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foolishlovers · 5 months

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MUTUAL PINING FIC RECS: Below you'll find a list of Good Omens fics in which Aziraphale and Crowley are pining for each other.

You can request more fic recs here.

you play with my feelings (right from the start) by PenroseSun (G, 3k)

There were three things of which Crowley was absolutely certain: 1. Aziraphale, being an angel, was required to be kind and loving towards all things, even when those things were flawed or sinful or fallen. 2. Notwithstanding that obligatory kindness, Aziraphale would never, and could never truly love a demon, in any meaningful sense. 3. Despite this, Crowley was desperately, hopelessly, in love with him.

For To Quench My Thirst by apliddell (G, 6k)

After moving to Sussex with Aziraphale, Crowley is trying so hard to be satisfied with friendship and the suddenly beautiful life he already has.

Slow by write_away (T, 9k)

It started like this: A boy with the ability to warp reality met an angel and a demon and he made assumptions. You might say it started like this: An angel and a demon found a marriage contract hung on the wall of the angel's bookshop. They didn't question it. It also could have started like this: Once upon a time, the angel told the demon he went too fast. The demon took it to heart. Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves somehow married. Crowley fears going too fast. Aziraphale forges ahead. Neither know how to ask questions of each other.

got a pretty face, pretty boyfriend too by KissMyAsthma, leukozyna (T, 9k)

Aziraphale and Crowley are next-door neighbours. They’ve been attracted to each other since they met. The only thing keeping them apart is a thin wall between their bedrooms and Atticus and Freddie, Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s respective life partners… or are they? A human AU glued together by misunderstandings and wet food.

speed limits (and how to break them) by darcylindbergh (E, 13k)

There is a trick people do with a mint candy and a bottle of cola which results in a small eruption, and something very like it, for much higher stakes than a laugh in a car park, is about to take place in Aziraphale’s back room. Or: what happens when you finally unscrew the cap on a six thousand years of repression, and drop in Valentine’s Day.

Something We Were Withholding Made Us Weak by triedunture (M, 17k)

"Yes, exactly. Retire." Aziraphale reaches for the last remaining tartlet brimming with summer berries. "Somewhere along the south coast, perhaps." Or: Crowley and Aziraphale learn to move in tandem.

32 Questions That Lead To Love by ffonippop (E, 32k)

”First formulated in 1997, [32] questions to fall in love is a study by psychologist Dr. Arthur Aron which took place at Stony Brook University, New York. The aim? Speeding up the creation of intimacy between two strangers.” The Cosmopolitan Okay, fine. Crowley was 32-Questions-That-Lead-To-Love-ing Aziraphale. Sue him. He had no expectations, all right? Just, an innocent curiosity.

Flowers From The Grave Of Our Friendship by WaitingToBeBroken (E, 50k)

Crowley is very good at temptation, not so good with what comes afterwards. Aziraphale knows demons don't love so he is happy to take anything Crowley would give him. Both of them are too blind to realize the thing they want is right in front of them.

Fledging by FeralTuxedo (M, 53k)

Cool Dad was at the school gate again. Clambering out of his ridiculous sports car like a great big spider, all black denim and designer sunglasses. What a prat. He made his way towards the entrance, followed by his equally lanky son. All the mums' eyes were on him. Which was fine. At least they weren't staring at Aziraphale for a change. Cool Dad high-fived his son goodbye, because of course he did, then sauntered back to his car. Making it look so bloody easy. Aziraphale Fell is much too young to be looking after eleven-year old Pepper. He barely has his life together as it is, with his minimum-wage job and a half-baked dream of trading rare books for a living. And as if adopting a recently bereaved pre-teen isn’t enough, there are some rather more adult problems to navigate: playground politics, the shadows of his own childhood, and the growing question of how Crowley, the only other dad at the school gate, feels about him. A human AU/kid fic.

