ways he could have handled this situation that wasn't this poorly. For a person who knows just how effective his little puppy eyes are against Sand he's totally rendered useless to using it. He can barely make eye contact, he does a needlessly poor job of explaining the situation, almost like he's trying not to explain, trying not to acknowledge how he's in a situation where Mew and Sand are both vying for his attention. He does end up telling Sand the truth but does it in this extremely awkward, stilted way that makes Sand feels extremely unwanted.

Because the thing is, there is no way he can like Sand for real if he and Mew co-exist. There is no one he can love more than Mew, Mew who is his emergency contact, Mew who loves him in a way his mother failed to do, Mew who saved his life and Mew who still doesn't find him desirable as a romantic partner. This is the absolute most a person can love him (in his mind) and so whatever Sand feels for him, lust, pity, affection is still and will always have to be (in his mind) at a lower sum total. But I digress, you see a similar discomfort on his face when Mew holds up the POOR BOY shirt at him and then he says nothing at all about it. Yes, he's probably just trying to hide that him and Sand have been in a situation where they would share clothes to avoid being teased. But also, the night he actually absconded with this shirt he did not have sex with Sand so he chooses avoidance once more where simply acknowledging the truth and Sand's friendship would have been just as easy if not easier.

And the whole time that Ray is building it up to kiss sleeping Mew, Khaotung is focusing entirely on staring at Book's face but for just the briefest of second right before he does it he looks down, which could be at Mew's lips but I think the gaze goes down past to the shirt. Khaotung does make such intentional acting choices that I'm inclined to believe that it was a moment of those world's (Sand and Mew) colliding for Ray and him forgetting who he is with and more importantly who the feelings are for that he's sitting with in this moment.

Mew challenges him later as to why he would do it if he knew it was wrong and once more he was totally unable to admit to this moment of weakness, because how do you even explain that

Sand unintentionally outlines Ray's major character conflict in this show and I find it so fascinating that the word he used is prioritization not choosing which are fundamentally different things. Because choosing would be simple. Ray would choose Mew in a heartbeat but no one is actually making him choose between them. Mew has as firmly as humanly possible shut that door on him long before Sand was even in the picture. Mew is his best friend and Sand is his lover, by definition they will have to co-exist in Ray's life and he will have to distinguish what he feels for them and come to recognize both forms of love as valuable and important, maybe will have prioritize between them at times but he's not meant to actually leave either of them behind... but how does one do that? Ray who only ever really learnt how to be left behind - how will he ever know to do that?

[jenanigans1207]

Me, who hasn’t even gotten to s15 yet, writing a fix-it fic? More likely than you think!

—

“I made a deal with the empty,” Cas whispers to the space between him and Sam. “I offered it my life in place of Jack’s. And the empty agreed if it got to take me the moment I felt true happiness.” Cas steadies himself to say the words for a second time— the words he never even thought he’d say one time. “I knew that we were out of options and that if I summoned the empty, I would be able to take Billie with me so that Dean would make it out. So I— I told Dean that I love him.”

The sharp breath Sam takes this time is tinged with so much sadness that it’s tangible.

“Fucking hell.” Sam mutters, shaking his head and ignoring the longer pieces of his hair that fall into his eyes. “Now I’m mad at you. Fuck, no wonder Dean took it so much harder this time.”

“I never intended to tell him how I felt, Sam. But it was the only way for him to make it out alive and I— I needed him to survive. That was the only thing that mattered.” Cas doesn’t regret it, even now. He knows that he’d do it a million times over if it was still the only way to save Dean and he’d never regret it. “And I know it’s not something he wants, which is why I had assumed that he would simply try to erase any memory of that night, so he’d never have to deal with a confession such as that.”

When he looks up, Sam is pinching the bridge of his nose and staring down it at Cas. True to what he’d said a moment ago, he does look mad at Cas, but not in the same way that Dean had looked mad at Cas before he’d stormed out earlier.

“For the fact that you know Dean as well as you do, you sure don’t seem to know shit about him when it relates to you.” Sam mumbles, finally dropping his hand with a sigh. “Okay, listen. I won’t speak to Dean’s feelings— not because I don’t know them but because Dean’s already going to kick my ass for telling you all that I’ve already told you and even I know that his feelings are something he should tell you. But I will tell you this: Dean blames himself for everything bad that’s happened to you. He blames himself for you falling, for every ounce of blood that’s on your hands, and every hard time you’ve had in the last twelve goddamn years. That shit keeps him up at night, trust me.”

“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for Dean, to some extent.” Cas replies. “But that doesn’t make it Dean’s fault. They were all my decisions.”

“I know that. And you know that. But Dean? Trust me, Cas, he’s put everything that happened to you high on the list of reasons he hates himself. And it’s a long ass list.”

“I know it is.” Cas mumbles.

“So you must understand that not only did you tell Dean you love him— something he wouldn’t have reacted poorly to, by the way— but you used it to— to die. Literally you made loving Dean the cause of your death, you realize that, right? And I know, Cas, I know you didn’t mean it like that. But to Dean and his fucked up brain, he got you killed. The one thing he’s never been able to tolerate and he is now the direct cause of it.” Sam explains and it’s so stupid, it’s so stupid—

But it’s exactly how Dean’s brain works and Cas knows that.

And that’s fine, sort of, because he still wouldn’t change the fact that he confessed to save Dean. He didn’t have time in that moment to think about how it would mess Dean up and a messed up but alive Dean was better than the alternative so that was fine. What wasn’t fine, however, was the fact that Cas never thought about it after. Now that he’s back, now that he’s had time to see how Dean reacted and how he handled Cas’s death, he still hasn’t spent any time to think about the role he played in that or the ways he could have made it worse. And that is unacceptable.

Cas sighs and deflates in the seat. He feels like his strings have been cut, like there isn’t an ounce of fight left in him. He feels like he could simply sit here, glued to this chair, for the rest of eternity.

The thing is— Cas isn’t unaccustomed to messing up or hurting Dean. He’s not inexperienced at crossing lines he both does and does not see. It’s not new for him to let Dean down or betray him. But this— this is something else entirely and they all know it. Because Sam is right, Cas is one of very few people who has been gifted Dean’s trust. He knows that and has spent twelve years cherishing that fact on a daily basis, grateful and awestruck that he had been given something so beautiful and precious. He knows that he has been granted insight into Dean that nobody else, not even Sam, gets. That he has been the only one that has been able to get through to him sometimes.

He has been indescribably privileged to be this close to Dean at all, let alone for this long. He knows that, it’s the greatest blessing of his eternal life and he knows with an unbridled sort of certainty that nothing else will ever honor him in the same way, nothing else will ever even come close.

And through one careless remark, one remark made out of an attempt to deflect his own shortcomings, he has shattered twelve years of a bond that has held strong through everything else. He has laughed in the face of the greatest gift he has ever been given and he was too blinded by his own shortcomings to even realize he was doing any of this.

“I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?” Cas asks, looking ruefully at Sam.

Sam’s smile and huff of a laugh in response is sad and a little amused. “Yeah,” He says after a minute. “You have. But like I said, Dean’s never been one to deny you second, third, or even fiftieth chances.”

“I’ve never hurt him like this before.” Cas points out.

“Nobody has ever hurt him like this before.” Sam remarks, and it’s clear that he doesn’t mean the statement to hurt, but it does anyways. “But that’s because he’s never cared about anybody like this. The way he is with you, Cas it’s— he never has been and never could be that way with anyone else. Whatever you two have, it’s completely irreplaceable.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s unbreakable,” Cas says dejectedly.

Sam stands up then, walking around the table to clap Cas on the shoulder in the way the Winchesters always do when they’re trying to be heartfelt or encouraging. It’s the closest they come to physical affection when nobody’s life is immediately on the line and it helps Cas feel a little better.

“Cas, if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that Dean will never let you go now that you’re back. He could spent the rest of his life spitting mad at you, and he’d still do it from no more than five feet away. When he comes back— and he will— he’ll be mad and he’ll be hurt, but he’ll be right here. You’ll have a chance to fix this.” It’s encouraging and terrifying in the same moment but Cas is grateful for Sam’s vote of confidence nonetheless. “Just don’t ask me how to fix it, because I sure as shit don’t know. You two have never gone about things in a way I can understand.”

Cas looks up at Sam, meeting his gaze. “Thank you for your insight, Sam.”

“Just remember,” Sam’s hand slips off of his shoulder. “There’s a reason that Dean cares as much as he does and takes your death as hard as he does. And the reason sounds a lot like something you said to him.”

“I thought you weren’t going to tell me how Dean feels.”

“I’m not.” Sam answers as he heads towards the door. “I’m just hinting at it. It’s different.”

He swings through the doorway and around the corner before Cas has a chance to say anything else.

[auphelia]

Taken care of - Cyno

Warnings n tags: f!reader, bad pun, academics, biologist!reader, amurta!reader, dendro vision!reader, fluff, pure cute, first fic ever, not proofread, selfship coded, dont think readers appearance is specified except for being ‘soft’ and in worse physical condition than Cyno

Note: I just needed this out of my system, it is the first time I’ve ever written a fic, so if you actually read it, please expect nothing! Also, minors DNI

Word count: 1200

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It was your first time venturing further into the desert than Aaru village, and you had honestly been dreading this trip ever since it became clear that you would have to go on it. The scorching heat almost made you wish that you could've either kept your big mouth shut or at the very least swallowed your pride. All you had wanted was to pick a poorly understood subject for your thesis, being an Amurta student, you'd practically had your ears cried full of withering zones and the different families of fungi. And you'd had enough of that, not wanting to spend your entire life studying some obscure detail just for your research to be 'new'. So you'd pitched an idea to your supervisor, you wanted to investigate what effect proximity to an oasis had on the evolutionary path of scarabs. After some bickering back and forth, they had agreed to let you pursue this, but under the condition that you were willing to change subject if you'd made no substantial progress within two months. It had now been one month and the only discovery you'd made was, that the litterature on scarabs, or anything from the desert, was sparse at best. And that's how you ended here, boots full of sand, dry skin, probably a good sunburn, and more than a little bitter. But samples wouldn't collect themselves! Luckily, your protective boyfriend had offered to escort you, not liking the thought of anyone else being responsible for your safety. Of course, as soon as the rumor that the General Mahamatra was taking leave to escort a student around the desert started spreading, you were met with more than a little malice from your peers.

