#Or maybe I always wrote like this on Tumblr

[lachatalovematcha]

I hate I hate people who think they know everything but in reality they know nothing I saw the jirai kei post today hehe sorry for the delay but I'm new to tumblr seriously these people always do this to me especially with anime When I write something wrong they come running, correct me because they think I don't know And another thing, you can be sure that jirai kei is much more of a musical genre than depressive images created by *American* girls hehe SORRY to talk about this old subject now but like I said I'm new here and I love jirai kei and I also loved discovering your blog

🎀🌈🥕 Hi, I'm glad you liked my blog 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 This jirai kei story is really tiring, but 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 I agree with everything you said 🎀🌈🥕

People who think they know everything are really stressful 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 about people correcting you, I only agree to correct you when someone asks for my opinion, like in the case of sugarbunnies🎀🌈🥕

Sometimes when I post something I don't put the name in the tags

🎀🌈🥕 an example of vn (anime) 𝙉𝙀𝙆𝙊✿𝙋𝘼𝙍𝘼 I accidentally changed the names of two characters, a few minutes later about 5 people appeared correcting me....ok, because I imagine none of them acted badly So I don't take these things into consideration I have no resentments lol.... 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 What I don't like is when I post an anime and I don't include the tag due to lack of space or another reason 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 This really happened but it was with something else: 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 I posted KANON and didn't tag the name, then a genius appeared saying the name, you know, thinking I don't know it and he wrote like KANON IS MY WARMUP MAP 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 You know, like pretending I didn't want to do it, but doing it and loving it thinking I'm stupid, he was sure I didn't know what KANON's name was, just because I never tagged the name in my posts 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 because anyone who has known my blog for a long time knows that I only post what I know, and another thing I know is that I know a lot more about THE SUPPOSED KANON than he does, which I'm sure he only found out about because of the aesthetics on Pinterest, if you doubt it he doesn't even dream that KANON is a game lol 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 It's not even KANON that I'm talking about, I used the name KANON just as an example of another vn I don't want to expose the person 🎀🌈🥕Why this person acted badly?, well, maybe because the Supposed KANON is not famous at all and not many people know about it, so he went and said the name in a way that pretended he had known him for a long time 🎀🌈🥕but this type of person can't fool me, he just knows it and says he LIKES it because of the aesthetics I doubt he's ever played the game I really doubt it🎀🌈🥕sorry for being boring as always and the size of the text is clueless🎀🌈🥕and better late than never

🎀🌈🥕BYE BYE AND THANK U FOR ASK🎀🌈🥕

[corviiids]

gushing etc

[quadrantadvisor]

Moulting, Good Omens, Falling!Aziraphale au, 2831 words

-

Aziraphale sipped at his chardonnay (not vintage, nothing special, just something he’d picked up to share with company) and sighed contentedly. It’d been a lovely day. Not inasmuch as that the weather had been nice, but rather in that he’d met up with Crowley at St. James’s Park that morning, underneath the gloomy, overcast sky, and then they’d spent the day together. A walk until the rain started coming down, lunch in a new restaurant owned by a pleasant Korean couple, and a trip to the cinema at Crowley’s insistence. Then, finally, to the bookshop to drink and chat. It was getting late, now, and the sky was dark with heavy clouds.

“So you didn’t like it? Not even the actors?” Crowley asked, a note of complaint in his voice.

Aziraphale resisted the urge to roll his eyes, because it was a terrible habit really, and suited Crowley much better. “That isn’t what I said, I’m just not sure that I understood the point of it all. They all seem rather manic, running around as they do, don’t they?” He took a sharp breath, and tried to work his shoulders back and forth discreetly.

Crowley gestured towards Aziraphale with his wine glass, nearly spilling, but of course the liquid knew better than to slosh out. “In about 50 years you’ll get used to them, and then they’ll invent some kind of immersive hologram technology, and you’ll be saying what a shame it is that no one appreciates films anymore because they were true artistry.” Crowley was looking at him, then, and frowned. “Are you feeling alright?”

Aziraphale gave his best smile. “Oh yes, of course, tip top shape!” Aziraphale knew that he was no good at coming up with excuses on the spot, so he’d prepared one earlier. “I tried out that sleeping thing again, but all it seems to have done is bother my back. These corporeal forms really are much too sensitive.”

“Mm, right,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was buying it or not. There was certainly no reason for him not to buy it. Aziraphale was too tipsy for this, and Crowley was still wearing his blasted shades. Crowley pulled out his mobile phone, glanced at it. “Speaking of, I ought to be off.” He downed his drink and grabbed for the jacket he’d slung over his chair.

“I thought that there was no rest for the wicked?” Aziraphale tried, smiling weakly.

He was rewarded by Crowley giving him a sly look and saying, “Surely you’ve heard of beauty sleep.”

Aziraphale chuckled at him, and stood at the same time Crowley did, to walk him to the door. Only polite. “Don’t forget to sober up before you drive,” he chided. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know, I know.”

The rain was coming down heavily, the sound near overwhelming once the front door was open. Aziraphale thought that Crowley met his gaze for a moment, but the lights were too dim to tell. “See you later, Angel.” He stepped out into the wet, immediately drenched.

“Yes. Later.” Aziraphale kept watching him, saw him shake himself free of both the alcohol in his system and the rain, which began to sheet away from his artfully tousled hair. He got into the bentley, drove off into the dark.

Aziraphale closed the door gently, muting the downpour. He stood for a moment, breathing.

Well. Best to get it over with all at once.

Aziraphale rolled his shoulders back and gently, gently, pulled out his wings. He stretched them to their full length. Then he shook them.

Pain lanced through him, like hot irons applied to exposed nerves, and he gasped. Blackened, singed feathers fell straight down, rather than fluttering, and made soft plink-ing noises as they hit the floor. Like huge, dark raindrops. As they built up around him their smell began to waft up, and Aziraphale nearly choked on it. Sulfur and burned hair and acrid smoke. There were so many this time, must be a few dozen at least.

Good. Aziraphale wished that there was a way to speed this whole process up.

There was, of course, but he didn’t know how to implement it without coming off strange. It wouldn’t do to crowd the dear boy; Crowley needed his space, certainly, and Aziraphale would never want to intrude where he wasn’t welcome. When Crowley wanted to see him, he would seek him out, and Aziraphale would have to continue relying on that.

He’d just left, and Aziraphale already missed him. How silly. His wings seemed to be clear, and Aziraphale let them droop, near touching the floor themselves. He swiped at the tears building up in his eyes. How pathetic. An angel, making such a fuss over a few feathers. It was good that Crowley was gone. Aziraphale wouldn’t want him to see him like this. No point in feeling sorry for himself. No point in feeling lonely. Aziraphale had already made his choices, and now he would see them through.

Just one more moment. Just a few more deep, ragged breaths.

Aziraphale went to find his dustpan. Couldn’t leave the ghastly things lying about, where anyone could see them. That wouldn’t do at all.

-

It had all started some months after dear young Adam had kindly stalled Armageddon, nearly a full year. Aziraphale had been in the middle of sorting inventory (read as: doing some light reading) when the phone rang. Aziraphale jumped to answer it, because odds were that the only person calling would be Crowley. Aziraphale had put the shop's phone number up on its website, naturally, it was the done thing, but that didn't mean that anyone else had access to it. Said website was nigh unsearchable, and completely innavigable for anyone who did find themselves there (could Aziraphale be blamed for having trouble with all this newfangled technology? The fact that it was the perfect cover to keep his bookshop out of the public eye was just a bonus.)

Aziraphale picked up the phone with a bright, "Hello!" wondering what plans Crowley might have for the day.

"Ah, Aziraphale," said a familiar voice. Charming and confident, affable in a way that was distant, above it all. "I see that this human contraption works, after all."

"Gabriel?" Aziraphale was frozen in shock. He had seen neither form nor feather of another angel since they'd dragged Crowley off to heaven in his body. He'd been quite hoping that they'd all forgotten about him after the hellfire incident. And in any case, heaven never communicated through indirect channels. For his entire time being stationed on Earth, Aziraphale had always sent and received paperwork through heavenly messengers, and if his supervisors wanted to check up on him, they did it personally.

"Yes, Archangel Gabriel, that is my name."

Evidently, no more was forthcoming, and Aziraphale adjusted his grip on the telephone. As his corporation came back into feeling, he realized that he was shaking. "What is the meaning of this"? Aziraphale asked, trying for all the world to harden his tone, but knowing he came off as weak and soft as he ever had. "I thought we had an agreement that I would be left alone."

"Yes, Aziraphale, exactly right. None of us will interfere with you. As things are now, heaven won't touch you." Gabriel's strangely chipper cadence gained a new edge to it. "And isn't that a pickle? An angel, with no connection to heaven."

Again, Aziraphale waited for him to elaborate, but apparently Gabriel was determined to draw this out. "I'm afraid I don't catch your meaning," he admitted.

It seemed that that acknowledgment was all Gabriel wanted. "Well, we've been discussing your"—Aziraphale could hear the sneer in his voice—"situation, and found ourselves pretty confused, all things considered! You have obviously been corrupted, deeply, deeply corrupted, and yet," this time it's confusion that Aziraphale hears, the utter bafflement of it almost… innocent. "You haven't Fallen."

"Ah." Aziraphale swallows. "I suppose I haven't."

Gabriel was back to cocksure, the innocence purged. "So, like I said, we were talking about it, and the only thing that makes sense is that you've been affected by an overabundance of demonic influence. And no wonder!" His laugh grated Aziraphale's ear. "You've been stationed down there for what, 6,000 years, give or take a few decades? Not that we had any way of knowing, of course, that your adversary had successfully tempted you into some sort of arrangement, or we would've pulled you millenia ago for some recuperation."

They were trying to blame Crowley. Of course they would. "Now, Gabriel, I—"

The archangel interrupted him. "Don't you see what this means, Aziraphale?" he asked, as sunny as ever. For a moment, it seemed as if he was waiting for a response again, but maybe it was just a dramatic pause. "It means there's still hope!"

"Hope?" Aziraphale was a great proponent of hope, generally, but the word felt like ash in his mouth. "Hope for what, exactly?"

Gabriel, with exaggerated patience, explained, "Hope that you might return to the fold. Return to the Host, Aziraphale. Like I said, you've been gone for too long. Michael wasn't a fan of the idea, but I'm fairly certain that if you spend a few thousand years in quiet contemplation, bathing in heavenly light, you'll be able to purge yourself of all of that, ugh, unpleasantness."

Fear's grip on Aziraphale had tightened, and it felt like it was constricting the muscle in his chest. "You can't take me, you can't, we had a deal—"

"Calm down, of course not," Gabriel said, amused. "We won't do anything against your will. Aren't you the one who always said that it means more if they choose, on their own, whether to be saved or damned? So," the silence on the line stretched for only a moment, and then, "I'm offering you a choice."

"What does that entail?" Aziraphale felt cold now.

"Well, it was difficult to set up, I'll tell you that much. We don't normally do this manually, but we found some old files on the process. I guess you could call it a bit drastic, but, drastic times, and all that."

"Spit it out, Gabriel." Aziraphale wasn't quite sure where that came from. He was no longer feeling like a present part of the conversation.

Gabriel let out a short, aggravated hum. "Alright, here it is. Heaven's ultimatum for the Principality Aziraphale. You've allowed your angelic essence to be tainted by associating with the demon, Crowley. We are offering a chance for you to return, willingly, of course, and purify your essence. However," he says, and he wields the condition like a knife, "should you reject Heaven's forgiveness and generosity, and continue perversely consorting with our enemy, we will have to," Gabriel hummed again, but this one was pleased, self-righteous, "cut you off, so to speak."

"You mean—"

"Yes, Aziraphale. There aren't bad angels. It's antithetical to what we are. We found the files on the manual process, and we'll do it, to keep the Host pure. You'll be damned."

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. "You're saying that I must choose between Heaven and Crowley, under the threat of Falling."

"Yes." And wasn't Gabriel proud of himself, for his clever solution to their little problem. Neatly smudge away the black spot on his record in one move. Checkmate, no options for escape.