Style and Substance by Cabernet_Woebegone (E, 89k)

“But y’know, if my boss finds out I’m helping you even a little, they’re gonna throw me out on my ass.” “Yes, I understand it is a bit of a conflict of interest for you… Is there something I can offer you in return? Something you would like?” Aziraphale questioned hopefully. You, Crowley thought loudly as he took a second sip. I want to know if you moan when you kiss the same way you do when you try something delicious. I want to know if your lips taste like Zinfandel. “Yes, actually.” Aziraphale is having difficulty running his restaurant, and it isn't helping that he believes the place across the street is trying to sabotage him. To his surprise, chef Crowley comes to him on friendly terms. Together they come up with an arrangement that could benefit them both.

On Espionage and Prophecy (or How to Accidentally, but Wholly, Fall in Love With a Soho Bookseller) by RockSaltAndRoll (E, 133k)

1941 is the London Blitz and the year that MI5 really comes into its own with the now infamous ‘double cross’ system. The service keep tabs on suspects, root out enemy agents and try to turn them into doubles. Anthony J Crowley is fucking great at this job. He can be sneaky, underhanded and damn ruthless but also charming and kind. It’s what makes him good at turning. Aziraphale is just a regular Soho bookseller who loves his shop and books and good food and wine when he’s approached by a woman claiming to be MI5, wanting to recruit him for espionage. The poor man is too trusting and gets the shock of his life when he’s approached by a charming but dangerous-looking man also claiming to be MI5. Crowley recruits Aziraphale to double cross a double crosser and Aziraphale takes to espionage like a duck to water. Danger, hijinks, and sex ensue.

Old Vines by sevdrag (E, 189k)

A.Z. Fell, one of the most respected names in wine and food blogging, has been sent on assignment with his assistant Warlock Dowling to spend six months in California Wine Country. Under direction (by his boss, Gabriel) to use this experience to double his blog followers and write a novel, Aziraphale is both excited and anxious about the opportunity. Anthony J. Crowley is the owner and viticulturalist of Ecdyses, a winery that unexpectedly fell into his lap eleven years ago when he hit rock bottom. He may be in debt, yeah, but he’s paying off his loans — and despite pressure from his lenders and their team of inspectors, Crowley has found a kind of contentment tending his little corner of terroir and producing extraordinary wine. Crowley’s old vines are the heart of his vineyard, and he’s never let anyone in. Crowley finds Aziraphale intriguing; Aziraphale finds Crowley enthralling. Turns out a famous wine expert and an experienced viticulturalist can still learn things from each other. The summer of 2019 unfolds.

#support is so appreciated <3 #just hoping someone might find a new favourite!!#i think i may have material for another 2-3 mutual pining posts ngl it's one of my favourite tropes #also i know i know i've recommended old vines a thousand times but it really is THAT fic for me. do yourself a favour and read it pls!!#good omens #good omens fic rec #go fic recs #good omens fanfic #good omens fic #aziracrow fanfic #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #good omens human au #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #foolish recs #go fic masterpost

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smokewars · 10 months

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im just saying i think its interesting that despite how ultimately bleak, selfish and cruel the city and its residents are - its still extremely common for people (mainly fixers) to work together. and yeah i know its because there's strength in numbers, but at the same time a lot of those people get attached to others in the offices or syndicates they work in. they celebrate together, go drinking together and some of them even fall in love with each other. despite everything, there's still love and companionship to be found in that hellish world

#library of ruina #< this is mainly abt that (ha) so #limbus company #projmoon #my absolute favourite trope has always been revenge. and projmoon LOVES to deliver on that one #but another one of my fave parts is seeing the moments of love and growth too. its 100% integral to the series #how bleak the world is and yet how theres love in it anyway. community and compassion conquers all etc etc #meta #text #this post is worded terribly but its whatever u get the point

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escapebygawking · 1 year

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Thanzag is my comfort couple.

They start off, Thanatos being hurt and angry, Zagreus being clueless and not even realizing, huh, what, why is Than so grumpy...? Why is he not fighting me like Meghera?

And then slowly it gets all pine-y and they tiptoe around each other trying to get into the friendship zone, at least its better than being at odds..!

And then they both realize they want more that returning to how it was before.

And then they do..!