The first morning you woke to an unfamiliar sight, what appeared to be an Eremite standing with their back towards you, Cyno's jackal helmet laying discarded in the sand. "What did you do to the white haired man? Speak, or I will set you ablaze!" "A single night, and already my precious flower has turned into a cactus" As always, Cyno's voice was even, but you had known him far too long to not notice the subtle hint of amusement in his tone. When he turned to face your, the satisfied smirk he wore only fueled your annoyance at his antics. "And what would you have done if I had not bothered asking but simply attacked?" "My flower, you have a dendro vision, explain to me how you plan on setting me ablaze? Besides, I do feel confident in my ability to dodge a sleepy student in uneven terrain." He winked at you while motioning at the sand between where you were sitting and where he stood. "Fine. Just warn me before you pull such a tasteless prank again" "This? No.. I.. I mean... I heard what they were saying behind your back. This way, you can say that your escort was just another mercenary." You noticed a light dusting of pink reach his cheeks, and with that all your irritation dissipated.

The second day went smoothly, Cyno surprisingly being able to guide you to many groupings of scarabs, sheepishly explaining that he had always found them fascinating.

By the third day, you were both tired. Cyno kept insisting that he would keep watch for most of the night so that you could be well rested for your fieldwork. He was undoubtedly hiding it better than you, but the slight drag of his feet as you walked towards the next observation spot gave him away. That and how he had been cursing at his hair for getting in his eyes all morning. You couldn't help but giggle at the memory of the oh-so-dignified General Mahamatra fumbling about in the morning sun, swatting at his hair while threatening to cut it off unless it behaved. He had undoubtedly thought you asleep. "If you have breath to spare on laughing, we should be going faster" his voice sounded like he had been inhaling sand instead of air. You couldn't help the whine that left your lips at the thought of your already tired legs picking up the pace. "Cynoooo, I'm just a feeble scholar, I wasn't made for field work". This statement caused him to stop dead in his tracks and turn around with a wicked grin. "Really? Because in my experience -" You cut him off by slapping a hand over his mouth, already knowing his next words, feeling how dry his lips had become from the desert air. Looking into his eyes, his exhaustion became increasingly clear to you. He'd been working himself half to death before going with you, and this clearly wasn't the break you had hoped it would be for him. "We are stopping at the next oasis we reach. Research be damned, I need a rest"

You plopped down with your back against a palm, closing your eyes and relishing in the shade the overhanging leaves provided. As you opened your eyes, a deep frown settled on your lips, there your idiot was, standing guard in the sun. Gently pressing a hand to the trunk behind you, you decided to not give him the opportunity of refusing a rest. The roots sprung to life and crept towards your beloved General. In one fell swoop they wrapped around his ankles and pulled, causing him to fall to the ground. He merely let out an exasperated groan and did his best to flip onto his back to avoid getting a mouthful of sand. As he came to rest with his head in your lap the roots gently untangled themselves from his golden skin and disappeared back into the sandy ground. You wasted no time gaining access to his white mane of hair as you started gently scratching at his scalp. Cyno almost purred at the action, letting his eyes remain closed, it was almost obscene to watch as his face contorted until a peaceful expression finally settled in his features. "You are a wicked, wicked woman" he couldn't fight the smile on his lips even as he tried to sound stern. Your only response was a soft kiss to his cheek, only serving to have him melt further into your soft form. "If anyone sneaks up on us I am blaming you" this time his tone was more serious, but with the sleepy expression on his face you only rolled your eyes at him and mumbled a quick apology. "Worry not General, I'll keep watch while you rest" as you gave him a final pat on the head, you moved to get up, only to be met with Cyno holding you down with an impressive amount of strength given his state. A hand snaked up your body and closed around one of your breasts, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Don't go, it seems we have plenty of securi-titty" You plopped back down in utter shock, remaining completely quiet. "Ahem. You see, I took the words security and ti-" You cut him off with a loud snort followed by laughter. "It seems you will be to blame if we are ambushed General" Your amused tone made his ears take on a reddish tint. Cyno looked up at you with eyes full of adoration. "For this, I am willing to take the chance of being caught unaware" He grabbed your hips and pulled until you were laying next to eachother. After a little while in silence Cyno's breathing evened out and you smiled to yourself in satisfaction.

[the-priestess-of-dawn]

thinking abt ur validar post because i actually thought about that a little in my stupid werewolf fic. I had to really sit down and be like "what the fuck would people even FIND attractive about this guy enough to have a baby" and I didnt wanna just use the occult angle and it hit me that Validar isn't self-caring because he hates he's not the vessel he wanted and yeah he definitely IS the equivalent of That Parent. You know the one. What I'm saying is maybe there's a commentary to be made here abt how the Plegian people and him in turn felt so dehumanized in general after a point even the extremist sects of Grimleal were better bc well, if you become food for Grima/BECOME Grima's body then you're useful and good and righteous. What gets me is Plegia isn't poor, either, but its poor in sustainability outside the ocean... idk, a lot of food for thought with Validar here. I didn't expect to think abt him in FEH so deeply but here we are.

Honestly it's kind of embarrassing how much I HAVE deeply thought about Validar. I've been wanting him to get into FEH for a long time now. A lot of his lines in Awakening are so poorly written that it's hard to make sense of him as a person. But even though you can't really argue that he's in any way sympathetic in the text... For me at least, there's no such thing as a completely unsympathetic villain, and I can't help feeling sorry for both him and the other members of the Grimleal...

I mean, yeah, when Aversa explains that Plegia suffering under Gangrel was useful because it drove the people to worship, I think we ARE supposed to feel bad for the common people. But I think it's easy to fall into a trap of trying to distinguish those ordinary citizens from the evil, manipulative leaders like Validar just a little bit too much. Aren't they all trapped in the same vicious cycle, in the end?

Over the course of the game, we occasionally fight some Grimleal enemies who are... really just nasty, and not supposed to be given a second thought at all. But I can't help but be moved that they call out to Grima with their dying words... "Master Grima... my life force... is yours..." (Chalard, Chapter 8). "Lord Grima... Rain down... retribution..." (Jamil, Paralogue 6).

The Grimleal... love Grima. Even Validar loves Grima. Aversa says he's everything she knows of love, but she also doesn't presume he loves HER, so of course it's his devotion to Grima that she sees. Notably, it's this form of love that makes her content to die for him.

So I end up feeling deeply moved, even though (or more accurately, BECAUSE) the entire philosophy behind the Grimleal is so horrific. The deep despair these people must feel in order to see salvation in the form of humanity's destruction... It's NOT just "hee hee powerful dragon will make me powerful" because these people, including Validar, do not presume that they are special and going to survive. Even the leader of the Grimleal is nothing. Grima alone is everything.

And... okay I talk a lot about the symbolism of Grima's name meaning mask, which I love so much, but lately I've also been thinking about the meaning of their Japanese name, Gimurei—from Norse, Gimlé, referring to the place where the righteous will dwell in happiness after Ragnarok, which will stand "even when both heaven and earth have passed away." So... yes, I do think that for the Grimleal, giving their souls to Grima is a way of becoming righteous. The world is cruel and ugly but Grima will make it right :::)

(Of course, because they believe Grima is the only answer, no one does anything to make the world they have any better. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. One that Grima is drawn into as well. When this is what they wake up to, what are they supposed to do? If they don't destroy the world, they will be letting a LOT of people down.)

[goldentournesol]

The Love Hypothesis (Eight)

(Spencer Reid x f!Reader)

Series Masterlist

General Masterlist

A/N: this fic is ending soon :( i’m not ready

The words on the small screen bled into each other slowly as she stared at them. Her heart was beating too fast, her throat was working too slow to deal with the rapid drying of her mouth. The short breaths came too quick until her knees couldn’t keep her up anymore. She hit the mattress with a thud, clutching her phone tightly to her chest. 

“Y/N/N, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Kira rushed to her side, taking a seat beside her on the bed.

Mark quickly got her a glass of water and she sipped on it. A few moments later, Y/N gathered her scattered sanity and looked at Kira.

“I need to tell you something, but I don’t want you to get mad.” She took a deep breath, bracing herself.

“What’s going on? You’re scaring me.” Kira grabbed Y/N’s hand in her own and squeezed it reassuringly.

“None of this is real. Spencer and I aren’t really dating and we aren’t in love.” Y/N said, her voice wobbly.

Kira scoffed, “The hell you aren’t. I’ve seen the way he looks at you and the way you look at him.”

Y/N shook her head, “I uh…I mean, well yes, I may have some...big feelings for him, but none of that was supposed to happen.”

“I don’t understand what you mean. Did you know about this?” Kira glanced at Mark, who stood before them.

“Yes. Okay, here’s the deal. Y/N and Reid aren’t actually dating. They were fake dating because Y/N wanted to convince you that she was over Andrew--which she was never really interested in him anyway, but you wouldn’t believe her. So, she lied and told you that she was dating Reid so that you could finally date Andrew in peace. I’m not sure what Reid’s getting out of it--I forgot to ask.” Mark rambled, explaining what she now realizes is a very ridiculous circumstance. There was a beat of uncomfortable silence while Kira was processing the information. 

She very slowly turned to Y/N, “What?” she asked. “You fake dated Spencer Reid? Spencer. Fucking. Reid.”

Y/N cleared her throat and nodded. Kira suddenly burst into laughter, standing and putting her hands on her thighs to brace herself.

“This can’t be real life. No, this is a movie with D-list actors! Or...or a poorly written fanfiction!” She exclaimed.

“I’m sorry I lied to you, Kira…I didn’t think--”

“But you’ve kissed him! In front of the campus coffee shop when he disarmed that student!”

