#which is totally fine - but I’ve written one anyway because I’m stubborn and write for myself!

[brawlingdiscontent]

CW: Mentions of death and suicide, spoilers for all of Interview with the Vampire season 2 

In season 2, episode 5, “Don’t be afraid, just start the tape,” a number of key questions circle around Daniel and Louis: Why did Louis pick Daniel to go home with him? Why did he ultimately save Daniel from Armand? This post unpacks these through a close reading of the episode and explores how they shed light on 2022 Louis’ character arc. (AKA, I decided to be a huge dork about this episode!)

Near the top of the episode, Daniel raises his “outstanding questions” about 1973 with Louis: “...like why you talked to me in the first place?” He doesn’t buy Louis’ unsatisfactory and avoidant answers, but Louis succeeds in dodging his questions with another – “What’s the next thing you remember?” 

In the flashback, we see Louis reject Daniel’s sexual proposition because, as 2022 Louis tells Daniel, “you offered something off the menu.” But what, exactly, is that?

Louis’ problem is his inability to examine or work through the massive amount of pain he carries, relying instead on various strategies of avoidance (which, for example, form the spine of his Paris life). The result is Louis’ dissociation and separation from himself. In 1973, the resulting internal pressure has culminated in a self-destructive spiral (128 boys) from which Louis desperately needs an outlet—which leads to what present-day Daniel describes as a “floundering” Louis, “eager to spill” “tape after tape of emotional upchuck”—burning with the need to vent the pain held inside and repressed for so long.

Later Louis tells Armand, “the ten hours I spent with that boy were more exciting, more fascinating than decades spent with you!” which Armand mishears as Louis saying that DANIEL is fascinating (and obsesses over this—more on Armand later). But what Louis actually says is the hours spent together were exciting and fascinating, in other words, the experience Daniel afforded, the interview. So what was this experience?

While the interview is valuable, not just any interview or interviewer would do the trick. Daniel is more than ”an eager black hole” absorbing others’ stories, and the experience is more to Louis than just having a listening ear.

The key, surprisingly, lies at the point where Louis snaps. Deep in reflection and depression, Louis tells Daniel that after Claudia set off on her planned Europe trip he thought about killing himself, staying in the park until the sun came up. And instead of empathizing Daniel gets mad: 

Daniel: “Are you kidding me? What, you were just gonna end it!? I mean, what about life? Like, joyrides and night swimming, and marriage, and cancer, and all of that till the death rattle? I mean we gotta carry all this shit and you had a ticket out and you were just gonna throw it away?..... you were given the gift, and I’ve been hearing you bitch the night about it.”

Upon Louis’ answering outrage, Daniel adds: “I mean, you don’t understand the meaning of your own story.”

While, to be clear, Daniel also doesn’t know the meaning of Louis’ story and his take on it is pretty bad (the meaning is ‘make Daniel a vampire??’) The provocation within these words and his call to life are very valuable. When Louis examines his existence he only finds meaning in pain, which makes him afraid to look closer and makes death seem the only viable escape. Daniel, even with all his struggles, affirms life through its challenges and prompts Louis to interrogate his own narratives about his story, which fixates on the burdens of vampiric existence. 

Meanwhile, in Louis’ immediate environment, the only thing Armand knows how to affirm is death, which we soon watch him try to coax Daniel into. (Not taking sides on Armand, here. I think both Armand lovers and haters can agree that whatever else he may be he is a Sad Little Muffin). Throughout season two Armand repeatedly discourages Louis from engaging with his pain. For one brief example, in 2.1 when Louis cries when discussing Claudia with Daniel, Armand calls for a break and tells Louis he's ‘lost control of the interview’. I think we can read multiple motivations into Armand’s actions: that he’s intervening both for Louis’ sake as he’s afraid that confronting the pain will kill him (as it almost did that night in 1973) AND that he doesn’t want his lies exposed— he’s a complex creature.

Figuratively, for Louis’ arc, Armand represents fiction and illusion. That’s what the theatre’s about, and his big-boss persona hiding a fragile gremlin, and even his ‘Rashid’ disguise. He generally prefers pleasing fantasies and fictionalized narratives—including wilfully ignoring the reason that Louis is with him in 2022 (the name, unspoken in their home for 23 years)—to painful truth. In this respect and others, he is the exact counter to Daniel (which makes them such a fascinating pair).

Where Armand is death, Daniel is life. Where Armand is illusion, Daniel is truth. By offering the opposite of Louis’ current environment, life and truth, and giving him permission/encouragement to address his pain, Daniel becomes a source of fascination that Armand can’t pin down. (And how could he figure out that it’s Daniel’s joy for life and zest for truth that’s the source of Louis’ fascination, when Armand, himself, has little of his own.)

However, Louis doesn’t understand the gift that Daniel offers him in the moment. Instead, injured by the provocation, he lashes out and attacks Daniel. It’s what happens later, in the fight with Armand, that cracks things open for him.

Louis and Armand’s fight is the emotional equivalent of them digging their fingers in each other’s open wounds. One of the last things that Armand says to Louis before the latter runs onto the roof is: “...[Claudia] didn’t love you, not like he did. Not like I have.” Louis says, “I know. I know! Yes. I know. Thank you for saying it. It’s all creeping back…” And then after some more raving and a, “She’s calling me”, now high off his mind from Daniel’s drug-laced blood, Louis runs onto the roof. 

Louis running out into the daylight is not so much a deliberate suicide attempt as it is an externalization of his pain, triggered by the memories. His burnt and charred body actualizes the pain that he always carries inside, like a festering wound, but is only now facing. 

While in this painful moment of (literal) exposure, Louis is living out the show’s tagline “memory is a monster” an alternate tagline could also be drawn from it – “the truth, even if painful, will set you free’—which Louis comes to recognize. His pained “thank you for saying it” to Armand after the latter's devastating remarks about Claudia is about Louis’ need to confront the pain. I’m not at all saying that Claudia didn’t love Louis (even Armand’s wording modifies this “not like he did. Not like I have”), but rather that Armand’s words, combined with Daniel’s assertion that Louis doesn’t know the meaning of his own story, draw attention to the fact that the narrative he’s been crafting for himself is one that both preserves his pain, and avoids engaging with or working through it. (Which will eventually lead to bigger discoveries like “I didn’t realize it was a gift”.)

Despite the horrific experience of being burned, as he lies in bed recovering Louis finds that the remembering is worth it, making him realize the value of Daniel’s questioning—and feel the need to return the gift by saving Daniel’s life, where only a few days before he would have drained him had Armand not intervened.

Daniel doesn’t need to live as a testament to Louis and Armand’s relationship—that’s just the bullshit Louis tells Armand to get him to go along with it. Daniel’s high off his mind, but his instincts have helped Louis to see that Louis’ own is one of the “stories that need telling,” and handed him the key he needs to move through his grief. My favourite little detail about this scene is the light hanging above Daniel’s head as Louis offers his pep talk. Daniel sheds light for Louis, so Louis, in exchange, offers him a different kind of metaphorical light: words for when things get tough. They offer each other mutual support (best bros!!)—in a way that Louis’ two hubbies have so far been unable to do. 

Unfortunately, when Armand wipes Louis’ memories of this encounter, the guiding light Daniel offered is gone, too—instead going on to become a central part of Louis' season two character arc once the memories are recovered. 

The question then emerges—if Daniel’s speech was so valuable and healing, why the memory wipes? 

There’s two options: Louis may have recognized the value of what Daniel offered but have still been unprepared to examine his pain, and so asked Armand to erase the memories. The other option is that, Armand, worried about another suicide attempt and Louis leaving him, took away that choice for him by erasing the memory. (What really strikes me here are the parallels between Armand and Lestat. Lestat kidnaps Claudia and threatens to kill her to prevent Louis from leaving him but also out of a desire to save Louis’ life, given his despair at Claudia’s absence. Armand arguably operates in the same way. Both do messed up things for somewhat pure as well as selfish reasons).

I think what actually happened could be somewhere in the middle of these two options—Armand manipulating/convincing Louis into erasing the memory, and a pained, still-healing Louis agreeing. And then of course, in typical Armand fashion, when the topic comes up, he dodges accountability with a, ‘But it was your idea, babe.’)

And yet, we see the effectiveness of Daniel’s intervention through the progress they make in the new interview session and once Louis recovers these memories in 2022—for example, we see Louis go from torturing Daniel for probing too far into Claudia, to facing deeply painful memories of her and acceding to Lestat’s version of the story of Claudia’s turning.

As a form of summary, we actually see this whole dynamic I’ve detailed play out in the beginning of the episode in Dubai (and that’s what’s so perfect about the writing!!)—when Daniel says ‘grab that’ and Louis asks about what he’s grabbing:

Louis (recorded): “Funny thing, trying to remember what occupied one’s time, when one was ignorant of the plotting around him.” Daniel: It’s a thing with syntax, I see it a lot. The impersonal pronoun ‘one’—one’s time, one didn’t—becomes the third person ‘him’. Stops being ‘I’ or ‘me’. Louis: And that indicates what? Daniel: You’re circling something, you’re getting close to something you want distance from. Language as a chicken exit on a roller coaster. Armand: Or it’s daytime and a vampire of Louis’ age is fighting the narcoleptic pull of the sun.

It’s the same ditty - Louis dissociates, Daniel identifies the pain point, and Armand tries to change the subject. 

What’s lovely, then, is how this little exchange is prologue to the past playing out yet again the present. And so it comes to pass a few episodes later that Daniel uses his skills as a “bright young reporter with a point of view” to once again shine a light for Louis, getting him to see past the pain, and exposing the truth (Daniel voice: He didn’t save you, Lestat did!)

In conclusion: Best bros 4 eva!!

Thanks for reading! Medal for you, if you got this far!

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 10

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

From: dscully@fbi.gov

Sent: April 28, 1997 10:46am

To: mreyes@fbi.gov

Subject: Coffee?

Hi Monica,

It’s Dana, from pathology. I was wondering if you’d like to get coffee tomorrow around lunchtime? I have a break in classes from 11-2, so anywhere in there would be fine.

I hope things are going well with VICAP.

-Dana

From: dscully@fbi.gov

Sent: April 28, 1997 10:48am

To: fmulder@fbi.gov

Subject: Wednesday/Thursday

Hi,

I’m mildly shocked that you hadn’t already emailed me before I got in today. Are you alive?

If you’d like to meet up for lunch or coffee this week, I can do Wednesday or Thursday, sometime in the 11-3 timeframe. Let me know which works for you and I’ll block the time out so nothing else ends up on my schedule.

From: mreyes@fbi.gov

Sent: April 28, 1997 11:12am

To: dscully@fbi.gov

Subject: RE:Coffee?

Hi Dana,

I’m so glad you reached out. I’d love to get coffee tomorrow; I can meet you just outside the autopsy bay at 1pm, if that works?

I look forward to it.

-Monica

From: fmulder@fbi.gov

Sent: April 28th, 1997 12:16pm

To: dscully@fbi.gov

Subject: RE:Wednesday/Thursday

Hi Scully,

I see that my exceptional self control has paid off in spades. I am alive, and have resisted emailing you this morning through a combination of sheer will and a two-hour budget meeting.

Wednesday sounds perfect, I’ll be there at noon. Don’t ask me how many hours that is from now because I haven’t calculated it and I have no idea.

———

About an hour after returning from her coffee date with Monica, which was very pleasant and is something she hopes to repeat, she starts to feel just a little bit achy. She pushes through the rest of her work for the day and by the time she slumps through her apartment door at six, there’s no denying that she’s sick. She takes some Tylenol and goes to bed, hoping it will have passed in the morning, but when she wakes up it’s even worse. She calls in sick to work and goes back to sleep.

When she wakes again, the phone is ringing. She ignores it, only for it to start ringing again the moment the machine picks up. Dragging herself out of bed with a pained moan, she trudges to the hallway, retrieving the cordless phone and walking back to her bedroom as she answers.

“Hello?”

“Scully! Are you okay?”

“What? Yes. Mulder?” She burrows herself back under the covers with the phone tucked against her ear.

“Yes, it’s me, you didn’t answer my emails all morning and never showed up for our coffee date. I was worried.”

“Shit, Mulder, I’m sorry. I came down with something yesterday and called out sick. I totally forgot we were having coffee today.”

“You’re sick?” he asks, clear concern in his voice.

“Yes, just a virus or something, I’ll be fine.”

“Can I bring you something? Soup? Juice? Bad movies?”

She chuckles a little. “No, you don’t need to do that.”

“Who's gonna take care of you?”

“Mulder, I’m a grown adult with a cold, I can take care of myself.”

“Are you sure?” She can tell by his tone that he wants to do this more for himself than for her.

“Yes, I’m sure. I don’t want you to see me all sick and disgusting, Mulder. It’s too soon to ruin your image of me,” she says somewhat sarcastically.

“Seeing you sick is not going to change how I feel about you, Scully,” he says very tenderly, and she knows he means it. Still, she doesn’t like the idea.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Sorry to make you drive an hour for nothing. Rain check?”

He sighs noisily. “Okay, fine. I think you inadvertently left ‘stubborn’ off your list of flaws, though.”

“Well, I didn’t want to ruin all the surprises,” she replies with a smile.

He reluctantly says goodbye, and as soon as he hangs up, she calls the first number on her speed dial.

“Hello,” calls Missy in her typical singsong greeting.

“Missy, can you come over?” she whines, little sister mode in full effect, “I’m sick.”

Missy arrives forty five minutes later and fusses around, gathering a glass of water, Tylenol, and the thermometer that is buried in the bottom of a bathroom drawer. Dana has relocated to the couch, and makes a face around the thermometer propped under her tongue when Missy sets four crystals of different shapes and colors on the coffee table, along with two herb-filled capsules. The thermometer beeps angrily and Missy plucks it out of her mouth, shaking her head.

“One hundred and two,” she says with a frown, “here, take these,” she holds out two Tylenol and two of the herb capsules with a glass of water.

Dana takes the Tylenol and leaves the others.

“Whatever those are, I’m not taking them. And you can pack up your crystals,” she says to Missy as she pops the Tylenol and chases them with a big gulp of water.

“They’re just echinacea, Sis, they won't kill you. And neither will the crystals.”

“But they also won’t help,” Dana says dryly, setting her water on the coffee table and burrowing back under her blanket.

“Well, I’ll just leave them right here,” Missy says, standing and going to the kitchen. “Why’d you call me, anyway? Shouldn’t playing sick maid be Mulder’s job now?” She’s looking through cupboards, pulling out a pot and a can of soup.

“It’s too soon for him to see me all congested and disgusting,” Dana replies, stifling a shiver. “He wanted to come over, but I told him not to.”

There’s a knock at the door. Dana sits up, exchanging confused looks with Missy.

“Did you order food?” Dana asks, and Missy shakes her head, moving to the door.

Dana watches from the couch as Missy opens the door to find no one on the other side. She looks at the floor, then down the hall one direction and the other. She stoops down and picks something up, then walks back to the couch with a paper bag.

“What is that?” Dana asks, and Missy shrugs, setting it on the coffee table and sitting at Dana’s feet. There’s a sheet of paper stapled to the bag, and Missy plucks it off, opening it while Dana explores the contents; a carton of tom kah gai soup.

Missy’s face is a mask of confusion as she reads whatever is written on the paper.

“What does it say?” Dana asks, and Missy hands it to her.

Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still.

Dana’s chin puckers as her bottom lip sticks out in a pout. “Oh my god,” she gushes, “it’s Mulder.”

“What the hell does this mean?” Missy asks, taking the paper back and reading it again. “Does he write poetry or something?”

“No,” Dana answers, pulling the lid off the container and breathing in the spicy coconut smell, “it’s a quote from Jane Eyre.”

“Oh my god,” Missy says with a disgusted look, “you two really are meant for each other. This is sickening, Dana, you realize that, right?”

Dana is smiling, taking sips of the hot Thai chicken soup that he somehow knew she needed. “Yes, he’s also a giant nerd, if that’s what you’re saying. But beyond that, I don’t think we have much of anything in common, actually.”

“You both work for the FBI,” Missy offers.

“Yes, but in totally different areas. And he’s an atheist, and believes in unverifiable phenomena like aliens and spontaneous human combustion. And he’s impulsive and easy going, and he makes decisions with his gut,” Dana lists off Mulder’s attributes like she’s describing the trim level on a car. He’s cute, and he has a leather interior.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t use any of those words to describe you,” Missy says pointedly, setting the note on the table, where Dana plucks it back up and reads it again. “But there’s something to be said for being with someone who’s different from you.”

“I don’t really buy into the idea of ‘opposites attract,’” Dana says flatly. “I think that’s just a lie people tell themselves to justify horribly mismatched partnerships.”

“I think ‘opposites attract’ implies that your qualities clash, like the odd couple. One is messy and the other is clean,” Missy replies, propping her elbow on the back of the couch. “But I heard about this idea of ‘perfect opposites’ which is more like someone who complements you, or helps kind of level you out. So perhaps you lean to the extreme in some areas where Mulder leans to the other extreme, and you learn to meet somewhere in the middle.”

Dana gives her a doubtful look. “What is the middle between believing wholeheartedly that Bigfoot exists, and knowing that he doesn’t?”

Missy takes this under serious consideration. “I think,” she says without a hint of sarcasm, “that the medium would be accepting that it’s possible that he exists, and possible he doesn’t, but there's no way to know for sure.”

“So a Bigfoot agnostic?” Dana asks, and Missy nods in confirmation.

Dana shakes her head. “Maybe you should have gone out with him, I think you two might be better suited.”

“Don’t give me any ideas,” Missy says with a coy smile. “Speaking of which, does he have any single friends?”

Dana shrugs around a gulp of soup. “I don’t know, I haven’t met any of his friends.”

“Well, when you do, keep an eye out would ya? Now that I’ve lost my single buddy, I may as well get back out there. God knows it’s torture enough hearing your lurid tales from the bedroom.”

“Missy, I haven’t told you a single lurid tale,” Dana chastises.

“I know, what’s up with that?” Missy retorts in mock offense, “speaking of, what happened when he took you out to dinner Sunday night?”

Dana shakes her head.

“Oh come on, Dana. I have no life, let me live vicariously,” Missy whines.

Dana shakes her head again. “The only thing I’ll say is; maybe don’t eat off the kitchen counter,” she says before giving Missy a guilty look.

Missy’s mouth drops open.

“Wow, I’m not sure if I’m more grossed out or jealous,” she says as she stands, “I’m gonna get out of here, if you’re good. I think I need to go pick up a guy at a bar for some meaningless sex.”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for coming by. If you need a condom there are some in the bathroom,” she adds with a sarcastic smile, and Missy sneers at her.

“Ha, ha,” Missy replies as she slips on her shoes and opens the door, “last time I checked, you can’t get pregnant from a vibrator.”

Dana gives her a sympathetic pout and Missy pulls the door closed behind her.

———

It’s a quarter past eight when the phone rings, and he pushes Priscilla onto the floor to retrieve it from his desk.

“Hello?”

“I can’t find it,” says a garbled voice.

“Hello?” he asks again, “who is this?”

“It’s really cold. It’s also too hot,” the voice says around a sound like fabric moving over the mouthpiece.

“Scully?”

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

There’s a pause. “Mulder?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Are you okay?”

“Mulder, where are you?”

“I’m at home. You called me at home. Is Missy there?”

“No, she had to take her vibrator to a bar,” she answers, and it’s clear that she’s completely delirious.

“Scully, I’m coming over,” he says, standing up to find his shoes and wallet. “Hey, Scully, I need you to do something for me, okay?”

“Hmmm?”

“Can you stand up, and walk to your front door?”

She sighs. “That’s very far.”

“I know it is, but I need you to unlock the door so I can get in. I don’t think your super would be very happy if I broke it down.”

He hears her groan and her voice becomes quieter, then disappears. He waits, and just when he thinks she may have hung up, she picks the phone back up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, did you unlock the door?”

“Mulder?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Mulder, where are you?”

He snickers a little. “I’m on my way over, did you unlock the door?”

“I...I don’t remember,” she says, and she sounds exhausted.

“That’s okay, go back to bed. I’ll figure it out. See you soon, okay?”

“Okay, bye, Mulder.”

He waits but the line doesn’t go dead. He hears her shuffle around a bit and then it’s quiet for a long time. Setting the phone on its cradle, he drives over to her apartment.

The door is, thankfully, unlocked, and all the lights are off.

“Scully?” he calls out, not wanting to scare her. “Scully, are you awake?”

When he gets no response, he slips off his shoes and makes his way to her bedroom, calling out her name intermittently. He finds her twisted up in her sheets, and one touch to her forehead has him jerk his hand away with how hot she is. He strips the blankets off of her, finding her in only a T-shirt and panties underneath. Next he finds a washcloth in the bathroom and soaks it with cold water, then grabs two Tylenol and a glass of water. When he returns to the bedroom and drapes the cloth over her forehead, she starts and opens her eyes momentarily, but then closes them again.

“Scully,” he says softly, shaking her shoulder, “I need you to wake up, honey. I need you to take these.”

Her eyes open slowly and she blinks at him with heavy lids.

“Mulder?” she asks groggily, and he gives her a sympathetic smile.

“I’m here. Can you sit up and take these?”

He helps her prop herself up just enough to swallow the Tylenol and a sip of water before she collapses back against the pillows.

“I feel like shit,” she complains, but her eyes are already closed and she’s on her way back to sleep.

“I know. Get some rest. I’ll be here.”

———

She wakes up to harsh beams of sun pouring directly through her eyelids. Her first thought is that Ethan forgot to close the blinds again, but then she remembers that she and Ethan aren't together anymore and he doesn’t live here, so she must have forgotten to close them. She moves to roll out of bed and is met with the shock of aching muscles, and remembers that she had been raging with fever last night. She probably shouldn’t have let Missy leave, but thankfully the fever seems to have broken during the night. She rolls away from the window, no longer motivated to get up and close the blinds, and finds herself nose to nose with a sleeping Mulder.

“What the hell?” she says out loud, and he opens his eyes and smiles at her.

“Hi,” he says softly, “how do you feel?”

She gives him a perplexed expression. “Confused. How long have you been here?”

He chuckles “I knew you were out of it, but I didn’t think you were that far gone. You don’t remember?”

She shakes her head ruefully.

Mulder rolls to his back and stretches, then turns back to face her. “You called me last night, totally out of it, and I came over to make sure you were okay.”

“How did you get in?” she asks skeptically.

“You let me in.”

Her eyes widen.

“You were burning up, I just force fed you some Tylenol and kept an eye on you. Around 3am you started shivering, so I think that’s when the fever broke.”

She is quiet for a moment, taking in her surroundings. “Mulder...am I not wearing pants?”

He holds up his hands in self defense. “That’s how I found you, Scully, Scout’s honor.”

“What time is it?” she asks, feeling disoriented.

He peeks at his watch. “A little after nine.”

She sits up too quickly and gets dizzy. “I’m late for work,” she says, one hand to her head.

“Scully you were delirious with fever six hours ago, you’re not going to work. I called for you,” he says, sitting up too.

She gives him an incredulous look. “You called out sick to work for me?”

He nods.

She sighs and looks away from him. “I got the soup, and the note,” she says, “thank you.”

“Of course,” he answers, rubbing a palm over her back.

She looks back at him, taking in his sleep rumpled hair and second day stubble. She furrows her brow, a slight scowl on her mouth.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“You’re my boyfriend, aren’t you?” she says with a defeated tone, and he laughs.

“I’d sure like to be, if you’ll have me.”

She groans and slumps against him, sighing as he wraps his arms around her, petting her hair.

“Okay, fine,” she says flatly.

“Well don’t sound so excited about it,” he teases, and she pulls back and smiles at him.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” she says softly.

“Thanks for letting me,” he replies.

[nightwishesworld]

Hello! I love your writing and if you do take request, might I ask for a family night (including Heisenberg) playing Monopoly please? (OC is already in a loving relationship with Alcina and the girls love her)

Oh boy anon, this was by far the most difficult thing I’ve ever written. It’s not my best cause I know zero about the game so I had to try and work around it. Hope you enjoy anyway!

It's that time of the week again in the Dimitrescu castle. The most sacred and anticipated time of the week; not hunting, not harvesting, not even wine tasting... it's game night.

As soon as the sun sets the girls swarm in the drawing room to ready the space for the night's antics. Daniela digs out the game while Sorine opens all the curtains, letting the warm light of the moon shine through, and Victoria lights the fire and torches. It became a ritual not long after you moved into the castle. The girls often confided in you how they wished to spend more quality time with their mother on more than one occasion. Hunting maidens and harvesting their blood was fun, but they've been doing that forever! It was no longer as thrilling as it once was, not it felt more like a chore that needed to be done. And you can't count how many times Alcina admitted to feeling guilty about not giving her daughters more of her time. So when you pitched the idea of a routine game night, you got very little pushback.

The only one who hesitated was Daniela, and only because she insisted on inviting Uncle Heisenberg, which was totally fine. You get along rather well with the werewolf and enjoy his visits. Getting in touch with him was rather difficult though. Most of his visits were spontaneous reasons to see his favorite nieces, while the other few were strictly business-related held by Alcina. It took her some time to locate her brother, but it also gave you some time to make your way back down to your old home in the village to gather your collection of board games and puzzles. Some were missing a few pieces or cards, but they would have to do for now. Worst case scenario you just buy new ones.

When Alcina finally got ahold of Heisenberg he eagerly accepted and promised to start making his way back to the castle; the girls were thrilled. After all, it wouldn't be proper family bonding time without good ol' Uncle Heis.

In the beginning, it was decided that everyone took turns deciding what game they were going to play. The cycle started with you of course, since the whole thing was your idea, then went from oldest to youngest. Everyone had a blast playing against each other and laughing at one another. You can't remember a time you'd seen Alcina laugh so hard, she was almost brought to tears. Everything was just peachy until Victoria, ever the mischief-maker decided you should play Monopoly. The poor Dimitrescu's had no idea what brand of hellish gameplay awaited them. Only an hour and a half in and Daniela had successfully bankrupt her own mother. The proud look plastered on the girl's face would have been more amusing if it weren't for Alcina losing her temper. That was the one time you couldn't wait for the night to end, and hopefully, never play it again.

Much later that night in bed with Alcina curled up on your chest you woke with a chill running down your spine. It's Daniela's turn to pick the game.

Which is how you ended up lounging on your favorite chair by the fire watching Daniela and Heisenberg setting up the board and organizing the money. Again.

Alcina is sat on the floor next to you leaning comfortably against your chair sipping her third glass of wine. "Why are we doing this again?"

You give her a sympathetic smile. "You know why, dearest, it's game night."

She only rolls her eyes at you. "You know what I mean, draga mea. Why monopoly?"

"It was Dani's turn to chose the game. It'll be fun, don't worry Al."

"Yeah Mother," Victoria giggles. "What's wrong with monopoly?"

"You mean other than how overly competitive and childish you all become?"

You were about to open your mouth when Heisenberg started to laugh. "You say 'you all' as if you aren't just as bad."

Alcina chose to ignore him in favor of her wine.

"Ah! Mother's just upset cause she knows I'm gonna make her go bankrupt again," Daniela smiled as her sisters snickered. "I forget, what did you say you were going to do to me, Mother?"

This caused the chorus of giggles to erupt into laughter. "She said she was going to disown you!" Sorine choked out.

"Forging an alliance against your mother is just plain rude! And you-" she points to Heisenberg, "you stole my companion!"