Its like, no matter how hurt or conflicted you are right now. It can get better. If both sides put effort. If you are willing to be friends, some nice things might follow.

Best wholesome romance ever.

#thanzag #thanatos #zagreus #hades game #best romance ever #friends to lovers is my favourite trope #mature conflict resolution is another #some petty wallowing is allowed #we all humans #even tho some of us are gods #yeah i am rambling

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dr-george-ordell · 6 months

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FOUNDER - O5-1 - AARON SIEGEL

@kimandpasta

Cain, José Saramago/Song of the Insensible, Andrew Kozma.

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leahnardo-da-veggie · 1 month

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The wanderer: Pt 1

I loved my ball. It had been with me for a dozen years, since I was but a child. To the untrained eye, it was a generic squishy ball, the sort you might find in a child's playset. But if you asked me, I could think of a dozen fond memories with it, playing with friends at parties, bouncing it while I was bored, squeezing it in my hand as I cried. It was, for all of its lack of anthropomorphism, a friend. Sure, seventeen year olds were a bit too old to play with toys, but I had always had a childish streak.

That was why, when it rolled into a drain, I jumped after it without a second thought. The drain was narrow, too short for me to stand fully, so I knelt to get in. My shoulders and hips were twisted to the side awkwardly, one leg trailing behind the other like I was lunging, but I kept shuffling forward.

It was dark, too. Light filtered through the fixed grilles, creating a patchwork of bright and dark that guided me. As I went on, my front knee aching from the strain, rough stone rubbing against my sides, I began worrying.

Had I missed the ball? It seemed like I had been walking on forever. It occurred to me that I wasn't quite sure how to back out again. I couldn't turn around, and moving backwards would be a laborious process. The pain in my legs grew, and so did my panic.

The stone seemed to entomb me, rubbing against my back and chest, keeping me from breathing deeply. What if I was trapped here, forever? Would anyone hear me when I screamed? Still I kept moving. Stupid, blind loyalty to my ball would not allow me to back out.

I wanted to crack my neck, but there just wasn't enough space. The hand that I used to support myself began burning, the skin rubbed raw. I was coated in a layer of dirty water and dust, my clothes clinging to me. Still I kept moving. It was too late to back out, now.

The lights became further and further apart, grilles turning to thick concrete slabs. Was the passageway narrowing? I felt squashed, compressed into a cube. Everything burned. Still I kept moving.

My breath came in shuddering gasps. It was so dark. Where was the light? I wanted to collapse, my thighs trembling with the agony of constant weight. But if I fell now, I would not get back up.

So I kept moving.

And eventually I reached an exit, where the drain led to an opening. Light, proper sunlight, shone in an uninterrupted ray. And where it fell sat my ball, haloed like an angel. I pushed myself forward and grabbed it, just as my legs gave in. Collapsing, I clutched my ball to my chest and rested.

After an indecipherable amount of time, I got up. My back ached, but the worst was over. Figuring that I could just follow the drain back home, instead of taking the gruelling underground route, I stepped out into the light.

I had no idea where I was, save that it was filthy. A layer of grime and rust coated every surface, and the light highlighted smog in the air. Suddenly the drain seemed to be a fine way back home.

Was it a scrapyard? There were machine parts scattered in heaps, serrated metal jutting out in piles. But there was flesh, too. Rotten, stinking corpses of things that were not human, their skeletons smashed to unrecognisable bits, blood like a dried up fountain staining the ground red-brown.

Was it a garbage heap? Perhaps a butchery was nearby, and these were the remains of their products. But the corpses were too whole for that, and they had been mauled rather than butchered. There was too much violence in the air, too much blood and fury.

So was I somewhere else entirely? I turned back to look at the fateful passageway. Here, in this strange place, it was a concrete tunnel, with walls and a ceiling thick enough to bear my weight. I stepped atop it, and began following it like a trail.

The desolation stretched as far as the eye could see, machine and monster intermingled endlessly. The sky was cloudless, the sun beating down on me relentlessly. The mud that was smeared all over me began to dry, leaving me caked in dirt. I fit right in, an explorer in a post-apocalyptic world.