“Only because you forced me to--”

“But you sat in his lap in the lecture hall! And--and tended to his wounds and kissed him again--”

“Again because you forced me to, are we sensing a pattern here or what?”

Kira gulped and shook her head in disbelief, “I can’t believe this…you guys--you just made so much sense together. I thought it was so romantic because he had this reputation of being such a badass FBI agent but in reality he’s a sweetheart and you’re just so shy so I thought I was encouraging you to express your feelings. I never thought--gosh, I feel horrible!”

“Wait, you’re not mad at me?” Y/N said, her eyes big with wonder.

“Mad at you? No, if anything I’m mad at myself for making you do those things.” Kira frowned and pulled her in for a hug, “I do, however, think that this was a misguided, reckless decision on your part and frankly a little idiotic, but you’re my idiot and I love you. I’m truly flattered you’d do that for me. We’ll need to talk about this way more, but for now you still need to tell Reid about what happened with Carter. You were verbally harassed and sexually assaulted and you have audio proof. If the situation were reversed and something happened to Spencer, you’d want to know, right?” She had a point there.

Y/N sighed a deep, guttural sigh and shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. There was no way she could continue this fake relationship with Spencer. Not when it looked like she was sleeping her way up to the top. She was just starting her career in academia--three years is nothing in the long run. She can’t start it like this…no matter how much she loved Spencer. Besides, he doesn’t even need her anymore. His funds were unfrozen and he can start researching. The grant he needed was already there. After explaining to them why Spencer agreed to fake date her, it seemed ridiculous in hindsight.

About a half hour later, Mark and Kira had to leave to attend a talk they were both interested in--Y/N had so much on her mind that it was practically impossible to feign interest in the topic. They didn’t push her to join, thankfully. Despite her loss of appetite, she made sure to eat more of the breakfast that had been sent whenever she started feeling dizzy from her thoughts. 

After forcing herself to wash her face and try to look presentable, she went down to the lobby and browsed around the convention. Small tables were lined up with people conducting and presenting all different kinds of research. It was endlessly fascinating what the human brain could come up with and it was such a shame that her spirits were so low. She would have reveled in discussing topics with fellow researchers, no matter how far their interests deviated. 

It was relatively easy to kill time until she got the text from Spencer that he’d finished his meetings and rejoiced at the fact that he’d (finally) managed to send her his location without instructions. The location was a quaint restaurant near the hotel he had the meetings at. 

A short Uber ride later and there he was, sat at a round table with red cloth and a charming candlelit centerpiece. Her heart squeezed in her chest more with each step she took to follow the host to where he was. 

His face broke out into a grin as soon as he saw her, “Hey, you made it.” His smile was blinding and it shattered her.

She halfheartedly smiled when he squeezed her hand in greeting as she took her seat across from him. One squeeze and she pulled away, resorting to hiding her fidgeting hands under the table. If he thought her behavior was strange, his expression didn’t let on.

“How did your meetings go?” She stammered her way through the question, eager to get his attention onto anything else but her.

He shrugged, “Boring, standard meetings with higher-ups. I don’t remember people in academia being so pretentious when I was getting my degrees.” He quipped, the corners of his mouth raising. He seemed to be in a good mood. She hated to be the one to ruin it, so she stalled. They engaged in more small talk, but mostly she focused on trying not to bring the mood down.

But halfway through dinner, Spencer visibly tensed at her reserved behavior. Of course he’d noticed, nothing could get past him. He had let it slide, knowing that the day before had been difficult for her, but nothing he was saying was cheering her up. He couldn’t even get a smile to reach her eyes and it made concern pool in his gut. 

After watching her toss a pea back and forth with a fork, he finally asked, “Is everything okay?”

Her heart got caught in her throat and no amount of swallowing could get rid of it, so she nodded and smiled a little. But Spencer, ever the profiler, saw right through her.

“It’s about the funds being released, isn’t it?” He was naively hoping that she’d forget about it--or pretend like it wasn’t a part of their deal. She released a sigh and her shoulders deflated, even if he wasn’t actively reading her body language he could tell that she didn’t want to have to talk about this.

“Our time is up. We made a deal. We both got what we wanted out of this…arrangement.” She was speaking pragmatically, trying her best to remove her feelings from the equation as if that made it any easier. She was made aware of what everyone thought of this relationship, and it was easy to say that people’s opinions of her didn’t matter, but in reality they did. She wanted to succeed in academia because of her hard work. Panic slid its way through her veins as she thought back to yesterday’s events and shivered slightly when she remembered the feeling of Carter’s slimy hands on her.

A certain emotion she couldn’t place passed over Spencer’s face a split second before a mask of indifference took its place, “Right…you’re right.” 

His posture stiffened as he recognized the extent to which he’d lost his objectivity. He’d fallen for this woman. Hard. And now she was pretending like none of what they’ve been through ever mattered. He couldn’t show his emotions, but something deep, deep down in his gut felt off. His gut was always right. She wasn’t being genuine, her tells were too obvious but he didn’t push.

“I think it’s time we…uh, ‘break up’, which is a weird thing to say considering we were never actually together. But yeah, people will stop seeing us together and they’ll eventually think that things didn’t work out and there will be something new they can gossip about,” She shrugged like it was no big deal, but her shaking leg under the table told him otherwise. Spencer cast a cursory glance over the restaurant just to check that no one was using her to mess with him, just out of habit, and he found nothing.

 “I’m so, so happy for you for finally being able to research non-pharmacological treatments methods for schizophrenia. And I want to thank you, for all you’ve done for me. All the dinners, the coffees, the moral support…” she paused, her eyes stinging and welling up with tears, “and just in general, everything. Thank you and I’m sorry. I really have to go right now.” She picked up a tissue from the table because she would unfurl into a sobbing mess as soon as she stepped foot outside the restaurant.

“Y/N,” he said softly, concern growing more in his chest with each second, “if you need anything, really, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me. I will always be there for you.” He reminded her softly.

On her way out, she selfishly tipped his head up to her new height and allowed their lips to meet for a few seconds. One last kiss. Before she left the man who owned her heart in the middle of a restaurant in a strange city.

---

Spencer never came back to the hotel she was staying at, where the convention was being held. She didn’t know for sure, but she assumed he’d stayed at the hotel where his meetings were held. Today was the last day in Boston, it had been exactly two days since she’d broken up with Spencer. Her days consisted of alternating between crying and convincing herself she was okay enough to converse with other humans. She thankfully didn’t have to stay far from home for much longer, but the overwhelming sadness was becoming too much to bear.

“You don’t look too good,” Kira said, affectionately grabbing her shoulder after she had spent the last 10 minutes conversing with another grad student from Oxford University at one of the many tables in the conference hall. Their research was similar and the other student offered some insight on what research was like in the UK and if it was any different. At least that’s what Y/N had caught from the conversation. She’d been living inside her own head and on her face was a permanent stony expression.

Y/N shook her head and whispered, “I-I can’t do this, I’m sorry. I thought I could try and be normal but I can’t.” Kira’s face crumpled in sympathy, but she didn’t want that anymore. All she wanted was completely off limits.

Devastation was hard to explain to someone who hasn’t felt it the way you have. Sure, everyone’s experienced some sort of it, but none like your own. Y/N’s devastation was unique only to her. Her annihilation was of her own doing, which only ruined her further. She could only helplessly follow Kira as she led her outside to a quiet courtyard. There was the sound of the soothing trickling of water from the fountain before them.

“Talk to me, tell me what’s wrong.” Kira spoke softly as Y/N gripped the bench where they were sitting. 

She took a shaky breath, “I feel…I feel like I can’t breathe right. I feel like I want to cry. I feel like I might never be happy in another relationship after him. I feel like I will never stop wanting to be with him. And…I can’t help but feel like breaking up with him was the worst thing I could have done.” A small sob escaped her as she confessed. She expected to feel lighter, but she didn’t.

“Keep going.” Kira prompted with a nod. She was always a good listener. Y/N’s fingertips hurt from gripping the bench so hard.

“I feel like some moments between us were real. At first it all began as a ruse to fool you and to fool the board. And it was so awkward at the beginning, believe me. But afterwards, it all came naturally. Being with him felt so natural, kind of how you don’t even think of breathing…it just happens. It just happened with Spencer. I didn’t have to think about it anymore. Eventually, I was kissing him because I wanted to, not because I wanted anyone to see us kissing. I wanted to hold his hand,” she choked on another small sob, “I wanted him to hug me. I wanted to tell him stupid little jokes to see his eyes roll before he’d counter with an even stupid-er joke. God--sorry, that’s so cheesy.” She hastily wiped her tear striped cheeks with the backs of her hands before tilting her head up to the sky and focusing on her breathing.

“Don’t be sorry, Y/N/N. You’re heartbroken and in love. You deserve to want those things, you deserve to have them.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever love anyone the same way again.” Y/N confessed, the tears leaking out like a faucet at this point, gravity taking them into her hairline as she rested her head against the back of the bench.

“What if you don’t have to?” Kira asked.

“What do you mean?” Y/N sniffled.

“What if you don’t have to love anyone else? Why’d you break up with him? How do you know he doesn’t feel the same way?” Kira’s questions felt like they were on their way to open a can of feelings she didn't really want to open. Y/N hesitated to answer before she sat upright and stared off into the distance.

“You don’t understand, if he doesn’t feel the same way, I would be beyond devastated. I’m just protecting myself. I don’t want to be the student that slept her way to the top. I want to earn it. And I feel so shaken up over the whole thing with Carter.” She explained, mostly to herself than to Kira.

“I get that, hun, what happened absolutely sucks, but you’re devastated now. How protected do you feel?” Kira asked and it felt like a jab in Y/N’s side, enough to make her chuckle a bit.

“Not at all.” She huffed in response.

“What did he say to you when you broke it off?”

“He…he told me that he would be there for me no matter what. And that I could always reach out to him.” Thankfully the tears have stopped, but the heaviness in her chest remained.

“Alright, let’s look at it from a different angle. The man has what--two PhD’s?”

“Three…and two BA’s.” Y/N provided.

