#fabrastings

[saviorbuck]

Are you an art major. Im asking for a friend

duh, did you see my bottles? they were killing it 

[nocakesformissedith]

Girl I'm so glad i was not the only one disappointed with that season premiere lmao

maybe that's the themeAmerican Horror Story: Dissapointment

[stillfallingdowntherabbithole]

Do you have a crack pairing that for some reason you just absolutely adore? Like there is no rhyme or reason to it and there is not even a single possibility of the two characters getting together, they're not even in the same show or genre etc. but you just love the idea of them together?

Oh my goodness yes, yup, yeahuh very much so hahah *clears throat* Quinn Fabray and Spencer Hastings. Better known as Fabrastings ❤️I adore them, I love the idea of them and I just have many MANY feelings when it comes to them and yeah they’re my ultimate crack pairing. Not the only crack pairing ever, but certainly the one I have the most love for hahah

[sinbiased]

[allltheinternets]

fabrastings acapella au, just saying

[sinbiased]

[allltheinternets]

I don’t have a title for it yet and this is only a short thing I just came up with (because it’s late and I’m tired) but here’s something from the Fabrastings/Clexa Doctors AU I posted about before:

“So, did you ask her yet?” Spencer asked without looking up from the research paper she was flipping through.

Clarke was practising her figure 8 stitch on an unfortunate banana and honestly had no idea what she was talking about. “Asked who what yet?”

Spencer’s gaze was still stuck on the paper, although Clarke couldn’t imagine it was anything particularly riveting, it was only from a pile of pilot studies from the ‘90s that Doctors conducted with a drug that may have potential viability with the patient they were currently trying to help. But come on, the ‘90s. Still, Spencer didn’t bother looking up as she said, “That hot PEDS doctor from the fourth floor whose ass you can’t help staring at – not subtly I might add – every time she walks past.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…” Clarke knew exactly what she was talking about.

Spencer paused flipping through her paper to look up with a faux air of trying to recall something. “What was her name again?” Spencer asked Quinn, tapping her chin to add effect. She knew exactly what the name was. “Trisha? Lissa?”

“I think it was Laura,” Quinn added, playing Spencer’s game entirely.

“Lexa, her name’s Lexa,” Clarke corrected them.

Spencer still played the innocent game, acting surprised to hear she was wrong. “Oh! Lexa, of course!” She turned back to her paper but didn’t waste long adding, “So have you asked her out yet?”

Clarke dropped her suture tools in frustration. “No I have not!”

“Cough it up Fabray,” Spencer told the blonde sitting next to her, eyes still on the paper and holding her hand out expectantly.

Quinn rolled her eyes and sighed as she pulled a twenty out of her pocket and put it into Spencer’s outreached hand. “Oh well,” Quinn said, moving to whisper into Spencer’s ear. “I’ll get it back from you later in the on-call room in other ways.”

“Urgh,” Clarke groaned in disgust, it had not been a whisper and she suspected that Spencer and Quinn said these things around her purposefully, simply to gross her out. “Get a room already.”

“Like the on-call room?” Spencer suggested with a smirk which was returned from Quinn. Along with a hand running up her thigh in plain sight of Clarke.

“That’s it, I’m done!” Clarke exclaimed, pulling her gloves off and knocking the banana, still with its open wound, into the bin. “You sex crazed maniacs can just go at it in here because apparently you can’t keep your hands off each other long enough to actually do some work in here.” Without waiting for a reply Clarke stormed out the door.

Spencer and Quinn merely high-fived, returning to the respective papers they were reading.

(so what do you think? is it worth continuing? title suggestions? and story suggestions?)

[theonlyfourletterword-blog]

In The Fall of a Sparrow

My stars shine darkly over

me: the malignancy of my fate might perhaps

distemper yours.

(Twelfth Night.)

If there’s one thing that can ruin Spencer Hastings’ day (and there isn’t just one, there’s a lot), it’s spilled coffee.

Coffee has one place and one place only — filling up her (personalized, two hundred dollar, 24 ounce) ceramic thermal travel mug; black, two sugars, too hot for normal humans. She’s thought about an IV occasionally, but usually only during election weeks.

But this isn’t an election week, it’s not even a terribly hectic week — not by her standards, anyway — and it means that when her coffee has the actual nerve to spill all over her new, fresh off the rack cream blouse, it means the entire day is fucked.

Some people are surprised by how dramatic she is about these things. She used to try to rationalize it to the other interns; as it turns out, not everything translates out of Spencer-world — not even to the other hyper ambitious, stingingly intelligent, politically obsessed, perpetually overtaxed and over-caffeinated twenty somethings she shares her office — no, her life — with.