Laughter erupted in the drawing room. You leaned against Alcina's arm as you lost the ability to breathe. "I did not steal them," Heisenberg handed you both your starting $1500. "I was in a financial bind and y/n was willing to make a deal."

"And just like that our alliance was born." You lean forward and fist-bumped the werewolf. "Let's let Al join us tonight, Heis, now we'll be even against the girls."

He ponders for a moment before noticing his sister's golden eyes burning into him and hastily shakes her hand. "Welcome to the team, sis."

Alcina sighed and accepted his hand in a near bone-crushing grip. You tried not to notice the man wincing. "About damn time."

You shot Alcina finger guns with a wink and "pew pew" and she full-heartedly laughs. "What on Hell's earth was that?"

"A dumb human thing, don't worry about it."

"Horray!" Daniela grinned. "Now Mother has a fighting chance."

"Now girls," you chided. "Let's try to keep this friendly tonight, ok? As funny as it was, and it was," Alcina glares at you from behind her wine glass. "We're going to let it go now. No more ganging up on your mother."

The girls gave an innocent smile, "of course y/n."

"Wouldn't dream of it, y/n."

"Cross my heart hope to die!"

Wait, aren't they already dead?  You shook your head. Doesn't matter.

"Are we using the same pieces as last time?"

"Might as well," you saw before Daniela can get a word out. "We were all happy with our tokens last time, yes?"

Daniela huffed and crossed her arms. "I want to be the dog!"

"Aw come on, Dani," Sorine says. "I think it's only fair Uncle Heis gets to be the dog."

"Since, ya know, he is a dog," Victoria smirks.

To say the atmosphere of the room was intense would be an understatement. But, you couldn't be entirely unhappy with the course of events either since your alliance was winning. Victoria is bankrupt and Daniela has been sitting in jail for the past three turns. Alcina refuses to sell her Get out of Jail Free card. Oh, how the tables have turned. Daniela, much like her dearest mother, is far too stubborn for her own good. She refuses to pay Heisenberg the $50 to get out of jail and Alcina simply refuses to bail her out. Petty revenge, but entertaining nonetheless. It's after midnight now and you're finding it difficult not to doze off against the vampire's arm. Heisenberg is awake pacing around the room as he lost interest in the stalemate already. He was nice enough to take his heavy boots off so he wouldn't disturb Sorine and Victoria's slumber. His repetitive pace was starting to lull you to sleep. You allow yourself to close your eyes for a minute, listening to Alcina's breathing and Heisenberg's hushed stomping circling around you.

The fire was reduced to crackling embers and you were left shivering under Heisenberg's coat. Out of desperation, you kiss the top of Alcina's gloved hand. "Nu putem termina în dimineața? Hai să mergem la culcare." You know she loves it when you talk in Romanian to her. Hopefully, it will give you the advantage you need to end this ridiculousness.

"I've got her cornered, y/n. A little while longer and she'll crack."

Daniela only squinted her eyes and hissed.

You were about to give up and let yourself fall asleep on Alcina when Heisenberg came stomping over, pure anger painted on his face, and kicked the coffee table over. Sorine and Victoria were startled awake by the crashing sound and snowfall of cards. It was honestly the most magical thing that happened all night. He shouted something along the lines of "Go to bed!" but you couldn't make it out over Daniela and Alcina's screams. They pay you little mind as they chase Heisenberg out of the room and down the corridor, the sounds of vases and antique decor crashing following them as they go.

Sorine stands over you looking at you through bleary eyes, extending her hand to help you up. "Bed?"

A lion's yawn overcomes you and you smile. "Bed."

[occasionalstorytelling]

A slightly-belated fic written for Jason’s death anniversary. I just really wanted to write a story with autistic Jason, so here it is!

Summary: Jason Todd shows up at the Manor and asks if Alfred can spare some time for a chat. They head down to a coffee shop and settle in to talk. Jason has been thinking, and he wants to tell Alfred that he thinks he might be autistic, actually.

Word Count: 2,888

Read it here:

Damian wandered into the kitchen, where Alfred was finishing up cutting some apple slices for him. Damian took one, and crouched on a kitchen stool, balanced on his feet like some kind of bird of prey. Alfred was used to this behavior—it tended to be typical of Robins.

“Todd’s coming,” Damian shrugged in between apple bites.

“Really?” Alfred turned to the window. Lo and behold, Jason Todd was walking down the path to the Manor’s front door. With lightning speed, Alfred grabbed a medical kit from below the sink, then ran to the front door. He threw it open before Jason even made it all the way up the walk.

“Jason! Are you all right? Are you hurt?” Alfred was too panicked for formalities. The boy didn’t seem to be limping, and there were no visible bruises or cuts on him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t hurt. Alfred opened the kit, ready for whatever it was was.

“Yeah, Alf, I’m fine,” Jason winced. It didn’t take Alfred more than a few seconds to notice the wince was at Alfred, not out of any kind of pain or duress.

“You’re…that’s good to hear, then, Master Jason,” Alfred said, awkwardly closing the kit. He tucked it loosely under one arm.

“Guess I don’t, uh, visit that often,” Jason rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“It’s good you’re not hurt. Is there something you need, then? Anything,” Alfred said. “Would you like to come inside?”

Jason looked up at the house, then down at the ground as if he was staring through the dirt right into the Batcave. “Don’t need anything. Just wanted to talk. Not inside, though.”

Alfred nodded. “I’ll fetch my coat.” He went inside, set the medical kit on a counter, and grabbed a coat and a hat. Then he went back outside to the front lawn, where Jason fidgeted nervously, still staring at the ground like he expected Batman to pop out of it at any moment.

They left the Manor grounds and walked into town. Alfred suggested a diner for a quick bite. Jason shook his head and suggested a coffee instead. They went to the nearest Jitters.

Alfred ordered a tea. Jason ordered a hot chocolate. They smiled awkwardly at each other then. Alfred paid, then joined Jason near the pickup counter to wait for the drinks.

“I don’t know why I said coffee,” Jason smiled, still awkward. “Neither of us drink it.”

“I’d wondered if your tastes had changed,” Alfred said fondly. “As I recall, you don’t drink soda, either. You’re still the only one of the boys who refuses.”

“So?” Jason shifted slightly, uncomfortable. “The bubbles go up my nose.”

“It’s healthier for you, anyway,” Alfred said. “If only Master Tim could be convinced to lower his caffeine intake, I’m sure we’d all feel a lot better.”

“Yeah,” Jason snorted. “Replacement’s the one who’s not…I mean,” Jason froze, sentence only halfway out. He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, like he was trying to figure out how to say whatever it was he’d meant to say, but he eventually just trailed off and went quiet. They were saved from the awkwardness of the moment when the barista called “Pennyworth” and Alfred had to go retrieve their drinks.

“Shall we sit down?” Alfred asked.

Jason nodded. They found an empty table outside. Alfred took the seat with his back towards the street—another behavior typical of Robins was that they liked to be able to see their exit strategies. Not that Jason was a Robin, of course, but he was still Jason. Jason sipped his hot chocolate, and generally failed to make eye contact with Alfred.

“You’re looking well,” Alfred said.

“I’ve…been doing the thing you told me about,” Jason said, with just a slight flush of embarrassment in his cheeks.

“Which thing?” Alfred asked. He’d given Jason a lot of advice over the years.

“When you said it’s hard to take care of a Robin,” Jason said.

“I never meant that as a slight on you or any of the others,” Alfred said. “My sincerest apologies if—”

“No, no, I mean…um,” Jason took another sip of his drink while he figured out how to say it. “The self care thing. I’ve been…the thing about being gentle?”

“I’m not…sure what you’re referring to?” Alfred said.

“I’m the Robin,” Jason said, twisting his fingers in his lap. “I don’t have to…punish myself? You said that when I’m struggling with something, to pretend the thought or the idea or the thing or whatever is coming from my own Robin sidekick and deal with it like that. So I’ve been doing it.”

“Is it helping?” Alfred asked.

“Yeah,” Jason let out a relieved breath in a whoosh, at finally being understood. “It’s been really helpful. The other day, I bought a bunch of frozen mini corn dogs for him. Me? Me, I mean. I just…you know. I’m trying to��take care of myself.”

“That’s good to hear,” Alfred said. He sipped his tea. It was a little over-sugared, but Jitters tended to make all their drinks like that.

“And I was, um, researching on the internet about stuff too,” Jason said. “Self care stuff.”

“I’m proud of you,” Alfred said. “God knows Bruce needs to take better care of himself. I’m glad to hear you’re not following his poor example in that regard.” Alfred knew Jason very well, so he called Master Bruce simply “Bruce” to put Jason at ease, and he gave Jason praise that amounted to “you’re doing all right without Batman.” Jason always insisted he didn’t need to hear that, but the way he glowed after the praise…like he was glowing now. Jason took a long sip of his hot chocolate and relaxed enough to put his hands on the table.

“There was something else,” Jason said. “On the internet. That I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Please,” Alfred waved a hand. “You can talk to me about anything.” Admittedly, it had been some time since Jason had taken him up on the offer, but what better time than now to start changing that?

“I think I’m autistic,” Jason said. He stared at his drink when he spoke, but it came out smoothly, calmly, practiced. He’d practiced this conversation, Alfred realized.

“All right,” Alfred said. “Thank you for trusting me enough to say so. How can I support you?”

Jason laughed. “That’s what you said to Dick when he told you he liked boys, Alf.”

“The sentiment is no less true in this scenario, Master Jason,” Alfred said. “I am happy that you’ve…confided in me? Is that an appropriate term?”

“I guess so,” Jason shrugged. “It’s not a secret, I’m just not…not telling Bruce, and stuff.”

“Have you seen a doctor or a therapist?” Alfred asked.

“No,” Jason tensed. “I, uh, self-diagnosed. But plenty of people in online communities say it’s totally valid, and a diagnosis could only make my life worse, so—”

“Worse?” Alfred didn’t mean to interrupt, it just slipped out.

“Yeah,” Jason grit his teeth. “I mean, even if I wasn’t legally dead, it’s apparently really hard to get diagnosed officially as an adult, and even if I got a diagnosis it’s not like…I mean, it wouldn’t help, you know? It would be yet another excuse to get passed over in Bruce’s inheritance, and fired from jobs, and…stuff.”

“I understand,” Alfred nodded. “And you’re right. You don’t need a diagnosis to be valid. But, if I may…why tell me?”

“It just…seemed like something you tell people,” Jason fidgeted, cracking his knuckles over and over again. “Dick told you he likes boys, so…I’m telling you, this, I guess.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Alfred repeated. “I am…honored that you trust me with this. It’s clearly very personal.”

“Yeah,” Jason sighed. “I don’t know…I don’t know that there’s much you can do to support me, I just wanted you to know.”

“Talking is supporting,” Alfred said.

“Talking is supporting,” Jason repeated it with a smile. He took another sip of his hot chocolate. Alfred finished off his own cup of tea. They both watched people walk by along the busy streets of Gotham.

“And, I can’t tell Bruce, because he’ll think it’s more…you know,” Jason said, picking up the conversation as if there hadn’t been a pause.

“He’ll think it’s related to your death,” Alfred nodded, finishing the sentence.

“See? You’ll at least talk about it. Bruce won’t even say it…” Jason sighed. “But yeah. That’s kind of what I worried, too? Do you remember if I was always like this,” he gestured at himself, “before I died?”

“What do you mean?” Alfred asked. “Your hairstyle has certainly changed.”

“Like, my costume,” Jason said. “Um. I was researching…I think I’ve got a sensory processing thing. And that’s why I don’t like soda bubbles, and why I need a helmet that blocks out more distractions than just a mask, and why I can’t wear leggings.”

“You wore leggings for a significant period of time,” Alfred pointed out.

“I know,” Jason frowned. “I remember doing it. And I tried it again the other day, someone lent me a pair of fishnets to try on…but the feeling on my legs doesn’t go away. I can’t wear leggings or skinny jeans for more than ten minutes without feeling like I’m gonna go crazy.”

“I see,” Alfred said.

“So…I remember wearing leggings before, but I don’t remember how it felt,” Jason said. “What if…I don’t know, what if all of my autistic symptoms, traits, whatever, what if if is all after-effects of being dead?”

“Would that make it any less real?” Alfred asked.

“I guess not,” Jason huffed and leaned back in his seat. “But…I want to know.”

“You hated the leggings, even back then,” Alfred said, remembering. “But you were too stubborn to wear anything else on patrol, which meant that when you got back, you threw them on the floor and went around in your underwear, and I was the one who had to pick them up and wash them.”

“Okay, that I think I remember,” Jason smiled. “I remember Bruce telling me to put on pants because Selina was coming over, at least.”

“Your new costume is more comfortable, I hope?” Alfred asked.

“It’s heavier. It’s nice,” Jason said. “I like the weight. It’s grounding. And it’s looser…no more leggings and spandex. It’s comfortable.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Alfred said. “You know…it occurs to me, you were also very particular about your bedsheets. You only liked the ones with the purple flowers, even though Master Dick’s favorite were the ones with the little rocket ships.”

“The flowers were the only ones with the right texture,” Jason said. “Yeah…that’s still how I buy sheets. It doesn’t matter what color it is, so long as it’s soft enough that it’s not gonna distract me from sleeping.”

“Would that also be related to…sensory processing?” Alfred asked, trying to remember the phrase Jason had used.

“Yeah,” Jason nodded. “Same with picky eating. I mean…yeah. I don’t have a better word for it, but—”

“There doesn’t need to be a word for it,” Alfred said. “Your food preferences are individual to you, just like anyone else’s.”

“Bruce still thinks I eat like a little kid,” Jason mumbled. “He thinks it’s stupid. I can tell he does, even when he doesn’t say it.”

“If that is the case, we will simply not discuss it with him,” Alfred said.

“Yeah,” Jason said, relaxing slightly. “That would be the one thing I’d change, though. If I could, I mean. I’d want to be less picky. I’m sorry I didn’t eat much of those dinners you used to make.”

“I’m only sorry it took so long for me to adapt to your tastes,” Alfred shook his head sadly. “I remember you claiming not to be hungry one too many times…”

“I didn’t want you to be mad at me, it’s just you worked so hard—”

“Nonsense,” Alfred said. “You should have been mad at me. I should have provided.”

“Your mac and cheese was always delicious,” Jason said. “I make it for myself, like, once a week.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” Alfred smiled.

“There’s other stuff too though,” Jason said. “Other than sensory processing. I mean, I’m not making it up—”

“I never accused you of doing so,” Alfred said.

“I mean, I was looking at traits online…the thing about making scripts to talk to people? I do that all the time,” Jason said. “And I always get told that I’m too blunt and unreadable, and you know how I like to stick to my schedule, and I’m not really great at emotional regulation, and I can’t always tell when people are being sarcastic or trying to tell me something…I’ve been trying to relearn how to stim. I’m still not sure what masking is, but I think I’m doing it. Have been doing it? It’s…I got a spiky ball to play with, see?” Jason pulled a small, spiky stress ball out of his pocket. “And I got a chewable necklace so I could try to stop biting my fingernails…”

“Jason, I trust you,” Alfred said. “I believe you’ve done your research. You don’t need to convince me. If you say you’re autistic, I believe you.”

“Okay,” Jason said. “I just…you know. It’s weird, saying it out loud? It doesn’t feel real. But I also know it’s real, it’s my own brain and I know how it works, but…and Bruce would never understand, and I don’t really have—” Jason hesitated. Alfred hoped he hadn’t been about to say “I don’t really have any friends.”

“I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this,” Jason finished. “Online isn’t the same. I don’t…I want to talk to someone about it.”

“Talk to me about it,” Alfred said. “I’m happy you came to me. What were you saying about learning to stim?”

“Oh,” Jason said. “Well, now that I live alone, I can play a song out loud on repeat as many times as I want, you know? And I’ve been letting myself move more…I’ve seen the replacement do the flappy hand thing, and I’ve read about it online, and I don’t know if it’s really a thing I do or if I’m trying to copy it so I’ll feel more autistic—”

“It’s okay,” Alfred soothed. “Take a deep breath.”

“Yeah,” Jason sighed. “Sorry. I know I talk fast.”

“You talk at the perfect speed,” Alfred said. “You just seemed…anxious.”

“I keep picturing how Bruce would take it,” Jason fidgeted awkwardly, digging the spikes on the stress ball into his palm.

“Are you sure he’d take it poorly?” Alfred asked.

“I’m sure,” Jason snorted. “Either he’d tell me he doesn’t believe me and I’m not autistic, which would be no more emotionally devastating than anything else he does, I guess, or he’d act weird about it and walk on eggshells around me and constantly misunderstand my whole life, which is already how things are with him! Ugh,” Jason put his head down on the table.

“You don’t have to tell anyone you don’t want to,” Alfred said.

“I know,” Jason said. “But, like I said. Wanted to talk about it. Don’t have anyone. So.”

“Thank you for talking to me about it,” Alfred said. “I do appreciate your faith in me. Trust me—Master Bruce won’t hear a word of this from me.”

“I trust you, Alf,” Jason picked his head back up. “Thanks.”

“Is there anything in particular I can do to support you?” Alfred asked.

“Just this,” Jason said. “Thanks.”

“Would you like a hug?” Alfred asked.

“Yes,” Jason said, sniffling slightly. They hugged, and they both pretended not to notice that Jason was almost in tears with happy relief.

“So, uh, yeah,” Jason sniffed and sat back in his chair. He continued to fiddle with the spiky ball. “I guess that’s it. Wanna start walking back?”

“I am at your service,” Alfred said. They walked back to the Manor, and hugged one more time on the front step.

“If Bruce asks, this conversation didn’t happen. I did come here because I was injured, or something,” Jason said.

“My lips are sealed,” Alfred smiled.

“See you later,” Jason waved, and walked back down the path, heading back to wherever he lived. Tim had mentioned Jason had some kind of safe house near Crime Alley. Maybe he’d invite Alfred to see it sometime.

“What did Todd want?” Damian asked.

“Nothing in particular,” Alfred said.

“I ate the apple slices,” Damian said. “And we’re out of granola bars. I ate all the ones in the cabinet.”

“You’re a growing boy,” Alfred ruffled his hair, and Damian grudgingly allowed it before smoothing it back into place.

“Bye,” Damian said, and slipped off into the house like the little ninja he was. There was a soft chiming sound. Alfred looked at his phone. He had a message from a number he didn’t recognize.

Thanks for talking. Could we meet there again, same time next week?

Of course, Alfred texted back with a smile.

[pompadorkery]

What do you mean you find it hard to relate to female characters. It's a fictional universe, you can make them anyway you want. Lucy is pretty feminine and Anglo too. I realize almost all the moms of your ocs are bad or thier children hate them. I understand that you have an abusive mom but do you really have to projected on every character you have. Do you have something against women or your just not attracted to them. Probably the latter because all of your ocs are sex dolls.

Wow. Where to even start with this one.

Why do you think the majority of Hollywood action heroes or video game protagonists are cis white males?

It's because it's the easiest to relate to for the biggest demographic of their audience.

Many anime have just a boring plain normie male protag for the same reason. They're supposed to be easily relatable, and like a blank slate that you can project on.

For me, female characters are hard to relate to.

Growing up, I never cared for female protags or love interest characters. And usually actively disliked them. (Much of this is because female characters are generally poorly written in alot of media, but that's besides the point)

I have never felt "in touch" with womanhood. I could never relate to female characters because none of them were like me, or had the same thoughts or struggles I had.

The female characters I like now are generally mold breaking. They don't fit in the typical box. And they give me something I can relate to.

For example:

Mako Mankanshoku from Kill la Kill. She's an absolute idiot and a total bimbo. She eats alot, she's loud, she's kinda useless at times, and she cares alot about her friends.

Satya "Symmetra" Vaswani from Overwatch. First of all, she's on the autism spectrum. She's rigid, stubborn, and can often come across as mean- but in reality she's just very goal oriented and likes things to be orderly.

While these are very different characters, I find alot of things in them that I can relate to and identify with. Not every aspect is true at all times, and there are plenty of things in their characters that I can't relate with, but regardless, there are aspects of myself that I can see in characters like them.

I've always related better to male characters. And like I said, much of the time female characters aren't written well, while the male characters are. I just always found them cooler. I liked their designs more, and they had more interesting stories. Whereas many female characters entire plot revolves around getting with the protag.

I've struggled with gender my entire life. I never felt like a girl. Even the people around me would say that I was such a "tomboy". I would often get told to dress more feminine, or that my haircut made me look like a boy, etc. One of my happiest moments as a teenager was when I got to play a male character in my high school's spring musical and during that entire time everyone referred to me in character, as a boy. I had a great time playing this character, and it really showed through in my performance. I was comfortable for once.

I identify as non-binary now, and I still have alot of questions about my own gender, and I'm still figuring alot of things out. But what I know for sure is that I'm not a girl.

Now, getting into my OCs.

You claim that all my OCs have troubled relationships with their moms, because I have a troubled relationship with my own mother.

2 of OCs.

2 of my OCs have mommy issues.

Out of all the characters I have, only 2 have issues with their mothers. So like, are you just pulling things out of your ass, or?

Lucy was abandoned by his mom at a young age and has alot of bitterness towards her because of this. Which is perfectly reasonable given the situation.

Sanka is just a brat. He still loves and cares about his mom, their relationship is just strained due to his own insecurities and self-loathing.

All my other characters either have no mother in the picture at all, or have perfectly fine and normal relationships with their moms.

Neither Sanka nor Lucy's moms are abusive. So it's pretty yikes of you to bring up my own abusive mother in this conversation. What are you trying to prove? In your concocted narrative, I'm writing characters with abusive moms because my mom was abusive and that's the only mother figure I know. So.... I'd be writing from experience.... in what world is that a bad thing?

You also mentioned Lucy and Angelo being feminine. "Feminine male" does not equal "woman". Those are two very different things. Just as a butch woman is not the same as a man. Experiences are completely different. Equating them is extremely sexist, and could be incredibly transphobic if you also think this way about real people.

And claiming I'm not attracted to women because my OCs are 'sex dolls'. Literally what are you even trying to get at? You do realize that real women and fictional characters are different, correct? Plenty of lesbians create stories or art about mlm characters. Plenty of lesbians draw gay porn. Are they not attracted to women because they draw men getting fucked?

I am bi. I also fall somewhere in the ace spectrum, due to alot of my own dysphoria. Of course I'm attracted to women. Real women are so incredibly sexy and beautiful and interesting. What isn't there to like? Just because I like making male characters doesn't somehow mean I hate women. I just haven't been able to create a fictional woman I find as interesting and captivating as real women are.

Also. I just enjoy drawing men. So a majority of my characters are gonna be men. Sue me. Sorry for enjoying myself.

And the whole "sex doll" comment. I answer the questions people ask. Which happens to be alot about sex. What can I say? People have cumbrain.

I'm also an nsfw artist. So obviously alot of the art I create is gonna be porn.

Is that the entire story of the characters? No, of course not! Do you think me and Ren would have enough storyline for an entire book if all the characters did was fuck? There's so much more to it than that. There's so much more that people don't see.

I mean, what's more interesting to see a drawing of:

Two characters in the heated embrace of love making

Or two characters sitting on the couch doing completely different mundane activities

There's a time and a place for everything, and sometimes drawing something simple and mundane is a fun look into a characters life.... But also I just like drawing dicks and the faces of people who are thoroughly wrecked.

Tl;dr- It's not that deep, fam.

[fcarher]

THE MEGA RP PLOTTING SHEET / MEME.

First and foremost, recall that no one is perfect, we all have witnessed some plotting once which did not went too well, be it because of us or our partner. So here have this, which may help for future plotting. It’s a lot! Yes, but perhaps give your partners some insight? Anyway BOLD what fully applies, italicize if only somewhat.

Mun Name: slug / ellie     Age: 19       Contact: IM, discord

Character(s) I rp: Yunaeisha Adynora, other demons from my lore Which muse(s) inspires you the most atm?(for MM): Yunaeisha Current Fandom(s): None really  Fandom(s) you have an AU for:  Naruto, PKMN, Magi, Gangsta, OPM, MHA, Hazbin Hotel & currently working on an ATLA verse My language(s): german, polish, italian, english   Themes I’m interested in for rp:   Fantasy / Science fiction / Horror / Western / Romance / Thriller / Mystery / Dystopia / Adventure / Modern / Erotic / Crime / Mythology / Classic / History / Renaissance / Medieval / Ancient / War / Family / Politics / Religion / School / Adulthood / Childhood / Apocalyptic / Gods / Sport / Music / Science / Fights / Angst / Smut / Drama / etc. Themes/Genres you have an AU for: highschool, modern & fantasy/medieval

Preferred Thread length: one-liner / 1 para / 2 para / 3+ / novella. Asks can be send by: Mutuals / Non-Mutuals / Personals / Anons. Can Asks be continued?:   YES / NO   only by Mutuals?:  YES / NO. Preferred thread type: crack / casual nothing too deep / serious / deep as heck. Is realism / research important for you in certain themes?:   YES / NO. Are you atm open for new plots?:  YES / NO / DEPENDS. Do you handle your draft / ask - count well?:  YES / NO / SOMEWHAT. How long do you usually take to reply?:  24h / 1 week / 2 weeks / 3+ / months / years. I’m okay with interacting: original characters / a relative of my character (an oc) / duplicates / my fandom / crossovers / multi-muses / self-inserts / people with no AU verse for my fandom / canon-divergent portrayals / au-versions (as main or only verse). Do you post more ic or occ?:  IC / OOC. Are you selective with following others?:  YES / NO / DEPENDS.  

Best ways to approach you for rp/plotting: the best way is just to straight up approach me. most often than not, just liking a post is not enough because it’s too vague ?? like if i post an idea & you like that, i’ll still be hesitant when it comes to roleplaying or approaching you because, while i appreciate such gestures, i’m just too anxious. therefore, plopping into my IMs without a properly fleshed out idea is also fine ! it, at least, gives me the hint that you’re actively seeking interaction. however, just saying “i want to roleplay & plot !” won’t cut it; at least, have something in mind, please !

What expectations do you hold towards your plotting partner:  basic ideas & pouring their heart into plotting! i don’t mind waiting, at all, so if you’re busy, don’t worry about keeping me waiting; i completely understand since i’m also often busy with work or university. but !! please don’t only come to me with the statement: “i want to plot!” it’s not gonna cut it & it’s not gonna help with a proper interaction, at all. if i approach someone, most often than not, i have SOME sort of idea in mind. but yeah, being passionate is the most important thing!

When you notice the plotting is rather one-sided, what do you do?:  most often than not, the conversation will die down because i will loose motivation; i don’t like it because i’ll feel like a bother & i shouldn’t feel that way when it comes to a hobby! therefore, one-sided plotting is one of my deal breakers; i usually end the conversation & there will be little to no interaction happening. like i said; i don’t mind waiting, i just hate that feeling of coming on TOO strong when my plotting partner delivers no input. 

How do you usually plot with others, do you give input or leave most work towards your partner?:  often than not, i start off with rather simple question like; are you interested in a certain verse ? do you already have something in mind ? if not, i will go through their about page & ask them things about their character & how that could possibly bring our characters to interact. sometimes, the about pages of a muse cannot give you every single bit of information; muses grow & change with each thread, therefore, it’s often better to just ask the people about their characters ! & from then on, it often just comes naturally. 