“Okay, so we know he’s a scientist and scientists value proof. What else was he? An FBI agent. Not just any FBI agent, no. He was part of the BAU. You know, the people who analyze behavior for a living?? He has like over 15 years of experience in the FBI, you know what that means? It means he values justice. And we know he cares about you, enough to insist that if you ever needed him you could reach out. Guess what, Y/N? You need him.”

Y/N shook her head, “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I mean you need to tell him about what went down with Carter. You have hard evidence. You’ll feel less guilty over what happened and he’ll be able to help. Who’s better to have by your side?” She reasoned.

She was right, Y/N knew it. But she was still so ashamed and felt so guilty that those thoughts overrode anything else. Exhaling heavily and bouncing her knee, she ran through what would happen if and when she told him.

“You’re right, but…I don’t even know where he is--if he’s here or if he’s back in DC. I can’t exactly just call him up and ask him where he is.” Y/N moved onto the next phase of fidgeting and started picking at her nails.

“Well…does he use an online calendar or something?” Kira asked and Y/N shook her head.

“No, he doesn’t really need reminders for events. Although he can be a little bit scatterbrained at times, it wouldn’t hurt to use a calendar.” Y/N nervously rambled.

“You know who might have his location?” Y/N looked at Kira curiously, “Remember when I helped out this redhead, Kristen, track down a bunch of participants for her to interview in like our first year of grad school? Yeah, she’s the secretary of the psych department’s chair now and should know about the professors’ schedules. She owes me one. I can cash it in right now.” Kira raised her brows in an offer.

“You would do that for me?” Y/N stared at her.

“Please, you fake dated a professor and fell in love with him by accident for me, it’s the least I could do.” She laughed slightly, already tapping away at her phone. 

A short phone call with Kristen later and a few minutes where they allowed her to check for any emails or reminders from Spencer and his location was sent.

He was at a dinner with a few professors from Princeton. And she absolutely had to go see him before she lost any steam.

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[sortofanobsession]

Please pardon me if I already sent you this fic idea!

Roy/Jaime: Jaime takes a boot to the chest but assures everyone he’s ok and they go on to win the match. It’s only later that Jaime reveals he’s not that fine, the metal on the bottom of the boot tore him up good, his chest a bruised and bloody mess. Roy is pissed as he takes Jaime home with him and cares for him. As Roy's tending to Jaime's wounded chest, the air grows charged between them and things happen.

A/N: A bit shorter than most of my stories recently. If you find a typo that changes the meaning of something, please let me know. I didn't do a re-read because it is late. But I promised I would post it tonight.

Ao3

Ted Lasso Masterlist

Word Count: 3k+

Paring: Roy x Jamie (Romantic), Roy x Will (Platonic), Jamie x Will (Platonic), Jamie x Isaac (platonic), Coach Beard x Jamie (Platonic) Jamie x AFC Richmond Himbos (platonic)

Content Warning: Blood, Injury, PTSD, Mentions of abuse, mentions of violence, pain, bruising, mentions of head injury, anger, cussing/swearing/cursing.

You clearly can't be trusted to look after yourself

Roy felt dread pool in his gut as he watched Jamie Tartt take what seemed initially to be a well-executed but poorly landed shot. The ball found its target in the back of the net, but Jamie’s boot slipped, and he ended flat on the pitch. The defender that had been attempting to stop him didn’t have time to adjust his path, and his boot connected with Jamie’s chest. Jamie had the wind knocked out of him when he first hit the pitch. The boot connecting sent searing pain through his already screaming lungs. But the look in the defender’s eyes as moved to try and help Jamie sent a pang of guilt through him as he managed to catch his breath. The guy hadn’t done it on purpose. And Jamie’s dazed brain didn’t want him to feel bad. That feeling, in addition to the tiny voice in the back of his head that always sounded suspiciously like his dad, telling him not to be a weak pussy, had him getting up. Accepting the player’s hand and waving off his apologies as he did. The crowd cheered as he got back to his feet. He went to the sideline and insisted he just needed to catch his breath and get a drink. The game went on without him for a few minutes. He accepted the bottle Will gave him and checked the clock on the scoreboard. 7 minutes til half.

“Sit the fuck down,” Roy had told him. And he did. He bunched up his hands in his kit. It stung as the chilled air hit a sticky mix of blood on his chest that was clinging to his undershirt. He’d have to change it during the half.

When the team headed to the locker room, he grabbed his bag and headed to the loo. He waved off the concerns of a few of his teammates. Saying he was going to try and clean up his kit. He was glad he habitually kept a first aid kit hidden deep in his bag. A holdover from the days his old man had taken his frustrations out physically on Jamie, and he didn’t want to have to go to the treatment room and get asked a million questions. It had always been easier this way. The team didn’t need to know then, and they didn’t need to know now. Jamie could handle it. He always did. When he was in the solitude of the toilet, he removed his kit and made quick work of peeling off the long sleeve undershirt he had on under his kit. It was a fucking lost cause. He’d toss it. He was on the clock. If he took too long, someone would come looking, and then he’d have to explain everything. He didn’t want that. He wanted to get back out there and finish the match. So he rushed through bandaging and covering the bloody boot print that caught the edge of his left peck and obliques. He huffed a laugh at himself, thinking at least his abs were fine. He put on his new undershirt and tried to get as much off his kit as he could. On his way out, he tossed his undershirt in the bin. Hoping no one would see it. 

“You good?” Isaac asks when he rejoins the team. 

“Did fuck all to clean it, don’t envy Will’s job,” Jamie joked as if anyone would give a fuck about his actual kit if they knew he was actually hurt. Isaac studied him. And for a second Jamie thought he might not be playing it off as well as he thought he was. 

But Isaac just shrugged. “He’ll manage. Paid to deal with it,” Isaac says. “Not like it was intentional, bruv.” 

“Arse on the pitch was not what I intended, but still a beautiful fucking goal, yeah?” Jamie says. 

Isaac laughs and claps him on the back. And Jamie has to bite his cheek to keep from shouting. But Isaac must not notice his change because he is off with the team as they all head back out. 

“You good to stay in the game?” Beard asks.

“Course,” Jamie says. Beard looks unsure. “I’m good, coach. Let’s win this, yeah?” And Beard must trust his judgment, probably shouldn’t, but he does. So Jamie gets back out on the pitch for the second half.  

Roy knows something is very wrong when Jamie winces slightly as Jeff hugs him after the game. Jamie is good at hiding pain. He has years of practice at it. Roy does too. That's why he can see it. He doesn't hug Jamie as aggressively as he normally does. But if Jamie notices, he doesn't act like it. But Roy watches his every move now. The way Jamie is holding himself and avoiding certain movements. The way Jamie is drawing to the back of the team as they head inside. Slow, calculated movements. He sees Jamie actually sidestepping some of the celebration, and that has the final alarm going off in Roy's head. And Roy takes action because he knows Jamie is dragging his feet and avoiding the showers. 

But he can’t sit back and do nothing after Will pulls him aside. 

“Coach, you need to see this,” Will had told him and waved Roy into the boot room. 

“What?” Roy demands. He was annoyed at the distraction. 

“Pretty sure this is Jamie’s,” Will holds up the blood-stained undershirt. “Was half in the bin.”

Roy lets out a litany of curses. This just confirms Jamie’s injured and hiding it. 

“What should I do?” Will asks. 

“Bin it,” he says, since Tartt clearly intended to. “I’ll deal with Jamie fucking Tartt.” 

Will just nods and Roy leaves. He goes straight to Jamie. 

"Let me see," Roy says as gets Jamie’s attention.

"See what?" Jamie says. 

"Don't play fucking dumb," Roy says. 

"Roy, behave, don't make me report you to-" Jamie tries to joke, but Roy is not fucking having it because he knows Jamie well enough to know humor is often a defense mechanism. He knows Jamie. So even if Jamie might get angry at Roy, Roy doesn't care. Roy reaches over and raises the hem of Jamie's kit and lets out a string of curses before dragging Jamie to the treatment room. Jamie knows he is caught now. No getting away now that Roy knows. 

"You weren't going to say a fucking word, were you," Roy posits, and Jamie doesn't answer. "You were going to go home and patch yourself up and ignore the fact you could already be halfway to an infection by not getting this treated, and then I find your ass half dead or worse when I show up for training tomorrow morning. What the fuck, Tartt?" 

"Let me explain. I-"

"Don't fucking lie to me," Roy cautions as moves around the treatment room, gathering everything he thinks he might need. He washes his hand and finds gloves. "Fucking off with it," he gestures to the top half of Jamie's kit and undershirt. "Will showed me your fucking shirt.” Roy glares. And Jamie feels like a kid that has been caught stealing sweets. “You won't let the actual med team help, but you aren't fucking getting out of this room until I am sure you're not going to fuck your whole career with staph or sepsis or fucking tetanus from a dirty fucking boot."

"Kit didn't even rip. And the league wouldn't let me play if I didn't-"

"Off." Roy glares. "Now." Jamie winces as he takes it off. "Jamie...fucking hell." Roy actually sounds pained, and that catches Jamie off guard. "How did you finish the match like this?" Roy didn't even know where to start with helping Jamie. So he starts by trying to clean him up the mess of slapdash bandaging, partially dried blood, and swelling bruises. "This is going to fucking sting."

An hour later, Jamie is as patched up as he could be with just Roy's help. Jamie goes to change out of the rest of his kit. Apologizing to Will as he does that he took so long.

"It's fine, Jamie," Will tells him. "Glad you're okay, was a nasty hit." Roy grunts and disappears into the office. 

"Be fine in a few days," Jamie shrugs off as he finishes changing and tosses his kit in the cart. "And we won. That's what matters."

Will just nods because he just knows Roy Kent is listening. He doesn't want to say the wrong thing.

"Ready?" Roy says, and Jamie looks confused as he looks away from the kitman to his coach.

"For what?" Jamie asks. 

"To fucking leave," Roy says. Annoyance is clear in his tone. 

"Sure," Jamie says, but it sounds almost like a question. He is still very confused about why Roy is asking. 