Everything was red, from the viscera to the corrosion to the soil. Even the sun itself was a massive crimson globe hanging in a fiery sky. Only my little pathway home, my fateful drain, was a grey testament to a different colour.

My old taped-up sneakers were a blessing in that endless slog, the socks mercifully dry, even as my feet grumbled, a steady pain that was dwarfed by the anguish of the drain. I squeezed my precious ball repeatedly, as if to remind myself that it was still there, and kept a brisk pace.

It seemed that I was the only person for miles around. Nothing stirred in the red-brown meadow, not even buzzing flies laying eggs in putrefied flesh. Nothing breathed in the flesh-rotted air, not even carrion-vultures feasting on the dead. Nothing lived in the hellscape that I wandered, not even the crawling maggots that should have lurked in the rotten meat. I hummed to distract myself from the uneasiness of being all alone.

As if the sound awakened something, I heard a shrieking cry. It came from above, a haunting, sorrowful noise. 'Run,’ it seemed to say. 'This place is not for you. Whilst your heart still beats, you must leave.’

I heeded it, my pace quickening. The scream came again, closer this time. I looked up to see a great serpent in the sky. Blood gushed from a dozen wounds, and it released a third cry of agony. Even so, it twisted in the air magnificently, looping in the sky with peerless grace, silver scales glittering in the sun.

I stopped to stare, awestruck. Some things in this world can only be experienced, and the sight of that dragon was one of them. No words could describe the regality, the raw determination, the sheer terrifying power of it.

I was watching a god fall, and I knew it. My heart wenched as it released a final ululation, a serenade to the dying world, and hung in the air for an infinite moment.

Then it collapsed, dropping like a stone into the mass graveyard that surrounded me. When it landed, a thump resounded through the world, like the land itself had broken upon impact. The dead dragon was lost amidst the gore and gears, and I wept for it.

I wept for that dragon and the untold horrors of the world I wandered through. I wept for fear that I would never get home, for the pains in my body and the grime all over me. I wept and wept and wept, clutching my ball like a security blanket and walking all the while.

Finally, I let out a scream. It was a hoarse, thin thing, a poor mimicry of the full howl the serpent had produced, but it was all I could make.

When the cascade of tears subsided, I found myself standing at the end of the path. I was not home, not yet. But I had found something else, something that belonged to my world.

A train station.

#my writing #writeblr #writing #creative writing #short story #fantasy #descriptive writing #Believe it or not this is the stuff I used to give as essays to my poor English teacher #The topic would be something like 'your favourite place' and I'd write 2 pages on an abandoned Italian ghost town #And she'd tell me off for writing weird shit and then give me an a #The funniest one was when I wrote about the toilet and she gave me the highest score in class #And I was the class laughingstock for a week because I wrote about the toilet in an essay #Falling into another universe #Gotta be my favourite trope

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kanafinwe-makalaure · 2 years

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Five Times Ulmo Refuses to Let the Sea take Maglor and One Time He Doesn't

Summary: Maglor wanders because he wants to, but also because the sea won't take him no matter how hard he tries.

Content warnings: depictions of depression, suicidal thoughts and several suicide attempts (all, however, failed, and there is a happy ending).

Almost thirty years pass until Maglor hears about Celebrimbor; by that time, his nephew's cruel death at the hands of Sauron is already old news to most. He weeps and weeps for no-one to hear, and then he places his harp on the sand, carefully, reverentially; it is the only part of himself he has been taking good care of. His hair is matted and his skin is sunburnt and covered in little cuts to join the old, fading scars of battles, and his clothes are torn, and the bandages around his hands are grey and filthy.

Then, he walks towards the sea. Waves start licking at his feet, gently at first, until he does not stop pushing forward until they begin to pull at him. He walks on and on, and finally, a current gets a hold of his shin and begins to pull him under. He tries to inhale the water into his lungs.

Even in the deepest pits of his despair, Maglor has always wandered and lamented. The sea has been his trusty companion. He was never going to let it claim him, and it never tried, for it was never his enemy. But now, Celebrimbor is dead.

