#{ Screw Tape Halo }

[joels6string]

More Than My Father's Son

Joel Miller x f!OC

Chapter 11 - Rebuild What's Broken

Summary: Joel busies himself until the gates of Jackson open in the final week of January.

Rating: E

Word Count: 3.7k

Content: NSFW, high levels of violence normal to the TLOU world, angst, fluff, miscommunication trope (it’s Joel Miller…), slow burn, Joel’s traumatic childhood, getting together, smut, canon divergence after SLC, fix it fic

It wasn’t better this way, being apart, pretending like he didn’t want to cradle you against his chest while you slept and everything else that came with that feeling. He knew that now. But did you?

Chapter 10 || Series Masterlist

When did that clock get so fucking loud?

A halo of orange light circled the leather-bound journal Tommy had gifted Joel for Christmas on the old wooden table Joel called a workbench, pencil scratching against paper as he etched blueprint after blueprint until his hand and eyes ached from the strain. 

Through the winter, he’d turned the spare bedroom upstairs into a workshop, slowly filling in a small set of drawers with whatever bits and pieces of guitar hardware he could find. A music store a few miles away was raided after he and Tommy had cleared it of a few infected, a house up by the chalet was full of nails and screws, and he’d developed a good relationship with a guy up the road, Daryl, who traded him wood prepped for carving and sanding for half the haul of whatever Joel cut down and towed back. On top of patrols, Tommy had also roped him into the Great Jackson Renovation of 2035, which he was currently planning, touring every house and building to assess the repairs needed to keep it in good enough shape to last whatever the elements threw at them. 

“Thirty-six by…hundred and seventy-two…no that can’t be right…” he murmured to himself, the mug of coffee beside his right hand cold as a midnight dusting of snow floated through the air outside his window, “Seventy-two by a hundred-thirty-six.”

When he finally called it a night and slipped beneath the neatly tucked sheets of his bed the clock read 1:26 AM, the monsters of his dreams ready for their nightly feast. It was always the same now; Sarah was always the first to fall, her tiny body he could still remember the weight of in his arms crumpling to the ground, then Ellie who went down swinging, and finally you, with that forgiving smile and touch to his cheek. You always told him it was okay before you faded away, forgiving him in your final breath, and every day he woke with a scream.

“Ellie?” he called the following morning, gently rapping his knuckles on her front door, “Breakfast’s ready.”

“Okay!” she yelled from inside, “Be there in a sec!”

All he knew to do was work. Whether it was cooking new things, fixing the house, carving, building, fighting…anything that could keep his mind busy and unable to wander through the dangerous situations in his head. The restoration project had filled a large section of that void space, Tommy’s plan to keep him occupied working better than he’d like to admit. Maybe it kept some of the guilt he felt at bay. 

The two had been at odds in the days before you left. Joel was furious Tommy had approved it, though Tommy swore he had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t his call. You’d volunteered, and Maria had given the okay despite Tommy’s best attempts at keeping you here. There had never really been a good reason, only selfish ones. 

“Any sign of them yet?” Ellie asked as she sat at the small square table in the kitchen, a plate piled with eggs and toast in front of her.

“Not that I know of,” he replied with a sigh, walking right past the second empty plate set out for him and joining her, “Wanna help me today?”

“I’m on farming.”

“That a no?”

“Can you get me off farming?”

“I’m sure I can put in a good word.”

With Ellie in tow, Joel met up with Tommy at the church, tape measure and ladders out as a remodel was planned. It felt like the old days, Tommy’s ideas too extravagant and Joel’s too practical, the pair meeting in the middle on a design that was feasible, functional, and appealing. Maria had stopped by to see their progress, smiling ear to ear at the rough sketches Tommy had done. 

“What about like, you know space right here. For dancing,” Ellie chimed in, waving her hands around, “And a little stage over there in case anyone wants to play guitar or…or sing something.”

That comment had Joel smiling a little, teaching Ellie how to play had been some of the better moments of the last few weeks. She’d been getting the hang of the strings of the guitar he’d gifted her in the fall, pride swelling in his chest at just the thought. Tommy and Maria agreed with her idea, talking with her about any other thoughts she had while Joel’s mind wandered into a realm of fantasy. Your fingers in his hair, his arm around your waist, he’d never dreamed of dancing before, he’d loathed the very idea of it. But after the sight of your forest eyes gazing up at him as you led him through the movements, the memory plagued him. 

You’d granted him a second chance in a light snowfall when you’d both stepped out for some air as the credits had begun to roll the night before you’d left. Tommy’s Christmas carols of choice were heard even from outside, and though you hadn’t said a word to him since his plea you come back to him, you’d smiled when he’d asked for a hand.

“Still got some of those bad memories to replace…” he’d said, and you hadn’t been able to refuse. 

There had been space between you still, but considerably less than the first time he’d found your hand in his. There were less toes smashed, too—still a few, but not enough that had his face burning in frustration. You’d left after that, patting his chest once with a simple “I’ll see you soon,” a gaping hole ripping open where your hand had been as you faded from view. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to see you off, he knew himself well enough, there was no way he’d have let you go without a fight. 

“Earth to Joel!” Tommy’s voice thundered, “Can we build that?”

“Build what?” Joel replied, the three pairs of eyes locked on him rolling in unison.

Thursday brought the weekly night out at the Bison. Tommy and Maria along with Indy still met like clockwork, Joel begrudgingly agreeing to go just to keep his brother off his ass. He’d only ever gone for you, to get you out and making friends, to acclimate, but after a few months it was for the chance you’d need to slip behind him, your hand grazing over his back, shoulder, or arm. It sent a shiver down his spine every single time, he missed the feeling. A beer gone warm sat in front of him as Tommy lost at darts again, too tipsy to see straight enough, Seth celebrating another easy-won victory against the one man in Jackson who had decent perks to wager. This time, Seth managed to weasel a few extra bottles of scotch for his own personal stash. 

“Miller,” Indy called out, her newly-established girlfriend Sophia on her heels, “What’s it been now? We’re going into week six?”

The two women took the seats in front of him, clearly this corner hadn’t been dark enough to hide him. 

“I don’t know,” he grumbled, gagging down a sip from his glass, “Somethin’ like that.”

“As if you don’t have the days numbered on your calendar.“

It had been seven weeks and three days, four weeks exactly since last contact with Eugene when the group landed in Nevada. The anticipated return home was already a week later than expected. It had been gnawing away at him. Not that he had any expectations for your return, just the thought of you back safely in the gates was enough for him right now. The rest he could grapple with later. 

“I know they’re late,” Indy finally admitted, quieter, more reserved, “And I know you’re as panicked as I am.”

The muscle of his jaw twitched as it tightened, “Yeah.”

“Think they’re okay?”

“How should I know?”

His answer should have been softer, more empathetic, maybe he should have lied, but it fired off with his temper. He didn’t want to talk about this. The moment he let his mind entertain the possibility you were gone would be the end of the waning control he had over himself. Once that broke, the path back to the man sitting at this table wasn’t one he could navigate without a guide. Indy understood, nodding and staying planted in her seat as if she somehow knew he couldn’t be alone, uncaring of the callous words he just spewed at her. He’d have to save the bludgeoning guilt over the fact he didn’t deserve the care he got from the people around him for later. 

As soon as an acceptable departure time hit, he was walking the dark streets alone back home, the old desk lamp on the workshop table flicking on as he opted for sanding the body of his next guitar over doing the sketches and measurements Tommy had asked for. It could wait. He was being too rough, too fast, he knew he’d have to redo all the work he was doing tomorrow, but still, he couldn’t calm his movements, the wood taking the brunt of his frustrations. The table shook beneath his hands, his teeth grit together as the dust began to burn his eyes, the clattering of the frame that rest beside the light causing his hands to drop everything as he moved to right it. 

It was the only photo of you he had, that anyone had. Tommy had taken it from Seth, no doubt for a price. The summer sun had been still filtering in through the bar’s windows, you were seated beside him at one of the small tables near the dart boards, the true focus of the snapshot Tommy and Eugene in a heated game. That wasn’t what he was looking at. It was you listening intently to whatever he was droning on about. He couldn’t even remember what it was he was telling you, it probably wasn’t interesting, but the way you looked at him told otherwise. He wanted to go back, pay more attention to you, he hadn’t caught it at the moment, but instead he was here alone with nothing but the heavy weight of regret on his shoulders.

Despite sleeping alone, he only pulled back the right side of the sheets, as he did every night, grabbing the book on the bedside table to distract him until his eyelids grew too heavy to keep open. Except tonight, he couldn’t even concentrate on the page. Too much of the dam had weakened, at this point he was contemplating sleeping at all. It wouldn’t be worth it. He’d be up in two hours sweating and panting. 

“Joel!!!” He awoke with a jolt. “Joel!! Horses!! At the fucking gates!”

Ellie waited for him at the stoop, his jacket askew on his shoulders and your scarf around his neck as they took off towards the West gate. Tommy was already there, and Maria, Jesse and Seth as well as they awaited the group approaching. Joel’s stomach was tense, butterflies in a whirlwind; would you be happy to see him? Indifferent? He could handle either of those, but not disappointed. The time away likely worked against him, your own demons overtaking what little progress he’d made. It wasn’t better this way, being apart, pretending like he didn’t want to cradle you against his chest while you slept and everything else that came with that feeling. He knew that now. But did you?

In a sea of strange faces, he looked for the familiar. Eugene was there, chapped cheeks and wide eyes, Paulie too, who spotted Joel and quickly turned, and stranger after stranger marveling at the sights before them as he once had. The lights, the nostalgia of normalcy, it was captivating, but he didn’t care about them. 

“Joel,” Tommy called, Eugene pressed behind him, “Joel…”

“Where is she?” Joel asked, everything sinking, the butterflies dropping dead and heavy like shotgun casings, “Where the fuck is she?”

“Come over here.”

A gentle hand on his shoulder was roughly shoved off, ire rising as his face burned in rage.

“Tell me. Right now,” he demanded, “Right here.”

“She’s gone, Joel.”

Gone. 

“Ellie…” he mumbled, “Ellie, go with Maria…”

“What? No!” she argued, but Maria didn’t make him ask twice, wrapping her arm around the girl’s shoulders and pulling her away, “Joel!”

His feet trudged across the pavement, the scraping of the rocks and dirt beneath his boots like nails on a chalkboard as he tried to remember how to breathe. He was underwater, his limbs slow as they dragged against the resistance, his lungs refusing air, the sight of your bow in his brother’s hands like a bullet to the chest.

“Christ…” he gasped, his vision tunneling, a snarl ripping free from his chest as he took off in a feral lunge and gripped the assumed perpetrator by the jacket, “What did you do?! What the hell did you do?!”

Paulie was quivering, his hands grasping Joel’s as he blabbered incoherently, Tommy and Eugene quickly following and failing to pull the irate Joel from his trance. When a fist was raised, Tommy was too slow, Joel’s knuckles connecting with a jaw that buckled beneath the force, the yelp of agony that followed only fuel for another blow. He didn’t even notice the crimson staining his skin when Tommy finally got enough of a lock around him to send him hurtling backward to the ground, his spine and head impacting hard enough to have him groaning as his eyes came back into focus. Eugene and Jesse were helping Paulie, Tommy standing in the middle as if he stood a chance if Joel tried to advance again, his eyes flicking between each of the two men.

“You stay down, Joel!” Tommy was yelling, muffled and far away, the ringing in Joel’s ears making the words only half audible, “Stay the hell down. I mean it.”

“Or what?” Joel threatened, delirious and bloodthirsty, “You were never any match for me, boy.”

“Stay down, Joel. Please. I’m asking.”

Once on his hands and knees, he could see the fear dripping into his little brother’s eyes, his body turning towards Joel as he readied to block the next attack, Eugene still trying to drag Paulie into the nearest building before Joel could recuperate. Your bag was sitting two arm’s lengths away, the bow you’d carried for years discarded on the ground as if his very will to live wasnt tethered to that curved piece of wood. 

Dragging himself to your belongings, Tommy followed with a shuffle, easing only when Joel rose to his knees and clutched your prized weapon to his chest with trembling fingers as he stood. As reality came crashing down, one of his hands covered his mouth as the shock set in, Tommy’s empathetic grip falling to his shoulder without resistance this time. 

“I’m sorry, brother,” Tommy whispered, “I know you—“

“Don’t,” Joel warned; not that fucking word, “I wanna know what happened. All of it.”

“I don’t think that’s—“

“I wasn’t askin’!”

With a reassuring pat to his back, Tommy went to find Eugene, leaving Joel in the darkness he was unsure he could ever wade out of. 

“I can’t do this,” he muttered under his breath, “I can’t do this again. I can’t do it again… Please God, I can’t.”

But he had to. Just like before, he had a reason to keep going. Tommy. Ellie. Maria. Giving up wasn’t an option. He could fight for them. He had to. 

“Joel,” Tommy sounded, “sit down.”

“What?” Joel snapped, finding not only Eugene with Tommy, but Paulie, too, “Why is he here?”

“Sit. Down. Joel. The second you get up, it’s over.”

Now he understood what a caged animal felt like. All this pent up anger, the tensing of every muscle, the empty, hollow feeling in his gut, it was all here. He wanted to pace, relieve some of the pressure, but he did as he was told for Tommy’s sake and no other, his fiery gaze set upon the group towering over him as they surrounded him. 

“She was sick,” Eugene began, “pneumonia. We were five days from destination, I told her to hang on, we were almost to the medicine. I promised I’d get her home. Burning with a fever, coughing, whimpering with aches, it was… One morning I woke up and she was gone, all her things left behind. We checked everywhere. I swear. All day we searched, yelling her name, checking for tracks. They stopped at a river.

“We went back to the house we were in that night, thinking maybe she’d find her way back. By morning, we were…overrun. Horde. We had to leave and we assume that…well, that they got her before we did.”

“Christ…” How was reality worse than the scenarios in his head? “She’s out there.”

“Joel, no,” Tommy reasoned, “Joel…”

“You said all was well! When you checked in on the radio!” His mind couldn’t land on a thought, he was recalling every detail he knew, looking for a reason, a cause, a sign… You had looked pale the last night he’d seen you, your head had been warm, but he’d thought nothing of it. You were sick…

“We didn’t…want you to go out looking…” Eugene admitted, Joel barely able to suppress his anger.

“She’s out there,” he was mumbling to himself again, “She needs…help.”

“Joel.” It was Tommy’s turn to try and talk him down. “Don’t do this. Joel! God damnit!”

He was already halfway out the door by the time he was fully on his feet, he needed a horse, a few weapons, a map… Food he could find, the clothes on his back would do. The stables were thirty feet away, his horse was itching for a long trip, had to be, it had been awhile. 

“Joel! Listen to me. For once in your god damn fuckin’ life. Listen to me!” Tommy was still talking, it was like the buzzing of a gnat. “You know how this ends! That the last way you want to see her!?”

The light would be gone from your eyes, he knew that. If he could find you, and he would. He’d take down everything in his path til he did. He imagined you scared and alone as you waited to turn, too afraid to walk back and get your gun to end it in favor of Eugene and Paulie, and he owed it to you to do what you weren’t able to. It was the one thing you always made him promise, to end it before the turn. And he couldn’t keep it. But he could end it before your face was overtaken, your skin turned into a putrid Petri dish, and your limbs seized and contorted. He could save you before it got worse. 

“You don’t need to do this,” Tommy eased, taking advantage of the pause in Joel’s pursuit as he contemplated the next steps.

“Are you comin’ or no?” Joel finally asked, not turning to face his brother, his voice flat and lifeless. 

“Joel…Don’t do this.”

“Are you comin’ or no?”

“Joel, we got families here—“

“She is your family!”

With those words he whipped around, chest heaving once again, eyes begging for anything to hold on to. Tommy’s hands provided the support he needed to let the levee finally break, his little brother that had been forced to grow up too fast despite Joel’s best attempts at preserving every last bit of innocence providing the net once again that could keep him from falling.

The fur of Tommy’s collar was soft on Joel’s face as his brother pulled him into his arms, Joel accepting the embrace away from prying eyes. It was a reminder that despite his loss, he wasn’t alone. It was a confirmation he desperately needed that terrified him all the same. 

“You have been there for everything,” Joel finally began as he pulled away, letting vulnerability slip through the cracks, “Rebecca. Ma. Sarah.”

And I need you now. 

“Okay, Joel,” Tommy finally conceded, “Alright. I’m with you. Okay? I’m with you. Go home. Pack a bag. Meet me in an hour at the stables.”

Was he cursed? The past year had been nothing but carnage and death. Tess, Sam, Henry, was this his penance for pulling Ellie out of that hospital? Being around him was a death wish. As he passed the cemetary within eye sight of his house, he paused. Should he leave now? Was bringing Tommy along just another risk? He could make it back to the stables in thirty with his machete, shotgun, and revovler in hand. Not that he knew where he was going, and he sighed as he realized Tommy had left him in the dark intentionally. 

Panicked footsteps followed the creaking of the hinges on his front door, Ellie’s body slamming into his hard enough to push the wind out of him. She was crying, her arms locked tight as she buried her face into his shoulder, his arms instinctually wrapping around her.

“It’s okay, baby girl,” he soothed, leaning his chin on her head, “It’s alright.”

“Don’t go,” was all she whimpered in response, his shoulders slumping in defeat, there was no winning this, “I know you’re gonna go. Don’t.”

“I have to.”

“So you can die, too?!” Her small frame yanked free, shoving at his chest as her face twisted in a fresh wave of tears.

“I ain’t gonna die–”

“That’s what she said!! And she’s gone!”

An eerie silence followed, Ellie holding in her gasping breaths as her soaked green eyes pierced through him. The thought of you out there alone and scared was plaguing him, the chance that somehow you’d find a way to survive was low, but it wasn’t zero. It was fool’s hope, but he’d never been the smartest guy in the room anyhow. He needed something to keep his feet moving forward.

“I gotta bring her home, kiddo,” he finally resigned, “I’ll be back. I swear.”

Ellie's Journal - January 26, 2035

Art by @natendo-art

[curiositydooropened]

Chicken Noodle Soup

You share your soup with Steve every day on your shared lunch breaks

Pairing: Steve Harrington x friend!femme!Reader

Wordcount: 2051

Warnings: Sex dreams, mentions of sex, vague descriptions, fluffy fluffy fluff, autumnal goodness

---

The leaves were more auburn and golden than green, and the soup was more chicken and noodle than broth, but still steamy from your thermos. When you reached the cold little concrete bench, you’d poured yourself a cap-full and spooned all your carrots and celery back into Steve’s portion, passing him a silver spoon of his own. He’d rolled his eyes, mumbled something about you needing your vegetables, but slurped beside you like he’d done every day at lunch since Robin had gone off to college. 

You were a friend of Vickie’s first, and then of Robin’s, and now Steve hoped you were a friend of his. Well, actually, he hoped you’d consider being more than a friend, but he hadn’t mustered up the courage to ask you on a proper date yet, so soup in the park was how it went. 

You were usually bundled in that puffy jacket, the one that was bandage together with duct tape on the split shoulder seam, and a hat of some sort shoved over your curls. Today it was felt and black with a big, swooping brim that managed to catch a few falling leaves during your meander to the bench. Steve chuckled and pulled one from the brim, allowing the stem to twirl in his fingers. Your apple-cheeked smile kicked his chest, and he caressed your soft skin with the bright orange leaf before you swatted it away and turned back to your soup. He watched as it sailed softly to the damp sidewalk below.

“How’s your soup?” You asked, peering into the thermos to see how much of his half he’d devoured. “Enough noodles this time?”

He nodded, dug in for another spoonful. “Enough noodles. Too many veggies, though. Want a few?” 

He grinned at the way your face screwed up, like it did every day when he offered and teased. “Mine’s good, thanks.”