"Going to celebrate with the team?" Will asks.

"Fuck no," Roy says. "You either." He looks at Jamie. 

"Wasn't exactly going to," Jamie says as he grabs his stuff. "Too fucking sore." 

"Don't Fucking doubt it," Roy says. Jamie is shocked when Roy takes Jamie's stuff and ushers him out the door.

"I can carry my shit," Jamie says. 

"So can I," Roy says. 

"Roy," Jamie goes to take it when he goes to pass Roy's G Wagon to his own car. And Roy just tosses it in the boot, and Jamie has no idea what is happening. "What are you doing?"

"You're fucking coming with me because you can't be trusted to ask for help when you fucking need it, and I have a fully stocked first aid kit assembled by an actual medical professional. Someone has to keep your arse alive."

Jamie is too stunned to say anything. Roy hadn't just insisted on patching Jamie up, but now he was insisting Jamie go to his home so Roy could look after him.

"You fucking hit your head and not fucking say anything?" Roy says as he moves closer to Jamie, concern clear on his face. 

"I'm wondering the same thing because this is very weird for me," Jamie admits. 

"Fuck off," Roy says. "Get in the fucking car before I make you."

And Jamie does because he has zero doubt Roy will do it. He has a very low opinion of Jamie's ability to take care of himself at times. And Jamie knows that. 

At his flat, Roy makes Jamie shower and insists on redoing the bandages. Jamie already feels like he's intruding, so he does not put up as big of a fight as he might normally. 

"Here," Roy hands him a cup of tea once Jamie sits on Roy's sofa. 

"You really don't have to do all this," Jamie says.

"And?" Roy says as he sits at the other end of the sofa. And Jamie doesn't know how to answer that. "Just fucking accept that some people actually care about you and fucking drink your tea." Roy turns on the TV to see what the press is saying about the match. The kick that resulted in Jamie on his sofa was brought up before they even finished their tea. Now that Roy sees the close-ups, he looks over at Jamie.

"The fuck were you thinking, not telling anyone you were fucking bleeding?" Roy asks.

 Jamie sighs. "That it wasn’t an underhanded play. Shit happens. The lad felt shitty enough already. And we really needed this win, and any more stoppage in play might fuck up the momentum of the team."

"And your suffering didn't matter? And what? You did fucking bandages in the fucking toilet?"

"I managed," Jamie says.

"You shouldn't have had to," Roy growls. "You could have worsened your injury playing like that. Tore something. So close to your fucking heart, Jamie.” A pained look crosses Roy’s face before he schools his features. “I am your coach, you can’t fucking-” Roy stops and takes a breath. “Listen to me, Jamie. You cannot do this again. Fucking ever."

Jamie does not respond.

"Jamie," Roy shifts closer. "How would you feel if it was one of the other? Like Sam or Dani."

"They wouldn't-"

"Fucking right! Because that is insane, and you could have really gotten injured."

"Says the guy that-"

"And I fucking paid the price!" Roy was now on his feet, looking down at Jamie. "I won't let you make the same fucking mistakes. What kind of fucking coach would I be if I didn't aim to make you a better fucking player than I was. Fucking teach you what not to fucking do. And this." Roy tugs Jamie's shirt up to show the bandages. "This is not fucking okay. A win is not worth your fucking future or your fucking life. Now fucking swear to me this will not happen again. If you don't, I'm going to insist the medical team checks you over after every fucking slip, every foul. I will not let you kill yourself for a fucking game. We’d be better off losing a fucking match than you. No, we’d be better off losing every fucking match this season than losing you fucking permanently. The lads would probably prefer relegation again."

“Doubt that,” Jamie says.

“I fucking don’t!” Roy shouts.

"Fuck," Jamie says. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Like a fucking car wreck," Roy says. 

"Okay," Jamie says. "I'll fucking tell someone if I'm injured again. Will you sit down and fucking relax now?"

"Fucking good," Roy says, and the tension leaves his shoulders. "Contrary to popular belief, I fucking care if you live or die, you fucking prick."

"That's the nicest thing you have ever said," Jamie says. 

Jamie must move wrong in his sleep because he is gasping in pain as he wakes up. The room is dark, and he looks at his phone. 2:26 a.m. Fuck, he hurts. He gets up to try and find a way to make it hurt less. To get some painkillers. He looks around and remembers he is at Roy's. He didn't know where Roy kept anything. He headed to Roy's kitchen to at least get a glass of water. He had just sat down at Roy's table for a breather when Roy entered the kitchen. And Jamie thinks he might swallow his tongue because he has seen Roy without a shirt. He had seen it often when they were teammates. But this was a half-asleep Roy, in just pants, hair a mess from sleep. And fuck, Jamie had not expected to feel the urge to kiss Roy fucking Kent at 2:30 in the morning. 

"Here," Roy hands him a pack of paracetamol. He then goes to his freezer and gets one of the ice packs he usually uses on his knee.

"Thanks," Jamie says as he takes the pills and accepts the ice pack. "Sorry if I woke you."

"It's fine," Roy says as he sits down at the table. 

"I know but-"

"Jamie, I brought you here so I could help you with this shit. So it's fine."

"I know but-"

"No fucking buts, Tartt," Roy says firmly. "Just like with training, I want to help you."

"Okay, but-"

"Fucking hell," Roy says before he stands up. He pushes Jamie's chair and holds out his hand to help Jamie up. Jamie takes it. To his surprise, Roy doesn't step back but stays in Jamie's face. Roy continues. "I don't actually enjoy the idea of you suffering alone. Fucking lose sleep over it."

"You lose sleep over me?" Jamie says with shock.

"I lose a lot of fucking sleep over you, Tartt," Roy admits. He glances down at Jamie's lips. 

"Why?" Jamie asks. Roy is so close Jamie wonders if Roy can hear how Jamie's heart beats insanely fast. Roy's face is so close Jamie could just lean forward and kiss him.

"For fuck sake," Roy mutters before closing the distance a bit. "Because you drive me fucking insane." Jamie can now feel Roy's words against his lips, and Jamie's brain must reboot because, without thinking, he pushes forward and closes the small gap, and presses his lips against Roy's. And Roy responds in kind. Jamie doesn't want this moment to end because Roy Kent is kissing him back, and his life could not be better. He never thought Roy could have feelings for him. Jamie had thought his feelings were one-sided, but clearly, he was wrong because Roy was pulling Jamie closer. Jamie goes willingly. At least until he shifts wrong, and it pulls at the healing cuts on his chest, and pain hits him. He must make a noise because Roy recoils like he was burned and puts enough room between them so he can see if Jamie's bleeding again. Jamie tries to brush it off and goes back to making out in Roy's kitchen at almost 3 a.m. Roy curses Jamie's lack of self-preservation and ends up dragging Jamie into his own bed.

"You clearly can't be trusted to look after yourself," Roy grumbles as he gets into bed beside Jamie. 

"You up for the task then?" Jamie asks.

With a growl, Roy gently pulls Jamie against him. Jamie takes advantage of the situation and snuggles right into Roy's side. 

"I'll take that as a yes," Jamie chuckles. 

"Get some fucking sleep," Roy says. Jamie hums and falls asleep fast. 

Jamie hurts like hell the next morning. Angry bruises now take up most of his chest now that the wounds have closed for the most part. Roy does not let him leave the bed most of the day. Insisting he will reopen them if he does. And Jamie thinks he'll be bored out of his mind, but Roy stays with him for most of it. He leaves for a few hours to go over match tapes with the other coaches, but he comes back with takeaway, and Jamie thinks he might be the luckiest man alive because he is in Roy fucking Kent's bed, being taken care of by Roy. After they eat, they end up making out like fucking teenagers. Jamie is annoyed that Roy won't take it any further because Jamie is now filled with bad ideas, and Roy refuses. Not because he doesn't want to but because he doesn't want to hurt Jamie or delay his healing process. No matter how much Jamie begs or pouts, Roy doesn't cave. 

"Not fucking risking your health, Tartt. Get fucking used to it."

Jamie gets looked over by the med team and is not allowed to train with the rest of the team for almost two weeks, and Jamie hates it. Roy doesn't care because Jamie's health is too important to him. And that is the only reason Jamie hasn't lost his mind. Roy cares about him. A lot. Roy fucking Kent has spent most of his time keeping Jamie busy. Cuddling and kissing. It's been beautifully frustrating. Frustrating because he wants more. Really wants to show Roy he cares just as much but has no way to do it because Roy is holding Jamie back. It might be for Jamie's own good, but that doesn't mean he likes it.

The first match Jamie gets to play after the injury, the Richmond fans lose their shit. They scream for him, and he takes that feeling and uses it. And Roy is so fucking proud of him that it hurts. They win, and it's so different from his last match. Jamie is right there with the team celebrating. And it's not until Roy pulls him aside and kisses him that Jamie draws away from the team. And Jamie cannot remember ever feeling this happy. Roy promises that when they get out home, they can celebrate their own way, and Jamie trips over his own feet in a rush to get changed so he and Roy can leave. And Roy, of course, thinks that's the most amusing fucking thing he has ever seen. It becomes the second most amusing thing later that day because watching Jamie goes to fucking pieces at Roy's fingertips is fucking amazing, and Roy thinks there's no going back now. He is lost on Jamie Tartt. And Jamie realizes Roy's attention is something he is absolutely addicted to and never wants to live without. It won't be an easy journey having a real relationship between them, but neither of them has ever shied away from a challenge, and they agree it's worth trying.

[musical-chick-13]

The workshop thing wasn't great in that respect but it wasn't that bad either because it was so clear that people were jealous when they were being harsher than the professors, who did step in at points when it veered from critiquing stylistic choices into doing exactly what people who think tagging fics on that post is okay are doing. It didn't discourage me from writing but it did solidify my decision not to major in creative writing (this is probably also why I in particular was a target: it wasn't my major, it was a hobby, but I was as qualified as them and got as much praise as they did and even one time more than them on the very first exercise of my first workshop, which probably didn't sit right with them, but only fueled me further because I am nothing if not a creature of spite).