Maglor has always been water where his father and brothers were fire. That is why he alone lived; but like the sea, he is condemned to eternal loneliness this way. Not even Ulmo has a spouse or siblings among his own kind, because the sea is lonely, and Maglor longs only to be part of it; but the water will not enter his lungs. Perhaps even the sea is too blessed and holy to touch him.

It spits him back out, casts him onto the sand, trembling and spluttering. He remains on his knees for a while and weeps on, sobs shaking his entire body. Then, he sits down in front of his harp and starts playing. The cold makes the pain in his hands even worse than usual, but he barely feels it at all. He just keeps playing and playing because that is what he has always done, until he doesn't feel a thing any more.

(Oh Tyelpë, little Tyelpë.)

After that, for half an age, he remains as he was, a phantom on the shores, cursed and damned many times over, the last of his kind. He has nothing left but his harp and his voice, but those things have always been his own. His family has left him, forsaken him, and the last keepsake of his father's - the thing that caused them all this misery - is long buried beneath the waves. He hated it, in the end, and after he cast it away, he sank down on his knees and begged the Valar, listening or not, to keep all three as far away from him as possible. Perhaps that is why the sea would not take him that one time; perhaps he would have gotten too close, and for fear of that, he wanders north and never returns to that beach. It is cold there, and his hands always hurt, but perhaps he is farther away from the Silmaril now.

When he hears that Sauron was defeated, at the end of the Second Age, he rejoices. It is only much later that he hears how Gil-Galad fell - a hero's death, he hears a Man in an inn say with pride, as if it was a good thing.

In that moment, Maglor feels nothing at all.

The boy was supposed to be safe with Fingon.

He was supposed to be safe, far away from the Fëanorian curse of fire, but he fell to it, anyway, was slain by the fiery touch of Sauron's hands. (Maglor can only hope it was quick.)

For the first time, Maglor wishes he had not been so ashamed all this time, wishes he had gone to him, or at least to Elrond, but now it is too late, and this time, he walks as if he was already dead and only his legs were not. The harp, freshly oiled and stringed, falls out of his limp arms and drops down onto the sand with a dull thud. He walks into the water, and again it won't take him.

He tries again, over and over again, but it always washes him back ashore. He tries over and over again and does not give up until he collapses from exhaustion.

Maglor wakes in a bed. Elrond is there, and Elrond will not let him go. Maglor has lost too many brothers and children, oh, especially the children, but Elrond is still there, and something inside him unclenches.

It takes a while until he speaks, and even though the harp is sitting on his bedside table, he never sings, not for centuries, not until one day, Elrond places two tiny, hot bundles into his arms, eyes moist with pride. Maglor, at first, recoils. He cannot be trusted with something so precious.

But then, he looks into their little faces and vows to himself that as terrible a son, a husband, a brother, a father he was, he will be a good grandfather. The best he can be. Therefore, he opens his mouth and sings them a gentle lullaby. They do not fall asleep, only look up at him in wonder with their large, grey eyes, and Elrond smiles.

Maglor was a shadow of his former self even when Elrond met him, and now, he is a shadow of that shadow, but the children, Elrond's twins and later little Arwen, bring out a side of him he believed long lost. He is still that same broken man he has become, but whenever the children are around him, a small, tiny part of him is that young, carefree elf playing with his little brothers and cousins in Tirion.

Throughout the Third Age, Maglor is alright. Everything still hurts, and his fëa is still wounded and cracked and broken in places, but he is alright, most of the time. He is with family, and he is not alone, and this, he thinks, is the closest thing to home he will ever have again. He takes it, gladly and with open arms. Joy does not come naturally to him anymore, but he eagerly picks up every little crumb of it he can get, even when it becomes exhausting.

Still, he cannot bring himself to step on the ship with Elrond and Galadriel. He tells himself he wants to stay for a bit with the children, and Elrond gives him a sad smile, as if he takes what Maglor insists is a temporary goodbye for a farewell.

Maglor tells himself it is alright, but when he watches the ship leave the Havens, grief suddenly begins to shake him, and, numb again, he makes another half-hearted attempt. Perhaps the sea will claim him now, he thinks to himself.