When a partner drops the thread, do you wish to know?:   YES / NO / DEPENDS. - And why?: if the thread is not THAT important or vital for our character’s relationship; i don’t mind & won’t need to know if the thread is dropped. sometimes, if it’s a heavily plotted thread & i’ve anticipated the interaction a lot; i’d appreciate a quick heads-up from my partner that they’re not feeling that certain thread any longer; i don’t mind that !! - What should your partner do when dropping a thread?: they don’t need to tell me; SOMETIMES, it’s just a nice gesture but most of the time, i don’t care, we can always start another thread !!

What could possibly lead you to drop a thread?:  many things can lead to me dropping a thread; just losing motivation, having no muse for a certain genre or simply having the feeling that my partner is not liking it, any longer (ex. extreme lack of trying to match the reply length ). my health & my schedule can also, sadly, affect my motivation, so, more often than not, i tend to drop shorter threads & keep longer ones.  - Will you tell your partner?:   YES / NO / DEPENDS.

Is communication in the rpc important to you?   YES / NO. - And why?:  i get anxious really fast if people stop replying for a very long time, out of the blue. it has happened to me once before with a good friend with whom i have no contact with any longer due to miscommunication & them not trying to communicate the issue with me; therefore, yes, it is very important. i wanna know if something is bothering you; i wanna know if you like something very much; i wanna know what’s up ! we’re humans & we’re adults; we can talk about this.  - Are you okay with absolute honesty, even if it may means hearing something negative about you and/or portrayal?:  yes ! as long as it is constructive criticism & not straight-up bashing my characters or lore; i’m all for it. i don’t mind hearing negative things; in fact, i appreciate the honesty & it gives me room to work on myself & my writing ! - Do you think you can handle such situation in a mature way?  YES / NO.

Why do you rp again, is there a goal?:  building relationships that LAST & exploring my muses through & through; it is amazing how much yuna has grown through interactions with others; how different she has become from the yuna i once started out with; it’s almost been a year now & it’s just amazing. however, i’m not stopping anytime soon; THERE IS SO MUCH MORE I WANT TO EXPLORE !! the ultimate goal is for me to just look at my blog & be completely proud of what i have accomplished & written; i want fleshed out relationships & threads; deep stuff !!

Wishlist, be it plots or scenarios:  yuna talking with someone about her struggles; mentally & physically. being open about her abusive father & how it has traumatized her & painted men in the worst picture one could imagine. HOWEVER; a hard thing because i don’t want these things to be pre-est or something; i want a thread where there is struggling, screams, conflict ! it is rather hard to find someone, though, who is willing & fitting to go onto that long journey with me & yuna. also, i’d love to write about darker stuff; i love fluff, though, sometimes i sure want a bit of that, too. 

Themes I won’t ever rp / explore:  the only things i won’t rp or explore are stated in my rules; ex. pedophilia, rape & really descriptive animal abuse. killing, torture, gore as well as cheating, heartbreak or toxic relationships are okay, while i do prefer to have a deeper bond with someone while exploring the latter & be communicating the whole time; i think these are really REAL topics & that’s why i wouldn’t mind exploring them because it does happen, more than one would like them to happen. however, if i see you, the mun, glorifying or romanticizing these; just no. 

What Type of Starters do you prefer / dislike, can’t work with?: i like everything with some sort of substance; i love short ones as much as long ones, nevertheless, you have to give me something to work with. yuna would ignore anyone not of any interest or value to her; therefore, if your muse just asks her random questions, the interaction will go nowhere. if you’re unsure; just ask !!

What type of characters catch your interest the most?: i love characters with uniqueness to them; it can be a certain interest, certain appearance or their species can be totally unique to them; i’ll love it ! i do have a thing for villains, though; always had, even when i was young 8^) so, dark, stubborn & “evil” characters catch my interest far more than a really nice muse who just is all smiles all day. i love a muse that can kick mine & yuna’s ass, basically. someone with strong morals or who is just really set on their beliefs can also offer conflict which i ADORE !! i need it; i live for it !!

What type of characters catch your interest the least?:  really kind & unbothered muses who are self-sacrificing, perfect & loved by everyone for no reason ?? idk, i just think it’s bad writing. everyone has flaws; no one is perfect ! 

What are your strong aspects as rp partner?:  i am a very open person who will talk with you about anything & is keen on exploring our character’s relationship at all times & through all means; i often send my rp partners prompts in form of my yuna just being her dumb-self or through memes ! i will constantly think about our characters & will try to have them interact as much as possible. i am, most of the time, very active & respond to the threads fairly quickly ! if i am totally invested; you’ll get everything you want; a moodboard, an edit, a drawing, etc. i literally pour my heart & soul into every bond my muse has; i live for them. oh !! i also love asking people question about their characters; i just love learning new things about them !! 

What are your weak aspects as rp partner?: i’m very slow out of character; i don’t approach muns a lot because i’m scared to be a bother, working on it ! i often ramble a lot & my writing can become a bit convoluted & hard to understand, i apologize ! i tend to not message people on discord as often as i’d like to; mostly because i’m really socially awkward or just don’t think that what i want to show to them is THAT important. i’m not as straight-forward as i wish myself to be; however, even with all that; i still have a lot of fun & am acknowledging & actively working on my weak aspects ! 

Do you rp smut?:  YES / NO. Do you prefer to go into detail?:  YES / NO / DEPENDS. Are you okay with black curtain?:  YES / NO. - When do you rp smut? More out of fun or character development?:  often, it is because i want to develop the relationship or yuna’s character; she’s a very sexual being who hardly connects to someone emotionally; therefore, writing sex & exploring the vulnerability behind it can be really beautiful ! though, fun is also involved !  - Anything you would not want to rp there?:  non-consensual stuff is a no-go ! also, certain kinks that make me uncomfortable are also off the table; ex. anything involving bodily fluids other than spit. 

Are ships important to you?:   YES / NO. Would you say your blog is ship-focused?:   YES / NO. Do you use read more?:  YES / NO / SOMETIMES. Are you: Multi-Ship / Single-Ship / Dual-Ship  —  Multiverse / Singleverse. - What do you love to explore the most in your ships?:  i love the conflicts the most; clashing ideals or just two stubborn muses arguing for the heck of it is really fun & can develop the relationship beautifully ! yuna is a person who likes someone that can be properly fought with, verbally here. but of course, i also adore the very soft moments!! i love meaningless fluff; it warms my heart.  - What is your smut tag?: SINFUL.

Are you okay with pre-established relationships?: YES / NO. - And what kind of ones?: nothing TOO drastic; a friendship, a rivalry is a-okay ! however, i’m very hesitant when it comes to having pre-est. romantic relationships; though, you can quickly change my mind if you pour your soul into the plotting; then i’m fine with it ! everything that needs time when writing also needs time when plotting; don’t just straight up jump into something if you’re not able to give it your all.

► SECTION ABOUT YOUR MUSE.

- What could possibly make your Muse interesting towards others, why should they rp with this particular character of yours now, what possible plots do they offer?:  i think yuna is a person with whom it is easy to form relationships with; it takes a bit of time but due to her rather drastic ideals & opinions; anything can be founded within seconds. she doesn’t hold back when it comes to her honesty & conflicts will arise. also, for all muses with demonic or deity backgrounds; being a daughter of the literal queen of hell, though, also harboring fragments of a god’s soul makes her unique in the supernatural world which can spark interest with your character or even they can develop an ill-will towards her ? i think it’s really interesting exploring what makes one work & go on & yuna has the philosophical potential to tickle that out of your muse; she question EVERYTHING. now for certain plots; one-sided love or even friendships are always really interesting, especially when she is the one having such feelings. other than that; she has enormous & dangerous powers; so if you’re into character or world-building; can offer that as well !

- With what type of Muses do you usually struggle to rp with?:  humans; she doesn’t approach humans who are just kind & have nothing to offer for her, the least she’d do is have sex with them or kill them to harvest their life energy. i’m sorry but she really does hate all of humanity & to change that opinion ? man, you must be the most stubborn person ever.  - With what type of Muses do they usually work well with?:  characters who are of supernatural or demonic nature; she’ll be very interested & even nosy to a point. also, very attractive characters who are not afraid to speak their mind; she’s really superficial most of the time & will flirt with anything that she deems good-looking. muses who have ideals that contrast hers or that are similar to her but also, generally, people who are open-minded. 

- What interests your Muse(s) in general:  sex, parties, plants & flowers, astronomy, writing, demons & hell, the underground scene, killing, knives & playing the piano - What do they desire, is their goal?:  the questions that bother her the most are; why did her mother had to die ? why would nobody help her while she was being abused by her father ? why was she kept alive by her sisters ? is there love out there for someone like her ? what do these strange visions mean that occur almost every night ? she has a lot of things she wants to experience & wishes to have a normal life once she has killed her other mother, lilith, which is her ultimate goal, at the moment.  - What catches their interest first when meeting someone new?:  their appearance; the scent of their blood & if it differs from humans; how they react towards her & what they do in front of her.  - What do they value in a person?:    strong opinions, loyalty, good looks, humor, strength (not limited to physical strength) - What themes do they like talking about?:  herself or the world & the state of it; she likes being philosophical with some, can often be somewhat self-centered; THOUGH; it is almost always for her to see how they would react to that. 

- Which themes bore them?:  love & drama; she does not care a lot for gossip or anything relating to it; the topic of love, no matter in which sense, is always brushed off because she just doesn’t find any appeal in it. 

- Did they ever went through something traumatic?:  Being the reason her own mother committed suicide; Her father & sister abusing her all her life, spouting lies & beating her until she could stand no more while her other sisters would watch & do nothing, even though, they were supposed to support each other; laewa, one of her sisters, fancying the idea of killing yuna for the greater good; two of her best friends turning on her when they find out she’s not human & then being killed right in front of her eyes; her one & only boyfriend protecting her from a demon hunter & being killed in the process - What could possibly trigger them?:  loud sudden noises; making fun of her attachment to her late ex-boyfriend, being awfully nice to her, the sight of any dog or wolf, tender touches (esp. her back being touched), being alone with her thoughts for far too long  - What could set them off, enrage them?:  people who make fun of her & her powers; calling her a monster; not understanding her pain when she opens up; purposefully touching her back or any other scarred skin, being nosy  - What could lead to an instant kill?:  you are a demon hunter that does not show remorse when killing demons with a consciousness, trying to kill her, killing one of her comrades 

- Is there someone /-thing they hate?:  Keela Adynora, Myra Adynora (Father, Sister), the other D.O.L.s, EYES’ superiors (the organization she works for), Humans, Lilith - Is there someone /-thing they love?:  Evelin Adynora (Her biological mother)

Is your Muse easy to approach?: YES / NO. - Best ways to approach them?: If you’re not quite human or are a demon, you could literally stand next to her & be silent; she’ll become curious on her own. other than that; be interesting or flirt with her; just do something that does not involve small talk; she hates that.  - Where are they usually to find?:  strip club (her workplace), bars, clubs, clearings within a forest, nice areas that are full of trees & plants; a roof-top

Something you may still want to point out about your muse?:  Yuna is basically pandora’s box personified; she may seem nice & attractive from the outside but within her are sleeping demons that only wait to be awakened. & withal, she is still a cutie who will become your number one supporter & protector if you manage to build a proper relationship with. it’s hard to get through that shell & what awaits is NOT that pretty but with years upon years of abuse, neglect & shit being thrown her way; it’s not easy being a carefree immortal. 

CONGRATS!!! You managed it, now tag your mutuals! ♥

Tagged by:  @skyvar , i srsly love these so much, snow !! thank you for tagging me <3 i had so much fun 8′)  Tagging:  @thevvolf ; @nezumi-vc-103221 ; @empiia ; @dvojakyvlk ; @childrenxfthemoon ; @hensetsu​​ ; @goldempire​​ ; @animatedatrophy​ ; @talonness​ ; @shikkotsunin​ ; @wcrthlessanimal​ & anyone else !! 

[angelbabylu]

Birthday Present // CH

pairing: reader x calum 

warnings: fluff, smut towards the very end so you can skip it if you want, an itsy bitsy bit of angst 

word count: 5.5k ish 

notes: this was really supposed to be a short fic about you and Cal fucking for his birthday but my brain decided to add an extra 3 thousand words of plot so??? which is also why i’m posting this more than a week after his birthday haha. also i’m the only one who has edited this so if you find mistakes let me know so i can fix them.

---

Calum was on the couch across from Luke idly plucking at his bass strings. The two of them were supposed to be working on the rhythm and lyrics for a song Luke had written a few days before. They had only been together for five minutes before it became clear they were both not in the mood to get anything done.

His eyes flickered from Calum to the notebook in his lap, where his handwriting was scrawled, barely decipherable, pen ink smeared from the tears he had cried while writing it. They were lyrics about a stupid fight he and Sierra were both too stubborn to apologize to each other about. This never got easier for him - putting himself in his lyrics like this. But what was he supposed to write about if not himself?

Sighing, he looked back up at Calum whose random plucking had yet to become a discernable bassline. Calum wasn’t getting anywhere with the rhythm and Luke didn’t want to put any effort into finishing the lyrics. With the wound still fresh, it was hard for him to put words to his pain. He decided to make an attempt, anyway.

“What do you think about this,” he said, trying to grab Calum’s attention before reading off the pre-chorus idea that had been stuck in his head for the past few days.

He looked up to Calum for his advice. It was no secret that Calum was a crazy talented songwriter. Luke almost always deferred to his judgment on these things. But Calum was not paying attention to him. Instead, he was miles away, smiling at what Luke hoped wasn’t the lyrics about heartbreak.

Luke had to call his name three times before his eyes refocused, locking with Luke’s for the first time that session.

“Huh?” he asked, trying to seem as if he was listening along. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that last part.”

“I said, what do you think about the pre-chorus?”

“Yeah, it’s really – “

Before he could come up with a bullshit answer to pretend he had been listening, Luke leveled him with a glare.

Calum’s mouth snapped shut.

“Sorry,” he grimaced.

Luke closed his notebook and relaxed back into the loveseat. Honestly, he was thankful for a reason not to think about the lyrics or how much he missed Sierra. “Want to tell me what you were thinking about?”

“No, man.” Calum was replying, removing the bass from his lap and placing it in the stand next to the couch. “Today’s supposed to be about you. Run those lyrics by me one more time.”

Luke really didn’t want to, so instead he took a guess. “Were you thinking about (Y/N)?”

(Y/N) was a friend of the band. They had met her at a party in West Hollywood early last year where they all became fast friends. On New Year’s a few weeks ago, Luke, Calum, and Ashton ended up at the same party as her. Calum had mentioned a few times that he regretted not kissing her that night. Luke, knowing what a hopeless romantic Calum was, guessed that was what had him smiling and staring off into space.

Calum blushed and tried to hide his face at the mention of her name.

“Calum,” Luke couldn’t help his teasing tone. He was so gone for her it was cute. “(Y/N)? Seriously?”

Next thing he knew, the pillow closest to Calum was sailing through the air and hitting him in the face.

“Shut up,” Cal grumbled, the smile and the blush never leaving his face. “I never said anything about how vomit-inducing you were with Sierra.”

Luke threw the pillow back at him with a little bit more force than necessary. “Actually, you did.” Calum, Michael, and Ashton had teased him about her for months. “But let’s not talk about Sierra.”

He could see the second Calum remembered why they were in the studio, the second he remembered the lyrics they were supposed to be working on that day.

Calum’s lips twitched downward into a small worried frown; then, he was sitting forward, elbows coming to rest on his knees. Luke instantly recognized these motions as signs of Calum wanting to have a talk. “Luke,” He said, voice softening as if he thought that speaking too loud would re-break Luke’s heart. “You and Sierra will be fine. Why don’t you just call her and talk to her?”

Luke shook his head. He didn’t want to be the first one to reach out to her. Yes, his behavior was childish and stubborn, but so was hers. He hadn’t heard a peep from her in two weeks, the longest they’ve ever gone without speaking to each other. The worst part is that she left L.A. to visit her dad and none of her friends seemed to know when she would be back. This meant that their old song and dance of getting mad at each other then running into each other at Ashton’s house and instantly apologizing wasn’t going to work this time.

Luke didn’t want to think about it, so again he tried to change the subject.

“Your birthday is coming up! What are we doing?”

Luke watched as Calum decided whether he should go along with Luke’s misdirection or attempt to have it out about how Luke was feeling.

“Fuck my birthday.”

He released a sigh in relief as Calum chose the second option.  

“I’d be happy to just stay at home and sleep,” Calum continued truthfully.

“You’re so fucking boring, man. Are you turning 23 or 40?”

Calum rolled his eyes, “75 actually.” He was probably tired of how often his friends called him an old man. Not that Calum didn’t enjoy a good party - he was just more lowkey than Luke or Ashton. “You guys’ll be pretty pissed if I don’t have a party, huh?”

“It’s not like we need an excuse to party - but it’s nice to have one. Besides, it’s not every day that you turn 23. We should celebrate!”

“There’s also nothing exciting about turning 23. It’s not like 21 or 18. If I spend this one birthday getting drunk on my couch and watching Bojack Horseman, it’s not like I’m going to regret it.”

A part of Luke didn’t want to push Calum too hard. It was his birthday. But a louder, more selfish part wanted a party. Anything to take his mind off Sierra. Plus, if he was clever, he could plan a party both he and Calum could benefit from.

“How about this? You throw a party, I’ll invite (Y/N).”

Calum pretended to take a minute to consider - but Luke knew there was no way Calum would turn him down.

His answer was, “Don’t be weird about it.”

Luke was confused. “Huh?”

“Don’t be weird about inviting (Y/N). Don’t tell her that I’m only having a party so I’d get to see her or something weird like that.”

Calum knew Luke too well. “Yeah of course,” Luke lied, hoping Calum would bite. “I’ll just tell her I need company or something, because of the whole Sierra situation.”

“Okay.”

Hook, line, and sinker. “Okay?” He didn’t bother concealing his excitement. “We’re having a party?”

“Yeah.” Calum sighed. “Let’s have a fucking party.”

---

Calum was not enjoying his party. He had invited 100 people, but there were close to 200 packed into his living room alone, even more milling around in the kitchen. There were people in his house that he barely knew and definitely had not imagined spending his birthday with. He couldn’t even move around his living room without someone bumping into him. When a girl whose face he didn’t even recognize tried to start a conversation with him, he finally had too much. Before she could even begin speaking, he turned around and pushed through the crowd towards his backyard.

The most annoying part of this entire birthday party ordeal was Luke.

Hours after they had decided on the party, Sierra showed up at Luke’s door with tears and apologies. No matter how many times Calum had spoken to Luke since then, he couldn’t seem to get a concrete answer on whether or not he had invited (Y/N). His mind was all Sierra all the time. Calum didn’t have it in his heart to feel anything more than mild annoyance, however, knowing how much the two-week spat had affected his best friend.

Now, Luke was probably off with Sierra somewhere, and Calum was heading outside alone with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

A lit cigarette in hand, he leaned his forearms on the railing of his deck, his back to the party going on inside his house. He should have kissed (Y/N) when he had the chance on New Years. The more he tried not to think about it, the more the thought stayed at the forefront of his mind. In truth, it was all he had thought about in the three weeks since then. He needed to see her again. Desperately. Before his mind started writing lyrics about it.

“You do not look like you’re enjoying your own party.”

He turned so fast, his cigarette almost flew out of his hand. If he believed in that sort of thing, he would have thought her an answer to his prayers.

“I’m not,” he said, trying to control the widening grin that contradicted the somberness of his words. “Too many people.”

“Oh definitely.” She was like him, her willingness to be in a crowd very dependent on her mood.

“You know,” he began, gesturing with his cigarette, ash flicking off the edge. “There are people here tonight that I’ve never even met? They walked in saying ‘It’s your birthday!’ and I had to restrain myself from saying, ‘Yeah I know that, do you?’”

She laughed, and he hated how he was so gone for her that even her laugh made his heart jump.

“Maybe they were asking you - to make sure that they were at the right house, you know?”

Calum snickered. “It’s your birthday?” He mocked, exaggerating the question.

“So it is your birthday! Perfect, that means I have the right house.”

It was a dumb joke, but it had her giggling at him, so he counted it as a win.

“Do you want me to go kick them out?” She asked after a beat. “I totally would.” And she would. That’s one of the things he liked the most about her. She didn’t really care what other people thought. Which was perfect, because it could be said that he cared too much.

“Nah,” He responded. “But keep me company, maybe?” He couldn’t care less what was happening in his house at that moment. Not if she was out there with him.

“Of course.”

A moment passed where they both just stood, smiling at each other, soaking up this nearness they hadn’t shared since New Year’s. There was a magnetism about her that had Calum taking a few steps closer. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be here,” he was saying, and he hated how something about her presence pulled confessions from him. He hated even more how desperate he was for her to feel the same.

“Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“Well,” Calum began to explain. “I know Luke invited you because he didn’t want to be alone after the whole Sierra thing. . .”

At the look on her face, he trailed off. The way she bit her lip to hide a grimace suggested that Luke hadn’t invited her as his plus one.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “What did he say to you?”

Anxious for her answer, he took a drag of his cigarette, giving his mouth something to do. He knew he should have invited her himself.  He shouldn’t have trusted Luke not to embarrass him.

“Are you sure you want to know?” she asked, already pulling her cell phone from her pocket.  

Calum wasn’t, but he nodded anyway.

He immediately cringed as she started to read. “Calum desperately wants you at his party, but he’s too afraid to ask you himself. Please come and make out with him or something. Put the man out of his misery.”

“Fuck,” Calum groaned, dragging out the word, before taking another puff of his cigarette. He was going to murder Luke.

(Y/N) must have seen the murderous intent on his face - or perhaps the flush of embarrassment - because she was smiling sweetly and stepping closer to him and saying, “Well it worked, didn’t it? I’m here.”

She was there, despite the very embarrassing text she had received. He was about to ask what that meant for them when she shivered and pushed her hand into the pocket at the front of her hoodie.

“You’re cold,��� he said, and before he could think better of it he followed up with, “Want to share my jacket?”

They both blushed at the implications of his words. Then, in true (Y/N) like fashion, she teased him about it. “Are you putting the moves on me, Hood?”

Calum considered shooting back a teasing joke of his own, but he needed to know, “Is it working?”

“Yeah,” she breathed out, crossing the few steps between them, wrapping her arms around him, resting her head on his chest. Calum’s heart fluttered as his chest touched hers, one arm reaching up and around her, pulling her closer. He had to breathe in deep to keep his emotions in check. He realized too late that taking a deep breath was a bad idea. Her scent, her touch - his senses were overflowing with her.

It didn’t help that his mind was racing a million miles an hour, going over everything that happened in the past 5 minutes with her, making sure that he wasn’t misreading anything. He wanted to ask her what it all meant, that she came despite the embarrassing text, that she stood in front of him, arms around his waist, face on his chest.

She distracted him from the question again by groaning, “Fuck, you’re always so warm,” and melting further into his chest. “My hands are freezing. Do you mind if I-?” She was pushing up the back of his shirt, asking for skin-to-skin contact.

He doesn’t hesitate before saying, “Yeah, of course.”

But, as soon as her hands touched his back, he was jumping away from her and she was laughing as he shivered.

“Goddamn,” he exclaimed. With the hand not holding the cigarette, he reached for hers, rubbing her icy fingers with his thumb. “Why are you so cold?”

“I warned you!”

“I know. I just wasn’t expecting it, is all.” He popped the cigarette into his mouth so he could have both hands free. Then, he grabbed each of her hands in each of his and rubbed them together, before ushering them back beneath his jacket and his shirt. When the cold of her fingers hit his skin for the second time, he barely flinched. His right arm came around her again, the left taking the cigarette from her mouth.

The stood quietly for a moment before he realized, “You are the perfect height for me to rest my chin on your head.”

She squeezed him tighter, then dislodged his head from hers by leaning her head away and looking up to meet his eyes.

“To quote Luke,” and he knew exactly where she was going with that statement.

“Throwing some cheddar in the works here.” They both finished together with a laugh.

“Sorry. Just something about you makes me such a fucking cliche.” He immediately had to stick his cigarette back into his mouth to avoid saying anything else he would eventually regret.

She watched as he avoided speaking with one puff and then another.

“Those things will kill you, you know.”

He rolled his eyes and laughed. “You smoke more than I do.”

“Yeah,” She sighed. “We should try quitting again, maybe?”

As soon as the words leave her mouth, they’re both laughing again. They had both tried to quit late last year. It did not go very well. It was two weeks before she was caving and three weeks before he followed suit.

“But,” she said, voice low, once they had their laughter under control. “If you put the cigarette out, you could kiss me maybe?”

He had never dropped a cigarette so fast. He snuffed it out beneath his feet and brought the hand that was holding the cigarette to rest on her face.

“Yeah?” He asked, eyes flickering from her lips to her eyes, looking for any hesitation.

Before she could finish nodding, his lips were on hers.

Calum was afraid to go to seem overeager. He knew he had wanted this - craved this - for months now, but he didn’t know where she stood. He didn’t know if this was a decision made in the moment, if this was a decision made because of Luke’s shitty text, or if, like him, this kiss had been the subject of her daily daydreams.

So, he tried to take it slow with her. Lips pressed hard together, hand gently cradling her head, rubbing softly at the hairs at her nape. She had other ideas. It only took a minute before she was pushing for more, moving her hand from under his jacket, up around his shoulders. Her fingers tangled in his blonde hair, pulling him closer, opening up her mouth to him. He barely had time to groan “fuck,” against her open mouth before they were deepening the kiss. He finally allowed himself to get lost in the taste and feel of her - so lost, it was not until his head began to spin that he realized he had not been breathing.

He pulled away, chest heaving. As he caught his breath, she leaned forward to attach her lips to his neck.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he panted, the hand that previously cradled her head running down her back, coming to rest parallel to the other on her waist. He squeezed as she detached her lips from his neck with a wet sound, then leaned forward again to bite down.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this,” she was saying - but he could barely understand her with his skin still between her teeth.

He replaced the hand on the back of her head, to guide her back into another heated kiss. He didn’t want to assume where this was heading, but he’d fuck her right there on his deck if she’d let him. The issue was there were 200 people on the other side of his sliding glass door that would be getting a free show.

“We should take this upstairs, maybe?” He asked when they came up for air again, relieved when she nodded, grabbed his arm, and led him back inside. She had been to his house often enough to know the route to his bedroom blindfolded, but the massive amount of people still gathered in his living room made it hard to push through.

Cal was annoyed, grunting, “Fuck people,” when they were finally enveloped in the silence of his soundproofed bedroom. She didn’t seem to care. She just toed off her shoes and got on the bed before removing her hoodie, tossing it somewhere on the floor.  

Calum instantly forgot about the mass of people in his house, his sole focus on her. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Instead, she wore a thin white camisole that left nothing to Calum’s imagination. He felt his mouth water at her nipples peeking through.

“Damn.” He whispered under his breath, appreciative and aroused at the sight in front of him. He moved towards her, toeing off his shoes as well.

She laughed, and he wasn’t sure what prompted the laughter until she asked, “Do you think this is what Luke meant when he asked me to make out with you or something?”

Calum groaned, unbuttoning his pants and dropping them to the ground. “Please don’t talk about my bandmates while I have a half chub.”