“How’s work?” He elbowed into you, enjoyed the way you sunk into him when you swayed away and back. 

You shrugged. “Oh you know, typical Tuesday morning. Only old bittys requesting blue for their hair and spritzing every-rose powdered perfume.” You worked at the local beauty supply, which had been an unfortunate hit for his hair, as he’d been too embarrassed to go in and get more hairspray. He thought about bribing Henderson to go for him one of these days. 

He understood what you meant though, Tuesdays were excruciating for him too, especially since the school year started. He nodded. “Heard from Robin and Vickie lately?”

You nodded. “Last night, actually. They three-wayed me and we had a very heated debate. I felt ganged up on. They’re really going to have be nicer next time if they want me to send them another care package.” Your brows furrowed and you plonked around your cup until a celery slice carrot floated to the top. With a grimace, you picked it and deposited it into Steve’s cup.

He chuckled and shook his hair from his view. “What about?”

“Huh?” You frowned back at him, the trees a halo of color past the black of your hat. You were all sunshine and full cheeks, your pink lips damp and soft. 

He bit his lip and dug back into his soup. “The heated debate, what was it about?” 

“Oh!” You seemed surprised that he’d asked. He felt your shrug against him. “Nothing.” 

“Come on, it had to be about something. It doesn’t seem like them to gang up on you. Usually it’s the three of you ganging up on me.” He couldn’t stay sour when you grinned at him like that. “So come on, spill.” 

Whatever it was had you shy again, turning to dig through the broth at the bottom of your cup until finally, with a sigh, you set the cup and spoon on the bench beside you and tucked your hands under your legs. You shrugged. “I don’t remember how it got brought up,” you mumbled, looking anywhere but him. “But I was just saying that certain… dreams about… friends are usually just your subconscious’s way of telling you you’re comfortable with that person, you know? Like, you’re not going to be intimate with someone unless you feel close to them, safe…” 

You trailed off, and it took you turning to face him, sheepish smile on your lips, thick, dark eyelashes fluttering until Steve’s blood ran cold with realization. He nearly tipped his entire thermos of soup off his lap.

He stammered for a moment, mouth gaping, wanting to shrink away from your apologetic gaze and die, finally he sputtered out a long groan. “Robin told you?” He ran a hand over his face, mostly to hide from your expression. If he was lucky, you’d get up and leave him in his own embarrassment. He was going to murder his best friend, murder her. How dare she tell you about that dream you had. God, why had he even told Robin in the first place?

“Wait,” he heard you scoot on your seat. “Robin told me what?” 

Shit. Steve cleared his throat, stared at the chicken and noodles bobbing. “Nothing, I um… what did Robin say about um…” No, it was too late. He could tell when he glanced up at you to see your face had gone directly from sheepish to delighted. 

“Steve Harrington, did you have a sex dream about me?” You hissed the ending, glancing around the park to ensure no one could hear the salacious news. 

He couldn’t hide it, could feel the warmth clawing from his chest up to his cheeks. He shrugged, licked his lips. “I mean, that just means we’re close right? I’m comfortable around you. I mean, if I did.” He glanced your direction, but couldn’t quite decipher the expression on your face as you watched him, weighed him.

Finally, you nodded, your smile soft on the corners of your cheeks. “Right. Thank you. That’s what I told them, but I think they just wanted to argue for the sake of arguing.” 

Steve sighed, relief flooding for the apparent end on the subject until all of the facts flooded back to him, nothing adding up. He shook his head. “No, no, no, wait. If Robin didn’t tell you about my dream, why the hell were you guys talking about it in the first place?” 

“Because,” you stammered, shoving your hands beneath your thighs once again. You swung your legs a bit, back to avoiding eye contact. “I don’t know.”

And now the tension was finally thick enough to smack him in the face. Steve bit back a smile and set his cup and spoon on the other side of himself before he leaned forward to catch your gaze.

 You were chewing on your bottom lip and offered the weakest of smiles. 

“Did you have a sex dream about me?” He didn’t even know why he asked, he knew he couldn’t handle the answer. Even if you did answer, he probably couldn’t hear it over the thundering of his pulse in his ears. 

He wasn’t sure what this meant, where the line could be toed. He’d had a sex dream about you because he thought about you at every waking moment, including the few seconds before he fell asleep, and a lot of the moments spent thinking about you were spent thinking about having sex with you. He was a guy, and you were drop-dead gorgeous and hilarious, and a great cook.

And you said yourself, sex dreams just mean you feel close with someone, comfortable, safe. And he was flattered to be a safe space for you, but he couldn’t help but hope maybe there was a tiny inkling more than that. 

He took your non-answer as an answer and decide to up the Charm dial a little. “Was I any good?” 

“Steve!” You admonished, sticking your elbow into his ribs. 

He laughed, leaned back, slipped an arm around the bench behind your shoulders, pulled all his best moves. “So come on, tell me about it. Don’t skimp on the details.”

“Absolutely not,” you shook your head, curls bouncing against your cheeks, but you were smiling now, nerves seeming to subside from your shoulders.

“Come on, I thought we were… close,” he picked at the duct tape on your jacket.

“You first.” 

“W-what?” Steve’s mouth went dry. 

You turned until your knees knocked his. You pulled your hands from beneath you, creased and cold, and poked a finger into his chest. “You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.” 

Something shifted then, in your tone, maybe, in the air that settled warm across his features, in the way your eyes sparked with a challenge in the same way they had the first time you scooped your vegetables into his cup. “Okay.” He accepted.

You nodded, tucked yourself under his arm, glanced around at the trees again. “So where were we?” 

“Huh?” 

“In your dream, where were we having sex?” 

God, those words falling from your lips was enough to send him over the edge. He licked his lips. “My bed.” He could still remember every second, replayed it about four hundred times over the last three days. Your curls were all splayed out on his pillow. Your voice rasped his name. Your skin was so soft under his lips. 

“That’s sweet,” you nodded, still looking out at the world, but he watched your lips settle into a curved smile, sunshine glinting off the tip of your nose. “What position?” 

He blinked. Your question suddenly brought to light every position other than the one he dreamt about, and he felt himself yearning for so many more. He swallowed and adjusted his pants at one knee, stretching his legs out beside yours. He had to play it cool. “Missionary.” 

You hummed.

He didn’t think he could bear anymore questions, had to know what was going on in that pretty head of yours, under that ridiculous hat. “What about yours?”

You glanced his direction then, only for a moment, before looking back out at the trees. “Oh mine wasn’t exactly… We were um… at the bakery having coffee. We were on the same side of a booth. You had your hands um… I was wearing a skirt.” You settled on that explanation, voice breathy, and Steve’s mind began reeling with images.

The bakery was two doors down from the beauty supply store, and on rainier days, instead of heading to the park, you’d swing up to have coffee and cakes and unfulfilling lunch breaks under the pastel pinks while cheesy Rat Pack music played overhead. You always sat on opposite sides of the squishy booth, but Steve didn’t think that’d ever happen again. How could it? 

He glanced down at your thighs now, covered in pants, pressed tightly together, and it took everything in his power not to groan. 

“Thermos?” 

“Huh?” He blinked back at you.

 You were holding your cup now, other hand extended for his half of lunch. You looked as breathless as you sounded, your pupils blown wide. You stared straight past him to the bench. 

“Oh shit, yeah.” He moved to hand you the Thermos, which you shoved both spoons into and quickly cranked the lid back on. He glanced down at his watch. Break was up three minutes ago. “Shit.” He scrambled to his feet and you did the same.

“Yeah, so…” You swatted a large orange leaf as it missed the brim of your hat. 

“So,” he scratched at the back of his neck. “Thanks again, for the soup.” 

“Of course,” you smiled, soft and sweet. “Same time tomorrow?” 

Steve’s heart sunk at the prospect of returning to the routine, and he thought maybe that conversation was the push he needed. “Actually, would you want to get dinner with me tonight?”

You batted your long eyelashes, tipped your head until more leaves fell out. “Pick me up after work?” 

Steve tugged at the arm of your puffed jacket until you looked at him with that smile that warmed his soul like chicken noodle soup. “See you then,” he promised. 

You split at the fork in the sidewalk, you crunching through leaves on your way to work, thermos swinging idly at your side, framed in auburns and golds, and he couldn’t wait to see you again. 

[my-darling-boy]

how do you do your photo sessions? is it just you and your camera or is someone else taking photos ? theyre all so cool and im rlly curious as to how you do it !!!!!!

I’m so glad someone finally asked this, I was just talking about this with someone and honestly it is SO funny.

The trick is: as long as you’ve got a camera, luck, and at least one tripod—along with understanding of some basic photography and a good imagination—you can do a LOT. I’m known for having whacky set ups! My sister helps me with them when I can’t do them all myself and let me tell you, we’ve come up with some weird things. I’ve been teaching my sister what I know about photography and film over the years, so she’s been a big help getting my own photos done, and in return I do ones for her.

In most of my photos, I’m in the bathroom. I don’t care what you think you see, I’m probably in the bathroom. Bathrooms have great lighting most of the time, and our bathroom has a skylight which is great natural lighting. If you don’t have access to a lot of professional lighting, setting up rigs in front of windows is great. I love using everyday objects and making them look ambiguous to suit my needs for a different object. My “halo” is literally a paper plate. I’m wearing a pillowcase. I set up the camera, my sister just had to check my positioning and lighting and click the button since I don’t have a remote.

Again, I am in the bathroom. I’m still sitting on top of a counter. This one, we stacked some boxes haphazardly and put our lighting on top, which is usually this really bright survivalist lantern. I also taped a clip lamp to a tripod. My sister was standing on the opposite bathroom counter. It was so hot in there so I was in shorts and thigh highs, but you wouldn’t know that just by the photo

I was in my bedroom for this one! A couple of tripods, an edited background, and a suggestive expression was all I needed to make this look like the Lieutenant and I were having a Good Time in his trench lodgings. If you don’t have an actual historical object like a swagger stick, a wooden spoon with a thimble on the end works too (as I found out). If you get creative enough, there are tons of objects and clothing you can fake. And yes my phone mount for the tripod is literally a macaron box I fashioned to hold my phone

This is a great example of knowing how to frame your subject. We loved the treeline in the back garden because it resembled being out in nature, but we have a rather unattractive space out there surrounding it. To solve this, I got up on a high stool and my sister knelt down below and shot the photo from the nearer the ground. You would never know just out of frame was a garage, a trash heap, a shed, a truck, and other suburban houses.

I’ll let you take a guess as to where I’m at for this one.... yes it’s the bathroom again. This time I’m by this awkward corner on the floor near the tub. We stacked a hamper on top of the tub and rolled some foam into a cone to direct lighting from a phone and lantern at my face. There was no angle to take the photo without running into the tub or shower so my sister had to take it in the tub. My knees and abs were killing me cos I had to half-kneel for the position, and strain my eyes to look up. There was also a low tripod behind me to drape my “mantle” over to keep it from falling flat against my back.

I don’t even know how to explain this one and I couldn’t even fit it all in the drawing. We got in front of the downstairs window, hung the same white bedsheet I use so much from the ceiling, I knelt on a chair, and I set up the tripod just out of frame in that drawing. We basically gathered every lamp we could reasonably put in the window sill and took the shades off two tall lamps or optimal lighting. I taped bee magnets to my skin. The “clouds” are actually just pulled apart cotton balls taped to a straw and held in various positions in front of the lens. Perfect perspective play.

An honourable mention was my audio set up for my October ghost video.

I don’t have professional audio equipment aside from a Yeti mic, so we had to get creative with how we would get the mic close enough to the subject. Yes, that is a tripod duct taped to another tripod and counter weighted by a bag of books. My mic is literally screwed into a socket it’s not supposed to even be in on the end of the tripod and the cord for it wouldn’t reach the couch to my laptop so I had to stack a stool on a chair next to this incredible contraption with the laptop on top so it could reach. How this entire thing did not collapse at any point is beyond me. (Can you tell I love tape and lamps?)

For photo editing programs, I hate editing on the computer and I will eat my own shoes before I give Adobe any of my money, so I use Enlight and Afterlight 2 from the App Store on my phone, and also FaceTune for certain face corrections. Afterlight 2 has a filter called “Himalaya” which is VERY similar to how 1880s-1920s photos looked and the app has plenty of dust overlays to make your photo look old. Enlight I use for broader ranges of image correction and background editing. Some examples of old photos I’ve done with a combination of those apps:

My sister and I are very resourceful and creative whenever we do these things. I don’t have any formal training in photography, I just have a vision of what I want and I try to do what I can to achieve it. I’ve had photographers with masters degrees in photography tell me it’s astounding I’ve been able to achieve photo results that rival their own with what limited resources I had while they had access to everything under the sun at their uni.

In short, all I really do is pull out my camera and some tripods and other makeshift items with a photoset in my mind, and sometimes I burst into my sister’s room standing like “hi welcome to chili’s” if I need some assistance

[langdxn]

OMGGG PLEASE WRITE FOR STAN ✨✨🖤🖤

well if you insist...

off the record | stan bowes x reporter!reader

WARNINGS: pretty graphic smut, fingering, vaginal sex, pet names errywhere, trump mentions, dom!stan

WORDS: 2.9k (excessive but necessary)

A/N: 110% not proofread yet so apologies for any errors which i’ll fix tomorrow.

The hustle and bustle of 5th Avenue spared Stan the embarrassment of leaving a torturous meeting at work. Tumbling out into the chaos of the New York streets offered him the anonymity he craved after a confrontation with Matt, the ability to blend in amongst the faces that couldn’t recognise him from the next suited, briefcase-toting businessman.

Bursting out of the doors to Trump Towers, Stan dropped his briefcase and rinsed his face with both hands, pressing his fingers to his eyes in a vain attempt to wipe away the day he’d just had. In that moment, no eyes were trained on him, no pressure on his shoulders, no demands of his time.

That is, until a sugary voice broke the crowd’s monotonous buzz.

“Trouble in economic paradise, honey?”

Stan’s hands dropped to his side as he searched for the source of his interruption, eyes intently scanning the street until they fell upon you, leaning against the building’s opulent marble pillars at the entrance.

“Sorta,” he mumbled under his breath, a grimace gently tapering his lips as he gazed down at his shoes. In an attempt to avoid your attentions, he trained his sights on a particularly worn paving slab. His distraction worked right up until your heels clacked toward him and planted right on his slab, the smoke from your cigarette swirling in his peripheral vision — there was no avoiding you, no matter how hard he tried. Stan’s head raised to meet your gaze, his deep brown eyes betraying a sadness and insecurity he may never put into words.

“I hear Mr Trump can be a harsh master,” you goaded your victim into spilling his guts, taking a deep puff of your cigarette before blowing it back to hover over his brown curls like a makeshift halo.

“I... I wouldn’t know, I barely see him,” Stan confessed, grabbing his suitcase and nodded toward the street. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss.”

Time for drastic action. The brunette stepped toward the street, ready to dismiss this exchange and continue his day.

“I smoke out here to drive your boss up the wall, you know,” you called after him, booming over the hubbub on 5th Avenue. “Admittedly he doesn’t come out much, but that jerk-off on the 41st floor certainly reads me for dirt every Friday night. What’s his name, Matt Bromley?”

Stan stopped in his tracks.

“Oh, so you know him too?” You pressed, pacing toward him with a staccato clack of your heels.

“He’s my superior, or at least he pretends to be,” Stan turned to face you, that same pained smirk dancing across his cheeks as his voice cracked between sentences. “Be careful around him, yeah? He’s not exactly one of the nice guys.”

“You’re telling me,” you scoffed, taking another swift drag while tipping your head to the side. “Luckily if he laid a finger on me, I’d put it front page of the Post and he’d never work in this overpriced dump again.”

“You’re a reporter?” Stan’s eyebrows quirked, intrigued but nonetheless concerned. Should he even be talking to a reporter like this? Will every word that passes his lips end up on tomorrow’s front page? He shook his head to dismiss any suspicious thoughts, he certainly didn’t have the headspace for that yet.

“For now,” you admitted with a pout and an eye-roll. “Your asshole ‘superior’ tries to rectify that on a regular basis. Keeps telling my boss I’m soliciting outside Trump Tower instead of reporting. Always digging through my personal life and not coming up with so much as an overdue rental VHS. Someday my editor will believe him, but I’m on my last warning as it is.”

“Seriously?” Stan’s smirk grew more sympathetic with the realisation one more life was being wrecked by the man he had the misfortune of sharing a floor with. “That’s pretty crazy.”

“That’s Manhattan, honey,” you smiled warmly at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not doorstepping you, I just happened to be here on a tip-off.”

“A tip-off? What sort of—.”

Stan cut himself off on hearing the approach of a familiar obnoxious voice on a cell phone booming in the golden foyer behind your exchange.

“Shit, that’s Bromley,” Stan panicked, suddenly grasping your arm and leading you away from the door, casting your half-smoked cigarette to the kerb. “Let’s get you outta here.”

“My nameless knight in shining armour,” you chuckled to yourself, somehow instincively following his lead on the street until you merged with the throngs of passers-by. “Where are we going, sweetie?”

“My name’s Stan Bowes, and I have absolutely no idea where we’re going.”

———

“You don’t look like a Stan,” you mused at the businessman seated across the table from you, tapping your chin with a finger as you contemplated alternative monikers. “More like a... Colin? Peter? Yeah, you’re a Peter—.”

“Can we just... rewind here?” Stan interrupted, eyes darting frantically at your surroundings, scanning the faces at the other tables. “D’ya mind explaining to me why we’re in a Five Guys right now?”

“You’ll thank me later, toots,” you quickly dismissed his objection as you swirled your soda cup in your other hand. “You think your psycho friend from the 41st floor’s gonna look for you in a diner? He’ll go straight to the Plaza... or even Indochine. Never a Five Guys. Plus, I needed somewhere I can afford to pay the bill so the Trump Organisation expense account doesn’t feel the burn.”

A wordless nod and raised eyebrow from your company suggested his silent approval, but his hands idly toying with the burger before him betrayed his confidence in your genius escape plan. Folding the lettuce edging out from beneath the bun, tugging at the rings of onion and nervously picking the sesame seeds from the top.

“You never told me what your tip-off was. What were you doing outside my work?” Stan raised his manhandled burger to his mouth, daring to undo all the strategic dismantling he’d just put into action.

“Somebody told the office that the blonde egomaniac at the top of your food chain is planning to run for president.”

Stan nearly choked on his first bite, resisting the temptation to spit it out in shock. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

“‘Fraid not.”

“That... that can’t be true, he’s too busy with the plans to buy the Plaza two blocks away.”

“The Plaza?!” Your inquisitive voice changed pitch.

“Yeah, didn’t you know?” Stan screwed up his face. “Wait— you’re not gonna print this, are you?”

“I’m not here to rat you out,” You raised both surrendering hands in the space between you. “See? No notebook, no tape recorder, no agenda. It’s just me and you, baby.”

The brown haired man smiled warmly, visibly releasing the tension in his shoulders, comforted that he wasn’t being examined.

“So if you’re not here for business, why is a beautiful girl like you talking to me? I’m nothing special, I’m just a guy in an overpriced suit.”

Caving into the temptation to look him up and down, your gaze wandered to Stan’s hands, gently trembling as he held his burger.

“Because I like you, Peter,” you grinned at the sound of your company’s new moniker. “You and that suit. But you’re so much more than that suit, you know.”

“Eh, I’m not so sure about that. Matt doesn’t seem to think so either.”

“Screw what Bromley the office bully thinks,” you slammed the table with your palm. “This is about you. The guy who stopped to talk to a girl who looked like she was hustling outside your building, the guy who’s not afraid to sit in a diner with a total stranger to save her from his coworker. Face it, Peter, you’re one of the good guys.”

His lips tapered into a warm smile. “Thank you, miss, for not jumping to conclusions about me.”