Aziraphale, finally, felt calm. "Ah. Well. I choose him."

"What?"

Annoyance crept into his voice. "I choose him, Gabriel. I thought that should be rather obvious. I chose him, and the Earth, over you and your organization already. Remember that? It was rather a big to-do. Does Armageddon ring any bells?"

Gabriel's tone was pricked with discomfort, but firm. "My threats are not idle, Aziraphale. Every moment you spend with him will draw you further from the Almighty's Grace. The contract has been drawn up and sealed. You will not be allowed to continue in this manner."

"And yet, I plan on doing exactly that. If there isn't anything else, I'll be going now."

A few flustered noises, the likes of which Aziraphale had never imagined an archangel making, came over the phone line. Then Gabriel seethed, "Fine. Enjoy your Fall from Grace, freak." The call ended.

Gabriel had never expected Aziraphale to even consider option two, that was obvious enough. It was merely coercion, to get Aziraphale to do what they wanted, which was to sit down, shut up, and become the perfect little soldier that would go along with it the next time they tried ending the world in glorious battle. Bugger that. Aziraphale was his own ethereal being, and he would make his own decisions.

Well. Not "ethereal" for much longer, it didn't seem. Aziraphale refused to let himself be afraid, and so he wasn't. He wasn't.

And there wasn't any reason to be. Everything was perfectly fine. A couple of days later, Crowley really did call, and even if Aziraphale could hardly bring himself to pick up the phone, he made it before it rang out. Crowley had tickets to an outdoors theatre, and oh, wouldn't that be lovely? The evenings were just getting warm enough, the sun lingering in the sky, and they'd sit or stand and watch a performance like they had so many times before. Aziraphale agreed readily, and Crowley said he'd pick him up at 6:30.

The first one had shocked him, it really did. He'd yelped aloud in the middle of a soliloquy, and gotten dirty looks from the audience around them. Aziraphale barely noticed, because his wing, his wing, something had happened to it, and the sharp pinprick pain of a burn was giving way to an ache, deep in the bone, traveling all the way up to his back, a celestial insistence that something was wrong, wrong, so very wrong.

"Angel, what's happened? Are you alright?" Crowley was saying quietly, urgently. He was leaning in towards Aziraphale, who was having to fight against the sudden, foolish impulse to take his hand and let the contact ground him. It was light enough for Aziraphale to catch his eyes darting about, scanning for possible threats. His gaze turned back to the angel. "You jumped like something bit you."

"I—" he couldn't finish the statement, didn't know how to. He tried again. "You know, I suppose something must have." Aziraphale chuckled weakly. "How odd, insects generally know better than to bother us. I suppose it just surprised me, that's all."

Aziraphale managed to excuse himself, promising to be right back. He felt Crowley's gaze on his back the entire time he made his way through the crowd.

It was difficult to find a spot with the requisite amount of privacy and space, but Aziraphale managed. He manifested his wings into physical space, and pulled the afflicted one forward to assess the damage.

He had barely touched it when the feather detached, and fell. 

Aziraphale stared at it. Leaned down, picked it up. A single feather. Among thousands. He was holding a scorched secondary. He had felt no relief when it fell, just a harsh continuation of the pain.

He noticed the ugly look of it, the way it had practically calcified rather than burning away, he noticed the smell.

Aziraphale didn't know what Falling was like. Crowley never talked about it. They'd been out of sight of the Host, when they'd undergone their transformations. There was a war, there were half as many angels in the heavens, and then there were creatures below that turned into beings that always seemed familiar but that no one could ever quite recognize.

Apparently, Falling hurt. Aziraphale knew that, at least, before. It was supposed to. It was a punishment, after all. This was the start, the first taste, and Aziraphale didn't care for it much. One feather out of thousands.

Was he the first angel to Fall, since the war? He hadn't heard of it happening to anyone else. Maybe it wasn't supposed to. Maybe God had split up her teams in the Beginning, and didn't care much what they did after that. Wouldn't that be something, all those angels scared into obedience when The Almighty wasn't even keeping score.

Best not to speculate. It was happening. It had started, and now he had to go through with it. He would go through with it, because some things were worth a bit of pain, a bit of risk.

He considered keeping the feather, but it did smell dreadful, and Crowley might notice it and there'd be no way to explain that. He'd have plenty more, later, if he wanted. He shoved the feather in a bin, and returned to the play. He couldn't very well keep his demon waiting. And, if what Gabriel had said was true, if every moment they spent together mattered, then Aziraphale was going to hoard and savor those moments with every atom of his angelic being.

[triglycercule]

ok so there's murder time trio where theyre best buddies and get along and sometimes even having more than just platonic interactions. and then there's also the murder time trio where they genuinely just don't like each other and avoid each other and do NOT get along and to me there's just a VERY clear timeline of events that could connect these two group dynamics. like these 2 could coexist,,,,,,

nightmare's fresh outta his little corruption sequence and he needs his henchmen. goes out and gathers the obvious three killer horror and dust (does it really matter how he got them??? kidnapping or not the trio will warm up to him). its his first time having to deal with mentally unstable grown up mortal men and he really has no idea how to manage the team so he lets them have some slack. spoils em a bit yk yk stops fights allows them to hang out allows em to screw around the castle even COMFORTS them,,,, shocking i know (a slightly nice nightmare interpretation from triglycercule? UNFATHOMABLE!!!!)

this killer's fresh outta something new so he's still kinda curious and nosy. he hasnt seen the multiverse and especially not interacted with nightmare/horrordust so he's kinda more outgoing and friendly (ish. to get to know better everyone and satisfy the curiosity of seeing what reactions and feelings these fellas could give him.) bc killer's not that much of a prick and horror and dust would naturally SLIGHTLY get along (and if in the right environment be good buddies. which is nm's lenience and killer's not shittiness) the mtt actually get along pretty well and are good buds!! like the first group dynamic i mentioned where the bad sanses are just kinda like a friend group except they have some weird work relations

and then a fight breaks out and nightmare kills either dust or horror (what about??? anything!) likely dust first because he's more likely to be wary of nm (if kidnapped) and also because he's just kinda more actively righteous compared to horror (who likely wouldn't do much against nm) or killer (does not give a shit.) dust dies, horror likely dies defending dust and that just leaves the og killer and nightmare

nightmare is like "oh shit i just killed my workers". he'll take like a week to ponder what he did and then completely move on (because hes an ass like that.) nightmare gets another horror and dust to replace the ones he killed. and killer is just like wtf how do i deal with this. the guys i were kinda friends were are dead but their copies are right here. like he knew copies existed in the utmv but he didn't think nightmare was so willing to replace them so fast???

this killer's still adapting to the multiverse and stuff (it probably hasn't even been a year since he got snatched up!!!) and yeah hes aware that copies exist and he could get replaced by one but he didn't think that it would LITERALLY HAPPEN RIGHT BEFORE HIS EYES. so he decides to stick more around nm and avoid getting replaced like the og dust and horror because it really just hammers in the point that he's kinda useless if he speaks out like those 2. hes avoidant of the new replacements as well bc hes still new to this experience and is getting used to the whole implications of two guys that were once him and he was friends with died and got replaced by basically the same person

but they still have to work together for obvious reasons. and even if killer's avoiding horror and dust they probably aren't avoiding each other and probably are like wary friends/acquaintances. and naturally killer HAS to become okay worker buddy pals with them because hes stuck living with them. nightmare's a lot stricter and cold to avoid something like dust's rebellion against him happening again. mtt are wary of each other (mostly towards killer. horrordust are pals and killer's kinda growing more apathetic to the duo because he's already experienced a lot of the stuff before with the og two that died.) but theyre still "friends" you could say

and then perchance maybe horror and dust decide to let killer in on a lil secret theyve been cooking up. theyre planning to escape (kidnapped DUH. and nm isn't as nice as he was to og horrordust to warrent them to wanna stay) and even though they don't really trust killer theyre still letting him in on the plan and offer for him to come with them because they lowkey feel bad for him and he's really not all that bad under all the bullshit

but killer saw what happened to the og dust and horror so he says no. and the night that the duo are planning to escape he just has this overwhelming sense of dread. the next morning he wakes up to nightmare standing over his bed with a cold glare telling him of horror and dust's attempted escape and death and killer just kinda. sighs. his dread was right (he was lowkey hoping that they could escape so they didn't die like the original 2)

and then the cycle repeats. previous dust or horror or both die to nightmare or some random outside force or escape (because it has to happen eventually right??) and the pair keep getting replaced. killer keeps witnessing their deaths and replacements and at this point he's just so used to it that he doesn't even TRY to interact with the new horrors and dusts. theyre not even like real people that are getting killed and replaced like robots to him anymore they're just distant coworkers that get fired and then a new one comes to take up the position

each new dust or horror is icked out by nightmare and killer. nightmare is incredibly cold and intimidating and dictatorial and just sucks in general. and killer gives them this distant look. like he knows something they dont. he's already proven to them that he knows that they should obey nightmare and how to deal with the king and they know he's been here longer than them but even when he's not with nightmare or not talking about him they get the blank stare

sometimes when a nicer replacement of horror decides to do something nice for killer like make him a meal he just gives him that look and declines (there's already been countless different horrors that tried doing nice stuff for him. it's not new and nice in his eyes anymore.) maybe when a dust replacement gets irked by killer's apathy and decides to try and say something that'll bother him or snoop through his personal stuff killer will just walk away or kick him out of his room with that creepy ass blank stare again (it's not the first time a dust has tried to rile him up. it's not new or interesting and just predictable)

killer just doesn't CARE about the new horrors and dusts. they're all pretty much the same two guy except maybe a bit nicer or meaner or quieter or even taller or something?? all he really cares about is is serving nightmares atp, no other outside relationships. and ngl he doesn't even care that much about nightmare either. he's already figured out his thinking he's already figured out all of his likes and dislikes and what not to do to piss him off. the only reason he's still dealing with him is because he doesn't have anything else better to do and he doesn't wanna be useless to the one guy that he's served all this time

he's just kinda stuck in an empty boring limbo that killer's only maintaining due to a lack of motivation and any other priorities. and personally i just think this bad sans dynamic is lowkey tragic because like killer keeps witnessing all these guys that he used to be friends or enemies or rivals or whatever with and they just keep dying or leaving him behind. not one ever stays for THAT long (because no wayyyy a dust or horror would take being under a cruel nightmare well) and it's given him this idea that none of these people matter (aside from the important one which is nm) because they're just gonna leave me and the connections ill have formed with them will be for nothing so why even try being vulnerable and friendly and interacting with these cheap copies of the guys i USED to be friends with

[seraphiism]

use xkit and hide your follower count. those two people who unfollowed you just now? not personal. one deactivated their account, the other has had a shift in interests. your fic flopped? got less notes than anticipated? that's alright. you did great. it was amazing and i see the work and effort you poured into it. i guarantee someone in the world loved it and shared it with their friend. please keep in mind that numbers and statistics do not define the worth or quality of your art or writing.

[skitskatdacat63]

Boy King Seb :D

[milkyspine]

—the heart that flees and the heart that bites

[elisedonut]

sudden itch to write a rare pair fic thats not Percy related

but like

the last time I did that it ended up becoming my top fic and lead to me deciding that you know... actually I hate that ship just out of spite so i'm not sure how good of an idea it is

maybe if i try like femslash or something super super rare with side characters or something

[babygirlgiles]

just finished a 30k draft of a fic about haymitch fucking abernathy. can someone please euthanize me?

[tracle0]

I am dead inside I just want to write !!ONE!! story!!!!!!

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

The thing with the Mari Lwyd, though, is that it's being... I don't know, 'appropriated' is the wrong word, but certainly turned into something it isn't.

Thing is, this is a folk tradition in the Welsh language, and that's the most important aspect of it. I feel partly responsible for this, because I accidentally became a bit of an expert on the topic of the Mari Lwyd in a post that escaped Tumblr containment, and I clearly didn't stress it strongly enough there (in my defence, I wrote that post for ten likes and some attention); but this is a Welsh language tradition, conducted in Welsh, using Welsh language poetic forms that are older than the entire English language, and also a very specific sung melody (with a very specific first verse; that's Cân y Fari). It is not actually a 'rap battle'. It's not a recited poem. It is not any old rhyme scheme however you want.