She was laughing even harder then, waiting for him to step out of his pants, before pulling him down to sit against the headboard and straddling him. “You’re right,” she said, ass immediately grinding down to meet his erection. His hands flew to her waist in surprise. He released a low his hiss of arousal, his head tipping back in frustration. “Let’s get you all the way there, then we can talk about Luke.”

He ended the Luke conversation the best way he knew how - bringing their lips together to meet once more. Her laughter turned to whines as he gripped her ass and ground up against her a few times. Then, he gently shifted them, rolling them over so she could lie down, and he could hover over her, attaching his lips gently to the place where her jaw met her neck. He kissed softly down her throat, hands underneath the camisole, moving slowly towards her breasts.

“This okay?” he asked, pushing the camisole up, almost to her armpits, ready to take it off.

She nodded, sat up, and removed the thin material. As soon as she was under him again, his lips were attached to one nipple, his hand pinching and rolling the other. He loved the sounds that she made and the movement of her body as she whined and arched up towards him.

“Feels so good,” she huffed, voice high and breathless. Calum moved on to the other nipple, sucking and tugging lightly with his teeth. This had her whining, “Fuck yeah,” hips snapping up, trying to seek friction from Calum’s body. Her jeans needed to go. Besides, there were other places that he wanted to get his lips on.

He left her breasts with a final kiss on both, then slowly trailed his kisses downward. He feathered a kiss on each of the freckles she had scattered across her stomach, before reaching her belly button, dipping into it, and blowing cool air over it lightly. 

Finally reaching the button of her jeans, he looked up to her for approval. She nodded and moaned, “Jesus,” running her hand through his hair. “I love that you do that. I love that you ask for approval every step of the way. It’s fucking hot.”

He hummed in agreement, unbuttoning her pants, waiting for her to lift her hips so he could roll them down. “There is nothing hotter than enthusiastic, verbal consent,” he croaked, voice gruff with arousal. And it was true - he loved it when women were vocal about wanting him.

(Y/N) was smiling again. “Look at us. We could be the face of the next high school sex-ed consent campaign.”

Calum chuckled as he finished taking her pants all the way off, throwing them over the side of the bed. He liked this with her - he liked that they could still joke with each other in the middle of sex. Another part of him wondered what it would take to leave her speechless. He gave it a shot.

He made quick work of her panties before settling between her thighs, scruff, and lips gently rubbing and kissing the sensitive skin there. “I’ve wanted to eat you out for ages,” he hummed, before giving the same attention to the other thigh. “Thought about holding you down for hours - maybe get you to ride my face?” He looked up to see if that would be something she was into.

And it was if the dark flush that had overtaken her was any indication. She whined and bent her knees, running her foot up the side of his body. “Not tonight though, Calum,” her hand running through his hair. “Want you to fuck me.”

At that, Calum felt a wave of arousal flush through him. He nodded. He could do that. He had been dreaming about that. But first, “Just a taste, okay?”

He waited until she was nodding before he brought his head back down. He didn’t taste her immediately - he went back to her thighs, nipping at them, loving the sounds she made as his scruff rubbed lightly against them.

“Cal, don’t tease.” She pushed slightly, trying to direct him towards her pussy. He just moved over to the next thigh.

It wasn’t until she whined “Cal,” again that he gave into her. He flattened his tongue and ran it over her clit before taking it between his lips and sucking. She cried out, bending her other knee, bringing it up to match the other.

Calum wove both arms underneath her legs, bringing his hands to rest on her waist, holding her still beneath him. He alternated between sucking her clit and licking between her folds, loving how wet she was, loving being enveloped in her scent, enjoying the noises she made and the way she tried to get a grip on his too-short hair. She was so responsive under him, panting and squirming at him tonguing her.

He pulled away for a short breath asking, “You like that?”

She could barely breathe out “Yeah,” before he was on her again. He felt himself pulse with desire at every, “Jesus” and “Cal that feels so good.”

He spent forever between her until she pushed him away, hissing, “Cal.”

He looked up at her, licking the lingering taste of her off his lips. “Yes?”

She looked down at him, panting and sweaty, somewhere between wanting to pull him up towards her and push him down towards her cunt.

“What do I have to do to get you to fuck me?” she breathed out.

Chuckling, he untangled his arms from her waist, coming up on his knees. He put one hand on her stomach, holding her down. “Sorry,” he said, slowly removing his rings, tossing them on his bedside table. “I got carried away.”

She doesn’t get to respond before he is slipping two fingers inside her. They both groaned in unison as he watched as his fingers scissored in and out of her.

“God, I could play with your pussy all night,” he teased, knowing that was not what she wanted to hear.

She glared and pouted up at him, making her frustration evident.

“Put that lip away.” 

When she didn’t, he leaned down and kissed it away.

They spent a minute licking into each other as Calum’s finger worked inside her. Their lips had barely parted before she asked, “Now will you fuck me?”

Instead of answering, he slid his fingers out of her and moved over to his bedside table drawer, pulling out a condom. He held it up to show her, a silent yes to her earlier question. She rolled her eyes, watching and waiting as he rolled the condom on.

“How do you want it?” He settled over her again, lightly peppering her neck with kisses.

“Just like this,” she requested. “Wanna see you.”

He captured her lips once more with his own in silent agreement. The next time he’d take her from behind, hard and fast, until both of them were breathing hard, unable to do or say anything more than each other’s names. Right now, he wanted to enjoy her, savoring what he had spent weeks dreaming of.

He aligned himself with her and pressed in slowly, overwhelmed by how good she felt, enjoying every second until he was buried inside her. Then, Calum took a moment, drawing awareness to the fire he felt everywhere they connected, wanting to chase that heat. He flattened himself on her, burying his face in her neck, flooding his senses with her, before putting one hand on her waist, the other gripping the sheets above her head. Her legs came up to wrap around him, one arm in his hair, the other around his back. The noises she made were downright filthy, as she gasped and whimpered and cried out with every stroke.

“You feel so fucking good,” he grunted, lips attaching to her neck, sucking and biting at the skin there.

“C’mon Cal,” she pleaded. “More.”

And that was all it took for him to lose his resolve to go slow. He got up on his elbows and pounded into her. She had both hands in his hair now, pulling his head down, unable to keep their lips connected with the jerkiness of his rhythm, but wanting his mouth close anyway. He slowed for a second, to join their lips, to taste her. Then, he let his desires overtake him, got to his knees, and rammed her. His hands gripped and held her boobs while hers twisted in the bedsheets above her head.    

He wasn’t surprised how quickly he felt his orgasm building. He was surprised, however when she came before him, her whole body tightening, head thrown back in ecstasy.

He rode out the aftershocks of her orgasm then went to pull out of her, to finish himself off, but she shook her head. “Come in me.”

He couldn’t even form a coherent response to that. All he managed was, “Fuck,” drawing out the vowel of the word.

She’s nodding in agreement as if her suggestion affected her just as much as it did him. “We’re going to have to get tested ASAP, so you can actually come in me when we do this again.”

He nodded eagerly, both at the idea and the implications that this would be happening again.

“But for now. . .” She trailed off because she really didn’t have to finish. He got the message. He braced both hands on her waist and slammed into her. It only took a few strokes before he was gone. He let out a deep groan, hips coming to a halt as he came inside her. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, barely breathing, before burying his face into her neck. He had to take a moment waiting for his limbs to work again, before he moved off of her and deposited the soiled condom in the trash near his bedside table. 

When he rolled back over, coming to lie flat on his back, she laid on him, heaving a content sigh. He lazily ran his fingers down her back while she mimicked his motion on his chest.

Then, it only took a few seconds for reality to hit. Everything had happened so fast they never really talked it out. What was this to her? She had briefly mentioned a next time, but even with that he couldn’t get his hopes up. They were both notorious for friends with benefits arrangements. And that was another thing - if they did decide to give this a try, would it be exclusively? Would they end all other arrangements on the side?

He didn’t know how to ask all this without seeming desperate and insecure, so instead, he asked, “What do you want for breakfast tomorrow morning?”

He knew she had a rule, no staying overnight at an fwb’s house. If he could gage if she were staying the night, he would know where he stood with her. Getting on her elbows, she raised herself above him and leveled him with an unimpressed look. 

She saw right through him.

“You can just ask me,” she said, silently, reaching her hands up to run through his hair. He leaned into her touch. “Ask me what I want from this, from you. This is us. It will only work if we’re real with each other.”

She was right - she wasn’t just some girl he picked up at a party and decided to fuck. This was (Y/N). They were friends first. They had a rule about transparency in their friendship, and when he started hiding the fact that he was falling for her, they had lost some of that. It was time for him to start again.

“I really like you,” he confessed, eyes never once leaving hers. It took a lot for him to say those words, to put his feelings out there. He could only hope she felt the same. “I want to try this, try us, together, exclusively.”

In the few seconds it took for her to answer, he couldn’t breathe, anticipation thick in the air. He was afraid that what she said next would break his heart.

It didn't.

“I love that we’re always on the same page.”

He breathed out a sigh of relief as he pulled her down for a celebratory kiss.

“This is the best birthday present,” he murmured against her lips.

“We’ll have to send Luke a thank you card.”

“Do they make ‘thank you for inviting a mutual friend to my party so that I could bone her’ thank you cards?”

She shrugged, settling back down on his chest. “We’ll have to give hallmark a call in the morning.”

feedback is very much appreciated

[starshinegoblin]

Ok I totally did not just see you reblog a stiles stillinski post so I'm gonna challenge you for completely selfish reasons to write prompt 13 with Sterek! please feed me i am starving

Yes, it wasn’t a figment of your imagination! I do love some sterek and this will be a challenge because I’ve never written for this fandom!!!! So, here is my attempt and I hope that you like it! It took an AU turn but ya! 

"Jesus, you're pathetic. Just call him." Derek mumbled to himself as he slouched forward over his coffee to cradle his head in his hands. His phone sitting unlocked and ready to dial Stiles' phone. As, the younger man's alpha he had every right to check in on him. However, Derek knows that as Stiles isn't happy with him right now. Derek feels a small ache in his chest at the reason but the desire to find out what's going on with him is stronger than his pain. He was just about to cave and call him when he hear's the sound of a car parking in the driveway of  his home. A newly designed house for the pack to come and go as they please.

Derek doesn't need to see who's there. He can already smell them the moment the car doors shut. He gets up from the table to go to out to the driveway. The scent of hospital sterilization mixed with the earthy smokey scent tells him that it's Scott and Stiles. His pace certainly doesn't quicken to the door because underneath Stiles' scent is faint scent of tangy copper. He opens the side door to find Scott about to knock.

Scott is dressed in one of his scrub outfits for the clinic with his arm around Stiles' waist to assist him with standing up right. He looks perfectly fine and should with his own alpha healing abilities. His gaze shifts to his pack emissary and he frowns. Erica had under stated the severity of them getting rid of the pixie nest while he was away for the weekend a the district alpha conference. Stiles has tiny scratch marks on his face and neck along with a nasty cut on his bottom lip. Derek can smell the other wounds beneath the hoodie and skinny jeans the younger man is wearing.

"Oh you're back?" Scott questions as the smile he had on dampens sharing a look with Stiles before he continues, "Anyways, I've been called into work and he still needs to be watched. You know how he gets when he's left to his own devices."

"Yes, I do." Derek agrees stepping back to let Scott and Stiles in.  His mind shifting to when Stiles broke his leg because of the siren. They'd been lucky that his house hand been in one piece.

"I'm right here, you know." Stiles grumbles playfully pinching Scott's shoulder that he'd been holding onto to keep balance.

"Yeah, well you can't be trusted by yourself." Scott laughs as he helps Stiles sit down on the couch. After he's been successfully deposited Scott turns back to Derek. He hands Derek the messenger bag he'd been carrying, "He has to take three table spoons of the syrup at one and he has to take every bit of it." Scott looks over his shoulder serving a scolding glare which Stiles childishly responds by stick his tongue out at him. Scott rolls his eyes as he turns to Derek. The two of them going back through the kitchen to the side door.

"I'll be back to get him after my shift." Scott smiles thinly.

"No, need. He can just stay here with us." Derek countered.

"I don't think he'd be okay with that Derek. He didn't even tell me you were back." Scott frowned, "He told me Boyd was supposed to be home today."

"I just hadn't messaged him is all." Derek lied. Thankfully, Scott being the man that he is didn't call him out on it. Derek didn't feel guilty about lying. It's just that the friction between him and Stiles was their pack business. Scott has his own pack.

"Yeah, well I'm going to go. Message me if he decides to stay." Scott finally said before taking his leave. Derek sighed setting the bag on the island with his coffee and phone. Today was going to be a long day.

Stiles looked over from his comfortable spot on the couch at Derek -  who was at the other end pointedly not speaking to him. The silent treatment had begun the moment Scott left. He didn't need to be a werewolf to know that Derek was upset with him having Erica lie to him. Plus they still hadn't resolved their fight. Which Stiles wanted to do but he found himself being rather stubborn. He's been Derek's emissary for almost two years now since he came to live in Beacon Hills and he thought they were getting close. Stiles has no idea why for the past few weeks Derek's been putting distance between two of them. He doesn't know how to fix what he said during their fight but he can be man enough to apologize for lying.

"I'm sorry for having Erica lie to you." Stiles apologized breaking the silence between them. A small smile sliding across his face seeing Derek's shoulder's relax. "I shouldn't have done that. You deserve to know when somethings wrong with one us." Derek doesn't appear to acknowledge him and he finally gives up the hope of them talking their problems out. So, he goes back to watching tv. The show almost has his full attention when Derek starts talking.

"I accept your apology, and I'm sorry for pushing you away. I didn't mean too and I wish I was ready to tell you why but I'm not. "

The show immediately forgotten, Stiles turns his head quickly to look at Derek only to find the alpha looking at him. He hadn't expected for them to discuss the fight but he was glad that Derek was willing too.

"I accept your apology and I can wait till you're ready." Stiles grins. No longer wanting to be on separate ends of the couch. Stiles stretches out so that his head lands on the pillow sitting on top of Derek's lap. He winces as pain shoots up his side from moving so suddenly.

"Stiles?" Derek says worriedly smelling the acrid tinge in his scent.

"Look, I know you’re a hardass, but can you play with my hair? It would really help." Stiles jokes trying to keep from focusing on the pain.

Derek snorts in amusement as he obliges him. He combs his fingers through Stiles short brunette hair making sure his finger tips gently massage his head. This contact allows for him to start ciphering the pain from him.

"That feels nice." Stiles mumbles. Derek can't help but smile when he looks down to find that Stiles is already asleep.

[llawlietofficial]

What type of characterisation do u like for fics? I do find that fic from back in the day is mostly 1 dimensional but I was curious what ur issues w it where?

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to answer this but I’m gonna be real my opinions on stuff like this have led to me being labeled toxic to the point where people have literally implied they want me and people who share similar opinions with me to leave the fandom, so I’ve been kind of hesitant to answer something like this bashing some recent characterization again. So if you’re one of those people I’m sorry and you should probably stop reading now.

opinions under the cut with some lawlight characterization stuff I don’t like + some stuff I do like:

Honestly? I try and read at least the first chapter or so of every new lawlight fic in the tag and recently it’s been impossible for me to enjoy a lot of it because when I read it it just doesn’t feel like L and Light to me at all? Like it feels like someone at some point wrote a big fic with strong characterization and interesting characters, except they weren’t much like L and Light and they acted in ways L and Light wouldn’t act. And a lot of fics now are based off that same characterization, which in turn inspires fics with that characterization, rinse and repeat. And that’s just not enjoyable to me when I’m looking to read lawlight fanfiction.

Obviously old lawlight fanfiction wasn’t all 100% perfect and there were a lot of doozies in that mix too but it felt like there were more really solid multichapter fics that might have been messy and toxic in ways but they made sense with the canon characters. And fics that did have a happy ending and some fluff thrown in were still written using circumstances that could be believable, even if it took a long time or a slow burn to get there.

To answer your question more specifically, here’s some common tropes that feel out of character to me (and I’m not calling out any specific author or saying fics that do any of these things are poorly written because they’re not and we have a lot of talented and dedicated people here):

Either one of them changing their principles and switching sides within the first 20k words and without a LOT of persuading. IMO “we’re two sides of the same coin and not that different despite both being hugely stubborn” is shit I love, “actually I’ve sided with you secretly the whole time/your magical dick has cured me of disagreeing with you/I’m willing to sacrifice the principles I literally died for in canon easily because I want to be with you” is shit I don’t love.

“We suddenly agree and work super well together as partners now that we’re in an AU and there’s no death note” doesn’t feel authentic to me because death note or no death note their entire outlook on the world is different. Light would think L’s methods are disgusting. L would think Light’s initial idealism is naive. Light believes mankind is inherently good and once you get rid of the bad that can shine, L…doesn’t seem to share that. That’s not to say they can never work together but the good shit is when it’s a long journey into understanding each other and where they’re coming from and slowly making compromises and falling in love.

L being a naive uwu tries his best baby who’s being taken advantage of by Light. Light being a misguided uwu baby who tries his best and is being taken advantage of the whole time by L. They’re more complex than that and they’re both bad people but they also both have good sides so any sort of simplification of the characters into one being a villain and one being a victim is uninteresting to me. 

They shouldn’t work but somehow despite everything they do, because they’re alone and because despite disagreeing and being enemies by circumstance and by beliefs, they know without the other they’d never really be challenged or fulfilled. That’s neat. I like that. It’s messy. They’re drawn to each other even as they’re disgusted with each other.

It’s more interesting when they are their own conflict rather than the conflict solely coming from outside sources.

The 500000 fics where Light is a rebellious and progressive omega who actually secretly wants to be protected by L and feels grateful that they’ve found each other? don’t love that. I dislike omega fics in general even if there’s a couple I’ve thought were pretty alright so that doesn’t help either. It is kind of interesting that despite their differences this could be an in-universe reason to force them together. It just seems like omegafic is the lawlight default right now. Like even fics where the plot doesn’t revolve around omegaverse stuff is sometimes omegaverse and that’s ? hard for me to wrap my brain around? that’s not just a lawlight problem though that seems to be happening in a lot of fandoms

Similarly to point one, either of them being okay with losing like lol what. 

yotsuba can be difficult to tackle because there’s so much going on there with the characters, but there’s so many interesting layers to explore and dive into that sometimes get ignored in favor of fluffy hijinks and that’s boring to me. from Light’s perspective L took everything from him and has made his life pretty miserable because of this whole Kira thing and catching the real Kira is the only real thing that could totally clear Light’s name and L just sort of….gives up, for a lot of it. mopes about and acts unmotivated and uninterested because Light isn’t Kira. that’s probably very frustrating for light! and fun wacky fluff or hijinks can happen, but I love when it happens in the “we got so distracted being the smartest people in the room we forgot we’re supposed to be enemies” way because that’s juicy to me

sometimes it’s the little things, too, that bother me. stuff that’ll happen and it’ll completely pull me out of the story. like L Lawliet made Naomi Misora destroy her whole damn computer after he slid into her DMs and you really think there’s any way in hell he’d have any sort of google home or siri or alexa? or casual social media, even under fake names? facebook knows everything. or light saying something or making a joke that i could never in a million years see him saying in canon because the author thought it would be funny or cute. 

anytime Light is suddenly some kind of beacon of goodness champion of justice just because he didn’t find the death note. the death note didn’t make him a completely different person, he’s bitter and jaded and thinks some people would be better off dead even before getting the death note. self righteous yeah totally but actually righteous? nah man

or Light just being a fucking awful person who kidnaps and r*pes L because he lusts after him but it’s okay because somehow in the end they end up together ? i’ve seen that trope a few times and i know it existed in 2007 too i just avoided it like the plague then also. 

I see a lot of AUs that are less “what would L and Light legitimately do if this was the situation or universe they were placed in” and more “i want to write this situation happening like this and i want to make it lawlight because that’s my main ship” 

like, the characters that are being written are fine but if you want to write OCs right OCs. I know all of this seems really harsh which is why I put a warning about it at the beginning, and of course I know some of these problems were also prevalent between 2013-2017 and there’s tropes here that have been happening like this since the dawn of lawlight fanfiction, but since it’s happening now and now is when i’m frustrated by it now is what i’m complaining about, it could be the reason i go back to older fanfiction so much is because i had lower standards back then and it was easier for me to wade through the ones i hated to get to ones i liked and now it’s easy for me to find those again. who knows. Also I agree most fanfiction from 2007-2009 were pretty 1 dimensional. 

And like, fuck me I guess but I actually like the canon characters and I joined the fandom to experience more of them and apparently that makes other people feel unsafe.

I’m not saying people aren’t allowed to express opinions that are different than me or that I Know Better Than Everyone Else or that I don’t like people posting their own headcanons or ideas or things they wish were different about the series, it’s just not my cup of tea and it’s a little frustrating that fanon is mostly all I get in fics now and that people are allowed to express opinions but only if those opinions are “people who stick too close to canon are elitist and should die and are sticks in the mud and need to leave the fandom to stop ruining things for everyone else” because like, we’re people too?

Anyway sorry this veered in a bit of a different direction and I hope I don’t lose followers over this because it’s sad to see people go but I’ve been blogging here for over 5 years and I’m not going to stop anytime soon. I also wrote most of this while having bad anxiety at like 3am last night so it’s all over the place and i’m probably going to think of like eight things in the shower later I forgot to mention because i’ve been thinking over this ask for like two weeks now. 

[morethanithoughtofficialblog]

Chapter 4: A slight hint of hope

In which the future looks brighter than you may think

*Your POV*

I found myself writing down a letter to the president, technically begging him to let monsters be truly free. Again. I was starting to ask myself why I even try. Again. This the seventeenth letter I've written to him, and yet, he won't listen.

Then I told myself that I shouldn't be thinking like this. That a lot of monsters had their hope on me, therefore, I should try harder.

I smiled, knowing that this was my inner dialogue every single day. And yet, I still have it, no matter what I'm doing. This is one of the few things that amaze me these days.

It's been a while since I have met them. Maybe a month or two; maybe even more. Ever since then, we've been talking for hours in my office every single day. I kinda like it. It gives me the feeling that I'm not alone in the world.

But then again, they'll probably leave once this is over. Or maybe not. Who knows?

They all have been awfully nice to me. Nicely than a lot of humans have ever been. This is one of the thousand reasons I keep writing to the president.

Maaaaaybe I should return to my cheery self. I'm being quite serious, haven't I?

No one can blame, though. I hate to admit it, but this issue is worrying me more than I expected. At first, the case was interesting, yes, but now it's kinda overwhelming, knowing that I'm dealing with a weak point; discrimination.

I just hope I don't end up like Rosa Parks after this. But that's just me being stubborn. Again.

Before my mind could get more depressive, though, I heard someone knock the door. I mentally groaned, with the feeling that I was gonna get a shitty opinion for the trillionth time.

"Come in"

"Wow, that's for sure the sourest answer you've given me, sweetie. That's quite the record!"

A smile crept onto my face. I recognize that voice anywhere!

She slammed the fricking door open like it was some sort of drama movie (which it's exactly what her life is) and posed dramatically. She was wearing sunglasses (even if it was cloudy outside), a fancy-yet-casual blouse, and some skinny jeans. Not to mention the usual high heels that make her bigger than a fucking tree. Oh, how not to miss her?

"Hello, beautiful!" She exclaimed before kissing my cheek on a french-greeting style "You look EXHAUSTED! But, hey, at least you are wearing makeup. Now THAT'S progress!"

"Mailey, I've been wearing makeup daily ever since I got this job"

"Wait..." she paused slightly, then let out a fake gasp. "YOU HAVEN'T BEEN WEARING IT VOLUNTARILY?!"

I giggled way louder than I wanted to, but I didn't mind. Mailey's has always managed to put me in such a good mood, all thanks to her cocky attitude. I haven't seen her for months, so I just really missed her. But I probably said that already. Oh well.

"Oh, (Y/N) darling!" She clapped her hands together in such a girly and unnatural way I almost lose it "Let's go to a café! I don't want to chat in such a sad and old place!"

"Uh, eh... you know what? A break would be great" I hesitantly answered, thinking that I just could clear my mind for a while. I actually haven't done that since I was a preteen, soooo... yeah...

"Wonderful! Let's get going! Just one thing... we will go to Starbucks!"

"Seriously?"

"You know I don't like Dunkin' Donuts, sweetheart. I don't tolerate that bitter taste you normally choose"

"And you know I don't tolerate that overwhelming sweetness you choose every time"

She took a pause and put down briefly her sunglasses, staring at me in fake shock. Oh, I know how much she hates Dunkin' Donuts, but Starbucks simply sucks!

"Well, I'll be the one paying, so I think it's fair" she teasingly added with a huge, goofy grin on her face.

Shit, she got me.

...

Oh well.

"Hmm. Guess you won this time, huh?" I answered, throwing my arms in defeat. She made a victory pose, and I silently giggled. I shouldn't be feeling this lonely since monsters visited today, right?

Well, guess what.

They didn't.

But I'm not complaining since I'm the one who told them not to come for today, arguing that they should take a break from leaving and coming. Some of them didn't think twice and accepted, which made me feel kinda bad. How stubborn have I been to actually keep them coming so often without a chance to take a breath?

...and that's why I also needed a break. Because I was about to become a fucking mess. Leave the tears for the night, (Y/N).

And so I left. Good thing I was doing extra hours, or else, I would have been crying after some time being all alone.

Sometimes I wonder if I can call myself a proper 20 years old adult. I mean, I'm quite mature at some things, but in others, I almost feel like I'm a 5 years old brat.

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

*Frisk's POV*

It feels kinda weird not meeting (Y/N) today. Sure, I was getting exhausted of the daily routine, but know... I feel like something's missing. And that something is (Y/N).

We actually haven't been doing much in this little house, since we are really crowded in here. Yes, it has two floors, but we are more than 10 people, and it's starting to get on my nerves. Not even the orphanage felt this crowded.

But, hey, at least I'm with my friends and family and not with some random kids pushing each other. I think this is pretty much ok, I guess.

Suddenly, I heard a knock on the door. Excited, I quickly ran to get it, and a smile flashed on my face. Emily, the daughter of the kind owners, has come for her weekly visit. Even Sans seemed eager to receive her, noticing his white pinpricks turn brighter.

She's 10 years old, so her voice is quite soft and pretty. I think she's on her school's choir and musical group, which it's totally cool. She has golden, twirly hair that gets not too long below her shoulders, and tends to wear a lot of dresses.

We were friends in the orphanage, so I know a thing or two more than the monsters do.

"Hi, kind creatures!" she chirped happily, making all of us grin wider. We returned the greeting quickly, which just made her giggle.

"I brought some gifts for you!" she added, clearly excited. I couldn't help myself, so I ended up drawing a small smile upon my lips. I'm always happy with her. She's just too kind and innocent, like the cinnamon roll Papyrus. I really missed her when I went on my trip to the Underground.

We all gathered in a circle, and watch with awe the food she brought us.

"Finally something new!" Undyne exclaimed with joy, hugging the little girl.

She also brought action figures for Papyrus, some clothes for all of us, some beautiful earrings to Toriel, and a book for Sans. Oh, so that's why he was eager, huh? I just remembered that she gives Sans a book every week, which he normally ends in the night after her visit. Then he just keeps rereading it until Emily comes again. It's fun to see him stress over a single book, though. One day he almost broke down when he found out that it was an open ending. Or, how he calls them, a 'fuck-the-reader's-mind-and-soul' ending.

"thanks, kid" he muttered, trying to hide his excitement and failing miserably. I smirked quietly, and he shrugged it off with a shy smile. I don't get this guy; but that's fine, I guess.