“Don’t get me wrong, the pinstripes suit you. They’d look better on my floor, but...”

Stan immediately looked up from his food to your eyes, scanning for any sign of humour or any chance you were just trying to make him feel better.

“Did you just—?”

“I think I did!” You giggled, a hint of disbelief in your own words. “Is that a problem?”

Frozen in the moment, Stan just stared at you for a minute. His next move was exhilaratingly unpredictable, leaving your heart rate thundering in your ears, but something about the shimmer in his eyes suggested you wouldn’t have to worry.

“Peter, what’s wrong, did I—?”

You were cut off by Stan’s lips crashing into yours, lunging over the table and hooking a hand around your neck to draw you in. His kiss deepened with every second, dipping his nose into your cheek and moaning softly into your mouth. As you parted, his ear-to-ear grin beamed back to mirror yours.

“Yuppies don’t kiss like that,” you joked.

“You should see me in the bedroom,” he retorted with a laugh.

“Deal.”

———

Hollywood movies were right about one thing: sex in the throes of passion often starts in the same way — bundling through your lover’s uptown hotel room with your legs wrapped around his waist while he juggles his keycard, both peppering sloppy open-mouthed kisses and showering each other with distracted affection until he drops you onto the satin sheets.

Stan, courteous as ever, gently placed you on the sprawling bed without his lips leaving yours, crawling between your thighs before thinking how to undress himself. With both his hands preoccupied passionately lacing into your hair, you grasped at the hem of your dress to take it off yourself.

“Hold on, princess,” he muttered into your mouth, immediately untangling a hand to trace down your figure and met your attempts to hitch your skirt. “Let me strip you.”

Stan thumbed at the edge of the fabric, savouring the moment before you became so much more than a beautiful stranger to him, before slowly rolling your dress up, passing your neck and whipping it over your head to limit the time before he could kiss you again.

“Peter, are you sure about this?” You queried out of respect while casting aside his evidently expensive belt, tearing his braces from his shoulders and laying waste to his shirt buttons.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he hummed against your lips between hot and ragged breaths. “And my name’s not fucking Peter.”

Stan made light work of yanking your panties down to your knees around him, unhooking them from one leg for quicker access and throwing the bundle of lace across the room, soon followed by your bra. In the blur of clothes flying, you tackled his suit pants down to his knees and slipped his silk boxers to join them. The less you thought about those silk boxers, the better.

With no clothes left between you, Stan pressed his bare chest against yours, his heart racing so fast it could burst out of his rib cage.

A needy groan erupted in his throat as he tore his lips away from yours, journeying to pepper heated kisses down your throat, sucking gently as his lips reached your collarbone and followed south to your breasts. While his tongue expertly swirled around one nipple, his hand travelled to the other and kneaded hungrily, gently rolling the hardening bud between his thumb and forefinger.

Your soft moan as he sucked harder gave him the signal to trail his fingers down your frame, his palm traversing the plane of your hips before he reached your exposed clit, tracing lazy circles around your bundle of nerves. Your back arched wildly into his touch, reaching a hand to wind into his brown curls when your helpless, urgent moans grew in volume.

“Don’t worry baby girl, I won’t leave you hanging much longer,” Stan whispered through a satisfied smile against your breast. “I just need to taste you first.”

His circling finger journeyed south to track around your folds, swollen and pulsing in anticipation of his next move. Slowly dipping the tip of his finger through your soaking entrance, your hips bucked upwards and instinctively widened your legs beneath him.

“That’s my good girl, spread yourself wide for me.” Stan’s eyelids fluttered excitedly, adding another finger inside your aching cunt and hooking both to graze your soft walls. His lips left your nipple so he could gaze at your form writhing beneath him, completely at his mercy.

His curled fingers pressed urgently into your walls, building an uncontrollable pressure within you and forcing your eyes to roll to the ceiling. Stan noticed you nearing ecstasy and immediately withdrew his dripping fingers, raising them to his lips and pressing them to his tongue.

“I knew you’d taste like heaven,” he cooed gently, lifting up to dip his head into your neck placing searing hot kisses beneath your ear. “Cat got your tongue, Miss New York Post?”

“I... I...,” you stuttered weakly, your whole body alight with waves of heat and anticipation you’d never felt before. “I...”

“You’re not usually this quiet,” Stan whispered. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

“I... need... you...”

He hummed contentedly, trailing his hand south to line the head of his cock with your throbbing entrance.

“What’s that, princess? You want me to fuck you?” Stan questioned with false innocence, a devious smirk plumping his cheeks. “You’ve been such a good girl waiting for me, I think you’ve earned it.”

In one smooth rock of his hips, Stan’s length slipped through your folds and bottomed out inside you. Your eyes journeyed to the ceiling as he filled you, spine arching recklessly craving more friction. He drew his hips back slowly, but his next thrust slammed his cock inside you so hard, you let out a hollow gasp.

“I know baby, I know,” Stan comforted you, curling his hips to ensure every thrust brushed the tip of his length against your deepest points and revelling in your squirms under him. “You’re taking me so well.”

Lost for words in the stars emerging in the corners of your eyes, you remained speechless as Stan broke down every single one of your weaknesses and turned you into putty in his hands. Jerking uncontrollably and sinking your head back into the pillow with every devastating thrust, Stan kissed your exposed neck and moaned deeply. Seizing his opportunity, both hands flew to lightly grasp your throat, his thumbs calmly resting on your windpipe — his aim wasn’t to choke you, just to hold onto you enough to assert his ownership of you, claiming you as you writhed beneath him. He leaned back to admire his work of unravelling you, possessing you.

“Look at you,” he hummed through a grin, not missing a single beat of his determined thrusts. “You’re so, so beautiful.”

Chasing you to your height of ecstasy once more, Stan’s staccato rhythm jackhammered into you at the same rate as the tremors consuming your body beneath his. Your vision of his bouncing brown curls above you started to fade behind the glittering haze taking over your mind. Fighting for consciousness, you stuttered a hollow cry for release as you approached your climax.

“Stan, I— I need to... I’m gonna cu—.”

“It’s okay baby, I’ve got you,” Stan reassured, wrapping an arm around your neck and pulling you into his chest as his hips grew frantic and sloppy. “Let go for me.”

With a deep growl and a final erratic thrust, Stan spilled against your walls, flooding warmth inside you that sent your head dipping into the pillows. His lips gently pecked your throat again as he poured his length back to the depths of your pussy, pushing his load as far inside you as possible.

Emerging from the depths of the pillow as you regained control of your legs wrapped around his waist, Stan slowly drew his hips back and slipped his length out from your swollen folds, his gaze dropping to your entrance as if making sure his cum wouldn’t drip out. Content that he hadn’t left any suspicious stains on the hotel sheets, Stan returned to gaze into your eyes and beamed from ear to ear.

“You... you called me Stan?” He quizzed while tumbling down to the pillow beside you, a puzzled eyebrow quirking beneath beads of sweat.

“You called me princess,” you retaliated with a joking tap of his chest. “I think we’re equal here, don’t you?”

Stan chuckled to himself and turned to face you, propping his head up with an exhausted, trembling hand. A palpable silence fell as he composed his next sentence.

“Was this, er... would you... can you...,” He stumbled nervously over his words; his assertive alter ego must have left as soon as he came.

“Cat got your tongue, Mr Trump Organi—“

“Stay.”

Your gaze dropped to your chest as you laughed it off. “As much as I’d love to, I got the feeling this was just a one-off for you?”

“That’s what I thought you wanted, too,” Stan confirmed with a quirked eyebrow.

Chuckling to yourself, you shook your head to dismiss all the worries that the dapper businessman would make you do the walk of shame once he’d finished.

“Then I’ll stay, sugar,” you beamed, settling into Stan’s chest as he scooped his arm beneath your head.

“We’ll get room service to dry clean your dress and I’ll drive you to work in the morning, if that’s okay?” Stan’s courteous streak had definitely returned.

You smiled broadly, nodding against Stan’s chest and swooping an arm around his waist.

“Besides, now you can tell me all about that presidential tip-off you had,” he quizzed. “Trump may be an extremely powerful guy, but he’s never gonna be president…”

[bagsley]

my top ten favorite wincest fics of all time... completely unsurprising that over half of them are candle beck!

Last Day on Earth by candle_beck

PODFIC

Sam has one day to live. You can imagine how Dean feels. (Probably my favorite wincest fic of all time. Dean’s frantic heart-stopping terror over Sam is just the most familiar version of him, you know?? It feels so true.)

Dean turns on his brother, fists Sam's collar and hugs him very hard. His face feels hot and slippery against Sam's neck, and Dean doesn't care, thinks clearly: fuck it. Fuck it, as Sam hugs him back just as fierce, fuck the highway and the night sky and the scripture being read in the background, the heavens and the earth and the light, the cattle and the creeping thing and anything else you can name. Every matchstick, every initialed square of sidewalk, every abandoned heart--fuck it all.

Ascalon by candle_beck

PODFIC

There are dragons in the world. (Breathlessly beautiful. Fantastic use of second person pov.)

You've always loved your brother and you've always been fucked up on one level or another, and somewhere along the line it got all screwed up in your head, all your history rewritten.

You love Dean because you're fucked up. You're fucked up because you love Dean. Being fucked up and loving Dean are the same thing.

Until at last, inevitably: the manner in which you love Dean is fucked up.

You should have seen that coming.

But he makes you so stupid.

American Myth by candle_beck

PODFIC

As long as you have a car, you are free, and other lies my country taught me. (Sam and Dean lose home, but only for about five hours.)

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about it?” Dean asks, a lace of impatience through his voice. “Apparently I bug you just by existing, so really, Sam, what do you want?”

That blows through Sam like a hurricane, blasting out the corpses and debris, the black curse shadowing his life, the twenty-odd years of vigilante violence and brotherhood, stripping him down to the elemental, and he looks at Dean feeling crystallized, thinking in astonishment, you.

Flying Weight by fleshflutter

Recently soulful Sam, vampire Dean. Sam feels in constant bitter competition with the ghost of his soulless self. (Whew.)

There's a moment he remembers very clearly, one of the last he does remember: He's in the graveyard at Stull, and his arm is drawn back, fist clenched with the force of mountains, and the sun catches his eye, and just for a heartbeat, Lucifer is blind, can't see a damned or blessed thing. That's when Sam sees Dean.

That's the moment Sam hangs his humanity on.

Welcome to Fog City by candle_beck

PODFIC

Sam's one blind spot is big enough to drive a truck through.

It was also mortifying, paralyzing at times, but Dean wasn't even horrified so much as familiarly resigned. Already he'd grown up as a refugee with demons trying to kill his whole family, and now he was irrevocably attracted to his kid brother too. Clearly Dean Winchester's life was a spectacular cosmic joke, a series of rugs to be pulled out from under him, and luckily his sense of humor was dark enough that he could at least appreciate the absurdity of the whole thing. This was just one more ridiculous cross that God had given him to bear.

So Dean went on through the highway world. Radio stations delighted in informing him that the hits would keep right on coming, and Dean didn't know what to expect next. Leprosy, maybe. A plague of locusts. The violent loss of one of his hands.

Instead, Sam left, ran away to California one lovely day in the late summer. It was not the worst thing that could have happened, but it was certainly in the top five. The weight of that particular cross had nearly smashed Dean into the earth.

Second Map of the World by candle_beck

They're on a lucky streak, and then Sam does something ill-considered, and the plot thickens.

Dean drove out of Topeka as if trying to outrun the shock wave of a nuclear explosion. Ninety, a hundred, a hundred and ten miles an hour, blowing past strings of red taillights, huge rattling trucks like dinosaurs with loose bones. Dean had the tape turned up loud enough that the speakers fuzzed. His hands were locked on the wheel.

The Firefly that Loved Metallica by fleshflutter

Dean's soul in a bottle.

[Sam] faces down demons and drives a four-day old corpse across the country on a hope so thin it wouldn't stand up to a light rain.

Waiting Games by Nutkin

Sam's having sex visions.

Dean's dug into himself deeply, become this tricky maze of raised hackles and sensitive spots that he's starkly open about. So open about, in fact, that it's like they've been worn into calluses, like they aren't even vulnerabilities anymore. He can bark out at Sam that he's the most important thing in his life, and it doesn't sound like he's admitting something private - it's just the same way he'd say, Give Satan my best, before ending a spirit. He picks and chooses the things he's embarrassed by, the things he lets become issues, and the way he feels about Sam isn't one of them. It's not a bruise that can be pushed on - maybe it was, once, but in the time Sam was off going to keggers and building a fort of textbooks and love letters, Dean just cemented it into one of the things that drives him.

Be Awake by candle_beck

Dean has a concussion.

"I'm sorry," Sam said as he sat Dean down on the bed, stepped back. He had a hard flush on his face, a downcast shadow in his eyes. "Shouldn't have gotten mad, I, I shouldn't have left you out there."

Dean shook his head, smiling dazedly at him. Sam's edges were blurred and his hair looked funny, fuzzing out like a halo, but the lines of his face stayed sharp, Dean's last remaining constant. He couldn't remember what Sam was talking about, but he said:

"It's okay, Sammy,"

because it was, and Sam would see that, Sam was smart. Dean wanted to get that serious look off his brother's face, win a smile from him no matter how far south the night had gone, but the fog was building in his mind again, rolling down hills to obscure his cities, ground his airplanes, wreck his ships.

Dean held his wavering head steady, fixed his eyes on Sam's face with the last of his focus. He managed to say, "Exit light," and then pitched backwards on the bed.

Gone Again by candle_beck

Harrowing and suffocatingly, inevitably heartbreaking. They never stood a chance.

The dream is different this time.

This time they’re in a motel room and the walls are on fire. It’s Sam’s fault; every time he touches something it goes up in flames.

Dean can hear his hair crackling and he jerks his head, watching the sparks fly. Sam’s close enough that Dean can see the firework reflection in his eyes. He flattens his hand next to Dean’s head and an outline of fire flares around his fingers.

“You gotta stop,” Dean says, barely able to breathe. These motel rooms are as flimsy as cardboard; if one part burns the whole thing will go.

And Sam’s laughing and shaking his head, licking at Dean’s throat and it’s hotter than fire could ever hope to be.

“I was made for this,” Sam tells him. “So were you.”

Dean’s eyes are raw and torn and wet but it might be blood. His shirt is smoldering and growing holes like black-edged tumors that Sam follows with his fingers, smearing soot on the bare skin of Dean’s stomach. Stuff that won’t wash away, like the blisters Sam’s mouth is leaving on Dean, the mad incendiary glee in his eyes.

[gaming-thoughts-by-an-idiot]

Fallout 3: Mothership Zeta (dlc)

"Right... ok... what am I doing, what level and what have I done"

"Ok, let's do the alien thing"

"Ugh, I forgot there's no running in this game"

"I cant remember what I've done in the game, did I poison the water in this playthrough? Have I only done one playthrough... wait what difficulty am I on... very easy, good."

"Oooh, ok, I forgot how to change weapons, I'm living on fallout 76 controls"

"Cant I take a automated stimpak? Really? Shit ok."

"When I think about it, in every rpg, no actually, in every game I play or have played, I also go with melee, if I can? I fucking will. In halo, mass effect, skyrim, dragon age like- yeah"

"Battle music, what's up?"

*vats locked, ripper ready, one slice, yao guai down*

Me: :0!! Holy shit!

*enclave robot floating*

Me: *destroys it* hehehe

"I knew it was gonna happen, and I still got a jump scare"

"You raaaise me uuuup~"

"Blurry"

"Oh no, south park season one episode one vibes"

"Excuse me sir, that is my tralala, my ding ding dong"

"Hes -- aa?? Red screen??? I DID NOT SIGN UP TO GET CIRCUMCISED"

"Get some toy story vibes with that ceiling claw"

"I got my walk through, imma find all the holotapes."

"Ok, I got my electro baton, who do I beat up"

"I like being 3rd pov, but maybe I'll do this 1st."

"Found a rivet city guard, but she didnt wanna talk to me :) now i have better armour"

"Gotta make a list over the recordings, cuz I totally forgot that's what I was doing here"

"Alright, I know I'll fuck this up, but the road may be fun"

"A child"

"AH! Jesus... fucking alien shit"

"Riiight, I forgot I should get my weapons back, lol"

"Damn... I think I have to go back to the beginning, I'm carrying too much stuff... well, sure"

"Back we go"

"Ok, cuz I was like 300 already when I got on the alien ship, now! I got 92/300, so I'm ready to rumble"

" 'you are no longer well rested' bitch, when have I ever been"

"While the aliens played operations on me, I now got me some nice toast and coffee"

"Ah shit, here we go again"

"They should have subtitles for the alien languages, it should say [alien gibberish] I'm just saying"

"Ok... good to check the wiki before leaving the area, guess it's good I began again, i would've missed nr 3"

"I feel like I'm living like a king. I'm eating toast, drinking coffee, it's hot outside, air conditioner inside, I can pause the game at anytime without fearing for my life or my character to die from dehydration or hunger~ good life"

"The aliens have to be sooo irritated with Sally, like, she keeps sneaking out of her cell and shit"

"I wonder where her sister is though"

"Ok got my shit back, and look at that...147/300"

"Screw the electro baton, ripper time"

"I wonder what the samurai is saying"

"This dude looks like he was dragged right from oblivion, same ugly."

"Cryo thing done"

"I have to go aaaaaall the way back to the holding cells uugghhh"

"Finally"

"Okeiii wheres that damn holotape"

"Finally... aaaand now to walk ALL the way back... hhhh"

"I remember vaguely that I'm supposed to find the samurai sword...."

"Yes I can find it"

"Now... robot place thing"

"Kaay, wheres the tapes..."

"Okay wait, I'm confused, I have to look on youtube"

"Ok youtube didnt help at all, but google did yay"

"Cant get the sword cuz bugged yay-.-"

"Ok seems like I got them all, I'm ready to go to the next level"

"I cant jump and float :c"

"My dude sounds like darth Vader"

"Theres a button that let's me spawn brahmin..."

"Awh I can only get 3"

"Ah! Apparently I'm so evil, that I'm named 'the stuff of nightmares' like damn, calm down"

"Oh... ok now I get it, I've enslaved 41 humans... hey i needed the caps ok?"

"Can i shoot the earth with the death ray?"

"Quick save"

"I did, but I didnt get any bad karma? I gotta google to see if this is gonna impact, you know what? No. If I could do the ground zero in new vegas, I can do this. Fuck the world!"

*googles*

"Awh.. it doesnt do anything.. I mean yay that's good, it would be bad if many people died."

"One holotape left"

"Level UP! Here and now perk and LEVEL UUUP"

"I need to 50% less limb damage plz"

"ACHIEVEMENT!!! WOOP WOOP!!! YEEEEES"

"Its the final countdown wahwahwahwah wawawawah"

"The fucking cowboy died ugh, reload"

"Whoa.... explosion"

"And nobody died! :D"

"Can I come back?"

"Yes, awesome, I own a spaceship"

[geekgemsspooksandtoons]

Archie’s Collection

This is just something fun I’ve thought about for my Bioshock Rebirth AU. I’ll admit I’m not a big fan of when a series showcases another series as fictional. Yet for Bioshock not to sound hypocritical. But it feels normal considering I guess how...possibly real Bioshock feels. It depends but it feels normal with Bioshock.

But basically I wanted to make this to showcase....Archie before ending up in a place like Rapture. He was a literal functioning normal young man who was living in an apartment. Yet he has this collection of media that despite how...masculine he seems.

He’s basically a masculine nerd/geek. Will admit I did incorporate some of my likes and interests in this. But basically just imagine a young man in the late 90′s to early 2000′s with all this rad stuff. It gives you a taste of the stuff he likes.

I actually looked up VHS tapes to confirm some of these. Despite I could be wrong but nearly everything would of gotten on VHS during the late 20th century.