It is not in English.

Given the extensive and frankly ongoing attempts by England to wipe out Welsh, and its attendant cultural traditions, the Mari is being revived across Wales as an act of linguistic-cultural defiance. She's a symbol of Welsh language culture, specifically; an icon to remind that we are a distinct people, with our own culture and traditions, and in spite of everyone and everything, we're still here. Separating her from that by removing the Welsh is, to put it mildly, wildly disrespectful.

...but it IS what I'm increasingly seeing, both online and in real world Mari Lwyd festivals. She's gained enormous pop-culture popularity in recent years, which is fantastic; but she's also been reduced from the tradition to just an aesthetic now.

So many people are talking/drawing about her as though she's a cryptid or a mythological figure, rather than the folk practice of shoving a skull on a stick and pretending to be a naughty horse for cheese and drunken larks. And I get it! It's an intriguing visual! Some of the artwork is great! But this is not what she is. She's not a Krampus equivalent for your Dark Christmas aesthetic.

I see people writing their own version of the pwnco (though never called the pwnco; almost always called some variant on 'Mari Lwyd rap battle'), and as fun as these are, they are never even written in the meter and poetic rules of Cân y Fari, much less in Welsh, and they never conclude with the promise to behave before letting the Mari into the house. The pwnco is the central part to the tradition; this is the Welsh language part, the bit that's important and matters.

Mari Lwyd festivals are increasingly just English wassail festivals with a Mari or two present. The Swansea one last weekend didn't even include a Mari trying to break into a building (insert Shrek meme); there was no pwnco at all. Even in the Chepstow ones, they didn't do actual Cân y Fari; just a couple of recited verses. Instead, the Maris are just an aesthetic, a way to make it look a bit more Welsh, without having to commit to the unfashionable inconvenience of actually including Welsh.

And I don't really know what the answers are to these. I can tell you what I'd like - I'd like art to include the Welsh somewhere, maybe incorporating the first line of Cân y Fari like this one did, to keep it connected to the actual Welsh tradition (or other Welsh, if other phrases are preferred). I'd like people who want to write their version of the pwnco to respect the actual tradition of it by using Cân y Fari's meter and rhyme scheme, finishing with the promise to behave, and actually calling it the pwnco rather than a rap battle (and preferably in Welsh, though I do understand that's not always possible lol). I'd like to see the festivals actually observe the tradition, and include a link on the booking website to an audio clip of Cân y Fari and the words to the first verse, so attendees who want to can learn it ahead of time. I don't know how feasible any of that is, of course! But that's what I'd like to see.

I don't know. This is rambly. But it's something I've been thinking about - and increasingly nettled by - for a while. There's was something so affirming and wonderful at first about seeing the Mari's climb into international recognition, but it's very much turned to dismay by now, because she's important to my endangered culture and yet that's the part that everyone apparently wants to drop for being too awkward and ruining the aesthetic. It's very frustrating.

[puthyflapps]

baby stop teasing us with fics 😩

I mean I could expand upon my ideas a little bit if you were like into that sort of thing

[citriarchive]

oh tumblr sure has made some ui changes

[candied-cae]

And Who Are We At The End Of The World? - Please, Be Gentle with My Breaks - III

Chapter 18/? - - - Read it on AO3

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Word Count: 10,480

Summary: There's a difference between being broken and having a few breaks. But a lot of these kids and been dealt a lot of blows, and not just from physical monsters of the Upside Down. There's still a lot of stuff hidden just under the surface that they haven't been able to show just yet.

TW: Depictions of PTSD - Triggering events and flashbacks

More ST Fics

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Friday morning - the morning Family Video was set to re-open its doors and begin taking business again - had finally come.

It was a sunny morning. The kind that starts with birds chirping from the trees and the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen. Robin and Steve had made plans to be at the store early, a few hours before opening, to eat breakfast together in the back office and take care of any possible final business that could come up. It was going to be a very good day. They'd decided that much.

Robin was still asleep and a little while away from starting that very good day when a noise that was less pleasant than birdsong rattled through her window.

It had been a week since the morning after the earthquake, and the construction crews had finally made their way to the suburbs near the Buckleys to take care of refortifying, structural concerns, and general repairs. One such house that required their attention, was the neighbor's from right behind them. The one that happened to be closest to the wall of Robin's room.

She was woken up when the racket started.

There was yelling, the workers shouting across distances and making their plans. Her neighbor's house had a lot of worry. She usually wouldn't mind the yelling that much. She could ignore it until Steve arrived to whisk her away. But she had been asleep and would've liked to stay that way. And all the noise outside made it impossible to fall back asleep. So she rolled out of bed and pulled her thin, red curtains closed, trying to block out just a little bit of the early morning sun.

It was about then that the foreman of the crew grunted with displeasure and came to a decision.

“Too much mess here. The whole foundation's got cracks in it, I don't like the way these wooden support beams are splinting, these warps in the flooring don't look good, and that roof damage is only going to get worse with bad weather. Call the homeowners. They can bitch about the facts all they want, but this house is going to be next with the demo team and need a complete reconstruction before anyone moves back in.”

Robin had already finished getting ready. She was washed up and dressed, and finally, the noise softened. Maybe they were done for the day. And she probably had another hour before Steve would be rolling around. So she dove back under her covers and tucked them in around her. Closing her eyes and drifting back off to sleep for just a little bit longer before she'd be taken away from her warm, comfy bed, and would be made to face the daunting trials of customer service.

Maybe forty minutes later, Robin was in that slippery state between sleep and awareness while the heavy machinery of a demolition team rolled down the street. All at once, those titans of force began to unmake the house right behind theirs. So close to where she peacefully slept. And the house did not go down easy.

Robin was startled awake in a red-tinted room, with the impossibly loud sound of destruction erupting from right behind her. The strength of it was rumbling the bed under her body, accompanied by the shriek of over-used and under-cared-for mechanical parts.

And all of it just sent her.

It felt like Thursday night. In the Upside Down. Where the red-tinted sky opened up above her, and the ground shook under her feet so hard she almost fell over. When the groans of an old house moved around her and filled up her ears. Until it all became echoes of screams instead.

Lucas's screams.

“Erica! Call for help!”

She felt it. She felt the fear again. Like it was all occurring to her for the first time.

Max was dead. Lucas was hurt. Eddie was going to die.

Her hands started shaking. She felt the sweat stick to the back of her neck, on her forehead under her bangs. Her arms and legs almost felt numb- or maybe they felt disconnected from her? They didn't feel right. Or useable.

She was frozen. And she tried to reason with herself. Thursday night was Thursday night. It was over a week ago. It all already happened, and she's supposed to be fine. She's in her room.

But as she looked around, none of it seemed familiar. It all looked foreign. Alien. It even started to look like the room was covered in vines, and dust, and cobwebs.

And she was alone. Steve and Nancy weren't there with her. By her side. Helping her run through the terror anyway.

She was alone.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and then one of the neighbor's walls went down. Everything shook even worse. And while she was petrified just a second ago, she was then thrown into urgency. She all but pushed herself out of the bed and backed up under the frame. In the little space between the floorboards and the box spring. She just tried to crawl further and further back, closing herself into something small and hidden.

Nothing bad should be able to find her under there.

She started crying harder.

Somewhere in it, her parents started asking questions. Asking if she wanted any breakfast before she left. Trying to make sure she was still up. Wondering why she wasn't answering. But none of it reached her. She just stared straight forward, trying desperately to cover her ears and make it stop. She just needed it all to stop. But all she felt was the tremble. And all she heard were the screams.

Her dad opened her door. He and her mom poured into her room and kneeled on the floor to find her down there under her bed. They tried talking to her. To figure out what was happening. None of them understood why it was happening.

Max was dead. Lucas was hurt. Erica was in danger. Eddie was going to die. Dustin was limping. Steve was bleeding.

Nothing was okay. And Robin was alone.

Steve's car rolled to a stop in front of the Buckleys. But Robin wasn't sitting, waiting for him on the stoop. She probably just woke up late and needed another minute, or two, to finish getting ready. They were going in early anyway.

Steve wasn't in any rush.

So he just sat in the driveway. Letting the radio play through “You're Much Too Soon” by Hall and Oats. But still, as the song ended and the host announced that The Cars would be playing next, Robin wasn't outside.

Which was starting to seem unusual. He'd never waited very long for her to run out. It's not like she was someone to go to a rager and be hungover the next morning. And there was no way she had something with Vickie that went so late she couldn't wake up. At least no way she wouldn't have mentioned it to him.

He wasn't sure what her deal was, but he still didn't really want to risk getting Mrs. Buckley's stink eye by knocking on the door. A person only makes that mistake once. So he shrugged to himself and honked his horn in two short bursts. To make sure she knew he was there. Not to sound passive-aggressive, but maybe she forgot what time they planned on leaving.

And in that dark space between what was happening and the memory playing over reality, Steve's car broke through.

Robin knew that beep.

From all the times she was already packed into his car after closing, and he was taking too long to lock the door to Family Video, so she'd lean over to the driver's seat and honk at him from his own car. From every time they'd gotten talked into running one or a couple of the kids somewhere, and they were taking their sweet time, so he'd honk at them. From any time someone peeled out past a stop sign in front of them, Steve would curse, ask how much they think his car is worth, and he'd honk at them because he couldn't expect an answer.

Robin knew the sound of Steve's Beemer.

Which meant Steve was there.

That was the only thing she could grasp and hold on to. Steve was there. Somewhere out of sight, but there. Steve was there, so she wasn't alone.

“Steve? STEVE?” she called for him. Past her parents that didn't fit the picture in front of her, she yelled for her best friend to fill in.

Just when Steve was really starting to wonder what was up, he saw Robin's father open the door.

“There's something wrong with her!” he shouted, looking more scared than grown-ups usually let him see.

And Steve didn't even think he'd ever run so fast for anything. Before he could even worry about what specifically could be wrong, before he could worry about the Buckleys not being his biggest fans, before he could worry about not technically having been invited inside their house - he was through the front door and following the sound of Robin's voice down the hallway to her room. Where her mother was crouched on the floor trying to reason with where Robin must've been under her bed.

He just shucked the jacket off his arms and scooted himself under there beside her.

“Hey. Hey, Rob. I'm here. It's me.”

She looked at him. And he made sense. As much as all of it didn't make sense, Steve being there with her while she felt terrified? That made sense.

Robin's fingers released a sweater that had been lost under her bed and instead grabbed onto the short sleeve of Steve's white shirt.

“Steve. Steve, it's- i- it's shaking. Everything is…”

“I know. I know, it is.” He nodded with her,” But, hey, I’m right here with you. Okay?”

There was barely enough room for the width of their bodies under there. But even so, Steve untucked his arm from beside him and pushed it into the space over Robin. He held her tight around her shoulders, her hand still twisted in the fabric of his shirt. She was probably going to stretch it out, but Steve wasn't even a little worried about it then.

“It's so loud…” she whispered, trying to cover up one ear without letting go of Steve.

“That's okay. That's okay, because…” Steve reached over to his discarded jacket. In the pocket was his walkman and one of his mixes he was keeping on him until he made the one specifically for Vecna. He slipped the headphones over her ears with a little difficulty, due to the angle and tight quarters. But after he got it on, he'd quickly sped through the first third of the tape, because ABBA's “Lay All Your Love On Me” should've been the fifth song on it.

He pulled her tighter against him while she listened to the music and spoke right into her hair,“ I’m right here. And I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

She continued to cry.

Robin's parents just looked at the two in shock. They knew that they had gotten close, but they never imagined… Steve was the kid in town with a reputation for getting around. They always assumed there was something there, something he was chasing her for. They weren’t happy about it but figured - maybe just maybe - Steve Harrington got drawn into Robin’s refusal of his advances and it just made a game for him after they worked together at the mall.

But the way he was looking at her, it was love.