And that's the thing too: so many people can't grasp that there's a huge difference between "this isn't for me" and "this has a lot of issues". Which to preface, unless someone's asked you to beta for them keep your mouth shut. They're doing this for free. Exit out if there are too many errors or whatever (and errors isn't even exactly the word I want but I'm exhausted and didn't sleep enough last night). Not that those people SHOULD beta either even if they were asked, honestly, because they clearly do not have a grasp on what constructive criticism actually is or how it works. You don't need a workshop to learn that either, just basic human decency and Google.

But like anyways. In the workshops I read plenty of things I just Did Not Vibe With, but were objectively very, very good art and you could tell how much care the author put into them. Sometimes things just aren't for you and the author didn't poorly execute that concept, actually.

I ran into this a lot in Performance World, too, back when I was trying to get a singing/stage performing career off the ground. There are SO many threads of that part of my life I can relate to this discussion and it would take far too long to explain them all, but there VERY much was a culture of perfectionism. Jealousy and extreme competition were incredibly prevalent, lots of "stay in your box," lots of complaining if people didn't stay in their box. Even when we were learning (or doing community theatre just to stay in practice or build up a resume), the stakes always seemed astronomically high. Someone could do a passable or even genuinely good job; but if it wasn't good in the "right" way, then it was still seen as meaningless.

For courtesy's sake, I'm putting the rest of my thoughts under a cut, because. Well. This got long. As answers by me are wont to do.

There also was a lot of "pick a genre" and "this is the only MEANINGFUL type of music/art/etc." The opera crowd hated that I liked musicals and pop music because those styles were all "stupid" and "frivolous" and "simple" (which isn't. even true, no art form is a monolith, and what those words mean is going to be different for every person, but, you know). Everyone else hated that I sang opera because it was a "pretentious art form" and "boring" and "sexist/racist/etc." (Those first two are incredibly subjective, and plenty of modern opera works exist that seeks to not uphold those forms of prejudice.) There was "if you look like [x], then you can't do [y performance type]." "If your voice sounds like this, then you can't EVER pursue ANY roles outside of this small pool of stuff because you need to know your place; if you don't, people will think you're making Bad Art." And then you, at best, get shamed, and, at worst, can't make a living.

All of this, of course, was a matter of opinion. Most of it, like you said, boiled down to the fact that people were doing things that weren't, actually, bad or untalented or ineffective--they just didn't work for people. They didn't meet some arbitrary, subjective standard that had no real, concrete, actual meaning. But when people with any degree of power start taking their artistic opinions as immovable fact, we end up with...well, we end up with the current theatre climate, and we end up with whatever is happening in fandom communities right now. (Because just as there are some people who, for insisting on a lack of constructive criticism, should not be beta readers, there are some who should not be educators or directors.)

There were a lot of reasons that I eventually stopped performing publicly/on stage. But a big part of it was that I just didn't want to deal with that culture anymore. When I made the decision to walk away, I had gotten to the point where I'd started to hate singing. My primary form of expression, of catharsis, of solace, since I was eight or nine years old. And luckily, withdrawing from a professional pursuit of art has helped me get some of that back. But I see those same issues--that same negativity, that same judgment--starting to pop up in something that isn't even meant to be for money or a career or anything other than personal expression. I see so many people getting discouraged, starting to lose the love they had for that expression. My love of art was almost taken away from me, to the point where for a very long time I couldn't even do it for fun, alone, in the private comfort of my house. And if I can do anything to prevent that from happening to someone else, I sure as hell will.

I'm glad that you were still able to get some good out of that workshop, because that's not always easy to do when the people around you are acting like that. (And kudos to realizing that you didn't want to do this as a major/career, that's not always easy to do either.) And I know I've talked more about professional art, but this is so prevalent in the way people talk about community theatre, too. Being upset that a student production doesn't have Super Stellar Voices/Acting, ragging on amateur singers just for posting a karaoke video on their personal Facebook page, expecting Met-opera-level singing quality or Shakespeare-scholar levels of acting text analysis from a group of volunteers who are spending their precious few after-work hours to put on a musical, just because they want to share that story with people. I've seen lots of comments that it's not meaningful because it's "bad." When. I've done a lot of community theatre. Plenty of it is not bad, actually. If you hate it that much, you don't have to attend a production. (Just like how. if you hate a fic. you can hit the back button.) And even if it is "bad." It's still going to be meaningful to someone. Even in a "bad" production, at least ONE of the actors or crew members will have a good time helping create it. And at least ONE audience member is going to have a good time; whether that be because they simply love theatre, someone they love is involved with the production, or because they don't care about an arbitrary "quality" measurement. And I absolutely think the same thing is true of writing, and of fanfiction especially.

If, for example, someone goes to karaoke and screams "I Dreamed A Dream" from Les Mis extremely off-key and grating, because they're experiencing a shitty situation and just need some catharsis? I don't have the right to rag on them for that, I would be an asshole. If someone posts a cover for fun on YouTube of...I don't know, "Take On Me" and can't hit the high notes, but wants to pay tribute to a song they love, who the fuck would I be to take that away from them? So if someone writes a "silly" or "stupid" or oh-God-forbid "cringe" piece of fanfiction (which. AGAIN. do not have any concrete meaning because those are SUBJECTIVE TERMS) to get some feelings out or to talk about how much they love a fictional character. Well, I think if you call them names over that and try to publicly shame or harass them, then, quite frankly, you are engaging in pointless, cruel, and braincell-less behavior. And you can stay 10,000 feet away from me.

[chaoticgo]

This is the big chaptered fic I’ve been working on. It’s canon divergent in that Crowley had been Archangel Jophiel before The Fall. Explains why he got all the cool jobs-tempting Eve and Jesus, delivering the Antichrist and all that. Chapter one has been up for a bit. (Is this how one promotes their own fic on tumblr? I’m not quite sure.)

Finally posted chapter 2-which is all set before The Fall and I hope, quite a laugh. I don't know how to self promote, so here's a chunk out of chapter 2:

Jophiel left wrapped up in thought, and didn’t have any particular direction to go in, so when he heard the bombastic voice of his friend, Lucifer, he flew towards it. 

“So this leads me to wonder… Why haven’t we heard from her for so long? When is the last time you heard from God, Sherequiel?” Lucifer’s tone went from rousing to gentle and imploring.

Sherequiel, a scrivener of the 167th class, standing towards the back of the gathering, glanced all around her rapidly. She bit her lower lip and tears gathered in her eyes. Finally she decided upon her answer, “I’d rather not say.”

“’I’d rather not say.’ Well said, Sherequiel! Well. Said. Wouldn’t we all rather not admit just how long it has been since we have been in the presence of her Grace? Because it feels like it reflects poorly on us, like it’s something we’ve done wrong. So no one will admit the last time She interacted with them. But it isn’t about us. None of us have done anything wrong-”

Commotion in the crowd caused some of the audience to turn to the golden yellow haze that surrounded Jophiel as he joined them. And Lucifer fell silent, sullenly waiting. 

“Excuse me. Excuse me.” Jophiel called out warmly as he made his way through the crowd, waving a greeting at angels he knew. 

Eventually Jophiel stood directly in front of Lucifer, with magenta red hair and a giddy smile.

“Lucifer! So good to see you, mate! Sorry to interrupt, please keep going!”

“Yes, well, as I was saying, She has not spoken to any of us for far too long.”

“Didn’t I just see you with Her last week?” Jophiel’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Lucifer narrowed his eyes at Jophiel. 

“A word?” Lucifer whispered to Jophiel after he surveyed the now dwindling crowd and gave them a quick smile, “We’ll just be a moment.” He pulled Jophiel away from the other angels and enacted a sound barrier so the others couldn’t hear their conversation.

“Was I wrong? I’m sorry if I was, but you two weren’t but a hundred feet away from me.”

Lucifer cleared his throat, “Jophiel, I was trying to make a point. Just because you, or I, or the Metatron can talk with Her, doesn’t mean Sherequiel can. You have to think of Sherequiel, Jophiel!”

“I haven’t had any direct contact with Her since… Well, since we were assembled as archangels at our very beginning.” Jophiel’s brow furrowed in confusion, “And who is Sherequiel?”

“See! THIS is what I’m talking about. Sherequiel is being ignored. Sherequiel has just the same right as I do to go with God for long meandering strolls full of philosophical debates. And Sherequiel doesn’t even know it. She doesn’t even know that it’s possible! Sherequiel is bereft of God and she does not even know it.”

Jophiel stared at Lucifer for a long 15 seconds.

“Yes. Right. Well.” Jophiel cleared his throat, “I came to ask you a question. A lovely fellow,” Jophiel decided unlike with the Metatron, sharing Aziraphale’s name with Lucifer was not in anyone’s best interest, “told me today that God intends for all creation to stop in 6,000 years. And I was wondering if you knew anything about that.”

[tar-thelien]

Of Returned Heroes and Their not-so-secret Crush

Summary:

Newly returned Glorfindel notices an elf, that has just returned from a mission, a few weeks into his return, and demands his new lord, Elrond, to explain how he can let an elf display his loyalties to Feanor as loudly as this one does with the star embroidered on his clothes and on a necklace for all to see.

The fic can be found here or below;

words: 2087

Chapter notes:

Erestor is the son of Caranthir and Haleth here and it´s following my story about Elrond through all the ages but this one are more about Erestor and Glorfindel´s relationship and how they meet in a one shot

“My lord!” Glorfindel yelled out angrily as he tramped up to Elrond who was currently sitting on his family balcony reading a book in a low padded chair, “what can I help you with Colcallon,” Elrond said with a smile already feeling at peace with the newly returned hero.

There had of course been some problems with his return, people who didn´t believe it was him, and much more. Elrond´s own new personally found information about the elf was that his outburst could mean anything from him finding a flower or just wanting to share gossip, it had only once meant anything bad, which where when he had overheard Elrond talk to Galadriel about trying to find Maglor, so the chances this was a bad outburst were minimal which led Elrond to a playful tune.