I’m finished with the list finally. I’ll also reveal Arch listens to bands like Guns N Roses Linkin Park. Yet only Hybrid Theory was out first. But he would love Reanimation. Just the idea of all of this stuff. He is a gamer and did wonder if he would get an Xbox. But he would love Halo Combat Evolved. Screw it I’m putting Superman 2. Despite I have never seen those first two Superman films I think.

I’m about to post this and I have said this. He is a full on geek. What have I made, this is so silly. Edit since I’m on Amazon and saw The Nightmare Before Christmas. Gonna put that on the list too. Now I’m remembering Wallace & Gromit. I was looking up Friday The 13th VHS tapes and Nightmare Before Christmas popped up along the way.

Edit as of 12/13/20, realized I had the Looney Tunes, Tom & Jerry, Peanut, and Rocky on the PS1 games part. I just took out the mention of the edit before along Spider-Man Strikes Back. But also I put Star Wars now. Arch has a fine collection. XD

Edit as of 4/27/21...this man has a PlayStation 2 now, First Blood, the MK trilogy, and MK Gold...

VHS tapes.

- Halloween 1978. An anniversary edition. Along with the original Halloween 2.

- Superman The Movie. Along with Superman 2.

- Friday The 13th Parts 1, 2, 3, & 4.

- The Amazing Spider-Man 1977. Including other VHS tapes like volumes 1 & 2. Along with Spider-Man Strikes Back and other VHS tapes of this show.

- The Incredible Hulk 1978 series VHS tapes.

- Batman 1989.

- Jurassic Park.

- The Lost World Jurassic Park.

- Godzilla Simitar collection.

- Armageddon.

- Home Alone 1 & 2.

- A Nightmare On Elm Street 1, 2, & 3.

- Predator 1 & 2.

- Alien & Aliens.

- A Disney collection. Mainly of the 90′s movies and some older ones.

- The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 1 & 2.

- Black Christmas 1974.

- King Kong 1933.

- Godzilla 1998.

- Possibly some Scooby Doo VHS tapes too.

- The Nightmare Before Christmas.

- The three original Wallace & Gromit short films.

- Some Looney Tunes and Tom & Jerry VHS tapes too.

- Some Peanuts specials.

- Rocky 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5.

- Star Wars Episodes 4, 5, 6, and 1.

- First Blood.

PlayStation 1 games.

- Resident Evil 1(The Directors Cut Dual Shock version), 2, & 3: Nemesis.

- Twisted Metal 1, 2, 3, & 4.

- Crash Bandicoot 1, 2, 3, and Crash Team Racing.

- MediEvil 1 & 2.

- Mortal Kombat Trilogy. 

- Silent Hill.

- Marvel Super Heroes.

- Spider-Man.

- Spider-Man 2 Enter Electro.

- Parappa The Rapper.

Sega Dreamcast games.

- Sonic Adventure 1 & 2.

- Crazy Taxi.

- Marvel Vs Capcom 2 New Age Of Heroes.

- Jet Grind Radio.

- Mortal Kombat Gold.

PlayStation 2.

- Silent Hill 2.

- Twisted Metal Black.

- Spider-Man 2002.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Your Lena/Supernatural AU finally got me to watch Supernatural. I hope you’re happy. Another chapter? Pretty please?

Previously…

Kara’s attempts to disavow the revelation are met with unimpressed expressions.

“Doesn’t work that way, Supes,” Dean tells her, handing off his coffee. Lucy accepts hers with a thanks, while shooting Kara an apologetic grimace. 

“Get in,” comes the gruff invite as Dean yanks the driver’s door open. “Or don’t. That’s good too.”

Faced with two strangers potentially driving away with her secret identity, Kara crawls into the backseat with Lucy, and does her best not to stare. She’s promptly ignored as soon as Dean throws the engine in gear, and then the car falls into an uncomfortable silence.

Well, uncomfortable for Kara. None of the other three seem to mind it in the least.

It takes almost twenty minutes before she screws up enough courage to offer Lucy a question. “That’s not how what works?”

“Hmm?” Lena asks around a swallow of coffee.

“Dean said it doesn’t work that way. What was he talking about?”

“Oh.” Lucy’s cheeks flush slightly. “I have this… thing. Ability. I’m not sure how to describe it without sounding crazy.”

Kara huffs in frustration. “This whole thing is crazy. If someone doesn’t start talking I’m going to pick up this car and fling it into the sun!”

“Even think about touching my car and I’ll fling you into the sun!” Dean fires back.

Lucy bites back a grin at the exchange. “I’m not trying to keep you in the dark. It’s just… a lot of things about us defy explanation.” 

In spite of her words, Lucy’s features turn thoughtful. Kara waits, and is rewarded when the woman finally shrugs. 

“I guess you could say disguises don’t work on me.”

Kara waits another beat, but nothing is forthcoming. “Okay…”

“I have a knack for seeing things as they are,” Lucy tries to elaborate. Her hands gesture in the air, as though to illustrate what her words are failing to convey. “In our line of work, there’s a lot of… there’s a lot of people who aren’t what they seem to be. Whatever disguise they wear, it doesn’t work on me. You’re different, though.”

“How so?”

“Normally, I don’t see any disguise. But with you… I see both. It shifts, like a mirage. I see the symbol, the cape… but also the glasses, and the cardigan. It’s unusual.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re an alien,” Sam suggests from the front. “It could mean the rules apply differently.”

Kara tries not to flinch. She’s still Kara Danvers, Supergirl still carefully tucked away. It feels like she’s been outed, despite the lack of judgement from these odd, mysterious three.

“Hey, question,” Dean calls, turning briefly to catch Lucy’s eye. “What did Ca–” he seems to catch himself at the last minute. After a stilted moment, he waves vaguely towards the sky instead. “What did you-know-who look like to you?”

Lucy snorts. “Like a drunk.”

“Huh. So, no wings, no halo, nothing?”

“Just a dirty man in a dirtier trench coat.”

The car falls quiet for a while after that. Kara is grateful for it, but also feels the head of Lucy’s gaze as the woman studies her from her slouch against the far window.

“So, Supes…” Dean says conversationally. “Is Kara Danvers your real name, or was all that just to get in the car?”

He stares at her in the rear view mirror, but when Kara responds, she looks at Lucy. “Real enough. When I’m not Supergirl, I’m Kara Danvers.”

The smile Lucy grants her is soft and warm, and sends flutters through Kara’s chest. “Nice to meet you, Kara Danvers.”

In the full light of day, Kara can see further differences to set Lucy apart from Lena. Long scars scrape the left edge of her jaw and down to dip below the collar of her shirt. It looks rugged and knotted. Recent, but not quite fresh. The slashes almost look animalistic, and Kara can’t help but notice how close it is to her carotid artery. She swallows the sudden powerful urge to ask what happened.

“And you?” she asks instead.

“Lucy.”

Kara nods. “No last name?”

Lucy shakes her head. Now it’s Kara’s turn to study her. “Last night you said something bad happened in that warehouse,” she begins gently. Lucy nods. “To you?”

At that, Lucy looks away. Kara doesn’t think she’s going to get any response whatsoever, but then… “Dean and Sam found me there, almost two years ago. That’s when my life started.”

Kara shifts in her seat. “You mean your life with them?”

“No, I mean… I have no memory before meeting them. There’s nothing there. We think this cult, whoever these people are, have something to do with it.”

Apprehension crawls up Kara’s spine. She’d hoped to learn that Lucy and the Winchesters really were related somehow, or that Lucy grew up in Rhode Island. Anything to pull her further away from Lena in Kara’s mind, and make some sense out of all of it. Now new mysteries further unsettle her. 

As Lucy turns her attention to the book in her lap, Kara’s wheels start turning. Two years ago. It’s so recent, and yet feels a million years ago. Two years ago, Kara’s life was full of laughter. Full of Lena. Before she was taken. Before she came back changed.

“I think this might be a cipher of some kind,” Lucy announces. She reaches for the ragged backpack on the floor by her feet, and pulls out a pen and a marble notebook bent lengthwise down the middle.

Up front, Dean smirks. “Think you can crack it by the time we get to Bobby’s?”

“We’re about to find out.”

Sam chuckles, and fishes out a worn cassette tape from a shoe box under his seat. “Beatles it is.”

The volume goes up; the windows go down. The wind tousles Kara’s hair, and as she gazes out at the farmland flashing by, it almost feels like she’s flying.

—

Lucy doesn’t crack it by the time they reach Bobby’s. At least, Kara thinks it’s Bobby’s– it looks more like a junkyard, with old tires piled into tall hills and junkers sitting in rows across a fairly large property. The house they park in front of doesn’t do anything to disrupt the aesthetic. Still, Dean and Sam both grin as a bearded man in a truckers hat pushes out through the screen door.

“Bobby!”

“You boys kept yourselves out of trouble?”

The three trade rough hugs. Lucy exits the car more slowly, and when she hangs back, Kara realizes it’s because she hasn’t met this Bobby either. With the notebook in one hand and Kara at her side, she waits to be introduced. Bobby eyes them, not unkindly.

“Last I checked, you only had one lady tagging along.”

Dean shrugs. “Things have gotten a little more complicated.” He gives Lucy a nod of invitation. Lucy approaches, but her movements seem a little stiff even as she offers a congenial grin. “Bobby, this is Lucy.”

“Nice to meet you.” Lucy opts for a handshake. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’m sure you have,” Bobby agrees with a grin. “And I’ve heard quite a bit about you as well.” His gaze turns to Kara. “And you are?”

“This is Kara,” Lucy answers for her. Kara steps in to offer a handshake of her own. “She’s a friend of mine visiting from Georgia. A violinist.”

The lie is so seamless Kara almost misses it entirely. But Dean and Sam react instantly over Bobby’s shoulder, snapping to attention before exchanging a look of alarm. When their hands drop to their respective weapons, Kara realizes something is very, very wrong.

Dean looks to the Impala, but doesn’t make a move towards it. Bobby stands in their way.

“Yeah, hey, Bobby,” Dean calls. “I hate to say it, but we’re kind of on a time crunch. We just need to take a look in the armory to see if you got anything that might take out a motta.”

Bobby’s brow wrinkles in consternation as he turns to face Dean. Kara quickly sidles up to Lucy, tension thrumming against her skin as energy coils in her muscles. “A motta? What in the hell’s a motta?”

“Gee, I don’t know… what’s a motta with you?”

Dean’s grin disappears in the next instant, as his fist slams into his friend’s jaw. Kara doesn’t have time to see what happens next before Lucy fills her vision, pressing the book into Kara’s chest. “Run!”

An invisible force tears Lucy away before she can finish, slamming into the side of the Impala. Kara sees Bobby with palm outstretched, eyes black as ink.

Kara blasts into the sky just as Bobby turns his gaze on her, clutching the book to her chest. She bursts through a layer of clouds and pauses, heart pounding, waiting to see if Bobby will follow. He doesn’t.

Relief pours over her, and her grip on the book turns to a hug as she sucks in a breath.

“Wait,” she snaps back into sudden awareness. “What am I doing?”

She releases the book, allowing it to plummet. By the time she snatches it again, she’s in her suit, wind snapping at her cape. She slams down in front of Bobby and pulls back one fist for a punch.

“Don’t hurt him!” Dean shouts, making her freeze.

“What?!”

Bobby grabs her by the throat and yanks. It pulls her off her feet and shakes her enough that she can barely hear Sam’s call. “Bobby’s still in there!”

“Hold him down!” Lucy cries, hauling herself to her feet and limping to the trunk of the Impala. “Don’t let him go!”

O-kay. Kara snaps back to Bobby’s grip on her throat and puffs a lungful of ice into his face. It’s enough to loosen his grip enough she doesn’t have to break bone to twist away. With a flick of her wrist she sweeps her cape over his head to blind him and slips behind him. She cages him in, clamping her arms around him to keep him immobile. Muffled by the cape, inhuman bellows issue from her prisoner, and his strength is unexpected.

He struggles and writhes with inhuman stamina, and Kara’s grip almost slips within seconds. Instead, she lets herself fall to the ground to keep her arms around him. “I can’t hold him!” 

“Shit!” Lucy curses, abandoning whatever she’d returned to the trunk for. She slides to her knees and breathlessly meets Kara’s gaze. “Give me as much time as you can.”

Before Kara has a chance to respond, Lucy plants her palm on Bobby’s growling chest, and begins to chant. 

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”

Her voice hums low in her chest, her eyes shut against the distraction of Kara’s struggle to keep a grip on the monster in her arms. Dean and Sam move quickly to help– Dean tackles Bobby’s kicking legs, and Sam dashes to the trunk of the Impala and comes back with a bag labeled as rock salt. He immediately begins to pour it in a circle around all three of them. 

Through it all, Lucy doesn’t falter. Her voice issues low and deep, the monotonous chant ancient and eerie.

“Ergo, draco maledicte.Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire…!”

Slowly, as the man’s thrashing heightens in desperation, Lucy’s voice starts to lift in pitch and power. As Kara watches, a glow begins to emanate between Lucy’s hand and the flannel of Bobby’s shirt. From the look on Dean’s face, this isn’t a normal feature of whatever exorcism is taking place. 

“Te rogamus!” 

An otherworldly roar grows in Kara’s ears, shaking the man in her arms and the ground around her. 

“Holy shit, it’s working,” Dean grunts, releasing his friend’s legs. “Let him go! Out of the circle, now!”

Kara obeys, carefully avoiding the circle Sam had taken precious time to create. She stands between the two men, and stares in shock as Lena opens her eyes, emitting the same unnatural glow concentrating beneath her palm.

“Audi nos!” 

Lucy finishes in a bellow, the sound extending into a cry of pain as the light flares bright. It pours from her hand into Bobby, whose black eyes fill with the same glow before it suddenly snaps away from both of them, leaving a vacuum of sound and sensation in its wake. 

Kara waits for the brothers’ next move, but they haven’t any more clue than she does. 

It’s Bobby who speaks up first, exhaustedly propping himself up on both elbows to stare between the four of them.

“What in the sam hell just happened?” he demands.

Lucy tries to stand, but her limbs quake like the earth is still trembling. Halfway to standing, she loses her battle for consciousness, and collapses back to the ground.

“Lena!” Kara’s at her side before the others can blink, lifting Lucy’s shoulders into her arms with gentle care. The thump of a steady heartbeat in her ears soon fills her with relief. “She’s alive. Thank Rao.”

Bobby stares at her, then at Dean. 

“I thought you said her name was Lucy.”

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Holding Back The Fool Again [B. Hargrove x you]

Series: part 2 of Galapogos

Summary: This is Billy’s definition of extending an olive branch. Screwed and without shrewdness, kind of like him.

Inspiration: Mellon Collie & The Infinite Sadness by The Smashing Pumpkins (1995) in its entirety.

Word Count: 3073  Warnings: profanity, angst, and mentions of abuse.

Written Date: 07/24-31/2019  Posted Date: 8/1/2019

[PART 1]< >[PART 2]

“Hey.”

He’s not sure if the breathy sigh actually left his lips or if the rustling leaves toyed with his ears. What he does know for sure is that there’s a cool moisture on his upper lip, the impressive one-fifty he lifts is still no challenge to the old tree outside your window, and that even with sleep-mussed hair you’ve never looked better.

The rays of the sun kiss his skin, warming him up to the bone as if home is trying to plunge some needed coaxing through his thick skull. The sun knows he ran once; any discouragement will send him running again. It’s the way God carved Billy’s mechanics—inside the tough exterior is just a lost boy, a coward who’s on the verge of finally having enough of what’s been granted to him before he could even form a coherent sentence.

A reflection bounces off his Virgin Mary pendant, flashing threateningly close to your pupils. It’s the universe giving him a clue that if there’s ever the right time to make eye contact with the one you love, it’s now. Now, in what could be the final moment he has to prove to himself that he isn’t the man his father said he is and prove to you that he’s not just another copy-cat of David.

Is Billy another David? When he first came to your little town, you would have said yes. When you started riding in his Camaro and showing up to social events with his arm around your waist, David hardly crossed your mind. Now? You aren’t so sure, about anything. You don’t even know why you haven’t slammed the window on his gorgeous face. Your best friend Judilyn would have, so what’s stopping you?

Billy Hargrove has never been a perfect suitor. For heavens sake, the heroism he displayed when he saved your camera was soon followed by insulting you on your first date. And, Billy Hargrove’s relationship skills sometimes make you wonder why he’s even with you, or you with him. He has terrible mood swings, sometimes pushing you away so that he can have some time to himself to lift weights and not have a “woman nag at him all the time.” As if he’s not the one who clings onto you about seventy-percent out of a hundred.

He smokes so much that it has created a force-field around him, made up of cancerous fumes. You swear you’ve never inhaled as much second-hand smoke before getting to know him. The smell penetrates into your hair, your wardrobe, and soon your parents water bills were raising through the roof. After your parents started lecturing you and the scent of nicotine made a surprise appearance in your sheets, you had to lay down some strict rules: Billy can no longer smoke with the windows rolled up, Billy can no longer smoke half-an-hour before entering your house, and Billy had to promise to cut back. Not just for your sake, but his as well.

You’re not an unrealistic idiot though. You’ve seen this addiction before with your own grandfather. You’ve seen the continuous cycle of grandpa crushing the cigarette box in his hands and throwing it out only for you to find fresh cigarettes littered in your grandma’s rose bushes the next week. So, it’s not hard to imagine Billy sparking up an extra cancer stick before he’s supposed to meet with you. Especially when he comes over with an extra spritz of cologne and Binaca spearmint masking his breath.

But, as the breeze tickles your nose and wraps loosely around his dirty-blond curls in gentle tugs, you cannot detect the toxic bubble that embraces him. Nor the hours old musk of his favorite Pour Homme, but just the basic nature of the body detoxifying.

He’s here, without the calming of his disgusting addiction nor the courage of a strong drink on his breath.

And his voice. 

You’ve never heard it so…without its punch of beef-packed testosterone, without the fresh singe of tobacco on his vocal cords. So helpless. So vulnerable. So unlike Billy. But, it’s been inside him all along, waiting to be pulled apart by willing hands. Hands willing to tear apart his skeleton, push past the muck of sticky blood and pulsing intestines, and cradle the most important organ of all.  

And he thinks he’s felt—still feels—that pleasant pain of guts being twisted and torn apart whenever you’re around to mindlessly play with his fingers while you two watch a rented movie. To call out on his bullshit when anger either makes him too quiet or too loud. To wrap your arms around him when his father’s had swung the hour before just because Billy had forgotten to pick up one fucking gallon of milk.

Earlier that day when everyone was beginning to gather around in the school’s parking lot to see who’d win the fight between Billy and David, love’s affliction was still harshly pulling at his heart strings. And only when you’d hit the ground was it slowly being replaced by something else—a cold numbing from a lidocaine needle.

He wants to shake off this empty, suffocating, cushionless envelop made by the devil, and repent under your plum-like palms. Repent until you stop looking at him like he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

He’s Billy, and he’ll always be your Billy. But, maybe that only makes it scarier.

The telephone downstairs begins to ring again—you’ve since disconnected yours after just minutes of continuous phone call after the other. You turn to face your bedroom door in temptation, looking past polaroids and the photographs that Jonathan had taught you to develop in the dark room. Memories of you with Judilyn and your group of friends. Moments in time of you and Billy’s blossoming relationship, featuring his douchy friends. All taped along the smooth surface.

Your fingertips get ready to push off the lower sash of the window.

“Please.”

You turn your head back to Billy.

He licks his pink lips and parts them again. “Don’t leave.”

“Why?” You immediately flinch at the croak in your voice. This isn’t how you imagined the confrontation with Billy to go. Actually, you somehow just thought you’d live in your bed forever with your teddy bear and Billy would fall off the face of the earth.