And not a romantic or lustful thing. It was just love in its purest form. Like they were two halves of the same person. Destined to link their arms together for the rest of their lives, despite whatever husband and wife they would get tied to down the road. It was something bigger than her parents understood.

But they were starting to.

Robin eventually stopped shaking so badly, and stopped crying so hard. Steve asked them if the construction crew could stop what they were doing. Even for just fifteen minutes. Just long enough to let Robin calm down some and get out from under the mattress and put some distance between them.

And the parents left them to each other. Somehow, they completely trusted that all Steve Harrington wanted to do was help their daughter feel better. When they told the crew that their kid was having something of a nervous breakdown, they were incredibly apologetic and immediately shut off all the equipment. Mrs. Buckley brought out some lemonade for them as a thank-you while they killed a little time.

“You doing better, Rob?” Steve asked when she looked like she was coming back to herself.

The room didn't look so scary anymore. Her mind wasn't covering her floor and walls in leathery tentacles. She couldn't hear kids screaming and crying in her ears. She knew Max was safe in the hospital, and Eddie was right next to her recovering. Lucas, Erica, Dustin, and Steve all made it out with bumps and bruises, but they were fine.

Robin pushed the headphones off of one of her ears and nodded to Steve, wiping off her face,” Yeah. Yeah.”

“Do you wanna get up?” he offered.

She thought about it. But her legs still felt like jello, and she still had an icky feeling making her hair stand up. It didn't look like the Upside Down anymore, but she was still scared it would again as soon as she made it to her feet.

“Not yet? It feels safer down here. Closed in, nothing can surprise me.”

“Okay. We’ll stay down here for a few minutes.”

Robin shook her head. She felt silly. “We’re going to be late to work,” she told him.

“Fuck work.” Steve remarked, and she laughed through a sniffle,” I’m the manager now. I say Family Video can re-open tomorrow.”

But then the worry hit her again,“ But, Steve, if I stay here all day and they start again, I-”

Steve just shrugged against her shoulder,“ We can go wherever. Wherever you want.”

And she relaxed again.

They got her up off the floor, splashed some water on her face, and got packed into the car after Robin hugged her parents. Told them she was going to be fine.

They blared music from his car and stopped back at his house first to grab snacks. She met the Antonovs while Steve stole a boombox and a handful of cassettes from his room. And then they made quick goodbyes and were off again. Steve figured a good place to go, to get away from everything, was that junkyard past the quarry.

They drove up the gravel road, around the big open water, into the break of the trees, and out through the clearing of abandoned cars and scrap.

“So, this is where Dustin took you, huh?”

She'd wondered what kind of place made for a demodog trap and makeshift fortress to hunker down in. Not enough to actually ask for a visit to a place that screamed serial killer central, but she'd wondered about it.

“Yeah. Except we came from the tracks and walked the whole way from town.” Steve told her.

Robin crinkled up her nose at the idea,“ If you're gonna bring me to the edge of the world, I'm not walking there. Only way you're getting me all the way out here is if I'm riding in style.” She leaned back in the seat, popped her feet up on the dash, and closed her eyes. Like she was trying to become the picture of luxury.

Steve just smiled softly and hummed,“ Of course, you are.”

The Beemer was parked and the two climbed out together. Robin's first instinct was to comment on the mess. The broken glass and the dented-up metal. Steve pretended it was all damage from the demodogs. She didn't know any better to push it. But they sat down in an open spot. Dug into the leftovers of Claudia's brownies while they just talked and looked out over the hill.

And then Robin brought the conversation back to something she considered to be of high importance.

“So, what's the plan with Nancy?”

Steve completely turned away from her, echoing her question like that'd make her drop it,“ What's the plan?”

And, as if she didn't even hear the annoyance in his tone, she agreed,“ Yeah. What's the plan? What sort of idea do we have on the docket?”

“Robin. Her boyfriend is sleeping on my couch right now.” Steve reminded her.

“Which is why I want to know the plan. Situation's gotten complicated.” Robin crossed her legs and popped a bit of brownie into her mouth.

But he declared,“ There is no plan.”

And she almost sounded disappointed. "Steve.”

“You guys keep trying to open that door - and maybe you could entertain the idea while Jonathan wasn't around - but it's different now.”

“You guys?” Robin pointed out,” Who else has been talking about you and Nancy?”

Steve muttered,“ Munson might've said something stupid…”

Her eyes widened,“ See! Multiple people-”

“Just the two-”

“Multiple people think there's something there! So why aren't you going for it? We got your confidence back, you're acting like the hot commodity you are again. Don't get why you're wasting time.”

He tried to redirect her,“ Why don't we focus on the Vickie front?”

She argued,“ The Vickie front is fine!”

“Oh? So what are the two of you then?” Steve pressed.

Robin got quiet before eventually saying,” I don't know.”

“That doesn't sound very fine.”

Which thankfully seemed to pull her away from Nancy Wheeler.

“How do I broach that topic then, Steve?” she asked.

“Well, you're gonna wanna get all dressed up, look real nice, lean in close, and then you're going to ask her where this thing is going.”

“And if she doesn't think 'this thing' is going where I want it to go? Then I've just outed myself and started the countdown until I become the town pariah.”

“You just gotta be covert enough it's safe, and direct enough you get a clear answer,” Steve advised. Which sounded like an impossible balance to strike.

And Robin was at least a little bit annoyed he'd even say such a thing. “Oh? Is that all?“

“That's all it takes!”

“Then…” Robin leaned over and got all in Steve's space before she put on a husky voice,“ Where do you think this Nancy thing is going?”

Steve cried out “Shut up!” and shoved her shoulder. They both fell into boisterous laughter while they lay out on the grass. Leaving behind the horrors of that morning and knowing full well that Family Video wasn't opening by 10 am as they planned.

Karen got a phone call that morning from Theresa. Robin's mother mentioned that they'd had a rough morning at their house, and asked if Karen had noticed Nancy going through anything after the earthquake. Seeming like she was reliving it at all, or stuff like night terrors? Karen truthfully told her that she hadn't seen any of that from Nancy, but what she kept to herself was that their kids didn't just face an earthquake. Karen knew they'd seen more than they needed to.

And with her soft heart, knowing that Robin got really shaken up and quickly left with Steve that morning to get away from the ruckus, Karen decided she'd pay the two of them a visit. Offer a little kindness and remind them that - even if they couldn't turn to their own parents for help - she was on their team now. Like what Nancy had said the night she found out what was going on.

So Karen baked a batch of fresh cookies in the oven. Her oldest daughter was pouring over her school work, the new and the old, and paying extra attention to her essays. Karen slid a plate on the dining room table to Nancy as they came out. Still warm and gooey, practically falling apart as Karen warned her to let them cool a minute so she didn't burn herself. And then she headed out the door. Packing herself and her Tupperware container away while she drove over to Steve's place. Where surely the two of them would have gone after Robin's fright.

The oddest thing was, as she came up to the front porch and knocked on the door, it wasn't either of them that answered. Nor was it Hopper or Joyce, or any of the kids. Instead, there was a man she'd never met before. A very attractive man, for the record, wearing a pretty skimpy pair of cut-off jeans that were halfway up his thighs and what probably used to be a tee shirt until the sleeves were snipped off to the shoulder and the bottom cropped until it almost showed skin.

Which was a little out of the usual considering Spring just started and nobody else in Hawkins would be dressing like that for weeks, if not months. Just wasn't warm enough for it yet. But there this mystery man was, looking like he was ready to host a Summer cookout and work on his poolside tan.

He pursed his lips under a crisp mustache and asked, with a strong, deep voice and accent,” Yes?”

“Uh, yes, I- uh- I’m Karen. Wheeler. Mike and Nancy’s mom.” she explained. Remembering herself after a moment and shifting the cookies onto one arm, reaching out with her other hand to shake his. Friendly, polite, and mannerly. Maybe a little more bashful than she should be.

He smiled kindly and shook it with a firm grip,” Dmitri. I am Mikhail’s father.”

“Oh, yes, I’d heard- that, um, that we had someone new coming into town.” she made the connection and thought to herself that she was being silly. Stuttering and sputtering for no reason.

“Ah, yes.” Dmitri nodded,” Once your government sends me some papers, I may move out of this boy’s home. Maybe then we will even be neighbors, yes?”

Karen smiled and agreed,” Yeah, maybe.”

It was quiet for only a moment before he wondered,“ Was there something…?”

“Oh! Yes! Sorry, um, I assumed Steve and Robin would be around. Wanted to drop off a snack for them.” she motioned to the container she held.

“That is very kind of you. They are out, but I can put it in the kitchen.” he offered.

She handed the sweets over with a simple “thank you,” but she didn't exactly want to run back home so quickly. And she thought it was only reasonable to try and get to know him. Being another adult on the end-of-the-world team and all.

“How- how are you and your son adjusting? To Hawkins? I'm sure it must be a big change.”

“It is fine,” he assured her. “Mikhail wishes he were in school. Also wishes he had his own room, but that will change in time. We are fine. Much better away from where we were. And I, myself, am most enjoying all the time free from work and the warm temperature.”

Dmitri remarked on it all with a smile. Pale, blue eyes shining under the midwest sun. Which must've been a stark difference compared to the snow-covered country he'd called home just days before. He really seemed happy to have completely turned his whole life around.

It wasn't like he had much of a choice. By the sound of it from Murray, Hop, and Joyce, he had to leave. There wasn't anything left for him or his son in the Soviet Union after he was imprisoned, escaped, and every person at his workplace - convicts and guards alike - was killed. He was a renegade, no matter what. So he had to pack up his kid and him, board a sketchy helicopter, and come with the people he'd become loose companions with. Chasing “hope of a better life” and “the American dream” as far as it'd take him.

It sounded terrifying for Karen to imagine putting her own family through. But here, the man stood. In the door of a teenage boy's home because it had a spare room to borrow. In a country he didn't know. Without a clue about what exactly was going to happen in the coming days, weeks, months, or years. If they made it that long.

And he smiled under the sunshine. Because he was away from work, and they had nice weather in Hawkins, Indiana. And that was enough to be happy about.

“Really?” she asked him.

“Oh, yes. Certainly. If I could spend the rest of my days like this, though in a home of my own, I would. Waking up early, making food, spending time with Mikhail and sending him off, enjoying this lovely weather… it is all I need.”

Karen had to laugh to herself. It sounded like the life of a housewife this man was wishing for. And she knew it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. It wasn't as easy or as fulfilling as it seemed like it was when a person summed up in one clean sentence.

“Your son must be better behaved than mine.” she joked.

But Dmitri's eyebrow raised, and he leaned in closer to drop his voice,“ You think too highly of Mikhail. He is still a handful.” He sat back and mentioned,” Though, I suspect I am lucky to just have the one. You manage two.”

“Three, actually.” she corrected,” I have my youngest, Holly, too.”

“Three, then. Miss Wheeler, you are a mother of considerable strength, to do so on your own.”

“Oh, I’m not on my own. My husband, Ted, he-” Karen stumbled for a second. Not exactly sure how much she could speak to her husband's adequacy as a father. Not when it came to the softer parts of childcare. “Well, he supports us. Has a good job and brings home the bacon.”

“But you manage the home and children?” the man restated.

“Uh, yes, I guess, he mostly catches the bills, and I manage the house. And the kids. The day-to-day. If you want to look at it like that.”

“Then that makes you strong,” he argued.

Karen just averted her eyes and brushed her hair off her shoulder. “You’d be the first to think so.”

“Americans do not think their mothers are strong?”

“It’s-” She didn't get very far.

“They should. I believe you are very strong woman, Miss Karen Wheeler.” Dmitri said with full sincerity.

She couldn't help but notice he didn't correct to “Mrs.” even though she brought up her marriage. But it was nice to hear the rest of that sentence too. She was a strong woman. Seriously spoken, because it was no laughing matter.

Karen also couldn't help but ask a question she's wondered a few times by herself.

“Was it easy? To work and take care of your son on your own?”