“I have come to respect that a lot of your people are old Feanorian loyalties but I can not stand for one who clearly thinks still of Feanaro as their lord!” the golden haired elf yelled up angrily, “how does he think he can get away with both wearing the star on his clothes but also on a necklace! And don´t get me wrong my lord, I have seen your own necklace just as I have seen others of your followers having jewels and such with the star, and small embroidery, but they at least have the brain to not make it that obvious or make it the highlight of their clothes!!”

“Are you talking about Erestor?” Elrond asked as dumbfounded looked at Glordfindel still not understanding the outburst. As the golden warrior had said a lot of his Feanorian followers still had the star visible somewhere at all times, so the only one he could think of that would drown themself in it would have to be Eresor, Caranthir´s only son, Celbrimbor, and Elrond´s cousin, Feanor´s second grandchild, his and Elros first real tutor, One of few half elvers, he knew of that, didn´t try and hide it.

“I don´t know who that is!” Glorfindel hissed kicking his new third age fashion clothes out of the way to get closer to Elrond, “nonetheless if it is him, do you not see what problems he could course!?”

“Nityaren.” Erestor´s hard voice could be heard from the door opening, “Lady Nerwen told me about the return of a Vailno from Valinor who came with the Maia Olorin,” Erestor said as he walked over to Elrond completely ignoring a now fuming balrog slayer that barely seemed to pick up any words being said.

“Yes Erestor, but please, our Maia has requested us not to call him by name and instead call him Mithrandir or Greyhame, I have yet to find out why thought, but we should respect his wishes,” Elrond replied calmly so as not to stoke the fire slowly building, “and yes a hero from old has returned to help us, and I would be grateful if we wouldn´t call each other names. I was thinking about a late dinner perhaps. Now that you are back, and have obviously changed and bathed,” Elrond said with a frown trying to think back to at least one time where he had seen Erestor in something resembling dirty or poorly made clothes.

Too much like his father, Ereinion had always insisted with a smile but a judging look in his eyes, it had been an open secret the dead king and son of Caranthir didn´t like each other.

-o0o-

The dinner had seemed to go well at first, Elrond´s own sons had been asking all kinds of questions to the returned balrog slayer, as always, who seemed to brag, for lack of better more honorable words, than usual, especially when he found Erestors steel eyes on him.

All had gone well until Erestor decided to make his own dead father proud by asking Glorfindel in a cheeky voice, “is it true that you have slept with lord Ecthelion, the honorable lord of the fountain? I care not to be clear as at least two of my uncles have been quite open themself about their preferred sex of their partners.”

The whole table went quiet and hurriedly Elrond called his sons to leave, who murmuring under their breaths for once listened and left with only a glance left, undoubtedly listening in on them from the other side of the door, not that Elrond could care right now.

“I fear to disappoint you my dear Feanorian, we were only near friends,” Glorfindel hissed with eyes in his otherwise warm open eyes, but Erestor only tsked as he continued eating as the only one, “so you have not interested in men or woman? I don´t think the Ambarussa had either.”

“What´s to say I don´t feel interested in women? And I would feel beyond grateful if you didn´t compare me to your dead lords.”

“I was under Carnistir´s house,” Erestor smoothly replied as he hurried in to snatch a piece of chicken Glorfindel had reached out for leaving the old Gondolin lord to retreat with an empty fork and a huff to his plate, “that explains a lot. Did he raise you too? Or were you raised by those savage humans and he just felt pity for you? OR did you perhaps share a bed with HIM, as that was where our conversation started and we shouldn´t move the topic.”

Instead of being met with a quick response Erestor looked at him with shock and disgust in his eyes, “do not ever dare again to insult my Atar in such a way! In or nor my company I will hear about it no matter, and make you rethink your words!” with that the half elf known as Erestor stood up leaving the room with loud steps.

“Fuck.” Glorfindel murmured after Elrond too left with a disappointed shake of his head.

-o0o-

“My lord Glorfindel! Would you take this report to  the chief householder?” an elf asked him as he was stopped in the middle of one of the many gardens, “I heard you were to see Elrond and it is on the way.”

“Of course, I will,” answered Glorfindel taking the small bundle of papers in his hands, “and I have yet to meet the householder,” he would never say no to meeting new people, and maybe he could find Erestor on the way to apologize. He had already found a golden bracelet he thought would get the point across. Erestor did seem to like traditions and the small pyrites piece in it would match the half elf's eyes perfectly, not to mention Erestor seemed to be more interested in gold than silver as most elvers.

Quickly making his way to the office he had before been pointed to at his coming but never entered he knocked, and open reserving no answer he yelled out to the door, “I have some papers I should leave here, so I will open the door and lay them inside before I leave to continue on my day's errands!” with that he opened the door to a surprisedly, full, but well kept big study.

Old well made tapestries hang on the walls where there weren´t windows, small stacks of books could be found both on the bookshelves, on, and beside, the table in the middle as well as on the floor on some carpets. At the back side of the room he could see a fireplace surrounded by a couch and two comfortable looking chairs. One of them who was occupied by a glaring Erestor who was busy with some threadwork but now paused to look the balrog slayer straight in the eyes, and only then did Glorfindel notice the ears who still seemed to point down like a cat but not as much as an elf could, nor did they seem as long as an elf.

“I…” Glrofindel tried but could barely get a word across unsure if he should give the papers first of his apologies, “I was asked to bring some reports to you,” he decided on as he laid them down on a small coffee table beside the chair Erestor was occupying, “and then I wanted to say sorry.”

Looking down at his feet he fished after the bracelet in his pocket before reaching his hand out with it to Erestor, “here, for you. I thought you might like it. It matches your eyes.”

Lifting his gaze to meet the half elf who had now taken the bracelet in hands to turn it around Glorfindel smiled at the way both the pyrites and Erestor´s eyes seemed to shine the same way, and the small well kept golden clips in his right ear seemed to match the surface of the golden bracelet completely. As if they had been made for each other.

“Thank you,” the half elf murmured returning to his project on his lap as he carelessly laid the bracelet down on the ground beside his chair leaving Glrofindel to yet again retire with a disappointed look in his eyes and guilt tying his stomach in small loops.

-o0o-

Sighing Glorfindel sat down beside Elrond on his balcony who was currently busy reading a book, “you must be missing your sons,” he started but Elrond only snorted, “Colcallon, they left this morning to go hunting and visit their grandparents as you are well aware of. They´ll be back in three otsola. And they have a lot of trusted old friends with them.”

Elrond looked up open finding no reply to find the golden haired elf resting his upper body over the arm of his chair and the table between them, “I saw Erestor´s new bracelet.”

“Oh?” Glorfindel murmured, “on the ground, I presume,” at that Elrond laughed, “no he was wearing it. Even shoved his horse it! You should be horned by that. There are few things he shows his horse but what he shows are only things he takes pride in.”

“Yes. He´s proud a got a bad apology out of a high and mighty lord of Gondolin.”

“He complimented your hair to me yesterday, he even asked after you,” Elrond continued, “you are not hiding from him are you? You have hardly shown up in the hall of fire or in the eating hall when he is there.”

“I insulted him at the first time we met, and then later both his father and mother,” Glorfindel moaned as he turned his head to look up at the Peredhel, “he hates me!”

“But would you like to be friends?”

“Of course! He seems nice. He feeds the vally cats. And the fish. And he´s pretty,” he added as an afterthought, “he seems so lonely.”

“I don´t think he would call himself lonely. He just tends to draw himself away because of his past. He bears great guilt, from both his loose of his mother just as much as his father.”

“... Was he a part of the kinslayings?”

“Only the third, he hid it well but it destroyed him. And neither Kano nor Nelyo knew how to help as they too had their own demons.”

-o0o-

“You look pretty.”

Erestor looked up surprisedly from where he was sitting beside Elrond on the high table as Glorfindel sat down beside him instead of Elrond as he usually did.

“Here,” the newly blonde captain said as he pulled out a piece of chicken onto Erestor´s plate before giving himself one too, “I always liked chicken. My Amil had a giant yard full of them, but they always escaped. We also had a vineyard. I remember your Atto´s wine. It was the finest you could get. And most expensive too,” he said with a shrug, “I bet he heightened the price just because he knew he could get away with it. He also seemed to pay ridiculously low taxes compared to what he should yet no one could find out how he did it.”

“It wasn´t really that expensive,” Erestor was quick to defend with a light laugh ignoring the last comment well aware his father had cheated, “of course that depends on who you were. Kano always had to pay the most of the family, even more than Angarato, or Thingol if he had ever tried, for it just because Atto wanted revenge for having been kept awake by harp and song when he was a child.”

---

I go with the idea Glorfindel was returned in the third age as that was one of Tolkeins first ideas.

I already headcannon Maglor being found and mostly living in Imladris at this point too but he still tends to disappear, which was why Erestor was gone when Glorfindel came. Yes Erestor did find Maglor he just decided to throw him to Galadriel as he heard about someone being reborn and wanted Maglor out of the way for some time for his own safety. He will of course return for him.

Yes Erestor chooses to call Galadriel by her Quenya name instead of her Sindar name purely out of spite. And bad habits

I like the idea of it being a Noldor custom to give jewels or other treasures to people when you need to apologies

Angarato is Angrod´s Quenya name

Colcallon = Golden hero: Sindarin; Name; Elronds nickname for Glorfindel

Nitya = Little: Quenya; Also seen in Nityafinwe - Amrod´s father name (yes it changes to Pityafinwe that just means pretty little Finwe instead of little Finwe) - Erestor dosn´t call Elrond Pitya as that would just remind him of Amrod and Amras so Nitya it is!

Ren = Early Quenya/Gnormish: Cursin; Gnorms are what Tolkien first called the elvers so it should not be confused with orcs

Vailno = Blond man: Quenya; Coming from the Vanya, I like to think it´s something a lot of Noldor calls Vanya as a tame insult, Glorfindel just have almost never heard it and goes crasy

Otsola = week: Quenya

[greatwyrmgold]

Another fanfiction pet peeve: Pointless synechdoche. I'm using "synechdoche" slightly wrong, so I should explain what I mean. I'm talking about when a fanfic author wants to refer to a character (herein referred to as the "subject"), but doesn't want to use the subject's name or third-person pronoun, and instead uses a noun or adjective referring to some aspect of the subject. For instance, Superman might be referred to as "the alien," "the paragon," or "the red-caped man". Hair color is a particularly common, for some reason.