Instead, he’s just outside your window with bits of bark under his fingernails and the setting sun casting a halo around his crown. The whole view is a magnificent renaissance painting; every detail crafted with expertise and purpose, such as the way pink creeps up on the clouds and how you can count every freckle on Billy’s face.

Yet, you cannot find any of this to mean something. Not when classmates you barely talk to are keeping your line busy just to check up on you while he can’t even form the words that are caught in his throat.

His eyes study the inflamed skin of your palms then cut to the smudges that trail along the side of your right thigh. Through clenched teeth, he sucks in a breath of air. “Can I come in?”

You pause for a moment, even though you hadn’t expected anything else after he decided to claw his way up your window with far less grace than Judilyn’s ladder method (or your ex-boyfriend’s favorite: pounding his fists on your front door at two in the morning and waking up the entire house). Your finger tips weigh the odds by tapping on the painted wood, and only when you take a couple steps away from the window does Billy’s glistening pecks gently deflate.

The poodle designs on your sock-clad feet are more interesting than Billy as he extends a long leg through the opening, or so you convince yourself. But you don’t have to watch him to know that Billy’s glancing around your neat bedroom, checking for ripped up photographs or thrown mixed tapes—any sign that tells him that you’ve terminated things on your end of the hemisphere.

The only thing out of place, as he’s come to conclude, are the messed up sheets. The flannel is crinkled in a way that he’s familiar with; he’d never tell anyone that he’s had his fair share of finding comfort between blankets without a girl writhing in pleasure beneath him. Billy can almost picture you on your side with your knees tucked into your chest and your chin to your neck—he’d rather not focus on that.

You’re still standing by your mirror with eyelashes hiding the prettiest pair of irises he’d come across in Hawkins.

Billy’s never understood your damn patience. There was this time when Billy had walked the couple extra yards from your locker to yearbook class to pick you up for lunch, and he’d walked in on Pam Dubinsky giving you backhanded compliments on your poster designs for the new yearbook while you had stood there without saying a word. He knew about the countless hours you’d spent on your bedroom floor sketching up clever concepts while he would drift off and on on your plush mattress, and he knew all that hard work wasn’t just for some jealous bitch to tell you that her’s was better.

He had taken some loud steps forward and his tongue had been ready to snap away at her when you calmly raised your hand at him, prompting him from getting any closer and intervening, and kindly told the girl who had slept with your ex-boyfriend that no one would appreciate an amateur design on their yearbooks, especially not after such a long school year and that Pam should think about David—mediocre head and a mediocre yearbook? Talk about heartbreak.

It took so much of Billy to keep from laughing and humiliating that bitch any further, but above that he was proud of you for sticking up for yourself without sinking to her level. Malice disguised as a sugar cane had become his new favorite flavor.

Except, he quickly learned that your patience combined with his drastic mood swings brought him an unfamiliar peace that frustrates him just as much. He knows how to spurt out insults and give and receive bruises—that’s easy; that’s second-nature. But, keeping his ears from turning red and his breath under control is a whole other field. How does anyone do that?

But then you sniffle, and he realizes your shoulders are trembling as your hands struggle to clasp together. You’re not just waiting for him to make the first move, but you’re cowering. Over the fact that Billy’s so fucking reckless. Over the fact that Judilyn and your other friends were right, that Billy isn’t capable of anything but serving you pain as dessert on a silver platter. Over the fact that Billy’s anger can blind him of your presence, and has caused him to put his hands on you. Over the fact that just his puppy eyes alone can throw out your free will, and allow him into your bedroom. Over the fact that you’re still willing to hear him out.

“Prove to her that everyone in this shithole is wrong about you.”

Max’s voice still rings clearly in his head, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it. At least not while you shrink into yourself in front of your mirror, but he’s trying to look on the bright side for once: you’re blocking his crumbling tower.

His mouth is so parched that swallowing proves worthless, but he knows he has to keep pushing. The photographs on your door call back to him, and his head rolls on his shoulders towards them.

“Do you remember when your dad almost caught me hiding in your closet?”

Your gaze on the carpet shifts a little closer to him.

A smile almost touches his lips. “You would’ve gotten in trouble if you didn’t have that Mount Everest of stuffed animals piled in there to hide me.”

The stuffed animals from your childhood had been the last thing you wanted Billy to discover about you. You had decided to donate most of them at the local Goodwill on your thirteen birthday, but your sentimental attachment to them kept you from tossing them every time. So you kept them hidden in your closet like a dirty secret, and had meant to never let the tough Billy find them. You were mortified that he’d think you were just some innocent little girl and that he wouldn’t want to be with you anymore, but he didn’t care. Sure it was a little funny, but he revealed he still had a little brown bear of his own that his mother gave him when he was six in his underwear drawer.

“Or that time when my boxers somehow got inside your hamper and your mom washed them, thinking they were your brother’s?” Billy holds in a chuckle. “And your brother was too dumb to realize they weren’t his and wore them for like a week straight.”

A sound leaves your throat. Half-giggle. Half-sob. It’s hard to differentiate whether that’s good or bad. The back of your wrist meets your nose, rubbing softly.

“There was also that one time when no one but Max and Judy knew we had skipped town for a couple days to go see Quiet Riot in Indianapolis,” he scans a particular Polaroid snap shot that was taken at the motel pool, “All we could afford was one night in some sleazy motel room, eating greasy fast food.” He looks at you again, “It was worth it. Never thought you could make a shitty mattress comfortable.”

The corner of your chapped lips tugs up. “Your chest does makes a great pillow, Hargrove.”

The shy smile is gone sooner than it appeared.

His torso appears in front of you as his warm palms find their way to your hair. Thumbs wipe away the sticky streaks on your rosy cheeks, and then gently caresses them.

He wants you to really look at him, but he finds it a small victory when you don’t duck beneath his arms as he envelops you in a desperate hold. When you don’t pull away after he buries his face in your neck. And when you don’t push him away after you hear him suck back the gunk that’s formed in his stuffed nose nor when something wet drips onto your bare collar bones.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is muffled into your shoulder.

Billy knows that your parents have been away, and he guesses by the missing Mustang in your driveway that your older brother must be down at the run-down waterhole with a couple of pig-headed buddies, so he’d been expecting your house to be devoid of its usual mumbling and lively noises that is such an integral part of it. He’d been relieved at first because that meant he wouldn’t have to deal with your angry parents or a careless-yet-overprotective brother, but now that you are keeping quiet Billy has nothing to grasp onto except this energy that’s barely hanging onto life support between you two.

Billy squeezes you a little tighter, praying that you somehow absorb his thoughts, his guilt, his regret, his love, and his fear. “Okay? I’m sorry for…being a piece of shit. I never meant for that to happen—never dreamt of it.”

The saltiness settles on his taste buds. “I promise I’m not David—I’m not my fucking father.”

Your finger nails run up his spine until they’re digging into the curls on the back of his neck. “I know.”

After just moments of softly scratching his scalp, you pull away and bring your arms into your ribs. The apology is left in the stale air around the two of you, but Billy doesn’t blame you. Lord knows that he’d never forgive his father even if he crawled through hell and back and begged him.

Billy untangles your arms from beneath your chest and leads you into the bathroom down the hall with every intention on washing away every negative emotion down the drain, “Come on, I’m gonna take care of you.”

This reluctance that stops you from letting go of the events that transpired in the parking lot is a million time better than being left to choke on the dust of drifting tires. If anything, Billy accepts this as a start in restoring what once was. Your patience taught him that much.

As the cascading water heats up and clothes hit the tiles one by one, Billy swears to himself that the fool inside him will not be in charge of steering the outcome that involves you. And as he takes a washcloth and some Dove soap to your palms, he promises to you he’ll never give you another reason to silence the ugly snort he fell in love with.

Fin.

To everyone who requested a part 2: @whatthefuckkrichard @basic-fragment @toobsessedsstuff @nightshade7117 @banannie25

A/N: This series has quickly turned into a sort of love note to the album Mellon Collie & The Infinite Sadness by The Smashing Pumpkins (1995). Give it a listen; it’s so rich and poetic and fit for everyone’s tastes. And, it’s only 28 songs! Anywho, feedback is strongly appreciated. I tried to keep a similar style of narrative as the previous one but struggled to come up with something both realistic and satisfying. Hope I did it justice.

[doraspn]

i have thoughts about 04x07 (gay motel scene)

sit your gay asses down and roll tape

this is that time when i go over destiel scenes in an episode in a very scientifically sound, totally chill way lmfao jk watch me lose my motherfucking shit over this 

so first off, we have sam entering their motel room, they’ve just chatted with one half of the witch duo that sent them after the other half of the witch duo lol anyways, sam’s entering and he’s like shit someone’s here who the fuck are you hands up motherfucker

and then dean like, smells? cas from the doorway and rushes in shouting NO NO SAM WAIT NOT THE PRETTY ANGEL I WAS GONNA BED HIM LATERTHAT’S CASTIEL (back to full names are we dean? it’s no use you ain’t fooling nobody) THE ANGEL!

while cas is out here trying his best to seem mysterious. like, cas, buddy, what the fuck are you looking at? grab a magazine or something, don’t do this to yourself. regardless of what meta writers say, the motel wallpaper in supernatural ain’t that fucking intriguing.

then we get the shot of uriel staring out the fucking window. why? bc chuck put it in his stage directions ig who the fuck knows. probably thought it would look cool or edgy or something.

dean doesn’t know uriel and he’s alarmed, sam is fangirling bc omg angels

cas is all no nonsense and calls sam out for his demon blood (the poor man can’t help it cas, jesus)

“bitch what did you just call me?”

but that’s not what we’re here for is it

dean has his sarcastic display of animosity towards uriel aka “chuckles” (cute) and then hush hush lowers his head and looks at cas and is like

“who’s your friend? anyone i should be worried about? because i trust you to tell me if i should be worried right now. because i trust you, even though we only met like two a handful of days ago cas. i call you cas now you know, because castiel is difficult to say every time, takes too much time and effort. not because i find you cute or anything lol did i mention that i trust you?”

bla bla bla the witch knows who you are you could have died bla bla bla

oops my finger slipped and i accidentally pasted this screencap of dean falling in love withlooking at cas my bad don’t know how to delete it tho oh well guess you’ll have to deal

then grumpy ass uriel gets all his feathers ruffled up and stops their friendly seal breaking prevention meeting, part of mission stop buddy (just an expression) lucifer from rising. maybe he’s upset bc he hasn’t been introduced yet lmfao the dude legit spent this entire time staring out the window and clarifying that lucifer isn’t his friend ok then

look at cas angling his body towards dean squinting at uriel being like he my bro but i ain’t sure he trustworthy he got a few screws loose in his halo (he’s special, i mean specialist, he’s a specialist)

cas informs them they’re smiting the shit out of the town (and the one thousand two hundred fourteen people in it - okay but how many dogs uriel HOW MANY DOGS?????!!!!) so they better haul ass and dean’s like

looking at uriel only not cas because his cas would never

castiel personal-space-who? winchester moves closer to dean and they’re arguing but dean’s too soft considering this is literally life or death for a thousand people. like, sure he’s sarcastic and shit but all i can hear is “cas buddy my friend hey look can you not murder all these people in cold blood? for me?”

his lips are moving i can tell that he’s talking but damn he has some pretty blue eyes it’s not gay if i’m in love with a guy’s eyes right? *licks lips* 

cas is no better though

sam’s out there off screen making the case for them saving the town all alone and cas is following dean’s micro movements like a hypnotized puppy totally not paying attention to what sam is saying

dean briefly looks over to sam and back at cas like oh yeah what he um said yeah we’re what are talking about again?

these two horny bastards forgot all about the people (AND DOGS!) that are about to die and lucifer who’s planning on strolling out his cage. like is anyone surprised cas got demoted? bitch wasn’t doing his job for crying out loud. i’m sure they told him “castiel, we told you to watch over dean and sam, not watch dean sleep wtf man” 

dean is in his when the tough gets going mood but look, is it directed towards cas? 

lol nah, he went straight to uriel even though cas was right there in front of him the pretty eyes distract him so he went for the easier target.

let’s play, spot the difference game

vs

“we can do this cas, trust me okay don’t worry about it i know you’re not like that big jerk over there ilysm xxx”

“alright you gorgeous bastard, have it your way.”

“your eyes are so pretty i mean i knew you’d understand did i mention i trust you?”

that’s it that’s the scene

anyone else getting drunk on how gay af this is and literally no one involved was trying to make it so lol good job guys, we love organic gay

[adobe-outdesign]

DCTL Liveblog: Chapters 16-20

Sometimes this feels like I’m reading really good fanfiction.

Spoilers under the cut:

Chapter 16

I like how they’re just casually sitting here right after watching someone die and while there’s a demon on the loose. shouldn’t you guys, like, leave first

confirmation that Henry created Alice, even though she wasn’t used until after he left (which is kind of what I figured, but I’ve seen people say it was Joey)

Henry is Norman Approved(TM)

Norman calling Susie a “cute kid” is adorable honestly. I always liked the idea of them having a friendship

the whole “evil thing doesn’t like light” thing bothers me. like one it’s the most generic monster trope in the book, and two, since when the fuck was that a thing? Bendy fucking fistfought the Projectionist, I think he’s okay with a little light.

Actually the Ink Demon in general seems off in this - he doesn’t show any of the mischievous nature he has in the game (yet, anyway) and he does a bunch of weird shit like crawl on the ceiling or make wailing noises. feels like I’m reading about an xenomorph or something than Bendy.

the whole “ink goes through but doesn’t come out” doesn’t seem to make sense either? The blueprints indicate the Ink Machine produces the ink, which is how it was presented to the employees.

The thing about Sammy not acting like himself is interesting. It’s possible he’s so widly OOC is because the ink’s driving him crazy... but unfortunately that still doesn't’ really explain away the bigot shit. Plus it’s hard to tell if that was the author’s intent or not, maybe the next book will make it clearer.

I don’t really get why Buddy’s freaking out. Yeah, the ink’s at his house, and...? it’s not like anyone else is fucking around with the stuff, just wait until it’s safe and then bring it back to the studio.

Chapter 17

oh okay, he was worried about it infecting someone at his house, that makes more sense

Not sure how I feel about the ink being alive and stuff? I actually had a fic that explored that and bunch of other ideas that I didn’t write down because it was non-canon wherein it was something similar, but I was presented in more of an eldritch way. The ink just moving around on its own feels too venom-y for my taste, and is kind of weird considering it never was indicated in the game.

For those worried about the holocaust stuff: it’s just character backstory for Buddy’s grandpa and it’s treated very respectfully.

dumping the ink into a river seems like literally the worst way to get rid of it, but whatever

Chapter 18

"did you paint this?” uh...duh? your mom just told you he sent over his paintings, were you not listening?

Chapter 19

“I don’t have to sit there and watch people die” yeah, you can dick around and get lots of other people killed instead! Dot I like you but this is just a dumbass move

“I remembered the violinist, then tried to forgot her” it’s okay, everyone else already has seeing as she was such a background character she didn’t even get a name

okay screw everything else I just wrote Bertrum flat-out hugging Joey is by far the most surreal part of this book

you see, that was Henry’s problem, he though Bertie was trying to kill him when he was actually just trying to hug him with his carts. an easy mistake

I don’t think this is actually OOC though - they’ve just met recently (possibly only once before now), so Joey hasn’t had enough time to step on his ego and piss him off. we’re escentially seeing the rare non-butthurt Bertie

though to be fair, it is weird that Joey just calls him that and he doesn’t even bother correcting him

also, him brushing off Joey’s compliment with an “I don’t know about that” doesn’t seem quite right for an egotist, unless he’s just pretending to be humble for the sake of appearances

also I’ve been headcanoning him as big both in height and weight since the beginning, I’m glad he’s now canonly confirmed Beefy(TM) (their words not mine)

“Janie and the Bandits” good to see Showdown’s still getting work after being cancelled

Joey calling him a friend is also really funny because I’m pretty sure he still considers him that even after Bertie starts getting pissed at him

oh I see, the theatre was for expansion purposes

“Joey I heard you have booze here and I want it”

Chapter 20

it’s weird that Tom was fired. didn’t he quit of his own accord according to his first tape?

“Allison your fired” “I say I’m not fired” “damn it”

Thomas confirmed Swole

Tom being pissed all the time is... unfortunate, even if makes sense given what’s going on. It’s not a problem in general but when you make a character black you really gotta watch out for implications like that.

Allison knows that people died (esp. Susie), which is... interesting. It feels like it ties into her “I’m no angel” thing and not wearing her halo, though it also feels like it defeats the point of her being the “good” Alice a bit

I really like the little bits and pieces showing how the cartoon’s and ink creature’s minds work, seeing as the game doesn’t explore it at all

I wish they’d stop doing the “and I was face to face with Bendy” thing - it never is him and in this case it’s really obvious it’s Sammy.

TL;DR: Not sure if I like the direction the stuff with the ink is going, but otherwise it’s still pretty decent. Have to see how the final chapters play out tomorrow.

[kathyprior4200]

Heavenuva Boss

Not too far away from Holy City lay a beautiful area within the clouds of Heaven. A floating white sign read “Welcome to Elf City: est. 1981.” The sky was blue and the buildings and streets immaculate. Elves of various colors and sizes were chatting among themselves, while others walked around with their families. Many of them were hard at work, wrapping presents for Christmas, saving food to give to the homeless, cleaning a nearby park, and caring for the ill. Some of them liked to volunteer just for something to do. There were also miracle workers, whose job was to travel to different realms and bestow blessings to those on Earth or in other realms in Heaven. Hell was forbidden for obvious reasons. Some elves went around, saving people’s lives or healing their wounds once they prayed.

The most well-known miracle bestowing company was located in a tall office building surrounded by golden halo clouds. Posted on a door were the words “E.L.F.” Headquarters and on a taped piece of paper, “Meeting in progress” was scribbled on it.

On a white board was a line graph and a bar graph, the line slowly moving downwards from a blue happy face to a red sad face. “Docile is the best, by Docile” was written off to the side. A white Christian Cross was drawn in the center of the wooden table surrounded by black leather chairs.

Up front, a black, white, and blue colored elf paced back and forth. He had large pointed white ears that jutted off to the sides between the sides and top of his head. He had large purple eyes. The left side of his face was blue and the right side of his face was dark gray. He wore a long white business suit with blue buttons and purple circles on the sleeves with a cross in the centers. White boots with blue outlines covered his feet while white fingerless gloves covered his hands. A white hoof-shaped mark lay on his forehead like a birthmark. A little green pin attached to his undershirt had a happy face on it. A black halo with thorns on it hovered over his head.

Docile looked toward his audience of two elves and a humanoid cat sitting on chairs around the table.

“All right, now I know business has been…a bit stressful lately. We’ve had to keep up demands and during the rush, not everyone can be saved.” He pointed toward the graph. “It seems that more and more people aren’t counting on miracles from angels and God to help themselves feel better. I don’t know how our company will fare if this keeps sloping down. It’s no one’s fault, okay? I just think that some of us could…help with improving their attitudes… Woxxie.”

Woxxie raised her eyebrows. The grumpy imp woman had a blue face, short white hair with a black spot on it and displayed a row of sharp teeth. She wore white gloves and a white tank top over a long white skirt. Her eyelashes extended past her face. Like the others, she had a black wiry halo over her head.

Docile continued. “Now does anyone have any ideas on how we can business drumming up again?”

Willie, the bubbly elf, raised his hand. He had a blue face, purple eyes, and black hair framing his face. Black freckles were present under his eyes, black halo above his head. He wore a light blue bow tie and a white business suit similar to Docile’s.

Willie grinned, “What…about…a billboard?”

 “That’s a thought, Willie, but there are advertisements everywhere in Heaven,” Docile mentioned. Then his eyes brightened and he waved his hands. “How about a car wash?”