It seemed a little rude to ask. She'd only known the man for a few minutes, and she only knew he was a widower or some kind of divorcee because it was sort of the elephant in the room. You don't think to grab the kid and not the mom if everything is going well. So he was in the parenting game on his own. And maybe sometimes Karen wondered if she could do something like that.

“Absolutely not.” he answered honestly,” My wife passed many years back. And my job it- it kept me away from home a lot. Only way we got through it was our sweet neighbor watching him when I could not. I only hope I may find way to tend to him more now.”

“You’d want to be a house-husband?” she asked, surprised.

“If I could? Absolutely. Just be a little… little trophy for the Missus to show off while I take care of the home and my boy.” he mused. “Sounds like a fine life to me.”

Karen only let out about half a laugh. “You’re a very interesting man, Dmitri.”

“What? You do not agree?”

“I can see the appeal, from the outside view. I’ve been in the housewife spot for a while now. It can be nice at times, but I definitely miss…” her eyes wandered,” the freedom.”

“I take it you have a passion then? One you put away to take care of your family?” Dmitri leaned against the door frame. His exposed bicep squished against woodgrain, though Karen tried not to notice, and he watched her carefully. Listening.

She admitted to him,“ Yeah, I did. Once upon a time. Many, many years ago.”

“Well, I hope you find it again, Miss Karen.” There it was with the “Miss” again- “Maybe your kids straighten up and give you time to chase it? Or your husband takes over some responsibilities of the house?”

“Oh, that’ll be the day.”

“You think Mr. Wheeler is not strong enough for the job?”

“He does his job.” Karen had to defend her husband. She began to count on her fingers,” Provides the roof over our heads, food on the table-”

But this Dmitri wasn't having it. With one hand, he gently closed his grip around hers. Only enough pressure to stop her, so he could say,“ If your husband leaves you so dissatisfied, then I do not believe he does his job very well.”

And Karen could feel the heat in her cheeks go hotter. He was close. And touching her hands. And serious but not afraid to laugh. And sweet in the way he talked about his kid. And attentive to her in a way no one has been since she and Ted first met.

It swelled something in her chest that scared her.

She smiled politely, and pulled her hands back,“ Sorry to have taken up so much of your time. I wasn't planning on more than a quick drop-off. But I’m happy to hear you’re both settling in. Feel free to help yourselves to the cookies as well.”

“Thank you,” he said, smoothly. No hint of dismay as she backed out. And then he added,” But it was no bother to speak with a beautiful woman on a nice day. Especially if she's brought over her own baking.”

In a moment of bravery, Karen agreed.

“It was no bother speaking to you either. I’ll see you again sometime.”

“Until then, Miss Karen. To your free time and the rise of house-husbandry.”

And Mr. Antonov stayed at the door while Karen returned to her car. He popped open the top and swiped himself a cookie in the wait. Watching as she opened the door and slid into the driver's seat. He only closed the front door of Steve's house once he'd seen the engine turn over fine. Making sure she'd have no problem getting home.

A length of care just beyond what was necessary.

It'd been a long, long time since Karen felt like anyone had extended that attention toward her.

Not that it mattered much. She was a married woman. A housewife. A stay-at-home mom. And Dmitri didn't convey much confidence that she was able to be anything else anymore. Not with three children to look out for. Even if Nancy was going to be off to college soon, Mike still had three years left. Hell- Holly was only six.

She needed to get back home.

Get back to what she knew how to do.

Time passed by in the junkyard. The sun rose up and eventually hung high in the sky overhead. Steve and Robin nearly emptied the last of Claudia's brownies. They were probably ready for some real food soon. And to get back to civilization.

But, for the moment, they just lay out on the ground next to each other.

Trying not to think about all the dirt getting into their hair and rubbing into the back of their clothes.

But Robin finally felt like herself again.

“Thank you,” she said to him. Her best friend. Who sat with her through the whole thing. Even though it snuck up on them out of nowhere, and they've never dealt with anything like it themselves.

“For?” he asked her.

She filled in,“ For being there for me.”

“Rob,” Steve rolled over onto his side to look at her,” I always will be. You know that.”

Robin nodded,“ I know. I just…” she started to explain,” didn’t realize it could get that bad. Nothing ever hit me like that after last summer. Nothing was ever similar enough to what happened that I just- I don’t know. But then I was just in my room, and I looked around, and it was just like Thursday night. Like some amalgamation of my bedroom and the Creel house, and the sounds were just- ”

Steve put his hand on hers where she'd started mindlessly ripping grass up by the roots.

“I know. But we’re fine. We’re fine.” he assured her.

“Yeah. We are.”

“So we’re feeling better now?”

“Yeah. We’re feeling better now.” Robin squeezed his hand.

“All the way better, or is there still something you need to be all the way there?”

She chuckled and smiled up at the bright blue sky. A big toothy smile. The kind her mother would've told her to reign in if they were taking family pictures. But the gentle fondness of Steve Harrington could be funny when he overdid it. Like a mother hen checking on his little chickadees over and over again.

And Steve might've been thinking about cruising by a drive-thru to finish off the comfort, but Robin had another solution in mind to settle any lingering anxiety.

“Well, if you’re offering… you know what my favorite thing ever is…”

And that was all the leading she had to do. Steve's eyes narrowed at her. But he didn't resist much.

“… Fine. Since you had a shitty morning.”

And then Steve went to his cassette player and dropped in “Robin’s Mix.” A tape he'd put together some time ago that always got the most runtime when its namesake was with him. It only took seconds for the sounds of ABBA's “Dancing Queen” to come out through the speakers. The first song on it. Robin stood, dusted herself off, and joined Steve by the hood of his Beemer where he'd propped the player. Fully set on turning the patch of seclusion into their own private dance floor.

And as the Swedish singers came in, Steve was quick to mime a microphone of his own. Directing every single word to his very best friend. Just like they had for her birthday.

“You are the dancing Queen, Young and sweet, Only seventeen! You can dance, You can jive, Having the time of your life, Ooooo~ See that girl, Watch that screen, Digging the Dancing Queen!”

They spun around each other. Robin shook out her hair, dropped her shoulders, and grooved side-to-side. Put her hands up in the air and swept them around in smooth motions. Steve was jumping around, posing, and kneeling to bask up at her. Like she was a real celebrity.

They probably put too much energy into it. If anyone serious was looking at them and compared their moves to the music at hand, they'd probably have said they didn't fit together. But to the two of them, it was how the song was meant to be danced to. It's what was right when everything came down to just Steve and Robin. No one else on the planet was invited.

And just being Steve and Robin was the easiest thing most days.

They made it all the way through the song before Robin nearly collapsed against him in giggles. He put away the phony mic, tossing it somewhere behind him to catch her before they both ended up on their asses. “One Way Or Another” began to fire up, but neither was listening too carefully.

“Thank you,” Robin said, almost out of breath.

“You already said that.” Steve pointed out.

“I know. But seriously,” she grabbed his hand and squeezed it like it was the most tangible lifeline she's ever had,” Thank you. For being my favorite person in the whole world.”

He squeezed her hand back, just as much love expressed in the simple act,” Thank you for being mine.”

Eventually, Robin stood back up on her own two feet. And they decided on that drive-thru meal to offset all the sugar and chocolate they'd had in lieu of a balanced breakfast. And interestingly enough, they also decided on going back to Family Video anyway.

They had no plans to open. More so just get out from under the sun before one of them (Robin) got sunburnt. Maybe even avoid the mosquitoes for the rest of the day. And Robin's Mix played through Steve's stereo the whole drive.

It might've only been Friday, and the nurses might've said they wanted to hold on to Eddie through Tuesday, but he was getting stir-crazy.

He hated, hated, hated just sitting there on that bed. He wasn't supposed to get up and move around too much, lest he desire to face Nurse Tracey's wrath. But it was torture. The tv was no adequate entertainment, and it killed him to know that everyone else had something to do. Some way they were healing or fixing things.

Just “getting better” wasn't a good enough assignment.

Not when there was so much at stake. Not when he was laying down right next to Max, who was stuck where he'd gotten out of. They told him it wasn't the same. But it should've been. They both died, and El brought them both back, and they both got to a hospital. But she wasn't awake.

And it pissed him off so much.

She played decoy, and so did he. And they both did their parts a little too well. But she didn’t get up after.

Wayne dropped in and ate breakfast with him on his way to work. Expressed his sorrow about Eddie's ring. Eddie's mom's ring. His fingertips drifted to his right ring finger where he'd always worn it. Not on the left, because that was the spot dedicated to his own engagement one day.

He missed it. The black gem, cut in too many facets that it caught the light too much. It didn't have the same mystique as domed, smooth onyx that seemed more like a void set in silver than a stone. He'd looked at some in pawn shops and understood the appeal.

But as much as his mom's ring didn't exactly fit the idea of what his aesthetic "should" be, it was better.

And it was gone.

He didn't cry when Wayne mentioned it. Didn't cry when Wayne said he was going to ask around, keep an eye out, and look wherever he could think to. Didn't ruin it for him by saying," I know I wore it into battle. I fucking kissed it before climbing up a twisted version of our trailer and starting my set. So if it's gone, it's gone in another dimension. And, honestly, it was probably eaten by a demobat, given how much they bit at me. So it had to be fucked up for good after sitting in dead monster stomach acid all this time."

No. Eddie just smiled at his uncle. Told him thanks for everything. Said he was going to make it up to him with a spaghetti night when they settled in a new place to call their home again. Wayne smiled and told him not to forget the garlic bread.

"You know that's the best part." he laughed.

Wayne's eyes caught on his watch, and it was time to go. He laid a hand on his boy's shoulder, kissed him on his forehead, and told him to just keep getting better. Try not to worry about anything in the meantime.

Eddie didn't promise him anything.

He finished his re-read of The Hobbit. Sniffled at the end like he always did. He looked over old notes and put together new ones for a campaign. The boys, including Josie and Erica, and even Will, all came by. It was nice.

It wasn't a very complex storyline he'd thought up, but for a one-shot, it would do. The gang of nine players packed around his bed was given the task of sneaking into a masquerade party held in a castle. The queen had received word that her daughter was in danger, but she didn't know who it was. It could've even been a member of their own royal guard. So she'd hired the band of adventurers to make sure the princess would be safe. The hard part was, she'd survived an insane labor of nine. Yup, nonuplets. So there were nine identical princesses to keep an eye on and protect while they tried to find the bad guy. And just as fate would have it, one of them died.

It was only thanks to Will's impeccable notetaking that they figured out it was not actually Daphne in the pale green dress, but Rowena who'd swapped their clothes and taken the place of her sister. A scheme worked up with an assassin she'd fallen in love with to steal the title of "eldest daughter" and have the first claim to the throne. She had been the youngest of nine, after all, she was far down the list before she'd see a crown.

But they solvest the mystery. Earned a good chunk of change from an incredibly distraught royal family who not only lost one child, but a second too. Everyone cheered for each other when they got the confession and defeated the enemies in combat. Tucked away the characters with mentions that it might be nice to dust them off and revisit the theme again another time. Make a regular habit of these Sherlock Holmes-like mysteries dipped in a little bit of fantasy flair and ass-kicking to close it all out.

It was fun. Mostly. But holding the session around his bed, where he felt like he was some weak little thing he didn't think he was… it hurt Eddie in a way he wasn't expecting. It itched against all the other feelings he was holding on to. And he didn't like it.

He was feeling cagey.

So, after they all said their goodbyes, he made a break for it.

Or, more exactly, he told Tracey he had to get out of there and begged for any way to make it happen. She was not happy. Looked at him down her hooked nose, through her thick glasses, from under crumbling mascara that rimmed her eyes. A scornful expression like she was trying to intimidate him into pulling up his covers and saying how much he actually liked it there.

But he stood his ground. And she admitted, him being a legal adult and all, that he could fill out an Against Medical Advice form - meaning he couldn't sue if he fucked himself up for leaving early - and he'd be free. So he asked her, very nicely, to fetch such a document for him. And she did. She still pestered him about calling or coming in the minute he felt bad. To watch himself for a high temperature, upset stomach, sweating or chills, bleeding, puss, or extra sensitivity around the injuries. So he swore up and down he would.