He barely takes three steps into it before a large wave comes and throws him backwards, and he lies there, sprawled out, his feet in the water, his torso and arms dry, and stares blankly up into the sky all night. The next morning he gets up and rides back to Rivendell as fast as he can, his boots still damp when he arrives, takes his supper with the twins and pretends nothing happened.

Elladan and Elrohir take the last ship, and Arwen finds eternal rest in Lothlórien. Both times, Maglor tries again, and both times the waves wash him back ashore, coughing and spluttering, and both times he lies there curled into himself, soaking wet and freezing, but not even the cold will take him.

He knows he won't see home again. Not Valinor, not his family. They all are either there or wherever the Edain go after they pass, and he will never go to either place. Where he will be sent - what eternal darkness means, he does not know, but he wishes he could find out only for the slim chance that he might find his brothers, and for the certainty.

He walks and walks. He slowly stops wearing his boots again, then gradually stops mending the tears in his tunic again, changing his bandages, combing his hair. He no longer sings, and the harp is still at Rivendell. One time, he went back, and saw that Elrond's house was overgrown with flowers, and wept at the beauty of it, then returned to the shores still empty handed.

The last time he walks into the sea, nothing prompts it, no special, tragic event; he does it on a whim. Not even because the pain has finally grown too strong, but because he wants to see what happens, or so he tells himself. He tells himself he has nothing left to think or feel, to sing or say, no more steps to walk on this earth.

It makes no sense, in a way; he is a storyteller, and that ending of his story was perfectly tragic and perfectly indefinite, walking and lamenting on the shores to infinity. He should treasure that tragedy, embrace it, live it, but all he wants is for it to finally come to an end.

He opens his mouth to pray for the first time in thousands of years, to ask Ulmo to finally take him. Instead he begs, begs him to finally let him end it, to let him have his last choice.

Then, he feels the water pull not only at his leg, but his entire body, and it pulls him down. He closes his eyes, and inhales, and he is so, so cold, and the very last thought on his mind is that he should have gone home when he had the chance.

Then, he coughs, coughs until his insides hurt. His fingers dig into sand, and the sun burns down on his raw, freckled skin. He notices that the sand is just a little bit whiter than the sand on the shores of Lindon, and it glitters in the sun like snow, except it is warm, so warm, and his hands no longer hurt. He takes off his grey old bandages with trembling fingers, and there are fresh, pink scars where his skin had been raw and open for over two ages.

Warmth spreads in his chest, and as he staggers to his feet, not far from the white, pearl-bedazzled houses of Alqualondë, he also sees Tirion glisten in the distance, golden and homely, and he knows that all along, the sea has been his friend.

#maglor #silm #fourth age #fourth age maglor #angst #angst with happy ending #my writing #i was really unsure whether to post this but here it is #also yes i know this contradicts my actual headcanon of what happened AGAIN in a different way but i haven't posted that one anyway #only yet another fic of what in my mind DOESN'T happen #so its fine #its fun to explore how this train wreck of an elf would do if left to his own devices #spoilers not well #my favourite trope is maglor being forcibly reunited with his family and realising that it's more fun to be happy #also gil galad son of maglor #as implied here #hehe #silmarillion

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p5informantau · 2 years

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He's always falling asleep after a meeting

#niijima makoto #amamiya ren #shumako #kurusu akira #informant au #informantau #this is my another unfinished comic idea #aye #it's pretty short so I'm hoping to finish it one day #finger cross on that #shumako and sleeping #I have other favourite tropes that are not angst!#asdfghjjkl

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sysig · 11 months

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New shapeshifter lad, Dahlia (Patreon)