She decided to stay with us for the night, clearly feeling bored at her house. I understand, though. When you live in an orphanage you are never lonely, but if they suddenly adopt you with no other kids, it feels weird.

And so, we ended up planning the perfect game for a sleepover: pillow fighting. I was teaming up with Flowey (I forced him to play) and Emily. The other team was formed by Papyrus, Undyne, and Sans... who was just lazily resting on a pillow. And, naturally, Papyrus groaned when he noticed.

"BROTHER! GET UP, YOU LAZYBONES, AND HELP US BUILD A FORT! I DON'T PRETEND TO LOSE ONLY FOR YOUR LAZINESS!"

"sorry, bro. guess my laziness-"

"SANS"

"-rattled your bones"

"SAAAAAAAAAAAANS!!!!!!"

When I was about to protest, Asgore's cellphone started to ring.

And before he took it, I saw the ID caller...

And it was (Y/N)

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

*Your POV*

I was listening to Mailey's plans for the future. Apparently, her boyfriend has an apartment in San Diego, and she wants to go with him. She says that her future is better in there and blah blah blah. I certainly don't think that's the reason she wants to go, but hey, I can't judge.

I slowly took a sip from my coffee, being the bitterest I could find. And, somehow, it was still sweet. Goddamnit.

If Mailey goes away, then... my life will be pretty much the same, actually. Yes, I will miss her, but we are not best friends and we didn't see each other frequently in the past. Still, I will have fewer people to casually tell my secrets and some of my problems. Now I have less than half of the friends I had in high school. Great.

But, well, she has changed. A lot. Yes, she still makes me laugh with her self-security, but it's not the same. She has lost that... simpleness she had. Now she posts on Instagram every day, she wants to be an influencer, and hell, she even put herself some pink strips on her blonde hair. Maybe I miss seeing that dorky part of her. She's just, well... different. I shouldn't be thinking like that, but it's true.

I was about to hide my face so Mailey couldn't take a picture of me when I received a call. Wow, no one can have a break these days, right?

The number wasn't part of my contacts, which was weird, but I decided to answer anyway. Not for being a good person, but as an excuse to calm Mailey the fuck down.

"Hello, this is (Y/N) (L/N). How can I help you?"

"Hello, (Y/N)... may I have a word with you?" a rough and familiar voice answered, which immediately put me nervous. Who is this guy?

"...I'm sorry sir, but could you specify who are you? We may have talked before, but I just can't remem-"

"Of course we have talked, miss (Y/N)" he interrupted, and I silently gulped "Actually, you wanted to discuss something with me, isn't that right?"

No way-

"I'm the president, miss (L/N). You have caught my interest with your detailed arguments, saying that monsters deserve a chance to grow in society. Or did I just called the wrong person?"

I stood there in shock for a few seconds, then made my way out of Starbucks to hear better. Keep your cool, (Y/N), and everything will be alright.

"You are totally right, Mr. President. I'm the one who sent those letters."

"Great. Now, let's discuss a few things, ok?"

"Of course sir".

I listened carefully, searching for any hints of hatred or irony in his voice. Instead, I just heard interest in the way he mentioned my arguments.

Eventually, we gave each other a quick-yet-formal goodbye, and I immediately called Asgore.

This is a serious business.

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

*Asgore's POV*

My mind was thinking the worst when I saw (Y/N)'s ID on my phone. I saw that others were worried, too. Could this be the end? Are we going back to the Underground, after all those years of waiting?

I picked up reluctantly, watching the expectant reaction of my wi- Toriel, the expectant reaction of Toriel.

"Oh, hello (Y/N)!" I exclaimed, trying to keep my hopes high enough for everyone. "How has been your day?"

"It's been fine, thank you. How has been yours?" She bluntly answered, sounding like she was... distant.

Let's just hope it isn't what I'm thinking.

"It's been good, (Y/N). Anyways, how can I help you, young one?"

She didn't answer immediately. Actually, she remained still for a long time. The only thing I could hear was her breathing, and my positive smile was turning into a nervous one.

"Asgore, we have something we need to discuss"

And my smile dropped.

[zombiesbecrazy]

Pity Free Confessions

Summary: Sometimes you play video games with your best friend. Sometimes you blurt out about your unrequited love problems. Sometimes you do both.

Written for DickBabs Week - Day 2 Prompt - Best Friends

Note: OMG, I completely forgot that it was DickBabs Week! I totally don't have time to write anything, yet, here we are. Day 2 Prompt - Best Friends.This stands alone but if you've read any of my other DickBabs fics, this comes six months after Chapter 2 of Five Times with Feeling and directly before Strike, Hit, Throw. Unedited and rushed, but I needed to participate and spread the DickBabs love :)

AO3

“I find myself in a bit of a conundrum.”

“Which is?”

“I’m in love with my best friend.”

To Wally’s credit, he didn’t even look away from the screen and continued to mash the buttons on the controller. Hell, he didn’t even blink. They were alone in the Tower today, between missions and everyone else busy in their own cities with their own mentors, leaving the two of them to waste the day away playing video games and eating junk food.

It felt good to relax and ignore a lot of his problems for a while, but there was something that Dick had been unable to ignore for months and if he didn’t say something soon he was going to explode, which is why he had suddenly just blurted it out to Wally.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, because you’re great, but you’re not really my type. I appreciate your interest though.” Wally’s character jumped into a hoard of thugs on top of a building and he was focusing on trying to take them all down in the time limit.

“Gee, thanks. Not you.”

His hands gripped the controller tighter and started moving his arms like he could make his character fight better with sheer will and enthusiasm. “Donna’s like your sister. That would be weird. Don’t be in love with her either.”  

Coughing, Dick choked on the root beer that he was drinking and it almost came out his nose. Damn, that hurt. “Shut up.” Dick punched Wally’s shoulder, making his character fall from a rooftop, die and respawn at the beginning of the mission. That made Wally finally turn and glare at him. “I’m meant Barbara, you butthead.”

“Thought as much, but you should have used her name. You have too many best friends.” Wally hit pause on the game and looked at him. “You should tell her.”

“She’s got other things on her mind.” Dick flopped back on the couch dramatically, sinking into the cushions. What he wouldn’t give for it to come to life and swallow him whole rather than deal with his emotional turmoil. Stupid brain. Stupid heart. Neither of them seemed to be able to just turn off for a while. “More important things than dealing with my unrequited love.”

“How do you know it’s unrequited?” asked Wally, kicking his legs up onto the coffee table in front of them that was littered with their snacks. “She’d be lucky to be in love with you. Anyone would be.”

“I thought I wasn’t your type?”

“Just because the two of us aren’t meant to be it doesn’t mean you aren’t a catch.” Wally looked Dick over and sighed. He pulled the blanket off from behind the couch and put it on top of Dick’s melted form on the couch. Dick must have looked pathetic if Wally was trying to mother hen him like that. “Tell her.”

“It’s not the right time.” A lot had happened in their lives in the past six months. Barbara had been shot. Jason had been killed. Bruce was continuously furious all of the time. No one needed to see him moping around after a girl like a little lost puppy; especially not the girl herself. She was getting her life back together and shouldn’t have to deal with his mini crisis. Why hadn’t he figured this out at a better time? Or why couldn’t he at least still be in denial about it? It would be easier that way. Ahh, blissful denial.

“It’s always the right time to hear that someone loves you. It’s like a big word hug.”

“It’s scary,” groaned Dick back and he pulled the blanket up over his head. He knew he was pouting and whining and acting like a little kid not wanting to eat his vegetables, but that didn’t matter in front of Wally. The good thing about having a best friend was that you could tell them anything.

The worst part was that they would call you on your bullshit even if you didn’t want to hear it. Especially then.

“Ladies and gentleman, may I present Nightwing, hero and defender of Gotham and Bludhaven. His kryptonite is emotions. Don’t worry though, it was passed down to him from his Bat-father.” He could hear Wally’s voice dripping with sarcasm but didn’t budge from under the blanket. When he didn’t get a reaction, he heard Wally sigh. “You are such a drama queen.” He pulled the blanket back down off of Dick’s face. “Love is a great feeling. It doesn’t have to be scary.”

“Okay fine. Verbalizing it is scary.”

“You just told me that you love her and the world didn’t end.”

“And I was terrified to do that. Telling her is a thousand times worse.” But he had to admit that he felt a little bit better now that he wasn’t the only one in on the secret. “What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” It didn’t. Not really. It wouldn’t change anything about the way he felt anyway. “I just don’t want things to change between us and to get all weird. I don’t want to tell her that I love her, hear that she doesn’t feel the same way and then have to see the… the… pity in her eyes when she looks at me.” He sat up but kept the blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders. “Look at Dick, with his silly little crush. He’s a delicate little flower who needs to be tiptoed around and be given gentle hugs and spoken to like he might shatter at any moment.”

“You like hugs.”

“Not pity hugs.”

“She won’t give you a pity hug.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Dude. She just went through something huge. She’s still going through something huge. She understands better than anyone about not wanting anyone’s pity.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe. I’m right.” Wally started to stare very intently at his hands that were fidgeting in his lap. “Did I tell you I went to visit her in the hospital?”

“What? No. Neither of you said anything.” Wally just nodded and he turned a little pink. Dick poked him and he gave a little yelp. “What happened?” prodded Dick.

“She yelled at me for visiting her out of pity.” Dick winced in sympathy. He had been at the receiving end of more than one of Barbara’s anger explosions before and it was never pretty, usually because she was right to be dishing it out. “I deserved it. She wasn’t completely wrong. I didn’t realise it until later, but it was at least a little out of pity,” said Wally before he turned to sheepishly look back at Dick. “She and I are friends, but we aren’t that close. She pointed out that me visiting her in the hospital when I would never have seen her otherwise was more about making myself feel better and she didn’t want that.” Dick understood. She had been upset that he visited her in the hospital the first time when she had explicitly told him not to and she was one of his best friends. He could imagine how angry she’d be about Wally. “So no. She’s not going to give you a pity hug. Even if she doesn’t feel the same way about you, she still cares about you a lot.”

“Have you talked to her since?”

“We’re cool. We’ve texted, which is what I should have done in the first place. We’re texting level friends, not visit in the hospital after you’ve been paralyzed level friends. I’ve been sending her videos of people doing extreme wheelchairing in skate parks. She says she likes them.”

Dick smiled, because while he hadn’t heard about Wally’s visit, she had been sharing the videos with him too; he just hadn’t know the origins. “When did you get so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise, but no one ever listens. It’s a curse.” Wally unpaused the game and started the mission again. “But in this case, I had a feisty red head yell at me.”

“Story of my life. Too many best friends and too many red heads, and all of them yell at me.”

“You should make a Venn Diagram of where those all intersect. It would be an interesting thing to study.”

Dick watched as Wally’s onscreen hero ran through a dark all to pick up a weapon before heading back to the rooftop where he was about to be killed again. He didn’t have enough XP for it to go any other way, but Wally was stubborn. Wally cleared his throat, eyes glued to the screen. “So… Babs,” he began again, not dropping the conversation.

“Babs,” sighed Dick.

“Like, full on love. Not just a crush. Not just ‘hey that girl is swell’. Full on love with a capital L and heart eyes.”

Dick couldn’t hold back a grin even just thinking about how he felt about her. He was so deep down the rabbit hole. “Yep.”

“I repeat, you should talk to her.”

“We’re meeting up tomorrow for some sparring. She’s been doing weapons training now that she’s out of rehab and I want to see how it’s coming along.” She had been talking about her training with Richard Dragon and that she was learning escrima at a higher level, and yes, he did want to see her new skills, but…

“Or you just want to see her.”

Damn, Wally could read him like a book. “Yeah.”

“Because you want to kiss her.” Wally made kissy face noises at him and Dick hit him again, once again making Wally fall off the building again and die. “That was your fault. I had them that time.”

“No, you didn’t. And don’t be crude.”

Wally tossed the controller onto the table and grabbed a bag of chips, tossing one into his mouth and crunching it loudly, purely because he knew the sound of it irritated Dick. “I think it’s sweet that you are still innocent enough that you think I’m crude for mentioning kissing.”

“It’s not that… it’s…” Dick shook his head, embarrassed to be talking about this with anyone. Everyone had emotions. Why was it so weird to talk about them? “I don’t just want to kiss her.”

Wally snorted. “Who’s being crude now?”

“You are officially my least favourite of my best friends,” said Dick, rolling his eyes. “I just want… everything for her. I want her to be happy. I want to be the one to help make her happy. Somehow. In any way possible”

“You are a hopeless romantic to the core.”  Wally sat back on the couch and dropped his arm around Dick’s blanket covered shoulders. “You know my opinion. Just tell her. No risk, no reward.”

“No risk, no heart breakage,” countered Dick.

“Minimal complete heart breakage potential. At absolute worst, she’ll let you down gently and you’ll still be friends. Yeah, you’ll be a down for a while, but that is when we solve your problems with ice cream.”

The worse that Wally suggested sounded terrible and he wanted to avoid it all costs even though he knew that in the grand scheme of issues ‘one of my best friends doesn’t love me as much as I love her’ is pretty minor. Still wanted to avoid it like the plague though. “And best case scenario?”

“That she is hopelessly in love with you too? We celebrate with ice cream. Either way, there will be ice cream. The difference is that celebration ice cream has better topping options.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Dick, chuckling. “Thanks, Wally. I take it back. You aren’t my least favourite best friend. Definitely top three. And not just because you are promising me ice cream.”

“On the podium. I’ll take it.”

Wally was right though. Dick was a vigilante. A hero. He had faced far worse things than being in love every day and had come out unscathed. Well, maybe a little scathed, but still intact. He could do this. He could finally tell Barbara the truth. He was brave enough to face that answer head on.

Maybe it was finally time to take that leap.

[welllpthisishappening]

Playing Man Down

It’s the dumbest idea in the history of all ideas. 

There is no idea that has been more dumb than this one. And yet...Emma’s stubborn and determined and really goddamn good at playing lacrosse. So she’s going to prove it. To everyone. To her friends and her ex-boyfriend and the unfairly attractive guy she just so happens to be sharing a room with. 

Or: a lacrosse themed She’s the Man AU

Rating: Like a low M. Swearing. Kissing. Lacrosse slashing. Word Count: Probably way too many, that’s why it’s two chapters. AN: Several months ago I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week and in an attempt to reclaim some of my positivity I asked the internet for CS prompts. One of them was a She’s the Man AU, which let’s be honest, is a classic of our time, but I’d just written an Out of the Frying Pan soccer story, so they play lacrosse instead. Because, let’s also be honest, Killian Jones is a for realz lax bro name. Also I love lacrosse a lot. I’m bringing this back because it never got posted on its own and because I’ve been covering a lot of lacrosse recently and for no other reason than I really enjoyed writing this.

Also on Ao3 where there are two chapters because words and an entire never-ending list of prompts that I am always open to add onto. 

It’s hot.

She remembers that.

She doesn’t remember much else. It all seems to happen in a blur – anger clouding her vision and her muscles and Emma’s vaguely aware of making some kind of strangled sound, but she can barely hear it over the rushing in her ears and then she’s moving and her hands are moving and it’s not exactly good form, a fact Neal is quick to point out, but she’s fueled solely on frustration and fury and, possibly, global warming.

Because it is so goddamn fucking hot.

She punches him and smacks at his shoulder and then tries to check him, without a stick in her hand and she wishes she had a stick in her hand because she’d slash him in the knees. That’s not even the right term.

Neal would point that out as well.

Because, she’s suddenly realized, Neal Cassidy is a goddamn fucking asshole.

“This is something we’ve known for years,” Ruby mutters after Emma’s just recounted the story again and her words are starting to slur together the more she repeats herself. Or the more alcohol she drinks.

She’s had a considerable amount of alcohol to drink.

“Hey,” Elsa chastises softly, but it doesn’t really sound all that threatening when the three letters all sound like one, enormous sound and Emma’s head is starting to pound. Mary Margaret is an incredibly heavy weight against her side, resting on Emma’s shoulder with an arm draped over her legs and a faint hint of tequila smell just wafting through the air. “Don’t do that,” Elsa continues. “Now is not the time for I told you so’s.”

She blinks once when she realizes she’s just mumbled a word that isn’t actually a word and if Emma still weren’t so incredibly pissed off she’d probably laugh. She can’t laugh with Mary Margaret more or less lying on top of her.

Elsa mouths so’s again, like she’s testing it on her tongue and Ruby makes some kind of God-awful noise that might be a laugh, but just sounds like a cackle. It hurts Emma’s head. And her entire body.

She’s fairly certain she dislocated her middle finger earlier.

“Here,” Graham says, appearing out of nowhere with an actual tray in one hand and an understanding smile on his face. “You need to hydrate. Desperately.”

He sinks onto the edge of the coffee table Emma’s feet are propped up on, resting the tray on his knee and nodding towards the glasses of water, an unspoken command to take them and hydrate that Emma knows she should listen to, but absolutely does not because even the idea of consuming any sort of liquid that isn’t tequila seems like the worst idea in the history of the world.

Or maybe that was beating up her boyfriend earlier that afternoon.

Ex-boyfriend. Decidedly ex. Happily ex. Absolutely.

“I need another drink, Humbert,” Emma announces, leaning forward and that’s an even worse idea. The whole room spins with her and Mary Margaret makes some contradictory noise in the back of her throat.

Graham levels her with a knowing stare – some kind of look that seems to scream you are an adult, act like one, but Emma just huffs and sticks her tongue out and Ruby cackles again.

It’s all Neal’s fault, really. And she could do it. She absolutely could do it. She could…

“Emma,” Graham says, snapping her out of her thoughts before she can stand up and try to find Neal so she can punch him in the face again. “Stop thinking about it. It’s not going to change anything. And it’s not even a good gig.”

She growls, slinking lower into the couch until one of her legs falls off its perch on the coffee table. “It’s absolutely a good gig,” Emma argues and they’re all starting to repeat themselves again. “And I could totally do it.” “I’m not questioning that.” “No?” “No.” “Seems like it.” “I’m not.”

“Yuh huh.”

Graham scowls, grabbing a glass off the tray and pushing it into Emma’s hand until she doesn’t have any choice but to actually accept it. She’d dump water on Mary Margaret’s head otherwise.

“Ok,” Ruby announces, waving her hands through the air and barely managing to keep her balance on the seat she’d claimed as hers as soon as Emma told the story the first time. “Go over it one more time.” Emma’s not sure who makes the loudest noise – it might be her – but Ruby just glares and it’s not even midnight yet and she’s lost track of the number of drinks she’s had and she kind of feels bad for Graham because he absolutely did not agree to be everyone’s keeper that night.

“Fine,” Emma sighs. “The story, as I have told sixteen-thousand times already is that the bonds business I was working at went under unexpectedly without much notice and, now, if I want to keep this very lovely apartment we all seem intent on destroying tonight, then I need a job for the summer.” “And you decided to ask Neal about a job?” Ruby asks. Emma rolls her eyes. They’ve been over this, at least, twelve-thousand times. “Why?” “They’re dating,” Elsa says reasonably and Emma’s definitely the one who makes noise that time. “Were,” she corrects. “Were dating. That’s not a thing anymore. That is the opposite of a thing. What’s the opposite of a thing?” “I think those exact words.” Emma’s eyes are going to get stuck rolled into the back of her head. She tries not to think about that – her tequila-filled stomach can’t quite cope with that. “Anyway,” she continues, tracing absentminded patterns on Mary Margaret’s back. “He’s got that summer thing with Regina Mills’ clinic or whatever and there are rich kids to teach lacrosse to and I figured he’d be all in on us getting to spend the summer together and playing and…” And it didn’t work.

Or, well, more to the point, Neal was positive it wouldn’t work.

Emma wasn’t sure it was a particularly distinct difference, but it seemed to be the crux of the problem. She’d heard of the Mills clinic for years – teammates who’d signed up to coach during the summer and it’d be hot, but the pay was good and the kids were, probably, talented if not a little pretentious because they were spending their summer at a lacrosse clinic, but she wouldn’t have to worry about room and board and, well, she was a former All-American. She’d set records at UMass for God’s sake.

Neal didn’t seem all that impressed by it.

“It just wouldn’t work, Em,” he said, like she was supposed to accept that answer. She didn’t. She kept pushing and asking and finally he just sighed dramatically and rolled his whole head and told her what he was really thinking. “It won’t work because you’re a girl and girl’s lacrosse is...well, it’s not real lacrosse is it? There’s not even any checking. You get fouled for checking. What are you going to teach these kids, Em?”

Her memories got kind of hazy after that, just flashes of red that might have been a visible representation of the questionable heat wave they’d had in the last few days, but also might have just been her anger and Emma didn’t listen to anymore explanations before she started throwing fists and absolutely against-the-rules checks.

“So, the short version, since I’m not repeating myself anymore,” Emma says. “Is that he thinks I couldn’t work at this clinic because I am a girl and girls can’t play lacrosse and don’t know how to check, which is just...insane, right Humbert?” Graham blinks once, as if he’s surprised to be involved in the conversation, and they’re going to have to buy him a ridiculous amount of replacement tequila for dealing with all of them for most of the night.

“Of course, Em,” he promises with a smile and Emma’s suddenly thrown several years into the past with memories of meeting Graham Humbert at forced athletic icebreakers freshman year. He’d set records at UMass too – assists in a single-season their junior year and the guy’s team was awful, but it was early Division I years and Humbert never complained.

He never did anything wrong.

They asked him to coach at the clinic weeks ago.

“Plus,” Ruby adds, still wobbling slightly until Graham pushes a glass of water in her hands as well. “What Cassidy failed to realize was that you’ve got all that pent-up aggression stored from years of not being allowed to check anyone and go along with all those weird restart rules.” “You’ve been holding in your feelings about women’s lacrosse for awhile haven’t you?” Elsa asks knowingly, one eyebrow lifted and Ruby shrugs in response.

“It doesn’t make any sense. Why are the rules different? They aren’t in soccer.” Mary Margaret makes another noise – another age-old argument and none of them should really be friends. It doesn’t make any sense at all.

Emma was never sure how she stumbled into lacrosse, but for a kid who spent most of her childhood shipped around the country, a sport that allowed her to, literally, carry a stick and hit people had its appeal. Until she got to high school and learned the rules for her brand of lacrosse and it took an entire season of penalty minutes and unreleasable fouls to change her approach.

It worked out – UMass came calling the spring of her junior year and she didn’t have many other offers, certainly nothing else Division I, and it was impossible to turn down a free ride. There was a lacrosse joke in there somewhere.

And the irony that she was about to play for a team called the Minutemen when she’d spent most of her career arguing against girls rules was not lost on Emma.

It was the first thing Ruby had talked about when they, quite literally, ran into each other at another required athletic event. “This is the worst isn’t it,” Ruby grumbled and Emma nodded and, well, that was that.

They kept talking and kept bashing the ancient, vaguely patriarchal tendencies of the NCAA and Emma met Mary Margaret three weeks later. She’d grown up with Ruby in some tiny town in Maine and she was the living, breathing embodiment of all things sweet, a physical therapy major who wanted to work with athletes eventually – or so Ruby told Emma. And, for awhile, Emma believed her until she went to one of Ruby’s soccer games with Mary Margaret who seemed to lose any semblance of sweet as soon as a tackle wasn’t called and, well, that was that.

Again.

Elsa joined the fray second semester, a slightly frantic request from the student newspaper to interview Emma before the start of the season and she started by explaining that she knew nothing about lacrosse and Emma smiled and answered questions anyway and Ruby and Mary Margaret took her out for drinks when the story ran.

The four of them were some kind of collective unit from there on out – anyone needing to get in touch with all of them only having to text one of them and the message would, eventually, get passed along and they were all in the stands when Emma scored twice in the A-10 championship their senior year.

Graham drove them to the regional finals on Long Island and they were some kind of weird, five-person pretzel of limbs and tears when the Minutemen lost.

And not much had changed since graduation – even if athletic careers were some kind of distant memory now. Until Emma’s very steady, very well-paying job all but disappeared in front of her and she thought, for a moment, of past glory and championship goals and, for the first time in a very long time, she wanted to check something.

She could absolutely work at this clinic. Even with different rules.

“It’s not really going to be fun,” Graham says and Emma dimly wonders if they’re all following a conversational schedule she wasn’t aware of, because she’s fairly positive they’ve done this already as well. “It’s going to be like school all over again and working those summer camps with screaming kids.” “Except these screaming kids have really rich parents,” Elsa adds. Graham glares at her. “I’m just saying. This is a little different than kids coming for a couple of hours a day in Amherst.”

“Exactly,” Emma shouts, like that’s just proved her point. “And I don’t even really care about the kids. It’s not...well that sounds shitty, but this is not about that.” Graham lifts his eyebrows. “What is it about then?” “Screwing over Neal Cassidy.” “Fucking finally,” Ruby mumbles, but Emma’s eyes don’t leave Graham’s and his lips twist in thought. Or like he’s trying to mind-meld with her and force her to give up on whatever path of revenge she’s already halfway down.

They stay that way for what feels like several eternities until Mary Margaret makes some kind of inhuman noise, leaping away from Emma like she’s just contracted a deadly plague. “Jeez, M’s,” Emma mumbles, taking a gulp of water before she remembers that it’s water and not tequila. “What’s your deal right now?” “I’ve just had an absolutely incredible idea,” Mary Margaret shouts and the whole room collectively winces at the volume of her voice. “Plus, if I’m there to do the training stuff, then...oh, shit this could work.” Emma nearly falls over, which is impressive since she’s sitting down, but she’s never heard Mary Margaret talk like that. It’s probably the tequila. “I mean it’s insane, but...this could work. I think. ”

“You think?”

Mary Margaret nods enthusiastically. “Ok, Humbert, what time do you have to be there next week…” It is absolutely the most insane idea in the history of ideas. It’s as if Galileo and Thomas Edison and, like, someone else who invented something all got together and, collectively, decided to try and come up with the most insane idea in the history of ideas just to spite all those people who didn’t believe in them before, but Mary Margaret keeps talking and Ruby keeps pouring drinks and by the end of the night it almost makes sense.

Which is how Emma finds herself on the campus of goddamn Towson University four days later with a bag in one hand and a stick in the other, trying to keep her breathing level when she tells a slightly overwhelmed looking woman at a fold-up desk “Hi, my name is Graham Humbert, I’m one of the coaches for the clinic.”

The woman behind the desk – there’s a name on a sticker that Emma can only half read, but might be Aurora – nods distractedly, flipping through a small stack of paperwork and handing Emma a folder with a string of instructions she’s only half listening to.

“You’re with Jones and Scarlet,” she says, like those words have actual meaning. “So, uh, there’s an elevator or stairs and it’s the sixth floor and room...whatever it says on your folder. There’s keys in there, but you’ll have to go get an actual ID if you want to ever eat while you’re here. Lunch starts serving in a couple of hours and then there’s meet and greets with all the kids later on tonight.” Aurora lifts her head when Emma doesn’t immediately respond and she feels her eyes go wide when the woman actually meets her gaze.

They cut her hair – or, rather, Mary Margaret cut her hair – and it was definitely a look, but both Ruby and Elsa promised it fell somewhere in the realm of hipster, but masculine when she actually put a wig on and left that morning and it was some kind of miracle Emma could even breathe because she’d wrapped her boobs up so tight she wasn’t entirely convinced her ribs weren’t going to sustain permanent damage.