Woxxie crossed her arms. “We’re a company, not a go-to fundraising event, sir.”

Docile wondered over to Woxxie and put her in a headlock. “So helpful, Woxxie, I’m really glad you’re in the room right now.” He gently shoved her aside, sarcasm in his voice. “Have you guys forgotten what service we provide?”

Docile turned on the TV and a series of clips showed up on screen: Docile bandaging an angel’s wings, Woxxie helping a man walk, Sunna, the cat purring at a crying girl, Willie saving someone using CPR.

Docile held a bowl of popcorn for everyone to eat. Sunna, the brown furred, black stripped cat, wore a white dress with a sun on it. She wore a gold cross necklace around her neck. She was purring contently while sniffing her last leaf of catnip she brought. A nearby poster showed Docile and his two elf sisters Mia and Tia with an award for being the best care-providers.

“Ah, those were good times,” he smiled.

Willie happily ate a piece of popcorn on the table.

Woxxie scowled. “Don’t need any reminding sir, considering you blew most of our salaries to help a rival pharmaceutical company with their advertisement, one that you additionally paid to have us hold their hands and sing for three whole weeks on a channel, everybody watches!”

“Hey, uh excuse me?” Docile looked back, insulted. He stood up. “What’s so “obnoxious” about generosity and a super fun song, alright? It’s a fun distraction when an advertisement’s spitting lies.” He walked across the room.

“People love musicals, sir,” added Willie.

“Exactly, Willie,” Docile smiled, “and we’re basically doing a musical.” Docile did jazz hands before during to Woxxie. “Are you gonna criticize my musical theater dreams like my dad did?”

“Sir…” Woxxie began, but Docile cut her off.

“Because all I see right now is my Dad and his angry eyes glaring at me, criticizing my dreams of being, who I truly am inside.” He turned his head away.

Willie leaned in toward his wife and spoke in a teasing tone, “Are you trying to crush his dreams, Woxxie?”

“I…what?” she stuttered.

He leaned in closer, eyebrows raising up and down playfully. “I thought I knew you.” Woxxie rolled her eyes.

Docile turned back to Woxxie, tears in his eyes. “I can’t believe you, Woxxie. And after I made you Employee of the Month.” He held up a picture of Woxxie with a large grin of sharp teeth.

Woxxie threw up her hands. “Okay, sir, I’m sorry, but a commercial jingle is not comparable to musical theater. Nobody actually likes the jingles.”

“I liked it!” Willie popped up.

Woxxie turned to him, finger shaking. “Do not…do not agree with him in front of me.”

 In a commercial, Docile spoke in front of purple curtains. “Hi I’m Docile, the “e” is silent and I’m the founder of E.L.F.”  Docile leaned against the L in the logo, with Willie and Woxxie posing on either side. Docile continued, “Are you a piece of gold that got yourself sent to Heaven?” The picture showed Docile dressed in a superhero outfit with a red cape. “Or are you a conflicted convict who just happened to have your life cut short by someone else?” The next picture showed Docile dressed in a red devil costume choosing whether or not to quit smoking and drugs.

 A blue winged angel with a tiger’s head spoke, “After defending myself against my psycho brother and preaching about God, you could imagine my surprise when I wound up here, after the coronavirus killed me. I really wish I could give my family well-wishes and advise them to kick my brother out.”

Docile continued, standing in a church with Willie and Woxxie nearby.

“Well, luckily for you, thanks to our company’s special access to the living world, we can help you take care of your unfinished business by saving anyone who may have helped you out when you were alive!” Docile happily climbed up a flight of golden steps.

 Then the jingle began:

 “When you want somebody saved

And you wanna go behave

Call the Efficient Lifesaving Fellows

Whether First Aid or CPR

We’ll make sure you all go far

Efficient Lifesaving Fellows

We do our job so fine

‘Cause we come straight from Cloud Nine

We’ll save your husband or your wife

We’ll even help extend your life

The Efficient Lifesaving Fellows

 Pets live for freeeeee”

 A brown haired woman stole a guy’s wallet and kicked him in the groin. She ran off and then got shot by police. Yet she only went unconscious. The doctors took her to the emergency room while the imps waited. A doctor walked in on the elves in the waiting room.

“She’s in stable condition, but she’ll need rest. Now what kind of insurance do you freaks have?”

“God’s chosen don’t need insurance,” Docile said.

The elves and the woman were promptly kicked out of the hospital and sent back to Heaven.

  The jingle ended with “Pets live for freeee!”

 Woxxie spoke up, hands in front of her. “I’d like to go on record and say that incident was Sunna’s fault. Dispatch is supposed to give the right info on the client. It’s very simple.”

“I’m sorry, Woxxie, I did the nest I could,” Sunna said.

Woxxie fumed, stuttering “’Sorry’ doesn’t cover it…do your job!”

“Hey, now we don’t blame screw-ups on Sunna, okay?” Docile said. “She didn’t do anything wrong.” Sunna walked over and embraced Docile in a tight hug, Docile straining to break free.

“Are you kidding me, sir? She’s awful!”

 Sunna thought back to the time when she was a receptionist at a desk. The old rotary phone rang, sounding like cats meowing. She picked up the fish-shaped phone.

“Thank you for calling E.L.F. How may we bless you?” Sunna asked.

Willie was on the other end. “There’s a customer ranting about Satan. He wants to commit suicide…”

“Tell him that suicide will not make things better.”

“He wants to rant and curse to you…”

“Just got a call on the other line, apologies.”

Sunna hung up the phone, glancing back at her Fancy Feast Feline magazine.

 Another memory came back to Sunna, which took place at her house.

“Happy Adoption Anniversary, Sunny,” said Docile. “I got a little something for you.” He showed her a gift in his hands.

Sunna smiled. “Is it spiders to play with?”

“I…uh…”

“Then I want it!” she exclaimed happily, tearing open the gift. She took out a white pill and looked in confusion.

“I’m sorry, it was a cure for syphilis,” Docile said, moving toward the wall.

“Docile, it’s a placebo!” Sunna cried, crushing the sugar pill in her paw. “There is no cure!”

 There was one other time when Sunna watched Caroline singing/screaming “Inside of Every Angel is a Monster.” Woxxie walked over, holding a piece of paper in her hands.

“Um, did you just send me an ad for beauty makeovers?”

“Yes,” Sunna replied.

“Is it because I’m so gorgeous?” Woxxie asked with a grin.

“Come on,” Sunna teased. “Just the opposite.”

 Later, Sunna rummaged around, looking for something in the kitchen.

“Who left this tuna salad in the fridge?”

“Wasn’t me,” said Willie. “It was there from yesterday.”

“Is this yours Wox?”

No answer.

“Well, I’m taking it because I have the best feeling right now.”

She closed the door and gulped down the food.

“Now why would you get happy on a work day?” Willie asked, nearby.

“I’m happy from this morning, Willie Nilly,” she giggled.

Woxxie walked inside. “Is that my lunch?”

“I’m so sorry!” Sunna said, then brightened. “You know what? I’ll just go get you another one before work! Time to enjoy my tenth life!”

Sunna raced outside with a “Wheeee!” and helped an elderly elf cross the street.

 “Docile!” Sunna called in the office, “Your privileged boss’s on the phone. Says it’s urgent and wants to talk to you. Sounds a little DTP y.” (Down to Punish)

“Oh no that was one time!” Docile yelled, splashing water on himself in front of Woxxie.

“We wouldn’t have access to the living world if I hadn’t let myself get punished by him.

“You what?” Woxxie asked, concerned.

“I stole a Bible after getting whipped for the sins I did.”

“Docile!” Sunna cried.

“I heard you already!” Docile yelled before stomping into his office to play with bobble heads of himself, Woxxie and Willie.

 “So, what can I do you for, Stolos?” Docile asked on his cell phone in his office.

The brown owl kind spoke from his castle, wearing a crown, white top hat and blue robes. “There’s a politician who’s causing lots of trouble on Earth. He wants to convince people that the coronavirus isn’t dangerous.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Well, it is, but more people die when no extra precautions are taken. And it gets crowded here.”

“Well that makes sense.”

“You know what happens when I’m stressed, Docy?”

“Oh no…” Docile began.

“When I’m stressed, I become angry. And when I’m angry, I have to whip your back and **** strike your **** with a flaming sword, cast you into a windy dessert, freeze you into ice in the lowest level, make you swim in the lake of fire for 1 million ******hours, hang you on a wooden cross for sins you didn’t commit and leave you begging for His mercy like an imperfect mortal!”

Docile hung up the phone and tossed the pieces to Sunna. “Here play with these. And you know after you put it in your mouth?”

“Yeah?”

“Vomit it off a bridge.”

 Docile continued, “Look, the point is, Sunna is a valued member of our family and we don’t get rid of families.”

“We aren’t a family, sir,” Woxxie pointed out. “You are the boss. We are the employees. You treat her like she’s some hyperactive teenager. She’s more like a catnip addicted spoiled woman you let man the phones.”

Sunna stuck out her tongue at her.

“That is offensive,” Docile said. “Without rich people, I wouldn’t have half the joy and laughter I do in this life.” Docile opened the blinds and saw an angel dressed in a golden suit getting his picture taken by a crowd of people. Docile waved at a lovely white-haired blue-faced elf woman wearing a white dress with little white feathery wings on them before closing the blinds.

 Woxxie crossed her arms. “While we’re on the subject of “family,” can you stop finding Willie and me outside of work?”

“Come on, it’s not that big a deal,” Willie said.

Woxxie’s eyes grew wide. “Excuse me…what?! I asked Willie for some lemons, he said “sure, honey.” Docile was suddenly fixing our oven just when we were about to make angel’s food cake!”

Willie laughed, “Docile said “the best aide is lemonade when life gives you lemons.” So funny!”

  Willie and Woxxie remembered the song they sang, while Willie played on guitar:

“Of all the perfect elves,

It’s with him, I’m myself

Oh Willie.”

They leaned in for a kiss when Woxxie whirled around toward the window. Docile had a video camera outside.

“Are you bucking filming us right now?!”

 Back in the present, Woxxie seethed. “Just. Stop. Doing that.”

“I don’t see what the issue is,” Docile said. “Just love good classic romance, holy matrimony…and the honeymoon bonus scenes.”

Sunna rolled her eyes, while Woxxie fumed.

“Sir, what you say and how you act is totally INAPPROPRIATE!” Woxxie stood up.

“Calm down, Wox,” Willie said, pulling her back down. “You’re gonna have another panic attack.”

“I AM CALM!” Woxxie yelled before Willie patted her head. “Shh there, there,” she said, while Woxxie whimpered.

Docile spoke again. “Look I don’t judge what you do outside of working hours, so don’t judge me.”

Veins popped out of Woxxie’s eyes. “Oh I do judge you, sir. Quite a lot, actually.”

She crossed her arms while Willie gasped in fear.

“Wox, he’s our boss!”

“No, it’s fine, Willie,” Docile mentioned. “Your wife is just…how do I say this without being offensive…bossy.”

“Does immaturingly insulting me make you feel better about your sad single life?” Woxxie asked.

“Not really, but it’s still fun,” Docile admitted.

Sunna added to Woxxie, “Even though you can be a grump sometimes, I still appreciate your company.”

“Please don’t call her a grump, kitty cat!” Willie protested.

“Do not criticize my assistant that way,” Docile said. “She’s sensitive.”

“Yes I am,” admitted Sunna.

  “You guys are freaking amazing!”

Everyone turned to look. A pale spirit of a brown-haired teen girl floated nearby, wearing a prisoner uniform.

“Oh thank you, kid,” said Docile. “It’s something for you to witness this.”

“Ugh, this company’s such a mess,” Woxxie exclaimed.

“Alright, let’s get back to talking about my outfit!” Docile said out of nowhere.

“Nobody was talking about that,” Sunna mentioned.

“Which is why I’m trying to get that ball rolling, so how does it look? It’s good, right?”

 The spirit pointed her finger at Docile, “It was heaven being able to rest after being shot by police for mugging a guy, but now…I miss my family. I want life!”

“You,” she said pointing to Docile, “You’re a selfless frugal clown. And I’m a young teen. We’re not supposed to like clowns.”

Woxxie scoffed, “Calling us clowns are ya…”

The spirit added, “If I wanted to talk to a pretty, organized woman, I’d look her in the eye and ask, “How in the world did I get here?”

“That’s my wife you’re talking to,” Willie said proudly.

“I figured you for an athlete but I didn’t know you’d get even luckier. And you.”

“Yeah what about me?” Sunna asked.

“You’re just purrfect. I was never a dog person.”

Sunna purred.

“Wow you really are kind of a nice slab of diamonds,” Docile said.

Woxxie rolled her eyes. “Such a flirt trying to make herself innocent.”

 Sunna spoke up. “Hey guys, I just got a text from our client, says she’s the right one after all.”

“Who?” Docile asked.

“Her.”

“Me?” asked the spirit.

“Yep.”

“They wanted us to save an actual convict?” Docile asked.

“That’s what they’re saying.”

Docile frowned. “Well Satan in a heater, I guess there is a Devil.” He waved his hands, supplying oxygen to her and she woke up back on Earth in the hospital.

Docile spoke about E.L.F.: “You know folks, with this company, I really wanted to prove that we’re capable of doing the same things anyone else can, like saving people. So from us here at the Efficient Lifesaving Fellows group, we promise to settle your unfinished business or your money is gone and you’re never getting it back and you can write us a bad review but we’ll play dumb to it because it’s Heaven and business is business.”

  Everyone wrapped Docile in a hug, whole he rolled his eyes. Then he said, “Even though the kid was a client, she’s still a convict. It’s important that we’ve handled this going forward, respectfully.” Everyone smiled in the hug.

 Back on Earth, the elves cornered the escaping woman and sent her to a juvenile detention center. The police looked up at the elves through a portal.

“You’re welcome!” Docile called with a wave before the portal closed.

[amoebo-id]

a o t d !!!

no more than 1 release per artist to keep it interesting. selection and ranking is arbitrary and would prob be wildly different if i did this tomorrow. also i only went down to #42 cause everything after that didn’t feel like real aotd status - at least as far as the specific relationships i built over the past 10 yrs with the music i was listening to

#1 laurel halo quarantine

nobody did machine-body dialectic like laurel halo in 2012. i loved everything else from her this decade too but every time i listened to Carcass it made me leave my body physically. absolutely unreal album art too

https://laurelhalo.bandcamp.com/track/carcass-2

#2 e+e the light that you gave me to see you

2012 was a good year. pop/ambient/noise/radio-dj-tag sound collage ascended to spiritual intensity. makes you feel like a child experiencing awe. also fire-gut used to have probably my favorite music video ever but i think it’s gone now

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-p-SSuwW9cw

#3 ilovemakonnen 5

not to be confused with Drink More Water 5, this one’s from 2010 during his mostly-forgotten diy outsider-pop phase. off-key singing and amateur beats and the sheer absolute joy of making cool songs. all 5 are perfect

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORKpg_-z0Mk

#4 macintosh plus floral shoppe

would’ve made top 10 on album art alone. music, aesthetics, and cultural impact are inseparable here but going back to the album reminded me just how engaging its 2010s-updated chopped-and-screwed sound is, musically not just conceptually

https://vektroid.bandcamp.com/track/420

#5 jason lescalleet this is what i do 17

hard to pick a favorite from jason lescalleet’s semi-monthly document of his electroacoustic / field recording / tape loop practice but i’ve cried to multiple tracks on tiwid 17 so it gets the nod. couldn’t find any of them online so here’s something else of his

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t33x8OOm68E

#6 barrio sur बड़ा शोक (heart break)

dedekind cut guy’s weird one-off side project ended up being my favorite thing to come out of the last few years’ obsession w cowboy/western/country music/aesthetics. pure mystery

https://soundcloud.com/user-366783613/redemption-7inch

#7 cities aviv come to life

i think maybe people thought cities aviv was just another no-flow pseudo-”conscious rap” type rapper in 2014 but actually this album is nuts. hyper-energetic vaporwave rap? what if death grips were happy? idk

https://citiesaviv.bandcamp.com/track/url-irl-2

#8 beach boys the smile sessions

this cool fresh 1960s rock myth arrived fully formed and way more fun than the other ones. brian wilson’s concepts and songwriting got so unwieldy we had to wait 50 years to hear the sessions. i don’t care about conversations about his genius or whatever these songs kick ass

https://oldmasterpainter.bandcamp.com/track/surfs-up

#9 mindspring memories & intl. debris international memories

did this really only come out in 2017? i feel like i’ve been listening to it since i was born. tangential lateral kind of wormhole out of vaporwave into two meditative spiritual infinite-feeling loops that perfectly complement each other

https://noproblematapes.bandcamp.com/track/sad-horizons

#10 nyege nyege tapes sounds of sisso

absolutely obnoxiously insanely high energy high pitch high bpm dance music. i can’t believe this isn’t what people mean when they say future bass. set me down the path of historical and contemporary non-”global north” ideas about dance/rhythm/bass which i’m still on

https://nyegenyegetapes.bandcamp.com/track/mshamba-video-mster

#11 blithe field face always toward the sun

the most gorgeous implementation of the sorta-ambient guitar-looping vignette aesthetic. is this a real trope or did i listen to this album so much i convinced myself it was a thing? for me this is the sound of what its like to feel completely content with life and at ease in the moment

https://blithefield.bandcamp.com/track/zen-den

#12 anohni hopelessness

listening to this album and singing along while driving my car made me feel absolutely disgusting. unbelievable hooks, grossly hi fi sound design, and overblown drama add up to imo a scary effective type of explicitly political or ‘protest’ music

https://anohni.bandcamp.com/track/drone-bomb-me

#13 21 savage, offset, & metro boomin without warning

why is these 3 pop stars’ vaguely halloween-themed one-off collab my favorite trap album? 21 savage, offset, and metro boomin were all wildly corny in different ways but everything was perfectly balanced. i hope metro boomin makes like one seriously ambient album next decade

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bWv-bR_X-VM&list=PLC1uUM4twa8i6zsD_Sn1LRUq4vhl_PLCx&index=11&t=0s

#14 laura les big summer jams 2018

‘crying in the club’ type bangers with no fear of ugliness and no fear of beauty and no fear of wildly unfashionable tropes like skrillex-y dubstep and guitar solos. so much input from other trans/queer artists it felt like a big t4t party

https://osno1.bandcamp.com/track/the-river-feat-scum-yung-skrrt-and-99jakes

#15 triad god nxb

the other triad god tape from 7 years later is just as good. what was this man doing in the intervening time? i just imagine him riding london public transit while it rains or something. i love knowing that most of his cantonese spoken-word/rap parts are insults and jokes rather than like, melancholy observations

https://soundcloud.com/hipposintanks/triad-god-remand

#16 dj koze knock knock

what if pop music sounded like this? somehow every song on here is wildly danceable, wildly sing-alongable, and also wildly detail-oriented. feels like a transmission from an alternate present where things are okay

https://djkoze.bandcamp.com/track/club-der-ewigkeiten

#17  ocora world of traditional music

box set of “world music” recordings from the label that french electronic composer pierre schaeffer started in the 1950s as a project to teach people in rural west africa how to dj. ethnography can be a fucked up idea but afaik ocora is one of the good ones and if you can sorta try to disengage from the tropes/cliches that get imposed on it, the music is phenomenal. hard to find a track specific to this box set but here’s another from the label

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJm8rn6gW5I

#18 oneohtrix point never replica

opn feels like an artist i’ve ‘grown out of’ i guess but samples never felt more alive or more dead than they did on replica. set a template for the kind of melancholy ‘soundscape’-y vibe that i spent years trying to find more of after

https://oneohtrixpointnever1.bandcamp.com/track/power-of-persuasion

#19 rihanna anti

the most perfect imaginable pop album. i keep trying to move it higher up. i almost put club chai vol 1 on this list purely cause of the Woo remix but then i remembered the original is better