And he made it out.

His car was still at Wayne's hotel, wherever that was exactly, so Eddie just hopped the bus and made it downtown. He didn't have an exact plan, but he was not going to go home. That trailer was practically a fallout zone and wouldn't make for much of a shelter at that point. And he also didn't want to even figure out where Wayne was pitched up at. Because he was bound to go stir crazy there just the same as he had in the hospital.

He ended up on the idea to stop by a certain video store to annoy a certain pair of employees and whatever poor souls decided to shop there on the day Eddie Munson became a truly free man.

“What? Am I not pretty enough for you, Robin?” Steve asked.

His voice dripped with offense, like the discussion at hand was the cruelest thing anyone had ever said to him. They'd been making plans for Robin to ask Vickie on something more obviously a date. To help bridge that gap between girl friends and girlfriends. Robin had suggested something more like what she and Steve do anyway, getting together at someone's house when there are no parents home for a movie. But that also painted what they do as being inherently romantic and she gagged. Now, Steve was on some tirade about being a wonderful date and she should be so lucky.

He leaned against the shop counter and struggled to pop his hip out in a way that could even come close to feminine. But none of the shapes were there, and Robin could only look at him with pity. Not an admission of defeat.

“As much as I love you, Steve…” she tried to soften the blow,” You already know the key thing keeping us apart is my particular interest in…”

”Oh, right.” Steve's tone dropped, and he cupped his hands on his chest as if it was the first time the thought had occurred to him,” Boobies. I don’t have those for you.”

The comment caused Robin to crinkle her nose in a sharp cringe,” Stop calling them that!”

“Why?! It’s what they are! Not my fault you can’t handle the proper word for them!” he pushed.

“ANYWAY!” she tried to take control of the conversation,” I like them a lot, so stop pressing it. It's starting to get really sad.”

“Alright, alright, I'm hearing you, but what if I turned like this.” Steve turned around and arched his back as he shyly looked over his shoulder at Robin. Trying to pull off a more pin-up pose. Like, because she couldn't see his front, she could forget he was missing the pair features they both enjoyed so much. Like it made him girly enough at all.

Robin tried to hold back her snickers at his display. Steve closed his eyes and shook out his hair behind him for effect. He put on a pretend sultry voice before asking her,“ Does this do it for you?”

“What did I just walk in on?” Eddie froze in the open doorway.

As Steve's brain registered that the question didn't come from Robin, he snapped open his eyes and jumped out of the pose. Some kind of less-than-manly shriek flew up from his mouth, and all too quickly he practically tumbled over the countertop and crossed his arms over his chest to cover himself behind it. As if he was even topless in the first place. He wasn't, but he still felt pretty exposed.

“Can't you read the sign?!” Steve griped. A pointer finger shot out to where the “closed” side of the board was clearly facing out the door to any foot traffic on the sidewalk.

Robin was less focused on Steve's cause for concern and complaint. Instead, she joyfully exclaimed,“ Eddie! You’re out of the hospital!”

“Yup, doc declared me as less than ‘healthy as a horse’ but not likely to bleed out at any moment, so I've been released on good behavior for bedrest at my own home while the wounds, you know, do their thing and scar over.”

“If it’s bedrest, shouldn’t you be, ya know… in a bed? Resting?” Steve questioned him. Maybe a little pointedly, but hey, he was allowed to feel a little sour over Eddie walking in on his and Robin's nonsense. That stuff's supposed to be private.

“Didn’t really feel like hitching a ride across town for a quiet hotel room packed with Wayne's and I's stuff while he finishes the rest of his shift.” Eddie excused,” Plus I’d miss out on whatever the hell all this is. So I’ll ask again; what did I just walk in on?”

“Steve’s just really sad that he’s not pretty enough for me.” Robin mused teasingly. Figuring that context was innocuous enough for the present company.

“Oh, man. Tough break, Princess Harrington. My condolences.” Eddie said, putting one hand over his heart and the other on Steve's shoulder like he actually meant to console the man's wounded pride.

Steve swatted away the gesture immediately. And then he decided something new about Eddie being a member of the party.

”You two are insufferable!” he said with a pair of aggressive finger-pointing,” I don't like this duo! I don't need the two of you ganging up on me! It's unfair!”

“Wait till we get Dustin in on the action too. Three on Steve seems like fine odds.” Eddie added just to see the way it made Steve twist up his face. He even started getting a little red!

Through it all, Eddie and Robin found some kind of understanding between the two of them. An understanding of how fun it was to push all of Steve's buttons. And somehow, they still secured invites to his place for dinner. Maybe it was their wicked pair of sad eyes, maybe it was more of that “feeling way too bad for everyone” gene he's got, but Steve let them both pile into his car while he made his way home.

Eddie met their European guests, shook more hands, and made more small talk. And by the end of the meal, Steve would say he narrowly survived the onslaught of teasing. Steve ran Robin back to her place and stayed parked right outside until she buzzed him on the walkie and said she wasn't having a panic attack in her room again and he needed to clear out before someone accused him of stalking. Eddie and Steve laughed, and as the driver wondered where he was sending Eddie off, he admitted he didn't know.

Still hadn't even called his uncle to find out which spot across town he was camped up in.

And somehow… that conversation ended with another invitation to Steve's house. That time, one to spend the night. Eddie was eager to accept. A bustling house of kids and the most random assortment of adults sounded like the exact opposite of falling asleep to the sound of his heartbeat beeping on a machine next to him, and Max's a few feet away.

And thanks to an already stacked dance card - the Byers and Co. on the couch, Joyce and Hop sharing the master, Murray laid claim to the first guest room, the Antonovs in the other - there was really only one place with any spare room without tossing one the injured men to the floorboards.

And that was to partner up and share Steve's bed with him.

It started with Eddie trying to break the ice. Pointing out the grid pattern painted on Steve's walls and hung up on his curtains. Mentioning that it was nothing like how he imagined the King of Hawkins slept. It looked more like a cage than anything else.

Steve shrugged, agreed with the sentiment, and tried to focus on grabbing his own pajama options and getting the night over with. As awkward as it was shaping up to be. But drawing attention to his closet, drew attention to the desk and chair right in front of it. And the denim vest hanging on the back of that chair, which rightfully belonged to Steve's most recent guest.

“There it is!”

Steve turned around and followed Eddie's eyes to the battle vest he'd accidentally borrowed for too long.

“Oh, right! Sorry.” he picked it up from its perch. “Didn't mean to steal it. Just forgot it was there a little.”

“Wow. I let you dress yourself in my battle vest - watching out for your delicate purity so that it might not be besmirched - and you forget about such a deep moment we shared?” Eddie lamented the tragedy. Wondering to himself if it would be too much to try and force a tear.

“I didn't mean I forgot about it like that. Just- I was trying to figure out what to do with it, and I forgot to give it back.” Steve quickly handed it over,” Here.”

Eddie barely looked at the item before he asked,“ What to do with it? That sounds a little spooky. Did you have some kind of black magic spell in mind that you needed it for? You're not gonna steal a lock of my hair after I fall asleep, right?”

“No. Absolutely not. I, just, I was wearing it while I was all gross and sweaty and bleeding, so I figured the same rules as borrowing gym clothes applied, and I should wash it before I gave it back.” Steve tried to explain,” But you have so much stuff on it I didn't want to get ruined, and I wasn't sure how to go about it, and everything has been so insane all the time-”

“I get it. Worry not, Stevie.” Eddie tried to release him from whatever pressure he put on the idea. “Plus you don't really wash a battle vest. It's kinda supposed to go through hell and come out the other side with some authentic grime.”

“But another guy's blood and sweat? That's pretty extreme.” Steve commented. But his face said he leaned more towards 'nasty' than just 'hardcore.'

“You don't understand the culture. That's okay.”

“Alright. Well, then I guess my dilemma turned out for the best.” Steve ducked back into his closet.

Eddie more carefully examined his vest for all the wear and tear it saw. None of the patches or pins looked like they were in danger, but there were some new loose threads he could think about playing with. As he looked it over, he commented with a chuckle,“ Yeah, if you wanna uselessly panic about other stuff and wind up saving the day through inaction, there's the Vecna guy I don't know if you've heard about. I think those magic powers could really speed things along and get us all to summer break in one piece.”

Steve quickly turned out of the hanging garments and urged Eddie,“ Don't let Murray hear you strategize, or he'll barge in and spend an hour actually trying to make a plan out of it.”

He said it so seriously Eddie couldn't even get a response ready while Steve slinked out of the room to go across the hall. To change into the jammies and take care of his nightly routine in the comfort and privacy of his own bathroom. And before Eddie knew it, he was left alone in Steve Harrington's room. Sitting crisscross on the edge of his bed, a pile of denim in his lap, and far too much awareness of how fresh their friendship really was.

The rest of the house had gotten pretty quiet. They'd all turned in for an earlier evening after a long afternoon of work at Hop's cabin and some folks still adjusting their internal clocks to Hawkins time. A big, big house, packed with people, and yet there wasn't much noise.

Steve came back to his room just after a few minutes. He tossed his clothes from the day in a dirty laundry hamper and sat on the other side of the bed. Pushing down the covers before he swung his legs up under them. Eddie followed suit. Standing up to put his vest back on the desk chair for the time being, and climbed into the bed next to his roomie for the night.

And then Eddie and Steve were left to each other. In Steve's bed. Laying still as statues to get some well-deserved rest.

And it was nerve-racking. All of Eddie Munson's nerves were racked. He couldn't help thinking about how the whole situation was so far off the map for him a few weeks ago. On the 22nd of March, Eddie Munson held a broken glass to his neck, and everything's been so strangely on the up and up since. Minus the whole almost-dying part. They'd been forging a bond, a weird one, given such a distinctly separate history. But there they were. Having a sleepover in the famed King's bedroom.

And it wasn't any easier for Steve to deal with. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. It shouldn’t do or mean anything to him. Steve's done this sort of thing with Robin tons of times. Falling asleep next to someone you’re not attracted to should be easy and simple. But it wasn't.

Like, with Robin, they were both allowed to stretch their limbs out in all directions and hug the night away before they tried to kick one another off the bed. But, with Eddie, they were both practically on the edges of the mattress with their backs to each other so they wouldn't accidentally touch or even look at one another. And Steve wasn’t falling asleep. Instead, he felt like he couldn’t move without bothering Eddie.

What if his stitches were still super sore? What if he was lying about the vest and was actually bothered about the condition it was in? What if he was mad about his mom's ring?

And all of a sudden, Eddie started talking.

“You didn’t, by the way.”

Which didn't exactly make any sense as the first thing either of them had said in almost thirty minutes.

“What?”

“Stomp on me.” he clarified.

And it didn't immediately click. But after a second, Steve remembered what he said while Eddie was still in the coma. The part about “I was a bully,” and “I hope I didn't bully you,” but “I wouldn't really remember,” and “Tommy called it stomping on the ants” like that excused any of it. So that was the stomping Eddie was thinking about.

“Oh… so you…“

“Heard that bit?” Eddie finished for him. “Yeah. When our girlie woke me up in my head, some stuff outside started coming through. When there were a lot of you in the room, I couldn’t really follow any of it or understand what you were saying. But you stopped by on your own. Said that bit. It was easy to hear then.”

“Sorry. I honestly didn’t think you’d catch any of it.” Steve tucked his hands in closer to his face. More thankful than anything else that they couldn't see one another for this conversation.

And yet, Eddie joked,“ You planned to waste such a moving monologue on deaf ears? For shame, Harrington, for shame.”

“I just-” he tried again,” I’m sorry-“

But the other wouldn't hear it. “I just said you didn’t do it. Alright? Nothing to waste ‘sorry’ on.”

“But I must have, at some point.” Steve reasoned.

Unsure why his idea was to argue that, no, no, Eddie, actually he did mistreat you, you must be mistaken, think harder. But Eddie didn't waver. His voice was sure and even. And he simply affirmed the fact.

“You didn’t.”