She doesn’t really look...like a guy, but she doesn’t really look like her either and, as a very drunk Mary Margaret was quick to point out, no one at this clinic was going to know what Graham Humbert actually looked like.

Except Regina Mills. Who’d hired Graham. But he promised she had no plans of being there and as long as Neal didn’t recognize her then none of it mattered.

At least that’s what Emma kept telling herself while she spent nearly eight hours in her ancient VW bug that morning.

“We all good?” she asks, doing her best to sound like a guy. It doesn’t work. At all. Her voice just sounds scratchy and fake and Aurora tilts her head in confusion. “I, uh...just want to make sure my equipment’s all set before we do anything later tonight.” Aurora quirks an eyebrow. “There are just icebreakers tonight.”

“Right, right, right, I absolutely knew that. Because you just told me that. And I read the schedule already. Several times. When I got hired to be here.” Aurora nods again and Emma’s fairly certain her ribs have started to crack. “Alright, well, I’m going to….”

She doesn’t finish, just hitches her bag further up her shoulder and practically sprints up the first flight of stairs she can find, not willing to wait for an elevator. There’s a stitch in her side by the time she reaches the fourth landing and this was a mistake.

In some kind of grand, sweeping way.

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes and she’s not out of shape. She runs down criminals. She can do the same thing with a stick in her hand and a ball in her stick and she’s suddenly so full of determination and fury that she’s almost surprised she doesn’t just levitate to her room with Jones and Scarlet, whoever they are.

It'll be fine.

Except that one thing.

It’s the one part of the plan even Mary Margaret hadn’t quite figured out.

“What happens when you have to shower?” Graham asked, tugging on the bottom of Mary Margaret’s shirt until she collapsed into a heap on their living room floor. “These are guys, Em. You can’t just...take half an hour in the shower every morning.” “Ok, first of all, that’s rude and stereotyping,” Emma argued. “And I know how to take quick showers. I probably set records at Amherst with that. All that foster home experience, you get in and get out before someone flushes the toilet or the house runs out of hot water. This is fine.” “And what about the rest of it? You’re going to have to, you know, make it look like you’re a guy.” “I’m not expecting an audience while I shower.” “I’m just saying.” “Are you not in on this? You said you were in on this. This is all so I can show up Neal and then, you know, ruin his lacrosse life or something.” “You’re a picture of maturity,” Graham sighed, but there was a hint of a smile on his face and he couldn’t argue with the combined, very drunk force of four UMass grads with a plan. “And, yeah, I’m all in on this. Of course.”

It was going to be fine.

So she has roommates. Emma’s always had roommates. Granted, they’ve always been girls and she’s never actually had to tape her boobs down just to try and stay under some kind of metaphorical radar, but this isn’t about that.

This is about fucking over Neal and it is...easily the most insane idea she’s ever had.

She’s frozen in front room 619, resting most of her weight on her stick and trying to psych herself up again when the door swings open and oh, well, fuck. God fucking fuck.

She’s going to kill Humbert. He should have told her.

He should have warned her...or something. Anything. He should have cut whatever wires in her bug made her bug capable of driving her from Boston to Baltimore because then Emma wouldn’t be standing stock still in the middle of a hallway at goddamn Towson University, breathing through her mouth while trying to will her heart rate to slow down.

The guy widens his eyes – all blue and vaguely amused and he’s got a Maryland t-shirt on. His hair’s nearly as long as Emma’s is, even after it’s been cut, and there’s a piece falling across his forehead that is just absolutely stupid because it’s obvious he’s not trying at all, just casual confidence and certainty and his ribs probably aren’t cracking.

Because he’s a guy.

He is a guy.

“Can I help you?” he asks, resting against the side of the open door frame with his arms crossed over his chest and that only serves to scrunch up the Maryland state logo emblazoned on his shirt.

Emma nods slowly, trying to force her brain to catch up to the moment at hand and the guy’s eyes flit towards the stick in her hand. “Are you the third, then?” he continues and Emma’s fairly convinced he’s just started speaking in tongues.

“I have no idea what that means,” she says and the guy just smiles even wider. His eyebrows are stupid. Emma takes a deep breath, hitting herself in the hip with her own bag when she pushes her right hand in front of her. “Humbert,” she says and it almost sounds like the truth. “Graham Humbert. UMass ‘10.” The guy doesn't blink, just keeps staring at her outstretched hand and maybe she shouldn’t have done that because she definitely doesn’t look like she’s got guy’s hands. It takes, exactly, two seconds to realize that is not the issue.

He rocks back on his heels, twisting his lower lip between his teeth – which is decidedly distracting for absolutely all the wrong reasons – and tilts his head when he holds his left arm out towards her.

Oh.

Oh.

And it all clicks very suddenly.

Emma is absolutely going to kill Graham.

She can’t quite believe she didn’t recognize him – but it’s been years since that national championship run and, really, the Maryland t-shirt threw her off. “You didn’t go to Maryland,” Emma accuses and Killian Jones’ eyebrows fly up his forehead. She thinks he maybe, almost, smiles at her too, but his left arm is still hanging in the space between them and, well, there isn’t a hand to shake there.

It wasn’t national news – no one cares about lacrosse that much – but she’d heard the story and Graham thought it was tragic and Emma thought it was absolutely fucking unfair because Killian Jones had been good, great, fantastic, some kind of faceoff specialist that they’d probably put in a hall of fame if lacrosse was a sport people actually cared about.

He won something like ninety percent at the ‘x’ when he was a senior and no one had really even heard of Monmouth before, but suddenly they were getting votes in national polls and winning games and Killian Jones kept getting the ball to his attackers and they kept scoring goals and, suddenly, they were beating Hopkins in the national championship game.

He won nearly every postseason award possible and he couldn’t actually go to the Tewaaraton ceremony because he’d been too busy playing in a national final and it was some kind of impossible run that even Sports Illustrated acknowledged once. And then it was tragic and fucking unfair and it wasn’t like he could do much more than coach after he graduated, but he was going to, or so the rumors suggested, until there’d been an accident and it was impossible to win a faceoff with one hand.

“That’s true,” Killian says, eyeing her cautiously and they were both still frozen in the doorway. “But I’ve been doing ops at Maryland for a season and a half now, so, you know, they give you free stuff.” “Is that not an NCAA violation?” “I’m not an actual student-athlete anymore.” Emma hums – a mistake because she sounds so much like her, she’s positive Killian can see through her clothes or something. Thinking that is also a mistake. There’s more talking from inside the room and another set of footsteps and Emma’s eyes dart for an escape route. There isn’t one.

“Is this the third, then?” another guy asks, pushing Killian out of the way and leaning towards Emma with an expectant look on his face.

Killian nods, eyes still tracing over Emma and she tries to stand up taller. She hits herself with her bag again. “Yeah,” Killian answers. “Humbert comma Graham. UMass class of 2010, apparently.” “UMass has lacrosse?”

“We’ve had lacrosse for nearly a decade,” Emma snaps. Killian grins. “It was just...shitty when they...I mean, I...when I started playing. But the women’s side won the A-10 just a couple seasons after we moved up.” “Impressive,” other guy mumbles in a way that makes it sound the exact opposite. Emma glares at him and she can’t start beating up her roommates before they even get to icebreakers.

Killian smiles wider. “Alright, alright,” he says, licking his lips and elbowing other guy in the ribs. That almost puts them all on even footing. “Humbert, class of 2010, this is Scarlet, comma Will, class of absolute asshole and a former goalie at Monmouth.” “And you were making fun of my program,” Emma seethes, well aware that she doesn’t have a leg or a stick to stand on. They won a national championship. “What kind of competition you dealing with in the MAAC?” Scarlet almost looks impressed. “Probably not quite as good as whatever Division II you started out as.” “God,” Killian sighs, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling and pushing Will back into the room. “Shut up, Scarlet. Although I really don’t think you can start trash talking this early, Humbert,” he adds. “There’s rules about trashing-talking form.” “Are there?” Emma asks and Killian grins, lower lip stuck out slightly when he nods. “Absolutely. Although I’m not entirely sure what form goes along with further introductions  since you seem to know where I went to school already and, based on your staring issue, I’d say the rest of my very public history, so, uh...if you’re good, then we’re going to get some food.” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, just nods toward Scarlet who makes sure to glare at Emma when he walks by, leading with his shoulder and fucking hell this is a disaster. “See you on the field later, Humbert,” Killian calls over his shoulder when there a few feet away and Emma throws her bag into the room as soon as she hears his footsteps retreat.

She doesn’t leave the room until her stomach actually starts making noises that don’t quite sound human anymore, but downing dining hall food like she’s being timed doesn’t do much to help the state of her ribs and by the time she gets to icebreakers, she’s treading some very thin metaphorical ice.

“This is a goddamn disaster,” Emma hisses, leaning against the railing behind the end zone of the football stadium they were staging some sort of get to know you event on. Mary Margaret shoots her a look, one she should probably have patented by now and Emma tries not to sigh too loudly. “It is,” she continues. “I should just...I don’t know, just go or something before this dissolves into a criminal offense.” “You can’t get charged with anything when you have Graham’s permission,” Mary Margaret argues. “At least, I don’t think so. And, you know, you guys are splitting all these work checks, so it’s totally legit. Absolutely. For sure.” “You really shouldn’t have kept talking M’s.” Mary Margaret just levels her with that look again and Emma’s not really paying attention to any of the kids or the clinic or whatever it is Neal is doing with a group of guys who he seems to already be well acquainted with. “And,” Mary Margaret continues. “There is a plan. It’s a good plan. It’s not like Neal ever met Graham. He has no idea who you are. You really don’t even look like you right now.” “You’re only saying that because you're the one who cut my hair,” Emma reasons, but Mary Margaret just waves a dismissive hand in her face.

“I’m not. I’m saying that because you can do this and because…”

She trails off, eyes darting up when someone walks towards them and Emma tries not to shake her. Instead, she follows Mary Margaret’s gaze and barely has a moment to turn her groan into any other noise before she’s standing face to face with another guy and another outstretched hand.

“Hey,” he says brightly, an easy smile on his face and a t-shirt with a comically large orange on the front. He doesn’t seem to even notice Emma. “You uh….they’re starting some game about first names and I figured, well, since you’ve got two, you might get bonus points or something…”

Emma snorts, biting back hysterics and Mary Margaret stares imploringly at her. An absolute disaster. “Hi,” Emma says, taking the outstretched hand and she’s given up on trying to do any voice that isn’t hers. “I’m Graham Humbert. UMass. M’s and I went to school together.” “David,” he answers. “Nolan. ‘Cuse longstick.” “Yeah, I wouldn’t have been able to guess that at all.” “Em…” Mary Margaret shouts, eyes going wide when she realizes what she’d almost done. David looks momentarily confused, but then his gaze flits back to Mary Margaret and it’s like he’s rediscovered his center of gravity and Emma wonders what kind of science she’d need to just melt into a puddle on the Towson football field.

“Ah, well,” David says, stuffing his hands back in his pockets when he pulls away from Emma. “They told us to support our teams when we got here, which doesn’t really go along with the community feeling they’re telling us we’re building tonight, but whatever. Pays good, right?” Emma hums noncommittally in the back of her throat, rolling her shoulders in her UMass gear. “Longstick, huh? Middie or defenseman?” “Defensive middie.” “Best of both worlds.” “Something like that.”

Mary Margaret looks torn between several different emotions, but Emma finds herself almost liking David Nolan, defensive middie, and she’s got half an idea of what’s going on here. The other half of her mind, however, seems preoccupied with the voices calling from midfield and cheers from the crowd of kids with rich parents who can afford to spend their whole summer at a lacrosse clinic.

And it’s like the world slows down for a moment because Emma knows who’s running towards her before he even skids to a stop in front of them and she can just barely make out David’s mumbled is everything ok when Neal lands in front of her and Mary Margaret.

He blinks once and Emma can’t breathe – her lungs are on fire and her ribs are just disintegrating, she’s positive. “Oh,” Neal says, perking up when he notices Mary Margaret. “Hey Blanchard. Long time no see.” Mary Margaret visibly bristles, narrowing her eyes and Neal is just as ignorant as always and Emma is glad Ruby isn’t there because she absolutely could not deal with another told you so moment. “Neal,” Mary Margaret says softly. “It, uh….well, you’re here, aren’t you? Have you met David Nolan? ‘Cuse. And, uh…” She glances towards Emma, a million questions on her face and Emma shrugs in response. “This is, uh...Graham Humbert. Played at UMass when we were there.”

Neal’s eyebrows shift, but he doesn’t seem to realize anything and Emma wonders how long she can go without oxygen finding its way to her brain. Probably not much longer. She takes a deep breath, shoulders heaving and poor David Nolan looks decidedly out of place. “Nice to finally meet you,” she says, thrusting her hand out into the open space in front of her. “I’ve heard some stuff.” “Good stuff I hope,” Neal grins and Emma makes a contradictory noise in the back of her throat. Mary Margaret tries not to laugh.

“Stuff,” Emma repeats.

Neal’s lips quirk down and Emma tugs her hand back to her side, glancing up when she can hear Killian Jones yelling about teams and rules and playing to ten, but win by two and oh fuck. They’re going to play.

Game on or whatever.

“Right, right,” Neal mumbles. “Well, uh, some of the kids are going to play a little bit and I think that Jones guy is going to make sure we don’t all kill each other, so, uh...I was just coming to see if you guys wanted to suit up.” David wavers for half a moment, glancing at Mary Margaret like he was hoping for a few moments – or possibly an entire lifetime – alone, but Emma’s already nodding. “Yeah,” she says, staring at Neal. “You going to play?”

“That’s why I came over here.” “Good.” Neal looks at her for half a beat and that one corner of Emma’s mind that is still certain this is a goddamn disaster is positive he knows , but then he blinks and the look is gone and she’s far too competitive to care one way or another.

They’re already handing out sticks by the time Emma, David and Neal rejoin the crowd and Killian looks momentarily amused when his eyes land on her. “Ah, Humbert comma Graham,” he says. “I thought you’d disappeared.” Emma’s going to check him. In the head. “I’ve been around,” she answers evasively and the smile on Killian’s face evolves into a smirk that is both the single most obnoxious and attractive thing she’s ever seen. “You going to give me a stick or you just going to stare all night?”

It’s petty and a little immature, but it gets the smirk off his face and Killian nods before pushing a worse-for-wear stick against Emma’s chest. “Try not stun anyone with your Division I talent, Humbert,” he growls and Emma grimaces in response.

“Watch me,” she mutters.

Someone gives Killian a whistle and there are more rules Emma absolutely doesn’t listen to because she’s got a stick in her hand and a ball in her stick and she’s not sure if she’s trying to show off for everyone else or a bit for herself, but she spins away from a defender and lets out some kind of whoop when the ball lands in the back corner of the net.

It took thirty-seven and a half seconds.

“Holy shit,” Will grumbles, leaning behind him to fish the ball out of the net. “That was a rocket, Humbert.” Emma shrugs and Neal is standing slackjawed a few feet out of the crease. “You said you went to UMass,” he says and it sounds like the accusation it absolutely is. Emma nods. “Did you...you know my girlfriend then?”

She can hear herself breathing, which is the only proof that she still is, but it’s loud and just a bit haggard and Emma’s whole body stiffens at the present tense of that particular question. Neal waits for an answer and Will coughs awkwardly there isn’t one.

Emma’s dimly aware of David a few feet away from here and Killian blows that stupid whistle again, shouting about faceoffs and staying on track and Emma licks her lips before lining up again, a ringing in her ears she’s not sure will ever disappear.

It doesn’t. And the game sort of...falls apart after that.

She doesn’t score again, probably accounts for what feels like four-hundred turnovers and picking up a groundball is, suddenly, the most difficult thing in the world. She gets whistled for a slash, whipping her stick across the back of Neal’s calves and it’s the product of frustration and disappointment and athletic-based anger. It leaves Neal yelling about fucking intent to harm and Mary Margaret actually gasps when she sees the bruise already forming and Killian drags Emma off the field, fingers wrapped around her wrist and words mumbled under his breath.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Emma yells, yanking her arm back to her side when they’re on the sidewalk outside the stadium. She elbows herself in the process.

He doesn’t stop moving, pacing a small semi circle until he’s turned back towards her and Emma can practically feel the heat radiating off him. She’s an absolutely disgusting mess – sweat pooling at the base of her spine and dripping down her temple and underneath whatever contraption is still crushing her ribs and maybe she can just stay in Mary Margaret’s room for the night.

That won’t help anything.

“Are you insane?” Killian barks, glowering at her as if she’s just drawn an unreleasable with two minutes left in the national championship game.

Emma meets his expression with one of her own, landing back in the realm of pissed the fuck off rather quickly. She’s never quite done well with authority – or assholes telling her what she can and can’t do on the field. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she mutters and maybe she should just stay angry all time because her voice doesn’t really sound like hers anymore.

Killian takes a deep breath, tugging the oxygen in through his nose and his shoulders move with the force of it. He twists his lip in between his teeth again, running a frustrated hand through his hair, unable, it seems, to stop moving or staring at Emma like she’s arrived solely to ruin the integrity of lacrosse.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says after what feels like several lifetimes, but his voice has lost that threatening edge it had a few moments before. “That’s…do you know Cassidy?”

That’s not the question she expects.

She’s not sure what she expects, but a week ago she would have been positive that breaking into a lacrosse clinic pretending to be one of her best friends was the absolute last thing she ever expected, so, all things considered…

Killian just waits for a response, breathing evening out and someone else is blowing a whistle inside the football stadium. “Yeah,” Emma mumbles. “I, uh, do or did…” She shakes her head, trying to will away any sort of misplaced emotion, determined to linger in angry as long as possible. “He...dated one of my friends?” “Was that a question?” “No, no, I mean he did, but he’s a colossal dick so…” “So you were what, exactly?” Killian asks. “Defending your friend’s honor by being a complete fucking idiot on the field?” Emma rolls her eyes, frustration shooting through all of her limbs and lingering at the base of her spine with the sweat. It’s a disgusting thought. “No,” she snaps. “Well, I don’t know...why do you care? It’s not like you’re some pillar of lacrosse purity here.” She has no idea what makes her say it – probably something about that anger and stubbornness to prove herself born out of a lifetime’s worth of not being enough and Killian takes a step away from her as soon as the words land between them. “True,” he says slowly, fingers tapping lightly on the brace at the end of his left arm. “But...well Cassidy might not be the best guy to try and go up against here.” “What?” “How much did your friend tell you about Neal Cassidy, former starter at UNC?”

“Plenty.” “Yeah?” Emma nods, but she can feel her certainty slipping through her grasp and she’s not sure she can find the right word to describe the look on Killian’s face. He takes another step towards her. “Cassidy is here because of his name and his father’s ability to make things very difficult for Regina and her company if he didn’t have a paying gig all summer. You think she wanted him here? She knows his family, apparently knows his dad and, boom, just like that lil’ Cassidy isn’t working for the family business anymore, he’s got a job all lined up teaching kids how to destroy kneecaps with a one-handed shot outside the crease.”

Emma never really knows how she managed to stay standing, but her own kneecaps seem to take Killian’s words as some kind of challenge and she doesn’t move when he grins at her. “I don’t...Gold knows Regina?” Killian hums, but there’s a flash of confusion in his eyes. He didn’t expect her to know names. “I didn’t….I didn’t know that.” “Why would you?” She shakes her head, dragging in a ragged breath and silently promises herself never to make another decision fueled on tequila and Mary Margaret’s optimism ever again. “No reason,” she mumbles. “And did you say something about kneecaps?”

“I did.” “And?” “And what? I thought you knew all about me.” Emma groans, rolling her head back and that’s a mistake because her fucking hair nearly falls off. “I know generic facts that the entire lacrosse world knows,” she argues. “It’s not as if I’m secretly stalking your life.” He does something stupid with his eyebrows, sinking onto the edge of a flower arrangement outside the stadium. Emma doesn’t move. “I grew up with Cassidy,” Killian mutters and Emma’s not sure how much more surprise her body can withstand. “At least kind of. He lived down the block from my mom’s house in a much larger house and played travel ball and club ball and sneered at the idea of high school teams and he went to UNC and I went to a school in fucking New Jersey and when we played against each other in that regional final, he played like he was possessed. Started slashing everything he could.

I think he set some kind of record, but it didn’t work and he kept ending up in the box and we were winning. Until he checked me, straight across the back, no whistle and I lost the ball. He scooped, stayed onsides and didn’t even try to score. He shot at Scarlet’s kneecaps, took him out of the game. Nearly fucked up the whole thing and I don’t think that backup goalie ever really recovered. He’s an ass. Cassidy. Not the backup goalie. He’s got three kids and lives in Tacoma with his very nice wife who bakes things.” “She bakes things?” Emma echoes and Killian’s eyes shoot up towards her, disbelief etched into every single inch of his face.

“Yeah. Cookies. Cupcakes. Apparently an absolutely delicious carrot cake that she brags about in all of her Christmas newsletters.” Emma barks out a laugh and for half a second she forgets everything else except the slightly cautious smile on Killian’s face and her mind roams to completely impossible ideas and it’s as if the entire world flips upside down.

She can’t believe she didn’t realize. Well, no, she can, but she’s kind of mad at herself that she clearly isn’t capable of doing basic math, but she’s always heard that regional final loss differently and she never paid much attention to Neal when he started talking lacrosse.

He always seemed to want to talk about his stat line.

That probably should have been a sign.

God, Ruby’s never going to let her live any of this down.

“Christmas newsletters sounds very adult,” Emma mumbles, rocking awkwardly on her heels when she realizes she’s still standing up. Killian nods towards the seat next to him and she tries to keep, at least, six inches of space between them.

“It does, doesn’t it?” “Carrot cake sounds fucking awful though.” It’s his turn to laugh at that and Emma’s mind has some kind of mind of its own, picturing things and this is now an even worse idea than the worst idea in the history of the world. “It’s not bad with the icing,” Killian muses. “How...how long did you friend date Cassidy?” “Nearly a year. Her friends, well….they...we hated him. Knew he was kind of a dick and self-important and I mean, you know, he played at UNC. What even is a Tar Heel?” “I have no idea.” “Exactly. And then he was always kind of Glory Days’ing things and harping on how great UNC was and just the entire ACC which is, you know, whatever….lacrosse is a countrywide sport now.”

Killian laughs. “I went to Monmouth, you don’t need to tell me about the growing popularity of lacrosse. Although that Denver national championship helped things. UAlbany too. Give a couple of kids a stick and tell them they can hit each other and they’ll come flying in.” “Is that part of your recruit pitch at Maryland?” “Almost verbatim,” he grins. “Although we barely made it out of the Big 10 this year, so I’m not sure I’m doing much in the way of actually accomplishing anything. Need a faceoff kid.” Emma tenses slightly, licking her lips and she’s not sure what to say next. “That’s not easy though,” she mutters. Nailed it, Swan. Absolutely dominated. “And I’d imagine your requirements are fairly high.” “At this point my requirements are trying to find a kid who can win it clean without getting a violation and we have to play man down.” “Ah, well, maybe you can find someone here. Change someone’s life or something.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” he asks, glancing at her over his shoulder and Emma pushes her palms flat against the stone she’s sitting on until she’s almost positive she’s cut up her hand. “Plus the money. And to get Scarlet to shut up.” “Does he need to be shut up?” Killian doesn’t answer at first and Emma wonders if she’s overstepped some imaginary boundary, but she sees his shoulders move when he takes another deep breath and he doesn’t blink when he looks at her. “He got the invite since, technically, he can still play, your goal notwithstanding. And he got me in because he knew I’d have some time during the summer before workouts start and he figured it’d be good for me. Bring me back to my humble beginnings or something after the shit season we had.” “Humble?” Emma asks. “How so?” “I never would have been able to afford any of these things when I was a kid,” Killian says, rushing over the words. He’s still looking at her. “I, uh….my brother did his best to help, but he was older and there were only so many ways to play lacrosse by yourself. So I kept working and shooting against the side of the house until I’d broken just about every window and there was a scholarship to one of these prestigious clinics the summer before my senior year. I went and played and that’s where I got offered. It was the only team that even looked my direction.”

“Yeah, me too,” Emma mutters before she realizes what she’s said. Killian looks as if he’s going to fall on the sidewalk. “Uh, I mean...well I kind of bounced around when I was a kid and I played because I could and it was an outlet in a very stereotypical way, but I didn’t think I could do anything with it until UMass showed up. Winning the A-10 was some kind of dream.” She smiles and forgets, for a moment, that she’s not Emma Swan, All-American and that’s her first mistake. Killian narrows his eyes and Emma’s breath hitches, ribs aching and lungs shrinking, or something absolutely impossible, and he twists his lips when he stares at her.

“Right,” he says slowly, standing up and nodding towards the discarded sticks behind them. “You should bring those back to equipment. Don’t go after Cassidy again. He’ll destroy you where you stand.” Emma doesn’t say anything, barely even has a chance to register the words before Killian’s turning away, fingers wrapped around his left forearm and this is the worst thing she’s ever done.

You can read Part Two (the one with the kissing!) here. 

[babyboyoonie]

Helloo can you do one where yoongi has an eating disorder and all the members try to help him in their own way and are really protective and worried for him and one of them finds out first tho then they help him if that makes sense?? 💝💖💝💖💝 thank you if you’re still taking requests and you do this

Hellooo!  ♥ just a lil warning from lil old me thou; i’m sure you already know it but i’m mostly addressing this to young writers or readers: eating disorders or any other illness are NOT something to be written easily about (if you haven’t experienced it, then researches are more than due) okay? not to be romanticised either; i personally know about the situation i’ll write here, and more, so this is why i’m giving a warning. this may be fiction but words are words, be careful with what you do with them. (:

+++ i’ll answer the three others requests sitting on my inbox then they’ll be closed for a lil while~ you all know how much i get carried away, it takes me so much time i can’t finish ‘Sold My Halo’ or ‘Sorry did I roll my eyes out loud?’ which is a SHAME because those works are my pride and joy kndkn

anyway!! grandma’s going to stop rambling

here you go, my dear, ♥

Yoongi’s secretive. About a lot of things, and particularly, his love-hate relationship with food. It’s just—it’s just the way he is. He talks, he really does. Keeps to himself or in the back most of the time. Regrets it on some happenings, and so he tries to talk more. Stumbles over his words, but speaks with so much assurance people barely take notice of it. He’s good with words, practiced for years into putting them on beats and music. But he still struggles with speaking them aloud, even if the heart’s into it. He doesn’t want to come off like—like some sort of mysterious, emo guy, but that’s still what happens. He’s not…he’s not really like that. It’s just that he struggles with talking about himself. If it’s about present actions, or music, or work, then he has no troubles with it. But it does take years for him to talk about his struggles, the things that are in his heart, the things about him.

It took time for the other members to discover who he truly was. And even then, as close as they were, there are still parts of him he hasn’t totally shared. It’s not on purpose. Just…that’s the way he is, that’s just Yoongi. Things people would talk about like traumatic—he’ll keep quiet about it for years, until he’s able to speak lightly about the matter. His shoulder…he didn’t made a big deal about it. Interiorized it, until it was just…something that happened. Until he could only see the good, where it lead him. Until the fears could be shut down quickly, and the pain—numbled.

The boys though—they get worried. Really worried. So Yoongi keeps the others incidents for himself, refuses to speak about them until the right time. Right time which could be in months, or years, he doesn’t know.