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dDCUKElEwk

#20 colleen a flame my love a frequency

colleen’s ultra deadpan singing and wriggly rhythmic synth put me in a trance. everything sounded dry as hell even though it was covered in reverb. i think maybe some people were put off by the corny song names and lyrics

https://colleencolleen.bandcamp.com/track/separating

#21 dj paypal drake edits

back when drake seemed like a sorta-shitty dude rather than seriously creepy, dj paypal used the power of footwork to expose both the melancholy-ambient modality and the serious-bass-music modality latent in his voice and beats

https://mallmusicinc.com/track/brand-new

#22 huerco s. for those of you who have never (and also those who have)

not really as ambient as it first seems imo, but rather like a really intense focus on what we mean when we describe things as ‘static’ or ‘dynamic’. i know it’s corny but i wanna say these tracks are fully both and fully neither

https://brianleeds.bandcamp.com/track/promises-of-fertility

#23 girls rituals reddishness

for a track so deliberately shitty-sounding I Know had no right to be so fucking danceable. persona and production synthesized into the only ‘singer-songwriter’ music i could really get into

https://temporaryenjoyment.bandcamp.com/track/i-know

#24 chromatics kill for love

fakeass 80s retro melancholia digitized and pushed so far past pastiche it turned into pure slime. the phone call in There’s A Light Out On The Horizon came straight from the void

https://soundcloud.com/johnnyjewel/chromatics-kill-for-love-album

#25 actress ghettoville

the only genuinely post-apocalyptic music. specifically the postapocalypse in wall-e but if there was no wall-e to clean it up

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QcCPdfUFq6k

#26 playboi carti die lit

every beat on this album was reducible to a 4-second loop that perpetually demanded its own repetition and playboi carti somehow knew exactly what to do with them

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-2pjiKmhlAI

#27 charli xcx vroom vroom

the charli xcx that came after this was fun, but there was black hole levels of power compacted into when she said vroom vroom on Vroom Vroom

https://soundcloud.com/vroomvroomrecordings/charli-xcx-vroom-vroom

#28 pacific breeze: japanese city pop, aor & boogie 1976-1986

it’s kind of amazing to think that this compilation only exists because vaporwave aesthetics made ‘japanese grocery-store kitsch from the 80s’ a marketable thing in the us. anyway every single one of these is an absolute bop

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jl91bvEKj20

#29 young thug barter 6

i can’t get enough of listening to young thug’s voice. i’ve seen his rhythmic-melodic-textural sensibility described as virtuosic and i don’t know really if that term means anything but it feels right to me

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qg9ZxQKSDuw

#30 magic eye babylon

smeared dreamy lo-fi guitar music w wistful buried melodies pushed to an extreme. every song sounded the same and i wish there was more than the one cassette

https://magiceye.bandcamp.com/track/flame

#31 tirzah devotion

you could say this was ‘stripped down’ r&b but i think more accurately what separated it was that every sound stood exactly and only for itself

https://tirzah.bandcamp.com/track/basic-need

#32 mount eerie clear moon

it’s amazing how well mount eerie navigated the move from a lo-fi sound/mode/affect to a hi-fi sound/mode/affect. clear moon wasn’t his first attempt but it was the one that most embodied the feeling of the new possilibities that had been opened up

https://pwelverumandsun.bandcamp.com/track/through-the-trees-pt-2

#33 kelela aquaphoria

this mix was such a good idea it immediately seemed shocking nobody else had tried afaik. and kelela executed it so well you forgot the tracks already existed in other contexts

https://soundcloud.com/kelelam/aquaphoria

#34 james ferraro skid row

not sure what it means that the only james ferraro i really love is also the one i think of as the least abstract/conceptual. his recited lyrics had a rare spoken-word-poetic power

https://breakworldrecords.bandcamp.com/track/to-live-and-die-in-la

#35 salyu x salyu s(o)un(d)beams

absolutely unbounded sense of joy and creativity and possibility hovering between bangers-lite and ‘soundscape’-y electronic manipulation

https://soundcloud.com/snouu/salyu-x-salyu-s-o-un-d-beams

#36 dj rashad just a taste vol 1

double cup got all the press but it was so smoothed-over it could never have done something as absurdly beautiful as Ghost or even Go Crazy

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZuHPAbte9U

#37 yves tumor serpent music

i’m sorta put off by the high-gloss sheen of music like this but serpent music somehow had the right combination of total cohesion and a ridiculous density of impactful moments

https://soundcloud.com/pan_hq/yves-tumor-the-feeling-when-you-walk-away-pan-73?in=pan_hq/sets/yves-tumor-serpent-music-pan

#38 maral mahur club

lo-fi beat collage elevated to something that could actually genuinely be called world music

https://astralplanerecordings.bandcamp.com/track/avesta-khani-reggaeton

#39 lucki ecks watch my back

did not expect this super low-stakes sadboy trap to end up on this list but i love his min-effort flow and somehow every beat is exactly the vibe even when the tracks aren’t volume balanced

https://soundcloud.com/boob7/leave-wit-you-prod-plu2o-nash-clams-casino?in=boob7/sets/watch-my-back

#40 arca stretch 2

not sure why i get more out of arca’s nonsense broken-beat non-rap than any of her later projects

https://unonyc.bandcamp.com/track/tapped-in

#41 klein only

a new way to do fucked up noise w pop leanings. ‘audacitycore’

https://klein1997.bandcamp.com/track/pretty-black-2

#42 city arcadia

another mysterious transmission, this time w lots of harp

https://soundcloud.com/halcyon-veil/city-arcadia

[thephantomofthe-internet]

Homeward Bound: Chapter 15

Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader, Billy Hargrove x Henderson!Reader

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15

Chapter Summary: The aftermath of disaster brings back familiar faces and reveals new truths...

Word Count: 4,431

Warnings: Death mention, swearing, injury mention, vaguely sexy??? I tried :/

Permanent Tag: @hargrovesgoldilocks @hotstuffhargrove @denimjacketkisses @lilmissperfectlyimperfect @hipsmcgee @casaharrington @thechickvic @alex--awesome--22 

Series Tag: @moonstruckhargrove @kurt-nightcrawler @baebee35 @supernatural-pants @thoughstofaredhead @bby-becca @estheflowergirl @onemorekissisallittakes @thecapitangingersnap sorry gurl you didn’t come up and i can’t find your ask :/

You came to on a beach chair, a tiny flashlight shone in your eyes, eyelids held open by strong, callused hands, flashing the white light in your eyes. You wanted to turn away, to close your eyes, but a softer pair held your head in place. The light went off in a flash and the hands came away from your eyes, letting you blink away the spots in your vision.

The kids were gone, replaced by police. Officer Harrington was holding you upright, hands rubbing small circles on your back, watching you with a worried smile. Hopper was looking in the eyes, a small first aid kit and breathalyser test next to him, watching your pupils dilate and shrink.

“What happened?” you asked groggily, reaching up to touch your head, feeling the lump forming under the ice Steve held tightly to your head.

“You fainted.” Hopper said shortly, dropping the flashlight in the kit and pulling a large square of gauze from the kit “Hold this in place.” He placed it on the wide gash on your knee. You’d hardly noticed it.

“So what happened tonight? Have a couple too many?” Hopper asked, taping the bandage shut with the quick skill of a man who’d done this many times before.

“No, just decided to go for a swim.” You replied, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Can I ask who you were with tonight, Y/N?” Hopper asked, sitting up to look at you, his expression worried and paternal.

“I came here alone-” you tried, only to be cut off by Steve’s chuckle.

“Relax, none of the kids are gonna get arrested. We know they do this every year. They aren’t in shit.” He told you. You nodded, smiling at the idea that every year the kids thought they were evading police when in actuality the station was playing along to let them feel tough.

“Anyone besides them?” Hopper clarified, squeezing your uninjured knee softly.

“I saw…Billy Hargrove. And um…I ran into Carol Danforth, but I didn’t mean to see her…” you explained awkwardly.

“And where did you go?”

“The diner um…shit I don’t remember its new name, it was Benny’s.”

Hopper chuckled “That’s good enough.” He pushed himself up with great difficulty, dusting off his khakis with a tired look. You both knew that he was too old for this shit.

“Come on, Y/N, I’ll take you home. Grab your things.” Hopper said, offering you a hand, which you took gratefully, letting him pull you up.

“I got her, Hop, head back to Joyce. I gotta head back to the station to fill out an incident report.” Steve said, grabbing your bag off the ground by your feet as you adjusted your towel around yourself.

“No need for one, kid, nothing happened. Bev Mooney was wrong in her call.” Hopper said, winking at you.

“I don’t know if I can…” Steve tried, but stopped when he saw the look Hopper was giving him. He nodded, scuffing his shoes on the damp tile, thoroughly dejected.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, right Steve? You’re not flaking on Dusty right?” you asked timidly.

“Yeah, see you then…” he said, turning away briskly and out of the pool area. You noted that they’d busted the lock to get in. You felt so bad for making them come all the way in here-this should’ve been a routine task but because of you they had to go all cop on you because you couldn’t hold it together.

You rode back with Hopper in silence, the kind of journey you’d wanted so badly when you arrived in town. God…that felt so long ago now-it felt like you’d been in town forever. You didn’t wish that this was the ride you’d had into town now, now you longed for Steve’s awkward silence and uncomfortable smile. This all felt too familiar to you, like you’d slipped back into your old world.

Maybe you had.

You didn’t remember the immediate aftermath. You were in a daze of emotion and terror. You were vaguely aware of Hopper finally arriving out of his own daze and to you, pulling you off the tile and into his arms, holding you back from the body.

He took you home, you remembered that. The ride was deadly silent, save for the last of your tears. Hopper didn’t push you to talk, but he didn’t give you any answers either-he left the questions burning in your mind to the silence. Maybe he didn’t have the answers then either.

You didn’t care; however, you needed to hear something. So, alone in your bedroom, you blasted the loudest music you had, filling your head with sound and fury, blocking out nothing. But that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that you missed dinner and your mother was so upset because Richard was disappointed over missing you. It didn’t matter that Dustin snuck out for the fortieth time and your mother didn’t know what to do with him. It didn’t matter that you missed Billy’s call and kept your window locked that night, leaving him out of your world. It didn’t even matter that you missed work the next day and got fired. All that mattered was that you didn’t know what to do with yourself anymore.

Heather was gone. You knew that. But you couldn’t help but desperately wanting her to come back, for it all to be a bad dream. You wanted to wake up in a sleeping bag on the floor next to her in her parent’s basement, to talk about it like it was nothing and move on over a bag of microwave popcorn and a cheesy movie. But that was impossible. You knew that.

You knew the death would come out soon, you knew that Mrs. Macpherson was probably notified about it. She was probably more broken because of it than you were. You knew you’d have to find a black dress, that it would all make sense to your mother soon and you’d be allowed to fall apart again.

You wonder if this was how Nancy felt when Barb was gone. You wondered if Heather’s death would feel to her as numb and hollow as Barb’s death felt to you. The three of them were friends in the way Barb and you had been friends before you left-superficially. Her death hurt, you certainly mourned it, but it felt like an empty hole in your chest had sprung open and consumed your soul. It felt nothing like the pain you felt now. Now you couldn’t breathe.

When Hopper dropped you off, you didn’t want to go through the front door. It was late, the lights were out. You didn’t want to see Dustin; he’d only be upset with you. You felt out of place and restless. Still, you pushed in through the front door, sneaking upstairs and pulling off your wet suit to change into your pyjamas. You felt numb and odd; you’d lost the feeling in your hands and feet. You knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep, but you couldn’t very well stay up all night. You contemplated sneaking into the medicine cabinet and taking something vaguely sleep related, maybe some night time cold medication. But you didn’t have all night to screw around.

You found yourself downstairs again and you slipped onto the porch. The night air was still cool and clear and mosquitoes buzzed in your ears. You found yourself heaving a sigh. The house was stuffy and tense, but outside you felt as though you could breathe fully again. The memories kept flashing back, but outside you could focus on your breaths, you could find your calming thoughts. The street lights flickered and the crickets chirped, but the night was still and you swore the world stopped turning.

Cars weren’t exactly rushing down your street, so when one did, it startled you. It did more than startle you when one stopped in front of the fire hydrant by your house. You found yourself jumping to your feet, rushing for the door.

“Y/N!” the voice whispered loudly and the white halo of light illuminating the street caught Steve’s face beautifully. He looked like an angel.

He bounded up the driveway, giving you the time to find your nerve and fully look at him. “Did you get locked out? Do you want me to pick the lock for you?” he asked breathlessly.

“No!” you shook your head, finding yourself breathless just looking in his eyes-he was so beautiful, even when he was worried. And he was worried for you, that stirred something in your soul, more than it did before. “I couldn’t sleep, so I’m trying to clear your head. I used to do this all the time, back… when it felt like the world was ending.” You explained softly, sitting back down gingerly on the step.

Steve followed suit, resting his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees. “I get that…I used to drive around all night, when I couldn’t sleep, you know? When it all felt like it was ending and everything was falling apart, all I could do was drive.” he replied dreamily.

“I never knew that…” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

He turned to look at you, watching you watch the empty street for a moment. Your face was half illuminated, half darkened, like the moon, and you dominated his view; he couldn’t look away even if he tried. “Can I ask you what happened?” he asked quietly.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pained by the question. Steve wanted to take it back, but your face relaxed and you let out a steady breath, nodding to yourself. “I’m not…I’m not as strong as I think I am.” You said slowly, eyes lowered and shy.

Steve raised an eyebrow “What’d you mean?”                              

“I just…I try so hard to be brave and to push things aside so I can live. And coming back here was so hard and I thought I could tackle it so this chapter can be over. But I can’t. I’m just not strong enough.” You didn’t notice the tear roll down your cheek, but Steve did. He brushed it away with his thumb.

“Why push it away?” he asked softly, following your gaze until he caught it. “You went through so much, why push it away?”

“If I don’t, I’ll never do anything; I’ll just hate myself.”

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t save her.” You voice cracked pathetically, thick and hoarse with tears “I couldn’t save Heather.”

“I think about Barb every day.” Steve said, almost out of nowhere. “I think of what I could’ve done to save her. What I could change to make things right. Nancy does too. We all made mistakes back then, we all have regrets. But we can’t go back to fix them now. I’ve forgiven myself for what happened; I was young and stupid, but there was so much I couldn’t have known. Why haven’t you forgiven yourself?”

“Because I kept her there. I led her there under false pretences and I ignored her and she died. If I wasn’t so selfish, she’d be alive.”

“No.” Steve shot, shaking his head solemnly “That isn’t your fault. Heather didn’t have to stay, she didn’t have to agree. Either way, you would’ve made the pool your lookout. You were young and single minded, maybe a little selfish, but that’s not the point. You can’t see the future. And that’s okay.”

“Is it?” you asked quietly, fiddling with the grass by your feet.

“Yes! Jesus, Y/N you’re allowed not to be guilty of something that wasn’t your fault! Have you not come to terms with that yet?” Steve said, his tone light and easy.

“I’m trying!” you cried, earning a big, goofy grin from Steve; the kind that made you laugh for no reason. “That’s why I came back to town!”

“Not for Dustin?” Steve smirked.

“Not just for Dustin.” You corrected, finally matching his grin. You watched each for a moment before the smile died and Steve heaved a big sigh, scooting closer and wrapping an arm around you. You let him, resting your head on his shoulder. You missed this little moment with…well anyone. No, with Steve; you made up your mind to pretending that you didn’t.

Steve nodded to himself, eyes training up to the sky, shoulders slumping into something like a relaxed posture. You’d noticed how Steve never looked at peace anymore, although it was hard to remember a time when he was. Before leaving town with your father, you hardly knew Steve at all and so the memories you had were fuzzy and faded, but you were sure that before all the mess went down that he was the calm, cool and collected king of Hawkins everyone declared him as. But when you returned, he wasn’t like that. That’s what endeared you to him; he was an actual person when all the sticky sheen was rubbed away.

“Steve?” you asked softly, unsure if it was the right thing to ask at all “If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone else?”

Steve looked down at you, curious, and nodded “Of course.”

“I kind of…I did something that might make everyone hate me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Y/N.” Steve chuckled, not noting how truly nervous you were. Or maybe just not caring.

“I wrote a book.” Steve furrowed his brow, utterly lost. “I wrote a book about us. All of us. And Hawkins and the labs-I turned it all into a fiction book.”

“Oh.”

“And I sold it to an agency. And it might get published. But before I let that happen I need to know if everyone will hate me for doing it. I won’t let it go to market if everyone is uncomfortable or offended by it. I just needed to get Hawkins out of my system and then it turned into something I was proud of and-”

Steve cut you off “Am I in it?” he asked.

You took a deep, needed breath “Yeah, everyone is.”

“So…I mean how bad am I in it? Can I ask that?”

You sighed “When I started writing the book, it brought up all this anger and resentment I was still carrying  and that was clear on the page, but as I wrote I started to understand more and more how you must have felt and so by the end you were pretty much yourself again. Now I’m just editing the beginning to match the end. So…you won’t be bad for long.” You explained, rubbing the back of your neck awkwardly.

“Right…and all the names are changed? Nobody is who they are?”

“Yeah, names of people and places and I changed some ages and jobs to make it even less searchable. In essence the casual reader shouldn’t be able to read it as what happened and my agent isn’t selling it as a dramatization of what happened. I’m not even publishing it under my name.”

You looked to Steve nervously, hoping for a vote of confidence on his part, but he looked to be deep in thought, his lower lip pulled between his teeth; he looked almost pained. You felt your heart sink-you were about to let over a year’s work go into the trash; lose out on the epic payout your agent was offering and all because you couldn’t get it together enough to write something original.

“I don’t think they’d hate you.” Steve interrupted your thoughts. You looked up hopefully. “I don’t think they ever could hate you.”

You nodded, feeling almost hopeful. “I do think that Joyce and Hopper would want to read it. I think everyone would. I mean I sure would.” Steve continued.

“Do you…do you want to?” you asked, almost not believing yourself. You hadn’t let anyone who wasn’t offering you money read the book yet, least of all someone who your feelings for seemed to change every hour. But as you watched Steve’s whole face break out into a grin, the doubts piling inside you toppled over and you found your hand gripping onto his, pulling him to his feet and inside the house, whispering for him to keep his voice down as he muffled his laughter and you tried to not reminisce on how much this reminded you of being a teenager.

You fumbled around your room for your desk lamp, flicking it on and letting the warm yellow light halo your desk and cast a soft, faint glow on the rest of the room. You nodded for Steve to sit and he did so cautiously. You sat down on your bed, trying not to show how nervous you were for him to read it.

Chapter One

She arrived in a cloud of dust and smoke, crappy car lugging the last of her life to the tiny town her mother still called home. The smell of cow shit and peonies filled the air. Spring was long over, summer creeping onto the horizon. School was almost out. And Chrissie Heffernan was finally home.

Make no mistake; she didn’t want to be home. The last two weeks at her grandmother’s home in Carmel, Indiana had been a dream compared to her dad’s place. She’d spent the weeks haunting the big mall, stealing lip gloss and Teen Beat magazines from the drug store and trying to steal boyfriends from girls who looked like catty cheerleaders. Sure, she didn’t make any friends, but she didn’t plan on making any in the shit hole Hawthorn Ridge was pretending not to be. School was about to let out, she’d already finished her exams and college was just around the corner. What could go wrong?

Evidently, everything.

“You just need to be enrolled at a school to graduate.” Her mother reasoned over the breakfast bar, having woken Chrissie up far too early for her liking.