“But-“

“I’ll admit, I convinced myself once or twice that you orchestrated all of it. Sent out your legions of jocks and goons to carry out your dastardly demands for you while keeping your hands clean. But, I know now that I was wrong about that idea.”

And with a pang of guilt that gnawed at his ribs, Steve spoke quietly,“ But I know I’ve said it.”

Freak. He called him The Freak. He knew he did. Hell, he said it just weeks ago when Dustin invited him to the game. He knew that.

But Eddie didn't dwell on it. Didn't deem it the important part.

“Not to me. Not once did you shove my face in it.”

“I’m still sorr-“ but Steve felt a smack on his shoulder. Carefully, he looked over to see that Eddie was laying face up, no longer with his back to Steve. The wall of air between them was gone, in one way or another. So Steve shifted over, joining him in laying back until he was looking up at his ceiling too.

“And do you always do that?” Eddie asked as he tried to get comfortable.

“Do what? Apologiz-”

“Talk through movies?” Eddie interrupted, steering the conversation way out into the left field,” I mean, I was unconscious, but I still heard your whole commentary on Grease. Very strong opinions you have on that one.”

“Okay, Sandy did nothing wrong and shouldn't have had to 'compromise' with Danny at the end just because he lied about their relationship to his guys for points. Had her story been about actually wanting to be less of a goody-two-shoes for her own reasons-”

Eddie stopped him before he really got going,“ That is what I'm talking about. Seriously, dude? And you had something specific to say every minute of it. Was practically watching it with you even with my eyes closed because you'd remind me what beat we were on without fail.”

He bumped into Steve's shoulder with his own. Small laughs bubbled up. And the whole situation didn't feel so awkward and stilted anymore.

“Yeah, I guess.” Steve agreed with a smile,” Rob and I are usually pretty chatty when we watch ‘em together. I think I picked it up from her.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re a real Chatty Cathy, Steve Harrington.”

“That such a bad thing?”

Eddie paused to think on it. But quickly decided otherwise. “Nah. I wouldn’t say so. Felt way less lonely with someone talking.”

Steve felt some pride settle back into himself,“ Then you’re welcome.”

“Oh, great,” he groaned,” Now I went and gave you a big head about it.”

“I think most people would tell you I already had one.” Steve pointed out.

“A big, stupid head.” Eddie took a finger and poked Steve right on the side of his forehead. But before Steve could really say anything else, he tugged the blanket up and rolled over in the bed. His back was up again, but it didn't feel so insurmountable. It was comfortable.

“Go to sleep,” he commanded. As if he wasn't the one that started their discussion in the first place.

Steve rolled onto his own side,” You go to sleep.”

A comeback fit for a first grader. My, how the mighty have fallen. But sometimes falling could be a good thing. Brings a person back down to Earth. Reminds them of all the other people that didn't climb too tall on their high horse.

And that kind of falling, the kind that Steve Harrington did, didn't make him shatter into broken pieces on the ground.

Some parts of a person need to break. Explicitly so they can put themselves back together. And maybe the breaks were always going to be there. But maybe he'd be the better for it. Maybe they all would.

[n0thingbutlov3]

need you now

in which an impulsive voicemail leads to some secrets being spilled.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader. warnings/tags: angst (sorry i’m incapable of being nice lol) hurt/comfort tho!! lil bit of fluff too because i AM capable of being nice, alcohol consumption as a coping mechanism (i’m literally just a girl…) spencer and reader are broken up :( but they’re still sooo in love and it’s soo obvious so it’s fine!! (also it kind of gets fixed at the end-ish. you’ll see *evil smirk*) reader cries a lot (real) spencer is a cutie (as always) spencer and reader sleep together…no like literally, not in a funny business way, some swearing, no use of y/n!!! wc: 3k a/n: hihihi!! so this is my first fan fiction i’ve wrote and completed ever (gulp) it’s also my first time publishing one (gulp) my writing could definitely be better and so could my grammar tbh but i HOPE if you choose to read you’ll enjoy…feedback is always appreciated (plsplspls) also like requests?? if anyone’s into that—id love to write more but inspo is difficult sometimes. if there’s any spelling mistakes im sorry, eye am very tired!! it’s 5am *eye twitching* okay i’m going to sleep, gootbye IF U SAW ME EDITING THIS 5 TIMES NO U DIDNT (i’m bad at tumblr ok..)

“Hi. This is Doctor Spencer Reid. I’m not available right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can…”

His tinny voice cut off to make way for the signature beep of the beginning of a voicemail recording.

You could hang up now—you should hang up now, save yourself some dignity and go drown your sorrows in alcohol like a normal person instead of calling your ex-boyfriend.

You should, but your mouth was opening before your finger could reach the hang-up button, and…and it was a losing battle from the moment you clicked on Spencer’s icon.

“Uh—hi, it’s…it’s me.” You huffed out a sad laugh.

“So, um, I…I tried calling, but you didn’t answer so…” The static buzz of silence hummed through your ear, just inches from where you held your phone with a shaky grip. “maybe you’re on a case or out with friends, or someone else—“ You let the implication hang in the air—the thought of Spencer potentially being in a relationship bringing a lump to your throat.

You swallowed it down.

“I just…I just had an unbelievably shitty day, Spence.” You sniffed, wiping the moisture that had escaped from your eye with your sweater sleeve. “I know you’ve never read A Series of Unfortunate Events but I think I’d give those kids a run for their money.” You tried to laugh but it came out as more of a sob.

You inhaled shakily, trying to collect yourself and remember why on earth you thought it would be a good idea to call Spencer when you’d been broken up for months. Hell, you hadn’t heard from him at all since you had parted ways—except from the odd text about returning each others’ things. It was obvious he had moved on, and here you were, filling up his voicemail with blubbering messages and making references to adolescent books.

“God, sorry about this.” You breathed out a watery chuckle. “I just…didn’t want to be alone, I guess. But that’s-um-not your problem anymore, so I’m—I’m sorry. Have a nice night.” Your voice cracked and you hung up before you could start weeping down the line. You didn’t need to look even more pathetic.

You pulled your phone away from your ear, looking down at his contact photo through blurred vision. He was smiling—not the tight, closed lip smile he gave other people, but a full, bright smile that had his dimples showing. One of your hands was wrapped loosely around his neck and the other was holding your phone just far enough away to capture both of your smiles. Your head was rested on top of his shoulder, tilted just slightly to the left so your temple was brushing against his.

It felt like looking at a vintage photograph—you knew those people and their happiness existed at some point in time, but it wasn’t tangible; you couldn’t verify it was real.

When you were with Spencer, you never doubted how real it was. All you had to was look at him across the room and he’d flash you a smile identical to the one in that photo and you’d just…know.

It felt like forever ago now that you’d been on the receiving end of that grin and it killed you. So much so that before you could consider the repercussions, you were trudging through to your kitchen and grabbing the bottle of whiskey that sat unopened in your cabinet. It had been a present—from Rossi, actually. When Spencer had first introduced you to the team, the older man had given it to you as something of a welcome gift. Of course, he couldn’t have known you weren’t much of a drinker, and since you wanted to make a good impression (and because you were sure it had cost more than all the alcohol you had consumed in your life combined) you accepted it—deciding to save it for a rainy day.

You think this qualified.

You grabbed the bottle, a glass, and padded back through to your living room, slumping onto your couch. You filled your glass up a little less than halfway before gulping it down, enjoying the burn in your throat—it was better than the constant thickness.

You poured yourself another glass before turning on the TV. You weren’t sure what was playing—it didn’t really matter anyway, your vision was already being obscured by tears again.

You thought the pounding was in your head at first—serves you right for drinking half a bottle of whiskey. Only, it wasn’t, because moments later the pounding subsided and instead, your apartment door was opening, casting your pitch-black living room in a yellow glow which temporarily blinded you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your mind hazy—again, serves you right for drinking half a bottle of whiskey. Someone was calling your name, but there was too much sensory input for you to make out who.

You certainly hoped it wasn’t a paramedic—maybe your neighbour had heard you sobbing for the last four hours and decided you needed a wellness check. Then there were hands on your face, and that had you flicking your eyes open, because you recognised those hands—impossibly soft, with a callus on his trigger finger being the only thing to mar them. Spencer.

“Spencer?” You slurred.

He sighed in exasperation (or relief) and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Are you alright? You weren’t answering your phone, I thought…” He trailed off, worry evident in his voice.

You sat up then, trying to compose yourself even though the room was spinning. Fucking whiskey. You rubbed your eyes haphazardly, blinking until you could finally see.

You should’ve stayed bleary-eyed. Because nothing could prepare you for the way your breath hitched when you finally saw him. After months of not seeing each other, Spencer was here, sitting on your couch, and he was looking at you like you were something fragile, and—God, you needed another drink. You turned away from him, reaching for the neck of the bottle as you spoke.

“I’m fine.”

Before you could lift it up, Spencer gently pried your hand away from the bottle with his own, and then slid it across the coffee table with his other.

“You’re drunk. No more of that, please.” His tone wasn’t unkind, but he left no room to argue. You probably would’ve objected anyway, if it weren’t for the way he kept his hand clasped around yours, rubbing soothing circles into your pulse point almost absentmindedly.

You glanced up to him—to stop yourself from staring at your hand in his and how natural it felt, more than anything—but that proved to be a mistake too, because he looked just as beautiful as thirty seconds prior and it felt just as natural for him to be sitting next to you on your sofa, but it wasn’t natural anymore.

“How did you get in?”

“My key.”

“Oh.”

Right. The key that he still had because you refused to meet up with him to let him return it. He tried for weeks to contact you, but you ignored him, because getting the key back meant things were finally over. You supposed he could return it now—maybe that’s why he came in the first place.

“Why did you come?” You asked, your voice impossibly small.

“You called.” He replied—as though he was talking about something as simple as the weather. You call and I come.

You searched in his eyes for any sign of a lie, but of course, there was none. He was being completely genuine—as always. You were the awful ex-girlfriend who left concerning voicemails on his phone and had him travelling to your apartment in the middle of the night only for him to look completely okay with the situation—like there was nothing he’d rather be doing than making sure you were safe.

You couldn’t help the way tears sprung to your eyes or your lip began to tremble as you lolled your head back onto the couch, pulling your gaze away from his.

“Angel, what’s wrong?”

You liked to consider yourself to be a strong person. You had been through things in your life that were objectively worse than your breakup with Spencer, but something about the gentleness of his tone and the way he had let one of his many (past) petnames for you slip had your throat tightening and you ducked your head into your one hand—the other still seized by Spencer’s—to try and muffle a sob.

“Hey,” He trailed his hand that was wrapped around yours up your arm, all the way to your shoulder blade before lightly guiding you towards him. You don’t have enough energy in you to fight his magnetic pull, so you shuffle over until you can bury your head into his shirt. You inhale his scent; vanilla, neroli, and so him it makes you ache.

Stopping your tears is futile—you’d know, they’d barely ceased all night—so you just let them fall, seeping into Spencer’s tie as he rubs one hand softly up and down your back, the other cradling the crown of your head.

His breathing is quiet and slow—the exact opposite of yours—and you try to imitate it—forcing air into your lungs. When your sobbing has turned to shaky breathing and the occasional sniffle, he speaks up.

“Do you want to talk?”

Talk about what? About what had happened today—what had led you to calling him? Talk about how for the last few months, he had been the only person you had wanted to call?

“No.” You hated how pitiful you sounded.

“Okay.”

Spencer didn’t say anything else for a minute—your synchronised breathing being the only thing to stop the room from falling into dead silence.

“You need to rehydrate.” He murmured, smoothing down your hair.

You hummed into him, in no hurry to unwrap yourself from his body. You probably wouldn’t get to be this close to him again, after all.

He moved both of his hands to your biceps, pulling you back slightly so you could look at him. He knitted his brows together in a silent plea which had you rolling your eyes petulantly, your lashes still damp from tears.

“Fine.” You peeled yourself off of him, pushing yourself into a standing position. Horrible mistake. You were still incredibly drunk, turns out, and everything was spinning a little bit and come to think of it, you were also nauseous and—

“Careful, lovely.” Spencer placed his hand firmly on the small of your back, keeping you upright.

and—actually, you were fine now.