(She’d thought that at least in this environment, she might have some worthy competition in terms of tactical and intellectual foes — it doesn’t matter at all that technically, they’re all on the same team — but as she realized no less than a week in, Spencer-world has, and always will have, a population of one. Prospective immigrants are always turned away with numbingly fake smile that are miles past condescension.)

So even though she’d known from 6:18 that morning that even if it wasn’t catastrophic, nothing was going to be quite right today, it’s still frustrating when everything isn’t—

— quite right.

“Jeffrey,” Spencer says the word as if it physically pains her, and she takes a deep breath (calm yourself, it’s not the end of the world, it’s not the end of the—).

Her eyes close for half a moment because really, none of these idiots are even remotely qualified to be on this campaign staff.

Except her.

“Jeffrey,” she repeats, drawing the internal strength to glance back up at the chubby nerd in front of her fiddling with his glasses. The forced tranquility in her voice is dangerous, and at least he can sense that much. “I asked you for the dossier on our opponent’s public education policy, to review for the debate tomorrow.”

“Yeah? So?”

Spencer sighs. If she gets promoted in two weeks like she thinks she will, she won’t have to deal with these incompetent undergrads anymore — she deserves better challenges, because she can handle them. Unlike Jeffrey.

“So,” she points to the the file he left on her desk. “This is his public advocacy policy.” He’s going to try and shrug it off and tell her it’s close enough, she can tell, so she interrupts —

“From eleven years ago.”

He laughs nervously and wisely, for once, decides to take the file back and correct his mistake without even a half assed attempt at an self-preserving excuse.

Spencer sighs again, but it comes out as a groan in her suffocating frustration.

It was that damn coffee spill, she knows it.

/

She doesn’t get home until almost ten, which is early. The rest of her day had gone better than expected — it helped that most of the other interns left around five, leaving Spencer alone and wired at her desk as usual.

It’s her favorite time of the day.

Without the bullshit of dealing with her co-workers’ inferior work ethics and distracting gossip, lack of focus, and general why-the-hell-are-you-even-here, she has the environment to focus on what she’s really there for;

Exemplifying why she’s the most brilliant political mind to grace the city in decades. There was a reason she was recruited by the campaign manager directly out of her senior year at Yale, and she’s going to prove herself if it kills her.

(If nothing else, she’s a Hastings.)

(And that's why it won't kill her; this is what she's built for.)

The texts she reads from her phone as she collapses down on her couch as soon as she’s back to her apartment remind her of what else might kill her, because they might be twenty four now instead of sixteen but still; Aria’s got boy problems, Emily’s got girl problems, and it’s not exactly clear what Hanna’s crisis of the week is this week, but she’s sure damn upset about it.

She takes a few minutes to respond to each of them, and even debates calling Hanna — listening to her hysteria over shopping is actually soothing sometimes, in a really weird but effective way — but ultimately, a cup of tea, a last few perfunctory emails of the night, and a few pages of Anna Karenina are all she needs before she’s fast, fast asleep.

/

It’s not the first time she’s woken up at half past two in the morning, but it’s one of the only times her stomach and intestines and everything that keeps her functioning has tried to bind her to her bed and force her back to sleep because warning, warning—

(She thought she knew storms in Pennsylvania. In New York, they’re a different story. She has never once been prepared for the way the city shuts down in the ill-timed blink of an eye.)

She drifts half awake, half asleep for a few moments. Something woke her up without warning, but she doesn’t know what it is, and it would probably be in her best interest to just go back to sleep, there’s only a few hours until she has to get to work —

Thud.

Thud.

She bolts upright in bed immediately, every sense electrified. Who the hell is knocking on her door like that right now?

(The police. The fire department. Drug dealers. The mob.

But she didn’t actually kill that intern that had naively, stupidly brought her decaf; she’s pretty sure she’d smell if her apartment was on fire — she takes a panicked sniff just in case; the only thing she takes are the very legal capsules tucked away in the innermost pocket of her bag; and the mob?

She really needs to stop letting Hanna make her to watch all those crime procedurals on Sunday nights.)

Thud.

Later, she’ll scream at herself for not listening to the pulsing, tugging, grating needles inside that were giving her unwanted memories — the first but not last time she’ll have suffered through such a wrenching warning merely disguised as a memory — late night back door red eyes guilt red nose fireflies flickering Iknowyouloveme dead —

/

It’s fate (or just goddamned idiocy, they’re the same in Spencer’s world) that she doesn’t look through the peephole before she opens the door.

When she does;

Her heart remembers that it hasn't truly beaten in six years -- her eyes grow wide, her spine crackles and she implodes--

It can't--

She slams the door shut and bolts every lock she has.