He tries to hide it. Actively so, for once. He’s not a secretive person on purpose—but for this, for this weird relationship he has with food and refuses to put a name on, he does keep quiet about it.

The thing is, no matter how discreet he tries to be, someone finds out. It shouldn’t be surprising, really. They’ve been through so much, the seven of them, one of his bandmates was bound to find out.

Hoseok had been suspicious for a while, but it’s Jimin who confronts him first.

Corners him before he can hide in his room, and says—“hyung, have you eaten today?”

Yoongi tries to not look like a deer caught in the highlights. He fails, if Jimin’s frown is anything to go by. He thinks about lying. But, as much of a good actor as he is, there are things that can’t go past his friends.

Especially Jimin.

He slowly shakes his head “no”, tries to go past the other man to his room, but Jimin bullies him against the door and pines him with a serious glare. Jimin’s all about soft heart and endearing actions for everyone, but there are subjects he doesn’t joke about. Gets angry, too. Perhaps because he’s been there before.

Yoongi feels worst. His denial to talk about it, especially with Jimin.

“hyung,” the other man says, gentler this time. It’s soft, more like a wake-up call, and after minutes of stubborn silence, Yoongi drags him to his room and closes the door behind them.

They stay there—stay there for hours. Don’t say anything to the other members, because Yoongi’s not quite ready. Their friends get worried, suspicious, but still comprehensive. Yoongi’s never been more grateful. It’s only after a long while of just laying on the bed, curled against Jimin’s chest, that he dares to open about, about why his food intake is so—so weird.

“I don’t do it on purpose. I swear, Minnie,” he whispers, quiet and anxious, and Jimin hums gently for him to keep going. So he does. Closes his eyes, and speaks, because Jimin’ll understand. “I spent—spent so much time not being sure whether I would eat or not. It became…became optional, you know? I don’t hate eating, I, I…I—really, like food, I promise. It’s, just—ah…I could go on for so long without it…I eat because you make me. Because Hoseok brings me food when he knows I’ve been locked up for too long. But…I…food’s fine, but I, I don’t like eating that much. I’m so sorry—”

Yoongi hates talking about himself. Carefully thinks about the things he’ll say, calculates before, whether he’s ready to share or not. He doesn’t want to make a big deal about…about this, about him. He’s just…just Yoongi. And whether he has troubles eating doesn’t define him, he’s fine.

Jimin—Jimin reassures him. Tells him, in the secret of his ear, “you’re fine, hyung, you’re fine, perfect,” smooths his hair back and plants soft kisses all over his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. That’s when Yoongi realizes he’s crying. Why the fuck is he crying? Jimin kisses him harder, on his lips this time, holds him tight and then lets Yoongi silently cries in the hollow of his shoulder. “You’re okay, doing so good, baby. But we—we’ll try and eat more, okay? You’re gorgeous in all times but, but I just—I want you to be healthy.”

For a while, a long while, Yoongi doesn’t answer. It stretches on for days, in which Jimin carefully observes him, ticking more and more the suspicions of the other boys. Yoongi’s fine. He is. But…he might have some problems. Small problems, meaningless problems. But it makes Jimin sad and the boys, poking his slightly hollowed cheeks with a frown. He doesn’t want them sad, ever.

He insists on being okay. But relents to…to whatever it is Jimin wants to try on him. To help him, which is silly, because Yoongi’s fine. It’s not his fault he can’t keep food in his stomach. He doesn’t mind eating, but it’s not necessary, and Yoongi can do without. Jimin looks more and more upset when Yoongi admits it one day, and he—he doesn’t know what’s wrong with that.

Yoongi swears he’s okay.

He is.

(He isn’t.)

He’s fine. But does end up accepting Jimin’s hand. Hoseok’s too, and then Namjoon, and then it’s Jin, Taehyung, and Jungkook. He doesn’t exactly spell it out words by words, the way he did with Jimin this one night. And, and he doesn’t need to. They figured it out, already, so long ago.

But because Yoongi refused to talk about it, because he closed off when the subject came on the table—they didn’t push him. He goes along with a lot of things, obeys to orders silently because he doesn’t mind (likes it, to be honest), but pressuring him into something he doesn’t want to do is the best way to break his trust.

And so, they’re careful. This part of him, so secretive, this strange relationship with food consumption—or the lack of it, thereof—the boys seem to have understood it well. To his surprise. They…they’re discreet about this…this whole business of helping him.

It’s in Namjoon’s and Hoseok habits on not being too far away, whenever he locks himself in his studio. In their presence when it’s time for lunch, for dinner, and their patience with the time he takes to eat. The light conversations, the jokes and smiles and laughter, to hide the fact they won’t let him skip a meal if they can help it.

They’re discreet in—in Jin’s way of pushing his hair back whenever he throws up, upset stomach refusing any amount of food after being empty for so long. He used to feel just as empty, before, but now he’s…he feels strange. Doesn’t know if it’s good, or bad. Just sure it has something to do with the way Jin cuddles him at night. Tight, so tight, and with immense care.

Jimin and Taehyung and Jungkook—they come at him together, and Yoongi can never escape them. They’re a menace by themselves, but together, Yoongi’s pretty sure they’re unstoppable. But…they’re careful. Jimin’s all about understanding gazes, the one to stop them whenever he sees Yoongi’s getting too upset. Taehyung’s gentle, incredibly gentle. A cool balm on open wounds, smiles powerful enough for Yoongi to want to—to get better. Whatever it is that he has. And Jungkook…Jungkook paints the sun behind his eyelids on rainy days. Jungkook’s good, so fucking good to him. Sweet, the sweetest, the softest, in his encouragements. In “oh, you’re doing great hyung!”, stranded with his moon-made smiles that make Yoongi sees stars.

He—

Maybe, just maybe he’s not totally okay.

But the boys don’t make a fuss in front of him, know that he hates that. Hates that, that he might have a disorder. And so they don’t make a fuss, and more than anything, they don’t romanticize it. Yoongi…He can admit he’s not totally okay, but it isn’t anything to be fetichized, and he’s glad they don’t.

They don’t picture him as the kind of ill, skinny man who has to be cured with love or some bullshit like that. Yoongi’s grateful. Loves them so, so.

His boys are just—here when he needs them, help him in times he can’t take care of himself.

That’s all Yoongi wants.

(That’s all Yoongi needs.)

[ltleflrt]

Ltleflrt’s writing year in review

I got a lot more writing done than I thought I did, but a lot less than I wanted.  But I wrote for my OT3 finally, and also did a lot more short stories than I have lately which I’m really happy about.  I also participated in the DCBB and DC Tropefest which is the first time I’ve done two challenges in one year, so I’m pretty friggin’ proud of that.  I’m a little burned out right now, but I hope my momentum comes back in the new year :)

Total 2017 Word Count: 152,215 Total 2017 Kudos: 9,408 Total 2017 Hits: 87,832  

And for comparison here’s last year:

Total 2016 Word Count: 267,378 Total 2016 Kudos: 8,054 Total 2016 Hits: 98,138

My fics:

No Words: 112,527 (96,978 written in 2016)

On the run from his very powerful family, Castiel does his best to get lost. Because if he doesn't know where he is, his brothers won't be able to find him very easily either. He ends up in Silverton, a small mountain town nestled deep within the Rocky Mountains where he meets Dean Winchester, a very beautiful and very grumpy omega.

What Might Have Been: 2,783

Dean runs into an old flame and considers what might have been.

Noise Complaint: 5,484

Dean's neighbors are loud, and the walls are thin, but that's all easy to ignore. Except for the loud sex sounds coming from the neighbor on the other side of his bedroom wall. And even that wouldn't bother him too much if his neighbor didn't sound so bored. 

Triquetra: 46,369

In a world where magic is common, there is an institution known simply as The University. It has the best teachers, the best library, and the best location no knows where. But that's what the portals are for, anyway.

Teacher Jimmy Novak and Head Archivist Castiel Novak have a unique relationship that is generally tolerated by staff and students, minus a cruel word of gossip or two. Otherwise, life is easy, work is fulfilling, and their world is quiet. Only the students change, and that's fine.

Until Dean Winchester joins the faculty and everything else changes.

Just Once: 1,265

Some of the most important things in life happen just once.

Priorities: 891

When Dean gets a call from Jimmy that he got into a wreck in the Impala, Dean is understandably pissed.

Too Hot To Handle: 790

Castiel gives Jimmy an awful scare.

The Surprise: 1,775

Dean's been hiding something from the twins.

Profoundly Bound: 6,656

Work has been rough for Dean lately, so Castiel and Jimmy offer themselves up as stress relief.

He Prayed For This: 5,622

Set prior to "Profoundly Bound", this tells the story of Jimmy's first experience with BDSM.

What Happened In Vegas: 18,447

Long time friends Dean and Castiel are road tripping from Chicago to San Diego for Sam and Eileen’s wedding, and a pitstop in Las Vegas turns into drunken love confessions and a surprise marriage. Turns out the pining has been mutual this whole time, but now they’re finally together and on cloud-fucking-nine. Until they remember that this trip isn’t supposed to be about them.

To avoid undermining Sam and Eileen’s important weekend, they decide to keep their new relationship status a secret. They’ll keep the heart eyes toned down and their hands to themselves, but the struggle is real.

Purgatory’s Angel: 26,779

In an act of heroism Castiel sacrifices one of his wings to save lives. But he isn’t sure he wants to live tethered to the ground, never to dance in the sky again. Two stubborn Winchester brothers have faith that his future isn’t quite so grim, and that flight may be possible someday. Castiel thinks they’re full of shit, but in the face of Dean’s cheerful optimism it’s hard not to believe.

In It For The Long Haul: 19,805 (WIP)

Long haul trucking can be a lonely business. Sure, Dean can chat up other drivers on the CB, and when Sam’s not in class or drowning in homework he’ll let Dean talk his ear off on the phone. But it’s still hours and hours of staring at the road and scanning the radio dial for local stations because he’s too lazy to upgrade the truck to satellite radio. And then a flirty waiter in a 24 hour truck stop restaurant sits down with him to chat while he eats his dinner, and suddenly his life no longer feels quite so empty.

Photography doesn’t pay much, and insomnia is a bastard. Which is why Castiel accepts his cousin's offer of employment at the truck stop restaurant. The graveyard shift is perfect for his fucked up sleep schedule, and Gabriel doesn’t mind if he sneaks a free meal now and then. Besides, all the most interesting people come into the restaurant in the middle of the night. Including the gorgeous man with the sad green eyes that makes Castiel want to pull out all the stops to make him smile.

[the-cookie-of-doom]

it’s sad bitch hours sorry 

I just realized that someone promised again and again that something wouldn’t happen no matter what and yet that exact sequence of events fucking happened exactly 4 months later to the day, exactly as I predicted they would, and lol I should have seen the writing on the wall, but I wanted so badly to believe it was okay that I was willing to keep trying, even though I honestly should have stopped months before. This is why I can’t trust people, I’m so tired of being lied to. It was so fucked up because it followed the exact pattern and now I know the entire four months between that and the end were a total lie and that hurts so much. I thought I was past it but sometimes it just hits me how fucked up it all is, but also so bitterly funny because. 4 months. exactly 4 months later. There’s something poetic about that, I think. Hell, maybe it was even intentional lol, who the fuck knows? Not me, apparently I didn’t know anything. and as of now it’s been 6 months to the day and I guess that’s why I’m thinking of it again, like a really shitty anniversary that just makes me feel shaky and nauseous and hate myself for being so naïve. I wish I was the type of person to drown my sorrows but honestly I’m 19, I think alcohol tastes awful, and getting wasted seems like more trouble than it’s worth, anyway. At least school lets out for the summer in a month and I can properly wallow in my misery and depression. the quarantine really isn’t helping. Hopefully it’ll be over by summer; I’ve accepted that my plans for my bday just aren’t happening, which sucks bc I’ve been planning it for years (turning 20 is more important to me than 21 bc of the aforementioned not caring about alcohol, or gambling for that matter) but I’d at least be able to drive down to the beach occasionally. I did manage to get some stream-of-consciousness written for Neverland, though. I’m slowly getting the plot worked out. Funnily enough most of my progress is for the third part of the fic, where Mitch and Stiles are 35ish and adopt a teenager and their little family dynamic is just so fun to write, because they are both really good parents. 

Edit: I thought I was done but nope apparently not? I think the worst part is how much they promised it would be okay. And yknow, I believed it, because I’m stupid like that. And when it all went to hell it was awful, but I could accept it as simple differences, yknow? Not everything works out and I know that. But then to find out that all those promises of it’s okay no matter what were actually, literally lies? Yeah that’s what’s really got me fucked up lol. I can put up with anything else, but I cannot stand when someone lies to me. Especially something like that. I don’t care how much the truth hurts, but don’t give me that false sense of security and let me believe everything’s okay when you know it isn't. 

I think I’ve gotten to the point of anger in the 5 stages of grief, which is rare for me. I usually go straight to acceptance pretty quick. But I think it’s because this is the first time I’ve really been so hurt by something. I mean I’ve been hurt plenty, but this just hit differently. I feel like I lost a part of myself. And I want to hold out hope that maybe some day in the future it will be okay again, but honestly, how can it? How the FUCK could it ever be okay again after that clusterfuck? I want it to, and when I think back to a year ago I remember how good things were, and a year before that they were perfect. I don’t feel any bitterness about that. It’s like I’ve compartmentalized the last two years of my life into Before and After, and I can think about the Before without it hurting. I can clearly imagine being like that again. But then when I think about actually getting to that point again... it all falls apart. I feel like my trust is gone, and I don’t know how I could get it back after that. I think I could pretend to be fine ust like I always do, but at the back of my mind I would always be questioning everything, waiting for the other shoe to drop and everything to fall apart again, because it just kept happening, and why would next time be any different? I want there to be a next time, but at the same time, I can't decide if that would even be healthy for me at this point. Everything was such a mess by the end and I never know when to cut bait with someone, I always want to cling to the good times. When it gets to a point that I have to cut someone out of my life I can, but when I feel like there’s a glimmer of a chance at redeeming something, I’ll hold on, and that’s just. Not good. And it’s so hard to tell if I want to reconcile because of nostalgia for how it used to be, or because I think it would actually be a good idea. The one thing I do know is that I wish none of this had ever happened. It hurts and it’s awful and I can’t seem to dig my way out of the depression spiral I’ve been in ever since it happened, and so many other things just keep getting heaped onto the pile. 

I miss the way I used to bed. I can feel the tangible difference in me since last October. That’s when my life went to hell and it’s just been getting worse and it feels like I’ll never be okay again. I know I will because I’m stubborn, and I always find a way to be okay, but it just hurts so much and I hate this, I hate myself and that just makes me even angrier because I was doing good. My life was great. I was happy and active and productive and I could honestly say I loved myself, and now I can’t even look at myself in the mirror half the time. I’m spinning my wheels because I know I need to do things but I just can't make myself do them, even though I know I’ll suffer from it in the future. This year I was supposed to get better. I was going to get my shit together and start the next decade of my life off on a high note and instead it’s just been one cluster fuck after another. I just want to be okay again. 

[ellawritesficssometimes]

My Save Year -USUK (ch. 3)

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12554533/1/My-Save-Year

Two days later…

Monday:

I was sitting at the front desk in the library, pawing through a files folder as I balanced a corded phone between my ear and shoulder.

"Yes, everything is fine," I sighed, annoyed at having to repeat myself. "I'm starting my third week here already. You know me, I've already developed a daily routine. I feel comfortable now. Hell, I'm so busy, I don't even feel stress anymore. I can't afford to."

Coping by using sarcastic puns? Check.

Midterms were around the corner, so most of my time was spent preparing for them well in advance. Grades were how I proved my self-worth, not to others, but to myself. I had nothing else going for me but my smarts.

"That's good to hear," Alistair grunted on the other end of the phone. "Even so, I just wanted to check in with ye again. Have ye made any new friends? Are ye eating properly? And don't ye dare lie to me, Artie. Ye ken full well that I'll come down there to romp yer skinny little arse if ye are."

I smirked and closed the files drawer shut. It emitted a satisfactory metallic thud.

I spun in my swivel chair and pushed off towards the desk part of the station so that I could smugly drum my fingers against the wooden surface.

"Actually, I have. Five total. Well," I corrected myself. "Three of them are more like acquaintances that I just so happen to share classes with. As for food? I've been trying, really I have. My roommate is even more ruthless than you are, like a hawk. He's resorted to force-feeding me because of my apparent lack in key nutrients."

Alistair laughed gruffly. "And here ye were at the beginning of the year, bitchin' and whining about having ta share a room with someone. It looks like it did ye a lotta good. I'm glad…and surprised. Since when has my wee little brother been so popular? I'm impressed. Nae, I'm proud and impressed."

I faltered. "The people here are…surprisingly nice. It's not like back home, where people's brains are even smaller than the limited geography. I've also noticed that, ah, there's a lot of diversity amongst the writers here, and I'm not just saying this because it's an international academy," I stumbled awkwardly.

Thankfully, Alistair knew how to address the subject without either skirting around it or directly addressing it. I flustered easily; he knew my boundaries of what I was okay with discussing.

"Artists are like tha'. Yer all either depressed, gay, lonely, bitter, or all four. Oops, looks like I just came up with half of yer biography," Alistair teased before changing the subject. "So, have you written anythin' lately? You haven't sent me somethin' for quite a while now."

Alistair was the supportive mother figure in my life. He overcompensated in our true mother's footsteps by taking interest in my hobbies. I only ever trusted Alistair to read my writing.

"Ha ha, very funny," I replied dryly. "Hmmm. I'll send you something soon. I have many assignments due in the coming weeks. I could always use another set of eyes to catch any mistakes."

"Yep."

"How are things in Scotland?" I asked.

"Good, could be better. My flat isna the best, but I'm making do. Mum called yesterday by the way…"

"Oh?" My stomach sank.

"She asked me to tell ye somethin'."

I didn't say anything, which prompted Alistair to tell me anyway.

"She asked me if yer coming back for Christmas… ye don't have to, though!" he blurted out. "I'd understand if ye didn't want to. Artie, I already told em' that you'd be coming home to my place for the holidays. That's the plan. It's up to ye if ye to change or stick with it."

I grit my teeth, swallowing sourly. "That's rich," I snorted bitterly. "You can tell her to fuck right off, along with the rest of them. They just don't want to look bad when I'm not there in front of the other relatives. I'm not going, not again. I don't want to go back, and no amount of guilt-tripping will ever make me. What nerve they have, honestly."

There went my relatively good mood.

My family may not have been physically abuse, but the belittling and constantly critical atmosphere was toxic for me. There were all just so passive-aggressive, it would drive anyone in my position insane. My other brothers would always hip-check me if I was in the way and would also make snide comments when I wasn't around. Mum was miserable, and Dad was just an angry bigot not even worthy of a description.

They didn't want me there, and I was sick of them pretending that they had accepted me for who I was. I haven't forgiven them, especially for the stairs incident with Patrick…

I'll repeat myself again: I wasn't going back. They had already done enough damage.

"I thought ye would say that," Alistair sadly stated. "Don't get me wrong, ye have every right to feel that way. I wasn't keen on going either if I'm to be perfectly honest. I'll make sure to relay the message for ye. No need to cause any more fights."

"Good, because I was definitely looking forward to us attempting to cook, only to give in after almost burning down the building and ordering take-out as a consolation meal," I mused, intending to lighten the mood. It worked.

After that, the conversation shifted to more trivial topics. I elaborated on school, my job, the many ghosts, as well as how strange the entire campus made me feel. I didn't mention the library's rooftop; I hadn't thought of it as very important.

My break was over quicker than expected, and I had to hang-up. It was odd how lenient and patient Alistair was being with me, as opposed to his usual stubborn, worry-wart self. I soon understood why he was acting as such when he said his goodbyes.

"I haven't heard ye be this happy in a while, Artie. I don't ken what's happening there, but I sure do hope that it keeps up. Take care, lad. And don't forget to call me, more than just one day a week if ye can. I'm always available when it comes to yer well-being, just make sure to keep the time in mind if ye do happen to catch me by surprise. Anyways, I have stuff to do, so I should probably let ye go. Best of luck on your midterms. Oh, and I love ye, very much, ye snobby brat."

I smiled. "I love you too, you hard-headed oaf," I retorted. "I'll speak to you again soon."

"Wha-?! Did you just say it back? Who are ye and what did you do with my bro–!"

Shocked, I hung up the phone.

"What in the bloody fuck was that?" I asked myself, feeling my face heat. The last time I had said something like that to him, I was no older than eight. My God, this school was turning me into such a sap.

No matter, I still had work to do. We had just gotten a whole new edition of textbooks to register into stock from the history section. Straightening both my blouse and posture, I set out to do just that.

It was four PM when Matthew came back from his last class of the day. My classes on Monday ended at noon, so I covered the middle shift. Technically, I was only hired to work on weekends, but I was slightly behind on my work as an assistant, so the administrators let me do an extra shift here and there to make up for it. The campus was privately run, so funding and payroll was never an issue.

Besides, the amount of books and files I had to keep track of was insane, near impossible even. I was also in the library most days, save for this weekend as a minor exception. I think you know why, but we'll get into that later.

I wasn't surprised to see Matthew carrying a platter of sandwiches in his hands. "Feeding time again?" I joked. I still found this whole situation ridiculous. It just didn't make any sense to me. A spirit eating food? I had never heard of something so preposterous.

"Oui, ah, yes," Matthew stuttered. "Egg salad is never a favourite in the staff room. I figured I wouldn't let them go to waste."

Matthew opened the plastic wrap covering the platter, offering me a sandwich. "They're pretty awful, but knowing you, you've only had breakfast today, huh?"

The Canadian knew me well. I didn't have a very large appetite, anxious or not. I either ate a lot or didn't eat at all, there was no in between. Although, the reminders I had set on my phone have helped. Throughout the day, I had many snacks, but none of them were meals – the downside of being dirt poor.

I accepted the sandwich, smiling politely as I took a small bite from it. "I don't see anything wrong with it," I shrugged.

"It's plain and processed," Matthew deadpanned. "I swear, you have such a strange taste in food. You'll eat anything, just like the ghost. Speaking of which, have you had a chance to look at the camera footage?" he asked, noting my disheartened expression. "Spooky, right?"

"Something's definitely funny about it," I replied. "Perhaps it's just the lighting, an optical illusion that makes it look like the food is disappearing. The cameras are old too. I still stand by my theory that a student is taking advantage of the free food."

Sue me, I was lying through my teeth. I didn't want many people to know about my abilities. Francis knew, and that was more than enough. Thing is, when I looked at previous camera footage, the food didn't just disappear. A dark and shaded pixelated spirit was in fact taking the food. It's just a pity I wasn't there to actually witness this, since the camera didn't possess the same sight as I did.

"Arthur," Matthew rolled his eyes. This was something we often bickered about now. "My family's been doing this for decades. There's a spirit here, many of them, but this one has the most personality. Keep denying the obvious if you want, but this library is very clearly haunted. Now, if you excuse me, I have a real-life ghost to feed. If I take too long, sometimes it gets impatient and knocks over books. One time it knocked over an entire shelf."

"Mhmm, sure," I hummed dismissively, a playful light in my eyes. "You keep telling yourself that."

"I will," Matthew huffed.

"Good."

"Bien."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Hitting your head on Friday must have made you even stubborner. As if it wasn't already hard enough to get through to you," Matthew shook his head in disbelief.

The bruise at the back of my head throbbed a little at the reminder. I told Matthew that I had taken a bad fall on Friday, not wanting him to worry about me too much. Francis already did enough of that. I couldn't walk two feet without the Frenchman offering to hold my arm in support.

I had a minor concussion, that's it. Waking me up every hour of the night was more than unnecessary. Stupid patronizing frog. Don't even get me started on refusing to report the incident to campus security…

"Perhaps it did. I wouldn't know," I shrugged, prompting Matthew to leave with a thoroughly 'done' expression on his face.

When Matthew was out of sight, I rolled my chair over to the computer and opened the camera feed. I clicked on the specific one that surveyed the fiction section on the fifth floor. The food was always placed on the study tables there.

I spied on the Canadian, watching him place the sandwich platter in its usual spot. I shamelessly flipped through cameras, making sure that he was far out of hearing distance before I put my plan into motion.

I was going to stake out the spirit. I had done enough readings over the weekend to spare myself some extra time. I also may or may not have refused to leave my dorm room because of Friday's incident. All right, I did.

I had avoided visiting the rooftop because I didn't want to see Alfred. Now that he knew who I was, I couldn't bear to face him again. I didn't want his pity, nor did I want myself to believe that we could become chatting partners again.

He'd seen me in a very sorry, very pitiful state. I just knew that he would never look at me the same if we saw each other again. The problem was, I needed to investigate that rooftop, but he was always there. This mess just made everything more complicated than it needed to be. It was also bizarre how Alfred had just left without another word, but then again, I wasn't going to complain.

Moving on.

Hopefully, this stake out would answer most of my questions. I had very little patience monitoring the cameras; this plan was my only way of physically seeing the spirit, rather than just a fuzzy, pixelated blob on a screen.

Forget waiting, I wanted to know what it was. The uneasy feeling I got whenever I came here was beginning to drive me mad, like a pestering fly that wouldn't stop buzzing in your ear.

And so, that's how I found myself squatted behind a bookcase, phone digging into my hips due to the tight jeans I was wearing. I eyed the food platter, devotedly intending to stay for hours on end if I had to.

"Come out, come out wherever you are," I muttered to myself. "I won't hurt you, I promise. If anything, I just want to help. And here I thought I was stubborn…"

One hour later.

"Oh for fuck's sakes, I'm not going to bite."

Two hours later.

I stretched my back and neck, shifting my position into something more comfortable. I was leaning against the bookshelf now, occasionally looking over my shoulder, only to come up disappointed with the view of the still empty study area.

I was so used to the quiet that when my phone buzzed, I gave a sharp yelp in response.

Turns out, it was just Francis wanting to know if I had started plotting out my Creating Writing assignment. Our Russian professor, an alumnus at the school, was back to teaching here again. Apparently, we were immensely lucky to have him, since he didn't like staying at the campus for more than a year.

Lucky my arse. We had a 20,000 word one-shot due at the end of each month. The professor was out of his bloody mind! It was only a matter of time before I burnt out – a person only had so much creativity and sanity in them, after all.

I couldn't be bothered to answer Francis. I would do so later if I remembered to, which wasn't very likely if I'm to be perfectly honest. It got to the point where I had to turn off my phone to prevent him from blowing up my inbox. God, was he ever insufferable.

The time I spent waiting had almost passed the three-hour mark when a distinct creak and subsequent thud echoed across the area. Immediately, I turned around, eyes locked on the nearest study table.

"Easy does it," I mouthed. "I just want to see who or what you are…"

"Whatcha lookin' at?"

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST?!" I screamed, jolting upwards only to bang my head on the bookshelf.

My vision blacked out briefly as I reached out to cup the back of my now much sorer head. My vision swam, blurry, before focusing on a startled pair of blue eyes and shiny spectacles, glowing from the fluorescent lights above.

"A-Artie?" Alfred crouched down. "I'm sorry if I startled ya. It's just, I haven't heard from you since, well, you know… I thought I would find you myself. You did mention that you worked and studied here."

"I did, did I?" I groaned, glaring at him through tears. "Couldn't you have found me like a normal person, and oh, I don't know, not sneak up on me?"