Now, this isn't always a bad thing to do! I'm going to start by describing some ways it can be used well.

Obviously, if there's a distinct POV character who doesn't know/recognize the subject, they need to use synechdoche. They need to describe the subject based on their appearance or behavior, because that's all the POV character knows. It puts distance between the narrator and the subject.

Synechdoche can also emphasize certain aspects of a subject. This can be exclusively for the benefit of the audience, e.g. to remind them of some relevant fact, or to emphasize the irony of a line ("Earth is my home," said the alien.) Stories with a distinct POV character can also be used to characterize the narrator. What does it say about your narrator if he repeatedly refers to one of the people he's talking with as "the hot one"?

And of course, these purposes can be tweaked or combined. Language is flexible, and so is literature. But the human brain cannot automatically parse what any given synechdoche is trying to do; it just parses the words it reads and spits out some meaning.

Whenever you use synechdoche, you are characterizing the narrator, you are emphasizing certain aspects of the subject, and you are putting distance between narrator and subject. If that's what you're trying to do, great! If not, you might have a problem.

Emphasizing an irrelevant facet of a subject isn't incorrect in the way that referring to Superman as "the blonde" would be, but it can easily be distracting, the same way any irrelevant information in the middle of a dialogue scene would be. Careless use of synechdoche can imply things about the narrator that just aren't true. And of course, using synechdoche at all puts distance between the narrator and the subject, which is weird if the narrator is supposed to be close to the subject and even weirder if the narrator doesn't exist because the fic has third-person omniscient narration. And that's if you pick decent synechdoche and not, like, "the Big Blue Boy Scout said," which is only slightly more awkward than some actual synechdoche I've seen used recently.

Writing Advice

I know why people use synechdoche. It's generally best to avoid repeating a word too much in short order, and it's easy to repeat subject names or pronouns a lot during a dialogue scene.

However:

I think people worry too much about repetition. Avoid it if you can, but if you can't, don't worry.

Synechdoche always puts distance between narrator and subject. This is a good thing in some cases, but frequently counterproductive.

Synechdoche usually implies something about the narrator. This is a good thing if you're implying that on purpose, but not so much if you're just picking a character trait so you don't have to say "Clark" again.

Synechdoche suggests that the subject trait being referenced is somehow significant to the scene. If it's not, synechdoche wastes audience time recognizing that insignificance, and can mislead your audience if you pick your synechdoche very poorly.

Synechdoche is frequently awkward, especially when you need to come up with several ways to refer to the same subject in one conversation.

I think people worry too much about repetition. Avoid it if you can, but if you can't, don't worry.

But as an alternate suggestion, I would recommend trying to write dialogue which your audience can follow with few or no dialogue tags. This is easiest when your conversations only involve two characters, since you can assume alternating lines are said by different characters. (Though the audience might get things turned around after a dozen consecutive lines if you're not careful.)

I would also recommend giving each of your characters a distinctive voice. Sometimes this is something overt, like a literary dialect or verbal tic; sometimes it's a collection of little details like word choice, tone, ideas expressed, and so on.

Another possibility: Try structuring dialogue differently, and maybe add a little non-dialogue action into dialogue sequences. Word repetition isn't nearly as bad without structure repetition. Compare:

Superman said, "Stop, villain! I cannot allow you to continue your wicked ways!" Dr. Doom replied, "No, you should stop and let me finish this plan. I worked so hard on it!" Clark snarled, "No matter how hard you worked, I won't let you take that dragon ball!" Dr. Doom shot him.

To:

Superman said, "Stop, villain! I cannot allow you to continue your wicked ways!" "No," Dr. Doom replied, "you should stop and let me finish this plan. I worked so hard on it!" Superman put his fists on his hips. "No matter how hard you worked, I won't let you take that dragon ball!" Dr. Doom shot him. Again.

See? Just by changing where you put what, you can make the scene feel less repetitive. The difference is slight in this example text, but across a dialogue-heavy chapter, this kind of variation adds up.

[punch-love]

7, 8, 13, 14, 22, 23, 38, 39

sorry for being greedy again lol :)

7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

“You’re smart. You’re funny.” Peter continues, his fingers tapping against Wade’s chest in a comforting metronome.

“You’re terrifying.” Peter says, and Wade hears his own awe in the words. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

“I’ve never met anyone like you before.” Wade repeats distantly.

It grows silent again; Wade moves his body down so he can press his ear against Peter’s chest, listens for the heart. Peter is stiff underneath him, hands crooked and unmoving over his own.

“Isn’t it terrible?” Peter asks very quietly.

Wade wonders what he means; the sound of his heart is grounding, steady. It’s been years since anyone has let him listen to their heart.

“The way I feel.” Peter says.

“No.” Wade never has meant anything more. [atlas]

It's my favorite ending that I've written. I only write unreliable narrators, so this is the first time you really see what Peter actually, genuinely loves and admires about Wade in a way he can't flinch away from. At this point, we only know Wade's insecurities, so the ending is a mirror where Peter is the one being insecure/feeling unworthy of love and Wade is the one who immediately dismisses it. The double meaning of "isn't it terrible, the way I feel?" both his physical body/the intensity of his emotions. The way that Wade feels safe for the first time in the narrative to just exist. Everything I wanted to accomplish with it feels accomplished. It's an ending where I don't feel like there's more of a story to explore. You know what happens to them, you know?

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

“I can’t be that financially viable.” Peter croaks instead. “Let’s be real here.”

“You’d be surprised how much a guy is willing to pay to put you in a paper cup and toss you outside the city,” Deadpool responds coldly.

“I’ll give you five dollars and a sweet kiss on the cheek if you leave me alone,” Peter says Deadpool’s face is doubling in his vision, tripling, a whole army of scary clowns.

“If I showed you my rates I think you’d piss yourself.” Deadpool snorts.

“Five dollars, a sweet kiss on the cheek, and an IOU.”

“How many legs do you think a spider needs to walk?” Deadpool flicks Peter’s twitching bicep.

“Preferably all of them.” Peter laughs nervously.

“I’ve seen them work with one.” Deadpool grabs his knife from his belt and drags the tip slowly across Peter’s costume, the frayed threads snapping in its path and bleeding into a thin, painful line as he makes his way down to his thigh. [it's an acquired taste]

I just love the juxtaposition of Spider-Man being his peppy, banter ready self vs. Deadpool being frustrated that his job is taking too long and is very much ready to kill or maim him for it. It's funny, but it's also like, oh this is going to go south real quick, isn't it? I really like balancing quips with, like, the physical gravity of what is happening, and I think this scene does that well. I also just love the idea of Spider-Man being like "five dollars, a sweet kiss on the cheek, and an IOU" to the mercenary trying to kill him for an unfathomable amount of money.

13. What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever come across?

You have to write poorly to write well, and you have to write often to write at all.

14. What’s the worst writing advice you’ve ever come across?

I think any advice around the necessity of a traditional structure. I was taught to write on the basis that every novel needs specific things/character types to be like, a good piece of writing, and that's just not true. It's better to take a seam ripper to tradition, then get bogged down by the patterns of people that aren't you.

22. Choose a passage from one of your earlier fics and edit it into your current writing style. (Person sending the ask is free to make suggestions).

I have been recently re-editing chapter 8 of love-punch because it's the weakest chapter (to me) writing wise. It was also my first published "smut" piece (even though it's not even really that) so you can tell I was a little nervous about my approach. I don't think my style has changed so much as my approach to it. I've taken a lot of descriptions and just let the action or reaction speak for itself. I'm not re-writing it publically, though, so you'll just have to take my word for it.

23. If you were to revise one of your older fics from start to finish, which would it be and why?

I wouldn't! I think they all stand up to my expectations of them. I think the only thing I end up editing is love-punch because due to the multi-chapter structure I don't really get to edit as a completed "piece" so the style, by the nature of time, gets a little dated and needs a brush-up. I also wrote Spider-Man as Spider-man up to like, chapter six or something, so I need to go back and fix that sometime.

38. Talk about a review that made your day.

I got a review the other day on the latest love-punch chapter that quoted my favorite section and said that they had been looking for a fic where Peter uses his super strength against Wade, and that the scene where they wrestle each other in the chapter really fulfilled that for them. It was nice because you don't really get to choose your audience and what your audience likes about your work but when someone reads it likes it for the reasons I, personally, like it always makes me happy. I wrote this because I wanted to read it, so when other people who are looking for the same things find it everything feels so full circle.

39. Do you ever get rude reviews and how do you deal with them?

The rudest review I got was someone asking me why I had to make Peter trans and then when I explained it they complained that I made them switches because they wanted him as a cis-gender bottom. It was infuriating. I'm like, not the most cool-headed person in the world, so I just yelled at them until they were like "wow, you are literally attacking me right now" and then I deleted all of their comments after I cooled down because I didn't want their words to trigger any of my trans readers who were reading my comments. I like yelling at people much more than I like being nice (especially if that's the energy they're putting out - I will match your energy) so I usually get out some aggression until I calm down, and then I usually just delete them. I think that some writers are too nice with their rude reviewers and I like to be a reminder that if you talk shit, I will actually hit you.

I don't get many rude reviews though. I do get comments that trigger the hell out of me because I write a lot of my personal experiences/traumas into my work, and sometimes they'll be like "wow that's so romantic <3" about something that is straight up abusive and that always ruins my day/makes me want to stop writing, but they're not being rude, just romanticizing something I was hoping they wouldn't. My rudest fans are people who want to befriend me/have access to my personal information or life and get upset when I set a very clear "I'm not here to be your friend, and you are not entitled to know anything about me outside what I write" boundary. The majority is very decent to me, though.