He stood too, moving his hand just slightly over to your waist so he could guide you to the kitchen. When he knew you could stand upright—even if you were relying mostly on the counter behind you—he grabbed a glass from your cabinet, moving around effortlessly to pour you some water. The sight was so domestic you almost wanted to cry again. Maybe in some alternate timeline, where you and him could’ve worked, this would be an every day thing—minus the drunk sobbing part, of course.

He handed you the glass of water, watching as you took a few sips. He raised an eyebrow, nodding his head slowly.

“Whole thing, please.”

You let out an exasperated (affectionate) sigh and gulped the rest of it down, setting it on the counter behind you.

“Happy?”

“Very.”

You smirked, trailing your gaze down his body. He was still in his work clothes which, at the very least, meant he wasn’t on a date before he came here. He always changed before dates—well, for you, anyway. You wondered if he had been on any dates since the breakup—you certainly hadn’t. It had been long enough now that it wouldn’t be weird for you to start seeing other people—but you didn’t want to. You weren’t sure you’d ever want to, to be completely honest.

The more you thought about it, the more the whole thing seemed stupid. You didn’t want anyone else, you wanted Spencer. You had tried to get over him but if tonight was any indication—it clearly wasn’t working. You can’t even remember why you broke up in the first place—it all seemed so insignificant now. No amount of pain you had ever experienced in your relationship had come close to that of living without him.

You met his eyes once more and it was like he could see the question brewing. He tried to stop you, calling your name in a quiet warning, but you ignored him.

“Why did we break up?”

He frowned, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth with his tongue in that maddening way he did.

“I—you know why—“

“No, but I don’t! I know things were difficult sometimes but that doesn’t mean it didn’t work. It worked—we worked.” Your eyes were stinging again.

Spencer pressed his index and middle finger into his eye, furrowing his brows.

“I know, I know we worked, angel—but you were sad all the time, remember? I was gone so often and it wasn’t good for you.” His true emotions were indecipherable but his tone was soft, and you wished you could be as calm about this as him. Did he just not care as much as you did?

“But It’s—It’s worse now—“ You choked out, tears falling freely now. “I was sad when you were gone, but you always came back—you don’t come back anymore.”

Spencer removed his hand from his face, flexing it at his side like he was uncertain what to do with himself before taking a stride towards you. He brought a hand to your face, wiping the tears from under your eyes delicately—like you were made of porcelain.

“Listen, sweetheart—alcohol affects your ability to regulate your emotions and I know right now it might feel worse but that doesn’t mean it always—“

“Spencer, stop! It’s not the fucking alcohol, I miss you! I miss you all of the time! Even—even when I’m having a good day—I still want you—and especially when I—when I have a bad day—“ You choked out through heaving breaths.

“Breathe.” He urges, cupping your cheek. And you’re so, so angry, and sad, and tired that you have no choice but to shut up and listen to him. When you’ve adequately calmed down, he moves his hand to your jaw, tilting your head up to look at him.

“I don’t think we should talk about this tonight but I—“ You open your mouth to protest.

“I promise we can talk about it tomorrow when you’re sober—if you still want to.”

Your lip trembles of its own volition and you frown.

“Of course I want to.”

“Okay,”

“Okay.”

He gives your eyes a final wipe before he’s—rather unexpectedly—pulling you into a hug. You all but melt into him, your head finding its home in his sternum and your arms wrapping around his middle. He tilts his head down, kissing the top of your head—and you’re certain you can’t let this go again. You will chain him down before Spencer leaves this apartment again.

Everything is wordless from there—mostly because you’re so, so exhausted that even talking seems like too difficult a task. Spencer helps you find something more comfortable to change into and you pull out an old t-shirt of his and a pair of plaid pyjama pants you had kept here for him. I guess your keeping them ‘just in case you needed them in the future’ had come in handy, after all.

As you washed your face, Spencer snuck through to the kitchen, refilling your water and grabbing two aspirin in a not-so-subtle attempt to help the inevitable hangover you were going to have in the morning.

You caught him placing them on your bedside table and mock gasped.

“Trying to drug me in my sleep so you can make a run for it in the night?”

He grinned lazily—exhaustion creeping up on him as well.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You smiled, flopping yourself onto your bed rather ungraciously. Spencer looked at you like you were something fascinating before biting his lip, clearly deep in thought.

“What?” You let out a self-effacing little chuckle.

“I was just…wondering…if you’d like me to sleep on the couch?”

You probably should’ve been more careful in your facial expressions considering you were still broken up but your thoughts about that offer were obvious.

“No, stay.” Stay in your bed, in your apartment—stay anywhere that was close to you.

Maybe you were coming on a little too strong.

“Unless you want to, I mean—“

“No, no—I’ll stay.” Forever, preferably.

He walked around to the other side of your bed—as he had done so many times before—and sat down, pulling the covers over his legs. You mirrored his movements before flicking your bedside lamp out, turning to face him.

You were a little thankful you were so out of it, because this had the potential to be very awkward otherwise. Spencer shuffled down so that he was at eye level with you, turning to face you as well.

You just stared for a moment, committing him to memory. The moonlight had a way of highlighting all the high points of his face, and the twinkle in his eyes, and—God, you were so glad the moon existed and that Spencer was in your bed that you couldn’t help but giggle.

“What?” Spencer laughed along with you, even though he had no idea what was so funny.

“Nothing. You’re pretty.”

“You’re drunk. Go to sleep.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Why?”

“Scared you’ll be gone when I wake up—like I made it all up.”

Spencer’s smile faded then, and he looked at you with something that seemed so much like the one thing you had been willing yourself to stop doing the whole time that you’d been broken up, that it almost took your breath away.

“I won’t. I promised, didn’t I?”

You nodded.

“So there’s nothing to worry about. Now get some sleep, lovely.”

You smiled, feeling Spencer’s hand inching towards yours. He intertwined them and gave yours a squeeze.

“Just in case you make a run for it in the night.”

You chuckled, your eyelids fluttering shut. Yeah, you could make it work.

part two!

[iiotic]

JEALOUSY

in which, you, meet the famous traveller and her companion, offering them your help as a guide in natlan, however your friend and secretly crush, doesn't seem to like it very much.

before you read -> jealousy, stalking, ajaw, mutual pining sorta, generally fluff, swearing, poorly written, short, cringe, female reader, based of an request (thank you anon!!)

word count: 1.6k

the first time i wrote it tumblr decided to delete the whole shit, thank you tumblr we all say in unison. that's why it's kinda worse now (rushed) help.

"what are we?"

the question lingered in your mind as kinich, once again, took you out on a walk. you didn't have the confidence to ask him that though, no. whenever you tried to ask him that simple, yet so important question, the words would never leave your mouth. it was like your mind was telling you to not do it, or else you'd ruin everything.

that you'd ruin all of your hardwork of becoming friends with kinich, best friends even you'd say but you doubt that he'd ever call you that. the countless nights that you spend sleepless because you were thinking about him. his eyes, his smile, his hair, his sense of humour, his bluntness, his confidence; everyting about him was so..

you gasped, snapping out of your thoughts as a bird flew right in front of your face. you stopped in your tracks, trying to calm yourself from the jumpscare. right infront of you, the beautiful landscape of natlan, with the sun rising from its slumber. yet you didn't stop to admire the sunset, nor the beautiful landscape, your attention was fully focused on the boy who seemed confused why you suddenly stopped, his yellow eyes shining even more than normally.

"are you alright?" kinich asked, walking over to you with a worried look. he put the back of his hand on your forehead. "you don't look very well, you're all warm and red."

"oh. no, im perfectly fine! just a little tired from the walk." you chuckled nervously, putting the whole teatric.

"pheraps we should take a break? c'mon" he said, gesturing you to follow him to the nearby rocks. the place of resting he chose was literally perfect, of course the rocks were hard as rocks are but there were trees next to them, blocking you from the sun.

you sat down with a heavy sigh, looking at your surroundings trying to stop yourself from thinking about the boy sitting next to you, nothing new, nothing interesting that would peak your interest. maybe kinich wouldn't mind if you rested your eyes for a bit.. just close them, relax, take a quick nap.

turns out he didn't mind, as he didn't wake you up; the almighty k'uhul ajaw did by his rather loud complaining. he was just in time out a second ago. you always thought that putting him in "time out" was silly. how annoying can he be? a lot, you soon found out.

"I do NOT have to waste my PRECIOUS TIME being here and doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING." he yelled, some strangers heads turning in your direction. embarrassing.

soon enough you made your way home, trying to ignore the voices of an annoying ancient dragon. as you were walking something or rather someone caught your attention.

"hey, who's that?" you said to kinich, pointing in the direction of strangers. "they don't look like they would be from around here."

"oh? that's the traveller and her companion, have you not met them?" he'd respond

"no, have you?"

you don't know how or why but you found yourself next to the strangers, introducing yourself in a second. if kinich knew them and didn't talk badly about them then they must be pretty cool. plus you needed friends, as you didn't know much people you liked here.

your mind telling you to go back, away from them because that's fucking weird, why would a random stranger come up to you with a creepy big smile and start introducing youself and rambling like a fool, but your heart was telling you that maybe just maybe they didn't find you as weird and let you accompany them just for some time.

and as it turns out they didn't find you as weird!! hurray or something. they told you how they just showed up here being here for roughly two days. you told them that you can guide them through natlan as they didn't seem to know the territory very well, they agreed but told you that they've been around the people of the springs as mualani already showed them around. oh? so they know mualani, nice.

you failed to notice the slight frown on kinichs face, what happened to your time alone when he wasn't doing commissions?

soon enough, about another two days later you finished showing them around. now, you sat in a nice restaurant next to a big window, laughing.

"yeah, it was so fun!!" you said with a bright smile, you were just happy to find someone who seemed to enjoy your presence as much as you enjoyed their. however in your head you felt like you forgot something, something important to you, something that you missed.

in the open, behind some trees stood kinich, seemingly observing you, smiling, you were smiling. at whom? the traveller and her companion, paimon. he knew that they were trustworthy but did they really deserve your smile? your smile which is brighter than the sun, shooing away the dark clouds when he was feeling under the weather?

the nonchalant, normally calm kinich was jealous? impossible. those were the annoying words from his even more annoying dragon.

"noo but seriouslyyy are we just going to stand there and do nothing? I'm bored!! it just proves the creep that you are, a stalker. I don't even know how they can put up with y-" the almighty k'uhul ajaw got cut off by his "owner" by him making him go in time out. "HEY WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE Doing"

kinich didn't know what he was doing, was it on impulse? as much as he didn't want to admit it he knew that ajaw was right. he was jealous. by the way you smiled at them, to the fact that you hardly were spending any time with him anymore. he knew that it was just for some time, until the traveller will go to the next stop on their journey, yet still he couldn't help his actions.

now, he stood in front of your front door to your house. some not so cheap flowers in his hands, rainbow roses from fontaine, they were expensive it was unbelievable, but he just wanted everything to go perfect.

he knocked, heard footsteps inside, immediately regret his decision. the atmosphere was tense, awkward as you opened the door to kinich just looking at you with flowers in his hands, not saying anything, it wasn't like him at all.

"are those for.. me?" you asked, almost pleaded silently him that yes they were indeed for you, and how fucking stupid can you be of course they were for you, you fucking clueless moron. that would be the words spoken by ajaw if he wasn't locked out right now.

all he did was shove the flowers in your hands, clearly avoiding your gaze and breathing out a quick "yes"

"oh, these are lovely, thank you." you said with slightly flushed cheeks, your fingertips dragging at one of the pedals on the flower. "do you want to come in?.." you asked awkwardly

he nodded eagerly in response, now stepping a foot in your house. you closed the door behind you, asking him what does he want to do now. you looked up to see him already looming over you.

"you know, you haven't really been paying attention to me lately. I can fix that.."

© 2024 iiotic. — do not steal, translate or repost any of my content onto any other platform

definitely one of my least favourite works, the ending was rushed because as I said tumblr decided to delete the fucking whole thingihmtgkdimtweaking