Alfred didn't say anything. He looked like he wanted to reach out to see if I was okay, but given my short temper, he knew better not to.

"Stop looking at me like that, I'll be fine. And it's Arthur!" I blurted out. "How many times do I have to tell you that?… Fuck it, I don't even care. I-I should probably get going now." I stood up abruptly, wanting to get out of here as fast as possible.

"Arthur, wait!" Alfred called out when I turned my back on him.

Hesitantly, I turned around, defensive scowl already in place. My eyes bugged out as I took in his hulking height. He was several inches taller than me, albeit lanky. Of course, he was still wearing the same brown bomber jacket and folded jeans, blond hair stuck up in a messy muss. In his right hand, he gripped onto his notebook, and on his back, he was one-strapping a brown leather rucksack.

"What?" I wavered, shy to establish direct eye contact for too long.

"I'm, ah, sorry that I left you hanging like that. I panicked and didn't know what to do. It's why I went running off to find someone else to help out…"

"You found my roommate. I hate my roommate," I sarcastically spat.

Alfred nervously rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh. I didn't know. He seemed nice enough, I guess," I trailed off.

"Is that all? I have to be somewhere."

"Don't lie to me, Arthur. I haven't known you all that long, and yet I can still tell when you're lying. You wear your emotions on your face. You don't just look troubled now. You look embarrassed and I'm here to tell you that you shouldn't. Is that why you haven't come on the roof these past few days? Because you thought I wouldn't accept you for who you are?"

"…Can you blame me?" I whispered, throat constricting. "You saw what they did, what they said. It's repulsive. I'm repulsive…"

"BULLSHIT!" Alfred exploded. When I flinched, he lowered his voice. "That's total bullshit, you hear me?! Don't say such things like that. It only gives those assholes free reign to do whatever the hell they want! You're better than that!"

I inched away from Alfred, hurt crossing over my expression. "Look, if you came here to yell at me, then you may as well just leave. I don't need this right now."

"Arthur," Alfred repeated. "Look man, I'm trying," he paused, taking a deep breath. "I want to be your friend, I really do. It's just hard standing here watching you beat yourself up like this. It's not right.

"Thing is, my anxiety does this weird thing where when I see someone in a similar position to me, I become strong and confident all of a sudden. My sister calls it this 'hero' persona. I don't really care… I'm not trying to be your hero, but I can't just stand around either. I came to talk to you."

I sighed. So that's why he was here. He was pushing aside his shyness to see if I was okay. Sweet, but unnecessary. A waste of his time if you ask me. "You don't have to, I'm fine."

"You weren't fine when I found you that night," Alfred interrupted. "Did you call campus security on those bozos? Maybe there was a camera that caught their faces. They deserve to expelled for what they did, a rotten bunch if I've ever seen one," he seethed.

"I didn't call anyone. I just want it to be done and over with. What happened, happened," I remarked curtly.

Alfred's jaw dropped. "You're not going to try and find them?"

"I just said that, didn't I?"

"But you can't! It's not right!"

"Perhaps, but it's what I want."

Alfred's shoulders slumped. "I can't believe it. I mean, if it's what you really want, fine. It's not what I would do, and it makes me really angry that those criminals are going to get away with something like this... still, I can't force you to do something you don't wanna do."

I looked at the ground, unsure of myself. "Was that all you came here for?"

"No, you invited me to join you in the library sometime, remember? I'm taking you up on that offer. Call me old-fashioned, but I don't have a phone, so this was my only way of finding you. I also, um, want to tell you something," Alfred admitted.

I shrugged. I was too tired and flustered to argue. A seat sounded nice. "All right, I don't see why not."

We sat at a study table, across from one another. Alfred had to pull out his chair as his legs were too long to fit underneath. He kept fidgeting, with both his hands and his feet. The way he clicked his ankle was annoying, but I didn't have the heart to tell him to stop. He was pushing himself out of his comfort zone, for me. He was reaching out – who was I to discourage him from doing so with some useless, petty comment?

After some time, Alfred looked up, smiling out of nervousness. "What you said earlier really bothered me, ya know that? You shouldn't have to feel ashamed of yourself. Do you think I'm repulsive?"

"Of course I don't think you're repulsive!" I snapped. "Why would you say such a thing?"

Alfred gave me a blank stare. "I could say the same thing to you. Don't you get it? No one should ever say such horrible things about themselves because once you say it, you really believe it, and it's not true, okay?!" he breathed deeply, calming himself.

"Let me rephrase myself, dude," Alfred continued. "Would you call me repulsive if you knew that I liked guys too?"

"Y-you do?" I asked, lips trembling. My ears buzzed, unable to process this information.

"Yes, I do. Gals as well. Now answer my question."

"I don't have to rephrase anything," I answered. "I've never thought of you as repulsive. I judge people by character. You haven't given me a reason to think that, so no, I don't find you repulsive."

"Why can't you apply that same logic to yourself then? If you call yourself repulsive for being gay, or at least liking boys, then I want you to look me in the eye and call me repulsive too. Go on, do it."

"I…can't."

"Why not? Do it! If it's so easy to say it to yourself, then say it to me!"

"I don't want to!"

"Why?"

"Because I don't want anyone to ever have to experience what I have!" I croaked.

"Then why beat yourself up, Arthur? Don't become another bully, to yourself nonetheless. I'm not going to lie and tell you that this world and that you yourself are perfect. But that doesn't give you a reason to hate everything either! You're not repulsive, it's how you think that's repulsive! Don't become like those bigots! It'll only make them win!"

I raked a shaky hand through my hair, fisting it. "I-I…don't think you're repulsive."

"I know, but you need to know that you're not either," Alfred said softly, cerulean eyes possessing an indescribable wisdom to them.

"Damn it," I sniffed, wiping at my eyes before tears could spill. "I know I'm not repulsive, but I can't help but believe it sometimes."

"Love and being yourself is never repulsive, as long as it doesn't harm others. My Ma and Pops didn't understand that, but my, ah, sis does. I grew up in the South. My family, they're really religious. For so long, I had to hide who I was. I had crushes on both boys and girls, but could only date girls. At least, not in public. What I'm trying to say is that it's not worth hating what you can't change. There'll always be support, and there'll sometimes be backlash. It doesn't mean you have to accept it or that it's right. Society sucks, but it doesn't mean you have to believe that you suck too. Gosh, that sounded really dirty," he finished, smiling nervously.

"That must have been tough. I can't even bear to imagine it," I whispered.

"Yeah, well, I didn't live there all the time. My twin, Amelia – I think I told you about her – anyways, Amy and I went to boarding school in New York. We grew up in a pretty progressive area. It was there that I found out more about myself. I met a guy…"

Alfred's eyes widened in pain. I didn't know whether to stop him or let him continue.

I resorted to the latter in fear of scaring Alfred away.

"We really, really liked each other. It's just hard when you're forced to be afraid of loving someone. It really got to me. When I close my eyes I can still imagine how pretty his eyes were, a rare, indescribable violet. He was always so worried about what other people thought... he stood me up because of the rumours going around about us. Afterwards, all I could do was blame and hate myself.

"It's not worth it, Arthur. It really isn't. I learned that the hard way. Either way, I still had that experience, horrible as it was. But you know what? At least I got to do what I wanted to without having what others thought about us hold me back."

"I'm so sorry," I said hesitantly.

"Don't be. The point I'm trying to get across is that it's pointless to regret things, especially something unchangeable like your sexuality. Heck, if I don't know how hard it can get at times. I've only ever wanted things to get better. Moving here, it was a fresh start, even if I had to leave my only support system behind. But now I have you, huh? So how about you start seeing yourself like I do: a normal guy who's too hard on himself."

I nodded. "This was…too sweet for words, Alfred. You didn't have to tell me all that, but I appreciate it. You're right, about everything. And yes, you have me now. I consider you as my friend."

"No, no I did. I didn't just want to tell you this, I had to," Alfred said, taking off his glasses. I let out a sharp intake of breath when I saw that he was crying. "Back then, I grew tired of hating myself, for thinking that I would never be happy. Seeing you feel the same way now, it just breaks my heart. No one deserves this. You can't help it, all right? Things may never turn out in your favor, but don't you ever give up. You will find that someone who will accept you for you, it just may take some time. But once you do find that someone, the rest of the world don't matter after that."

"Crap," he whimpered. "I was the one supposed to be cheering you up. Some friend I am. I wanted to make you feel better."

"Hey," I chided, reaching into my pocket to pull out a wad of tissues. "You sound like you've had it much worse than I have. And don't be silly, you did make me feel better. It's reassuring that we have so much in common, truly it is. Please, don't cry. We both can't be messes, now can we?"

I reached over to hand Alfred a tissue, backing away slightly as he looked uncomfortable with getting so close. He accepted the tissue gratefully, blowing the tip of his nose, which was now quite red.

"I can't promise you that I won't think like this, but what I can guarantee is that I'll try not to. Like I've told you before, it'll take time to re-wire years of negativity. Now come on, smile for me," I felt my heart skip a beat. Where was this coming from?

"You cheered me up, now it's my turn. Where's that dopey, grinning smile, you yank? The smile that can brighten just about anything? How about this, I'll go get us some hot chocolate from the staff room, and when I come back, we can do our work together? You know I won't talk, so you don't have to worry about me messing up your writing mojo."

Alfred looked up at me, incredulous before a wisp of a grin began to creep onto his face. "That sounds awesome! I would love that. Thanks man, you're the best!"

"I should be thanking you," I corrected. It was almost adorable how excited he was. Who knows how long it's been since he's been able to share a moment like this. To me it was just a warm drink, but to Alfred, it was a chance to enjoy himself with someone who accepted his quirks, someone he felt he could be himself with.

We were both overcompensating, trying to make the other feel better…

We both knew what it felt like to be unhappy with ourselves.

Just as I was about to leave, Alfred surprised me once again in a brief, but still ever meaningful display of braveness. It was a simple gesture, but to him, it meant so much more than that.

"Arthur, I never got to introduce myself properly. I-I think I would like to do that now," he flushed, cheeks pink.

"What?"

Alfred held out his hand. "Don't make this awkward, dude. I want to shake hands with you."

"Oh…" My stomach flopped. "Yes, yes, of course. Are you… are you sure you want to though?"

"Yeah man. I trust you completely."

"Very well. Nice to meet you, Alfred Jones," I reached out for Alfred's hand, slowly, waiting for him to grab my hand first.

In reciprocation, Alfred reached over the table, shaking slightly. With a determined huff, he clasped his tanned hand around mine, swallowing it. His hands were that of a bear's, or, at least pretty close to it.

"The pleasure's all mine, Kirkland," Alfred grinned, revealing a heart-warming smile that showed off all his teeth. I had to look away in fear of getting both blinded and embarrassed. He had a way of looking at someone that just made them feel so special. What did I ever do to deserve such a beautiful expression from him?

Alfred gave my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go, breathing out with a shudder. "Wasn't so bad."

I gave him a blank stare.

"I'm talking about my shyness!"

"I know," I mused. "It's just fun to get you worked up."

"Hey!"

I stood up and turned my back on him, grinning the entire trip down to the staff room on the first floor.

When I came back, Alfred and I sipped our warm beverages in a comfortable silence. He wrote down ideas in his notebook, tongue wagging out as he did, and I picked out a random book to read.

Occasionally, he would look up at me and grin like a total goofball. Still, it was hard not to smile back. When he was in a good mood, it was contagious. He radiated, a glow of comfortability surrounding him, protecting him.

I too would find myself staring at him, only to look away when we established eye contact. It was thrilling, watching the way how he pouted his lips in thought, long lashes feathering his strong cheekbones.

He was beautiful.

I was beginning to fall in love with Alfred Jones. Too bad I absolutely couldn't let that happen.

…

The next day

…

I was attending a Creative Writing lecture, or, what remained of it. Prof. Braginski was going through the syllabus again to explain a specific assignment due at the end of the month. However, he couldn't get through one sentence without being interrupted by loud bangs from either the auditorium's ceiling or the walls.

Prof. Braginski cleared his throat, trying not to look frazzled as he adjusted the white scarf wrapped around his neck. The man was in his mid- fifties, a hulking giant with pale blond hair, indigo-almost-purple eyes, and a strong nose.

"Ahem, as I was saying, you will all have a 20,000 word one-shot due at the end of each month. This month's theme is something that inspires you. Whether it be friends, family or the heavily-used cliché theme of love–"

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Lovino, Gilbert, and Antonio jumped slightly, sitting to my right, as did the rest of the class save for Francis and myself. Unfortunately, the Frog realized that night classes weren't ideal if he wanted to go out with his friends, and ended up changing most of his classes to conveniently fit the same schedule as mine.

Prof. Braginski paused, waiting to see if there would be any other noise disruptions before continuing. The class was silent, unnerved by the persistent bangs echoing across the amphitheatre. Fifteen minutes passed since the lecture had first started, and yet, hardly anything had been discussed.

Francis – who was sitting by my left – and I exchanged wary looks as the professor began to appear more and more distressed. Rumour has it that he was an extreme introvert and didn't like staying at this university for long, despite having received an education here. Something traumatic happened here to him many years ago, and he only taught out of politeness, going against his wishes.

The hairs on the back of my neck pricked, a faint ringing sound bristling at the tips of my ears.

Something wasn't right. My stomach flopped with inexplicable feelings of anxiety, dread, and hurt. They seeped into my entire being, doing everything to make my mood miserable. Immediately, I recognized that this was all a spirit's doing.

Francis must have noticed this too because he kept clenching and unclenching his fists, rubbing his forehead frequently. Channelling these emotions was a common symptom for spiritual communicators. In fact, I could already feel the beginnings of a migraine form in my own head.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Prof. Braginski inhaled deeply, rustling the papers in front of him out of nervous habit. "Perhaps there is the construction going on? Leaky piping?" he proposed, slipping into broken English, his voice in an even thicker Russian accent than before.

"How can it be construction or leaky piping if the whole building is shaking?" Gilbert bent over to whisper to Antonio. "It feels like the entire roof is going to cave. And, I don't know about you, but I didn't see any cranes on my way here. Damn, I bet you anything this building is old enough to collapse on us at any given moment. Eh, at least I won't have exams to worry about," he teased nervously, using jokes to compensate for his own unease.

Antonio's eyes widened, just about breaking into tears. Lovino turned sharply and began to hiss at Gilbert for upsetting Antonio.

Another ten minutes passed before Prof. Braginski ended the class early, instructing us to check our emails tonight, as we would likely be changing lecture locations – again.

None of the students complained, eager to get out of class early. Meanwhile, Francis and I stayed back in solidarity, stiff in our seats.

Gilbert stood up, looping his backpack over his right shoulder. "Man, this is so awesome! Maybe if we're lucky, he'll cancel the whole class altogether. Free credits, am I right?"

Lovino rolled his eyes, taking a large chug from his coffee, needing the caffeine to be able to cope with the idiocy around him. "The amount of optimism in that statement is hopeless. Of course he's not going to cancel the class, you knuckle head."

Gilbert pouted.

Lovino faltered, nudging a frozen Antonio's shoulder like a prying mother. "Up you go, bastard. Class is over, didn't you hear?"

Numbly, Antonio stood on the promise that Gilbert and Lovino would take him to their favourite study room. Secretly, they all knew the campus was haunted, but didn't want to make the idea seem real. And so, the thought of ghosts haunting the classroom went largely unacknowledged.

Antonio, Gilbert, and Lovino began to pile down the aisles, only to turn back when they realized that Francis and I hadn't left our seats.

"Fran, aren't you coming?" Gilbert asked. He didn't bother to ask me. The four of them had no idea where I disappeared to after class, only knowing that I preferred being alone when I studied.

"Non, I'm going to stay here."

"With Arthur?" Antonio cocked his head to the side, incredulous.

"Oui, with Arthur. We, ah, both have a love for investigating things, isn't that right Arthur?" Francis mused, lightly elbowing me in the rib-cage.

It took a lot of willpower not to punch him in the throat. "Yes, that's right," I played along with the lie. "We're going to try and figure out the source of the noise. I'm sure there's a rational explanation for them. Honestly, you people always over-react and come to the most ridiculous conclusions."

Gilbert shrugged, adamant on leaving the classroom. He was still spooked by the wardrobe incident, even if I had ruled it off as something non-paranormally related. "Suit yourselves, weirdos. If you get murdered by Bloody Mary, Toni and I call dibs on your room. It's bigger."

"But of course. If that happens, I'll be expecting you three to plan my funeral and bury me in great fashion," Francis joked, grinning as the two friends and the other who denied being their friend but actually was left the auditorium.

As soon as we heard the front doors shut with a thud, we stood up from our seats and piled down to the podium at the front of the room.

I began to pace back and forth, closing my eyes, hoping to get any hints of the spirit residing here. Once again, I got nothing but the same emotions as before.

"A-ha! Got you!" Francis cackled, grabbing my shoulders out of nowhere.

"WHAT IN THE BLOODY FUCK WAS THAT FOR?!" I roared, jumping in fright. The Frog still hadn't learned his lesson from before, that ass.

Francis laughed and bent over to hold his knees, blond curls swinging. "Desole, I just had to. The look of constipation on your face was priceless," he said, straightening his posture. He then wiped a tear from his eye.

I glared at Francis, considering grabbing the meter stick by the front chalk board. There would soon be two ghosts here if he wasn't careful.

"No one asked you to stay back with me," I growled. "If you're going to be a cocky twat, then you may as well leave. I have a full schedule, one that doesn't involve putting up with your constant bullshit."

Acknowledging that he had pushed me too far, Francis raised both hands in surrender. "All right, all right, jokes aside, let's help this spirit. Although, I thought we were having a bonding moment. We both knew we would stay back without having to tell each other. It's adorable, non? How in tune we are with each other?"

"I'll repeat myself again, Frog. Focus, or stop wasting my time."

Francis's shoulders slumped, bored that he couldn't poke fun at me anymore. "Oui, oui, je sais," he muttered.

"Pardon our intrusion," I spoke up, "but, if there is anyone else here in this auditorium, please speak up. We are spiritual communicators and have no other intentions but to help you cross over to the other side. You don't have to be afraid that we can see you. I assure you, we mean no harm."

"What he said," Francis purred. "I can sense much stress and fear from you. Let us make it all go away."

"What are you, a spiritual prostitute?" I snorted. "You sound like you're trying to seduce it into bed."

"Am not!" Francis gasped.

"Are too!"

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The ceiling shuddered and creaked.

"Hello?" I whispered, a bit frightened from how violent the sound was. "I'm sorry for my friend, truly I am. He's a good guy once you get around his ring of obnoxiousness. I won't argue with you like I do with him, promise."

"You're such a miserable grouch, mon dieu! I'm half convinced you're possessed by a bitter 80 year-old-man," Francis growled, walking up to me, a sneer on his usually languid, dreamy face.

Even though we were the same height, I straightened my shoulders and jabbed an angry index finger at him. "Now you listen here! Just because I'm not letting you waltz right into my life with opened legs, doesn't mean you have to be so immature about it. I told you this from the beginning. I'm an asshole. Stop pointing out the obvious, and let's just get this over with, Christ! Either deal with me or leave! I won't repeat myself again!"

"Ohonhonhon!" Francis cracked up, a pervy expression on his face. "Open legs, huh? What an interesting choice of words."

"It's a saying, you tart. No need to get literal!"

BANG! BANG! BANG!

"Oh look, you made it angry."

"Moi? I did no such thing!"

Francis and I both fell silent when the sound of heavy footsteps pattered against the back of the auditorium. No one was there when we looked over our shoulders, however.

"What in the-?" I spluttered. "I'm starting to think we're dealing with a poltergeist. It's the only explanation. It's likely just messing with us."

I'M SORRY! PLEASE, DON'T LEAVE ME!

A voice, unmatchable to anything I've ever heard before, screamed in my mind. Judging by Francis's equally petrified and intrigued expression he had heard it too.

"Q-quoi? We're not leaving, we're right here?"

"Idiot, this place isn't being haunted by an active ghost," I concluded, all of the pieces fitting together. "It's a memory. Something here must have triggered it into existence again. The bangs will stop eventually, there's nothing more we can do."

"Ah… I see now." Francis hummed in understanding.

When a person died, fragments of memories often spread and attached themselves to objects or places meaningful to them. Someone here must have triggered the memory by thinking or saying something, likely on accident. I'd give it a couple days before the memory faded away again.

The problem was, despite the lingering memory, I had no idea if the actual spirit had passed on or not. Spirits lived in different planes of existence. Most times, they didn't realize they were dead and lived their lives normally, creating sounds that those alive would consider to be a haunting. This occurrence, however, was just a memory replaying itself. It wasn't the spirit themself.

Just as Francis and I prepared to leave, Gilbert, Antonio, and Lovino poked their heads into the classroom. I deadpanned upon realizing they had been standing outside in the hallway this entire time.

How much did they know?

"So…" Gilbert drawled, stumbling into the auditorium again, red eyes wide in apprehension. "What the hell just happened?" he put ever so eloquently.

Francis and I glanced at each other, not wanting to reveal too much. You never knew how someone would react to this kind of news. It was the bad, ostracizing reactions that prevents us communicators from telling people about our abilities.

Antonio ended it all by bluntly blurting out what the other two were thinking. "You guys can speak to ghosts? Ay! That would make a lot of sense. I knew you saw something in that wardrobe, Arturo!"

"I sure did," I muttered to myself, solemn at the thought.

"Honestly, what the fuck is even happening anymore?" Lovino followed Antonio and Gilbert into the auditorium, still hesitant as the bangs quieted, but didn't exactly stop.

"Oui," Francis stepped in, since it was obvious I wasn't going to say anything. "We are known as spiritual communicators, or mediums to put it more simply. There is no reason to worry. There are no spirits in this room."

"Ja, we heard. You said something about a memory. Anyway, I'm freaked the shit out, but also strangely excited?" Gilbert grinned. "Why did you bozos hide this from us? You're like real life ghostbusters!"

"Because normally when you tell someone this, they get weirded out," I countetred.

"Everyone here is strange, I honestly don't give a fuck about who or what you are so long as you're not an asshole. What just happened is enough evidence in itself, so you don't have to worry about us not believing you either," Lovino sighed, looking done with life. Same.

"Like Lovi said, you were already weird to begin with," Antonio smiled obliviously. "Honestly, we would have accepted you two either way. Now I feel even safer knowing that you guys won't let any scary demons possess us. My parents didn't want me coming here because of the rumours of it being haunted! They can sleep sound now!"

Lovino smacked the back of Antonio's head. "Idiota! What did I say about being rude to people in person?"

Antonio whined.

Meanwhile, Gilbert was still ogling at us 'mediums' like a child. "Hey, Fran? Do you think you could get in touch with my Gramps? He had a bunch of funds in the bank, but no one can access them because there's a shit ton of security locks. Can you? Huh? Huh? Oh gott, please man. I've been wanting to buy a new car for so long now, but that stingy old fart's accounts aren't supposed to open up for another year. I'm dying here!"

Gilbert's poor choice of words completely triumphed over mine.

"Imbeciles," I shook my head, shoving past Antonio to leave the auditorium.

"Where are you going?" Francis reprimanded, pausing his mini morality lecture with Gilbert. "We still have much to explain."

"I don't have to explain shit!" I called over my shoulder. "I've experienced enough stupidity for an entire week. I need time to recover the brain cells I lost."

The clack of Lovino's dress shoes were quick to catch up with me. "Agreed. Oi, let's get some coffee, my treat?" he offered.

"Sure, why the hell not?"

Before Antonio could join us, Lovino rudely shut the auditorium's door in front of the Spaniard's face.

I couldn't help but laugh.

…

Jittery and anxious already, the coffee I had with Lovino offered no aid in calming my nerves.

As always, after class I found myself in the library, sitting at the front desk even though I wasn't on shift. I was flipping through the cameras again, going over last night's footage. The ghost always came to snatch the food when I wasn't around – it was infuriating.

Matthew, still caught in my lie, found it funny how I was trying to find a rational explanation for the food's disappearance.

"Still scanning the footage, huh?" Matthew mused as he entered the library. He shook his head, soft curls falling out of his eyes as he draped a casual arm over the front desk. "You're so predictable, Arthur."

"I can't help it," I responded. "I'm a very routine-orientated person."

"I can tell," Matthew smirked. "So, come up with or find anything?"

"No, nothing at all," I groaned.

"I'm telling you, this library is the most haunted place on campus. For decades, my family has dedicated themselves to taking care of it. Are you really just going to discard everything they've seen with their own two eyes? Or how about me? I've seen things move without anyone touching them."

I rubbed my temple. "It's all either bollocks or hearsay. I'll believe you when I see it myself. Although," I paused, contemplating my next few words carefully. "I checked the records. It really is unbelievable how many students have committed suicide on the rooftop here. I didn't know this school used to double as a boarding school for high school students either. The information was so well-hidden. It's like the Deans went out of their way to hide it."

Matthew's eyes became sad. "You didn't know that? And yes, very true. The high suicide rate was a huge reason why my grandmother starting hosting a homework club here, actually."

I furrowed my brows in confusion. I remembered him mentioning something about losing a relative in a tragedy like this, but I was having a hard time connecting the dots.

"Oh," Matthew smiled sheepishly. "That relative of mine, they went to the boarding school, but that's completely unrelated. Basically, the club was founded to prevent more suicides; there hasn't been one here since, so I think it's safe to say that it's been really successful in its objective. The homework club offers a safe place for struggling students to come together and make friends. We help each other out and just talk, you know? You're always welcome to join too if you want. I'm sure you've seen the posters. We meet on Fridays here on the first floor."

"That's a wonderful idea," I admitted. "No one wonder it's done so well. But, I'm afraid this is the first I'm hearing from it."

Matthew looked disappointed; he had a talent for living under the radar. "Well, it does have its drawbacks," Matthew sighed. "Recently, I've been tutoring this German guy. His writing is decent, but he still refuses to accept that he can't use the word awesome every two sentences."

"I know someone very similar," I bitterly remarked. "Writers who can't accept criticism just aren't cut out for the field I suppose."

"Eh, I'll get through to him eventually. He's actually a pretty good guy once you brush past his ego."

"Best of luck to you then," I smiled faintly, standing up from my seat.

"Going to the rooftop… again?" Matthew asked, somewhat pensive.

"Yes," I flushed at the reminder. Alfred was my friend, nothing else. I could still enjoy spending time with him.

"There's a wonderful pair of benches and the scenery helps my muse. I always come up with the best writing ideas there. Besides, I'm not the only one who thinks that way. I have a friend I usually sit and chat with," I rambled, overcompensating with my explanation because of the strange look Matthew was giving me.

"That's good, I guess," Matthew shrugged. "It's just a bit odd, considering…"

'Yes, yes, I know," I filled in for him. "It has a depressing history and what not. Still, that shouldn't stop other people from enjoying it."

Matthew smiled. "You're right. Sorry if I seemed judgemental there. I didn't intend to be."

I laughed. "I've experienced far more judgemental things in my life, lad. No worries."

I left the front desk. "See you later," I said, waving over my shoulder with my knapsack haphazardly draped over my left shoulder.

"Take care," Matthew replied back.

When Arthur was out of sight, Matthew pursed his lips, watching the stiff posture of the Brit with narrowed eyes.

"He's definitely hiding something from me," the Canadian whispered to himself. "…I just hope he's okay."

To be continued...