#Doodles #Original #Ft. Willie because surprise! Dahlia's a Squirrel shapeshifter and Will's inspiration was a squirrel originally :)#For the record tho Will and his entourage are not part of the Shifter universe - Dahlia only shares a world with the BBBs #I just thought it was a fun inspiration source crossover lol #Plus Dahlia and the Squirrel Boys have similar classes but for different reasons haha #Anyway! The Squirrel boy(s) barely feature! To Dahlia! Lol #Been thinking about some of my Favourite Tropes yet again and just indulging in making some new concepts lol #There's a trope that I've liked for a good long while that I'm sure has a name but I've just been calling it ''Platonic Transformation''#Which hey - I've got a shape-shifting (et al) universe to make characters in lol #Doesn't feature Just yet but shock among shocks she comes with another character because I can't just make one new concept ever lol #But for now! She! She's cute I like her hehe #You can see I went through a few design iterations before landing happily - you might even notice it with her arm #She was born that way :) No pain just frustration! Body not doing what she wants it to!#Honestly working on her hairstyle reminded me a lot of making Tala haha ♪ They're about the same age! Give or take a year or two #Now that I think of it Tala could probably be in the BBB universe as well haha ♪♫ Not to stay but she'd be a very cute guest #I was very set on the little floof-swoops for Dahlia's final design - it's even there in her first doodle!#I'm glad I settled on the bun/braid combo :D #Cute feature lad ♪ Tooth gap and likes peanut butter sandwiches and likes to climb and jump around but isn't as graceful in human form hehe

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gyuswhore · 5 months

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There are so many tropes that i hate but i can't remember most of them at the moment. I hate when the mc is a pushover like when they let the obvious bad people do things to them just cus they love that person 🙄

I am seriously done with the one bed trope. It's too overused and i will skip the fic if it's all that there is.

When they don't let the other person explain the situation. Like take a breath and let them talk for a sec. That alone would make the whole situation better. This always makes me wanna give them a good old smack.

When its enemies to lovers but it's so obvious that they like each other. That's not how it works. When it's etl i want them to hate each other for real, not secretly in love with each other.

When they add random korean words in the fic. Like the endearment terms and all. That's kinda cringy not gonna lie.

When they make the girlfriend of the male lead a meanie even if she didn't do anything bad at all. Like why is the man falling in love with the mc when he's already in a relationship with someone nice. That's basically cheating and it shouldn't be glorified. This happens a lot with the bestfriend to lovers trope. It's such a turn off for me. Like stop villainizing the gf.

Dude i feel so bad for saying all these. I hope no one gets upset over this. You can write whatever you want ❤️

tell me about tropes you dislike (or like!!), or send an ask about it!

I got so excited when I saw how long this was kjfnsnk

about the mc being a pushover I can definitely see that being annoying, ive read a couple fics (mostly in my 1D wattpad days rip) that had mcs like that and it made me wanna punch their face or stop reading altogether. In books too, ive seen it becoming a more popular trend to make one of the main characters rude asf but then expecting the readers to forgive them bc of what they are to the protagonist, ive dropped so many books bc of this exact reason.

WTF I LOVE THE ONE BED TROPE 😭😭😭😭 its overused and borderline cringe but its just so good I love the cliche

OH MY GOD I HATE MISCOMMUNICATION SO MUCH and this is in every aspect in books, in fics, in real life all of the above. the thing that irks me most is when the miscommunication is drawn out for a longer period, if its a shorter fic I can read it but the second I realise this is a major plot point in a larger story im out. it grinds my gears so bad fr. side note, but that thing they do in sitcoms where the miscommunication starts with the person NOT interjecting with the explanation is the absolute worst.

Honestly, I feel like it becomes really hard to shield when you pretend to hate someone even when you like them so it turns into not-really-enemies anyway, so yeah that becomes more like rivals (?) to lovers.

OH THE RANDOM KOREAN WORDS DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED im super grateful it isn't that big of an epidemic on caratblr but ive seen some shit in other fandoms its actually horrible.

The last one is only acceptable when the dude figures his shit out before it becomes actual emotional cheating. also about the gf thing, it totally depends on what she does as a character but it gets annoying when the entire plot of the story is just the gf as the villain.

#side not: just because we dislike certain tropes does not mean they shouldn't be written or they're bad #ive seen people write some of my favourite fics with some of my most hated tropes. sometimes its about how you write it #this is friendly discourse pls don't be upset about minor disagreements!!!!!#on another note this was rlly fun hehe #em.talks #em.anon

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chradi · 11 months

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Playing Jester during season 2 of CloverCraft did more for me than like 8 months of therapy

#I dont think ill ever be able to make another character quite like Jester #not only did it let me reflect on myself and issues I had been having for a while #but I also managed to put so many of my favourite tropes in this fucking thang #SORRY. im literally never gonna get over jester #and im sooooooooo thankful for the other cc players for enabling me so much like god damn #anyways. I have an essay about jester in my head #jen rambles #clovercraft #legally #if someone ever feels the need to know me more. ill point them to the 30 odd episodes of clovercraft #which i have yet to uplaod to youtube haha woopsie

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godlizzza · 2 years

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Prompt: Herbert impresses Dan with his sick German skills that he picked up in Switzerland

"His ID says his name is Abe Schiller but he only speaks a few words of English," Rachel said as she handed Dan the patient's charts. "Every time we try to ask him what's wrong he just gestures towards his abdomen. His x-rays came back good though."

"Really?" Dan asked, frowning over the notes. "Not his appendix?"

"He's got an old scar," Rachel replied. "Probably got it taken out as a kid."

Dan hummed and mused over the possibilities, his brain flicking through any number of answers and sorting them into the 'no' and 'maybe' piles. "Well, let's just keep treating his pain until we can get a translator on the phone."

"Yes, doctor."

Rachel walked off and Dan turned towards Mr. Schiller's bay. He approached the closed curtain, putting on his friendliest smile, when he heard the sound of voices on the other side and stopped. It took his brain a moment to realise the words he was hearing weren't in English. Wondering if another nurse had somehow found a translator without him or Rachel knowing, he pulled back the curtain.

"Ich muss kacken!"

Mr. Schiller cut himself off and whipped around to stare at Dan. His old, wrinkled face was contorted with anguish, his white eyebrows curved into a grimace. At the edge of his bed stood Herbert.

His eyes quickly found Dan's and he said to Mr. Schiller, "Hier ist ihr Arzt."

"Sag ihm ich muss kacken!" Mr. Schiller insisted then fell back on his pillows with a groan.

Herbert just rolled his eyes.

Dan looked back and forth between them, his confusion growing. "What's going on?"

"I heard you trying to talk to this man earlier," Herbert explained, "and getting nowhere, since none of you spoke a lick of German."

"And you do?" Dan exclaimed.

"Obviously," Herbert sniffed, looking somewhat affronted. "How do you think I lived in Switzerland all that time?"

"I don't know, I guess I just assumed Gruber translated for you."

"He might have a little, but I could get by fine on my own," Herbert said. When Mr. Schiller let out another loud groan he added, "Oh, and your patient is constipated."

"What? Are you serious?" Dan tested, looking over his notes again.

"That's what he's been telling me for the last five minutes," Herbert replied, the contempt in his voice telling Dan all he needed to know about his time with Mr. Schiller. "He says he hasn't been able to relieve himself in weeks."

Dan just stared at him. He didn't know why the fact that Herbert could speak German had him reeling. He supposed it was because he thought of Herbert as somewhat open, at least when it came to him. That Herbert could speak another language, seemingly fluidly, seemed like something he should know.

"I didn't know you spoke German," was all he said.

Herbert smiled impishly at this and responded, "Magst du mich deswegen mehr?"

Dan glared at him, irritation and intrigue mingling behind his temples. "You know I can't understand you."

Herbert chuckled to himself as he passed Dan, disappearing around the corner. Dan looked after him for a moment, trying to hang onto whatever it was he'd said, but with no luck. The sounds jumbled in a meaningless blob in his ears and vanished.

Mr. Schiller laughed from his bed and pointed after Herbert. "He plays! He plays!"

Dan huffed in frustration and stormed off himself. He needed to tell Rachel they'd be needing laxatives, not a translator.

#herbert speaking German. another favourite trope #herbert west #dan cain #danbert #re-animator #my fics #asks #writing prompt #herbert says 'does it make you like me more?'

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