“But why couldn’t dad and Sheila keep me enrolled at my old school? Why must I make a surprise visit to hell?” Chrissie moaned, running her hands through her tangled curls, bleached blonde to differentiate herself from the boring brunettes of her mundane former catholic school.

“Watch your language.” Her mother scolded, pulling toast from the toaster and smearing it with far too much butter to be considered a healthy breakfast. “Because, I need you in school for a minimum of one day to have been a student at Hawthorn High School. And that one day just has to be today. So you better march your butt back upstairs and get properly dressed! They won’t let you in with your bra showing like that!”

Before Chrissie could even bother to retaliate, the door bell rang. She slid across the tile floor to the door and pulled it open, hoping to scare the mail man or the milk man or whoever it was. Did Hawthorn Ridge still have a milk man? She couldn’t be sure; the whole town felt like it was stuck in the fifties.

Instead, she came face to face with a modern day greaser with more hair product in his hair than her.

Jason Hoffer.

“So wait? I’m Jason?” Steve asked, looking up from the pages with a small smirk.

“Yeah. Why?” you retorted cautiously, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“Jason, like Jason Dean from Heathers?”

You felt your face heat up. “Maybe…” that made Steve burst into laughter, which you jumped up quickly to silence, your face breaking into a smile.

“It’s a popular name!” you whispered, trying to cup a hand over his mouth “I stole a lot of names from things; my character’s name is from Carrie!”

“You’re such a dork!” Steve cried, prompting another shushing and more giggles on both sides.

“I missed you…” you blurted, a thought suddenly permeating the room and shushing Steve in an instant. You wanted a hole to open up under you and to swallow you whole.

“Yeah?” he asked softly.

“Yeah, I didn’t think I would, but I do. I missed hating you.” You tried to recover, only getting an annoyed groan from him in response. You pressed on “No, and I missed talking to you and seeing you and hanging out with you. I missed you.”

Steve smiled softly “I missed you too…and for the record, I never hated you.”

“Of course you didn’t,” you smirked, nudging his shoulder “I never gave you a reason to.”

“And I gave you a million reasons to hate me, I know, I know.” Steve sighed bitterly, shaking his head.

“No, you gave me one reason; it was just a really good one. But I’m over it. If you had married her, I never would be. But you didn’t, so we’re fine.” You explained easily.

“I would have never married her. I only ever wanted to marry one person and she wasn’t it.” he said and for a second, your heart soared. You clipped its wings fast, settling it before the emotion could reach your mind. All the while, Steve watched you, desperate for you to look at him and feel what he felt.

“Whatever happened to her anyway?” you asked, changing the subject in the hopes that Steve’s gaze would turn and stop burning a hole in your cheek.

“Don’t know, don’t wanna know. I never really cared about her.” Steve said earnestly and it almost made you laugh. Steve noticed immediately.

“I’m serious!” he moaned “I never loved her! I always loved you!”

You sighed, feeling your face glow red “You know I loved you too…”

Something shifted in Steve, it wasn’t obvious but you felt it in the atmosphere. You found yourself looking up slowly, watching him carefully. And he was watching you the same way, as though you’d both been bewitched, spellbound by a sorceress. He took you chin carefully in his hand and you didn’t stop him. You leaned into his touch, desperate for more. Your faces inched closer together and you felt your eyes flutter shut and your heart hammer in your chest. It was all so cosmically perfect; it felt you were destined for it.

And then? Electricity. Your lips moulded together as though they were meant to be together all this time and you’d foolishly kept them apart. You sighed against his lips, pulling him closer, your hands tangling into his shaggy hair, tugging it. He groaned, just as you thought he would and you smirked against his lips. It was all so familiar, so absolutely kismet.

And then, reality swept back in.

You pulled away fast, despite his moan and half-hearted tug for you to come back. He looked embarrassed, almost shy, and desperate.

“No, I can’t I-”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, it can just be something that happened.” He tried, almost desperately.

“I can’t use you. Dustin-Dustin told me about your crush or whatever and I won’t mess with your feelings.” You cried out, silencing him.

Steve looked stunned, his mouth hanging open in an attempt to retort before he snapped it shut. “He wasn’t supposed to tell you that…” he muttered. So it was true. That was somehow both better and worse.

“He was high as a kite when it came out…” you replied feebly.

“And now you pity me.” Steve said bitterly, pulling away from you completely.

“No!” you gasped “I-I just don’t wanna hurt you. I care about you too much to hurt you.”

“So you care about me?” he said slowly.

“Yes! I just-I don’t know if I feel the same way about you!” You sighed softly “Steve, this week has been a lot for me, emotionally I mean. I have so much going through me and I can’t tell what I’m actually feeling and what’s just leftover from this town. I have some things figured out, but I won’t hurt you in trying to figure out me, okay?”

Steve shook his head, finally turning to look at you. “Have you ever stopped to think that I don’t know either?” he asked. You furrowed your brows, turning away from him slightly.

“That literally makes no sense.”

“Look, when Dustin told me you were coming home, I started having these…feelings. At first I was excited and then I was angry and then I was scared. And all the while I couldn’t get this feeling out of my chest that this was going to be big. And I started having…feelings again. But I don’t know if their real or not.” He explained. You could tell that evening trying to explain this to you was hard and his struggle made you sympathize with him.

“So you…don’t have a crush on me?” you asked tentatively.

“I guess?” Steve replied, though it came out like a question. That made you laugh; the whole scene was so absurd. You spent so much of your last week avoiding this whole scene and yet there you were, trying to diffuse the whole situation and only to learn that Steve was just as confused as you were. It was all so screwed up.

Steve seemed to find the humour in this too, laughing just as hard and saying “Look if I ever figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

“Please do!” you cried, shaking your head. You went to stand up again, but Steve’s hand came around your neck, not intentionally forcing you down, but stopping you nonetheless. You looked up at him, wide eyed, only to find him looking at you with the same expression; tentative and lovesick and nervous. So very nervous.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything…” he muttered, watching you with a look in his eyes that sent shivers down your spine, your mouth going dry.

You licked your lips, swallowing slightly “No it doesn’t…” you replied, leaning in almost subconsciously, eyes never leaving his until they fluttered shut again and his lips were on yours. There were many ways to describe kissing a man, especially one like Steve Harrington, you’d done it several times, but kissing Steve was…wordless. There were no perfect metaphors or sensual descriptions, it was imperfect and messy and unbalanced. And everything you wanted it to be. You wanted him so badly, you tugged on his hair, his collar, his lower lip-anything to urge him to your level. He pulled you up, tugging at your clothes and your hair and your throat produced noises you’d never heard before. And somehow you managed to find yourself on the bed again, Steve hovering over you with a confident smirk, the kind you wanted to wipe off his face.

And then, it was morning.

[thescarletlibrarian]

2018 Met Gala:  Still Weird AF

The theme this year was “Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination,” and yes, it was as weird as you’d expect, but lamely without the sort of violent martrydom references that would make this shitshow properly Catholic, as we’ve already established.  

There were several categories, including Committed to Theme, White Dress, Gold Dress, Statement Gloves, Bead the Shit Out of It, Just Stick Something on My Head, and Themes Are for Losers, so off we go.

Committed to Theme, If Weirdly So

Host Rihanna as Glam Pope, which honestly looks really uncomfortable since it’s beaded inside as well as out?  What is that?  Also our first example of multi-theme, encompassing White Dress, Bead the Shit Out of It, and Stick Something on My Head.

Heinously long post, so click for like 90 examples of this crazy shit.

Ruby Rose committing to a Sexy Cardinal costume, which is not something I ever thought I’d have to type, but here we are.  At the Met Gala.  Where you type all kinds of things you never expected.

Taylor Hill, realizing someone else is wearing a Sexy Cardinal costume, although I personally prefer this one, mostly because of the cape.  Yeah, I know.  I like capes.

Sticking Zoe Kravitz in here because I’m pretty sure this is like a Spanish lace mantilla veil you’re supposed to wear when you meet the Pope, only not worn in the traditional manner.

Sarah Jessica Parker making it in here rather than Gold Dress or Thing on My Head because she appears to be wearing an entire small chapel thing on her head, and she really does deserve recognition for that level of commitment.   

Katy Perry definitely committed with those ugly-ass wings, which I’m going to assume she took off before she went in, because there is a dance component to the Met Gala and those would make that particular part kind of weird.  She will, however, be able to stay in both the Gold Dress category and mail subcat even without them, so that’s some solid planning.

Lily Collins sneaking out of the Just Stick Something [Art Deco] on My Head category by coming as some sort of sci-fi slutty nun thing.  As you do.

Greta Gerwig, not sure her nun costume was as good an idea as she thought at home.  

I’m assuming this is some sort of weird Dark Angyl costume thing on Kate Moss, or maybe it’s a Fallen Angel thing and the nauseous look is her still trying to get over the drop?

Okay, Ariana Grande, your putti-covered fresco dress gets you into the Theme category, despite that giant organza bow on your head, which I assume is the result of a lost bet.  Also, did you ladies go in on gold eyeshadow together, because I can’t imagine you use it that much in general, but EVERYBODY is busting that shit out tonight.  Maybe they put some in the Met bathrooms, I hear they put emergency kits in the ladies’ rooms at these sorts of shindigs.  Like a seamstress team just in case.

Shailene Woodley, realizing that wearing a homemade Joan of Arc costume to the Met Gala was a mistake.  

Zendaya, wearing a Joan of Arc costume that doesn’t pass the My Lungs Are Up Here test, and though it does have pauldrons they’re Cold Shoulder Pauldrons, which is pretty weird, but is definitely making Shailene Woodley jealous.

How many Marys can you wear on one dress?  Stella Maxwell is out to find out.

Madonna couldn’t go with the obvious getup here, so instead she’s done another nun thing?  Like a goth nun, which has definitely been a thing, although the black roses aren’t something I’ve seen before.

I don’t know what’s up with Tessa Thompson’s jacket, but the beaded priest’s collar is an interesting contribution to the theme.

And the category trophy goes to Lana del Rey, not for the heart being stabbed a bunch of times so much as the eyeball lorgnette, which is absolutely the sort of St. Lucy-esque martrydom imagery I came here for.  She’d rank highly in the Shit on the Head category as well, although as we’ll see SJP has that one covered.

Themes Are for Losers

Amal Clooney, after several years still managing to show up looking like she’s showing up to her husband’s work party as a favor, and yet blow away most of the competition without trying.  Even when wearing this very peculiar getup.

I do love when someone shows up not only ignoring the theme but clearly not giving a hoot in hell and just being weird AF because the Met Gala is where you do that, and Frances McDormand has definitely walked away with that prize this year.

I’m honestly not sure if Diane Kruger just said “the hell with the theme, I’m wearing 18th century decor puffed all over my ass and no one can stop me,” or if this is supposed to evoke Rococo chapels or some shit? 

This looks like Salma Hayek might have been going for the theme, but ended up with some sort of cross-stitch instead.  I has a parrot, though, so I’m for it.

Tiffany Haddish has managed to add a train to a surplice neckline shirt that’s sort of sneaking, with those black pants, towards a pseudo-tux look, and I’m absolutely down with that, although I have to detract some personal points because there’s something about sparkly pants I just can’t support.  Trained shirts, however, definitely.

Just Stick Something on My Head

Cardi B, also multi-category but with that thing we’ll go with headwear as the main thing.   Also an example of Giant Fluffy Things on My Hips, for...reasons? 

SZA, with a solid commitment to tiara/halo cateogry, and a tutu-ish contribution to the fluffy shit on on the hips subcat, with a nod at beading the shit out of it with the boots.  May actually be some sort of coked-up ballet costume that picked up the boots at a sketchy club, it is New York, after all.

Amanda Seyfried phoning it in with that tiara; this is much more of a cop-out Midsummer Night’s Dream schtick than anything else.

Normally I would detract points from Princess Beatrice just slapping on a tiara type thing, because come on, you’re a princess, that’s everyday stuff, but since her grandmother is head of the Church of England the Catholicism thing is a little dicey, so I’ll cut her some slack on this one.

Pompom veil!  Or...pompom scarf worn as a veil, which doesn’t even qualify as weird at this shindig, although Kate Bosworth would get more points if it matched the white/cream dress. instead of being a colder shade of white with silver edging.  Come on, woman.  Get it together.

I wouldn’t normally include Doutzen Kroes even in the “screw it” category, except that she’s got this extra bit tossed over her head, which I don’t think has anything to do with the theme, but some other people have been doing that in weird ways and I have the terrible feeling “extra hood-y/veil-y bits slung over the head” is going to become a Thing on the runway and wanted to make sure you saw it here first.  

This thing, this thing on Kate Upton, that’s what I’m talking about. And not the weird flower crown thing, either.  

The thing on Priyanka Chopra is not what I’m talking about, as while she has the Bollywood training to pull off this level of bling around her face, as well as  match the makeup to that wine-red velvet monster, most people do not.  She is rocking this look, however, and knows it, so good for her.

Oh, god, maybe the beaded cowl thing is going to be a Thing?  Nicki Minaj thinks it’s going to be a Thing.  Possibly a Vampire Goth Thing?  Oh, god.

It’s like a beaded face veil over a Spanish Iron body veil thing on Cara Delevingne, although she’s definitely worn weirder things.

I really wonder what Hailee Steinfeld’s monster looks like in the back; that doesn’t look like a Butt Bow so much as a Butt Modern Art Fiber Sculpture, which is taking Butt Embellishments to a new and weird level.

Now Jill Kargman has COMMITTED to the weird shit on the head thing, not only those weird black flowery bits but also the big long sticks, because go big or go home, evidently.

Amber Heard has actually managed to find a head thing that does indeed look like a Renaissance halo thing, so points for that, but is also wearing a butt bow AND a train, and that is some serious commitment to hauling crap around behind you.

Yeah, that’s the face of someone who knows there’s a pineapple looking thing on her head, made of her own hair.  I’m so sorry, Sasha Lane.  She can, however, go straight to bed in the back of the limo wearing that nightie thing, and that’s definitely a plus.

Janelle Monáe started stacking stuff on her head, and I’m not sure if there are more layers on there over the hat or not.  It’s possible.  You never know with Monáe.

Solange also stacking shit on her head, also possibly going for some kind of martyr-y facial expression?  Or maybe just bored?  Walking up a staircase with a million photographers doesn’t actually look like that fun.

Kylie Jenner is wearing see no evil glasses on her head, which may also make it really hard to see the stairs?  Maybe stairs are also evil?  She probably has somebody to guide her up, though, that stands out of the frame periodically.  So she doesn’t have to see the evil stairs.

Winnie Harlow making her way out of the White (weddingesque) Dress category with a spiky cloud thing on her head.  What is that thing even made of?  It looks like paper, which is actually a good idea and probably more comfortable than a lot of these things.

Statement Gloves

Bella Hadid, with small entry in the Just Stick in On My Head category, and Black Dress.  What the Star Wars capey thing contributes I’m not clear on, but maybe that’s just the limits of my Catholic Imagination.

Mindy Kaling makes it in here with the gloves because I can’t believe that thing on her head lasted very long.  Is she married?  Otherwise she can totally reuse this thing at her wedding, too, so that’s some good planning.

Riley Keough managed to get some lapels in here, and I’m a sucker for lapels for some reason, so that’s points from me even if I’m not sure what brought about the glove decision here.

Alicia Vikander managed to pull a sort of cardinal cope thing here, although she clearly doesn’t care that much about the theme and decided this was just a good opportunity to pull out some gothy eyeliner, which does actually work for her, weirdly.

Bead the Shit Out of It

Donatella Versace, joining in the “my boots match my bodice and I blinged them both out” club along with SZA, and narrrrrrowly escaping Butt Cape territory by having basically an entire Leg Cape thing going on. 

Even at the Met Gala, someone must ALWAYS come as a featherduster, and this time it was Kris Jenner in a black dress subcat with more bling than strictly necessary for a featherduster.

Gold Dress

Olivia Munn rolling in a pseudo-Egyptian getup that also fits into the “chainmayle” subcat as well as “just stick something on my head.”  Apparently the cowl is meant to evoke the Crusades, which is honestly more than a little disturbing on multiple levels.

Jasmine Sanders in a gold dress that appears to be made of plastic, and if that thing is not glued or taped to her boobs (which is done in pageants), I will be extremely surprised indeed.

Kiersey Clemens solidly in Gold Dress land (subdivision pseudo-Egyptian), but does this count as Beaded to Shit, or the mesh/mail subcat?  And what is up with this tiny gold suitcase?  Is there something in Catholicism about tiny gold suitcases?  Religion is weird, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Slinging Rosie Huntington-Whiteley in the Gold Dress rather than Stick In On My Head category because that one’s getting awfully full and that’s a pretty lame-ass halo thing she’s got going on.  She’d get more points if she were playing around with the cape doing angel wing-y dances with it, but she kind of looks ready to hurl here, so maybe she’s just not feeling up to it.

I’m not sure if Joan Smalls has those hair sticks for stabbing people, or she’s hanging onto them for some kind of mermaid gig?  

Evan Rachel Wood appears to have ripped the feathers off all six of the archangel Gabriel’s gold wings, and by the look on her face she’s daring the Supernatural fandom to say something.  (They’re going to say something.  With a gif.)

I honestly don’t know what’s going on here with Lena Dunham, it looks like a vaguely terrifying Regency-era fancy-dress costume going for eighteenth century bewigged and powdered something or other.  She’s committed to something, at least, I’ll give her that.

White Dress

Look, there are white dresses, and there are wedding dresses, and no matter how many crosses Uma Thurman throws on she still looks in need of a minister and a guy in a tux here.

This smirk is Dakota Fanning knowing that she’s more comfortable than most people here, and the white Greco-Roman thing here makes sure she fits in without looking weird.

And this is Keri Russell not giving a damn, because she has done the same thing, well done, Russell.  

Kendall Jenner has taken the red carpet pants phenomenon and added trains.  To her pant legs.  That’s not something I would have done with white pants, personally, but I guess she can always cut them off if they get really gross and dirty.

[anousiemay]

The Angel & The Devil Ch. 2  Crushed Flowers

Reflecting on the past few weeks leaves Jason feeling hopeless. He had to do something to make up for what he did. Maybe some ice-cream and flowers could be the first stepping stone to setting things right. Imma just spam the whole fic but if anyone does enjoy please don’t be afraid to send requests for Jason x reader too!! Poor Jaybird :C ----- Just as Red Hood fired the second shot, Guardian whipped one of her wings up to cover her face and knock her attacker backwards. The man recovered quickly and grabbed his second pistol, clicking the safety off and firing at her wings now covering her shocked figure.

What the fuck was going on?

"Red, what the fuck are you doing?" She hollered from behind her wings. The bullet in her leg was different to the ones he usually used. Firstly, they weren't fakes and secondly, they were painted red instead of yellow. It was making her feel woozy. Guardian had to move, staying still would give Red time to move closer and whatever was in these bullets was also weakening her wings usual durability. Carefully standing and grunting in pain, Guardian leapt forward at the man. Pinning him down by the waist and using her wings to pin his wrists.

"Red, I don't know what the fuck is going on, but you need to stop this!"

"Sorry, Angel. No can do." He responded before lifting his legs up then around Anita's body and throwing her to the floor. Red Hood then grabbed one of his guns and shot Anita in the shoulder blade, she cried in pain and flung him back with a kick. She had to get out of there. Spreading her wings, Anita propelled herself up and out of the warehouse door. Red Hood shooting at her fleeing figure and nagged a bullet in her back. Guardian flew far from the warehouse, tears streaming down her face and black dots dancing in her eyes. She pressed the gold symbol on her chest and landed hard on the roof of her apartment building about 10 clicks from the warehouse. Later, even as Batman placed her on the gurney in the Bat Cave, all Anita could think of was Jason.

Guardian's partner, Anita's lover, had shot her. The Red Hood; Jason Peter Todd, had tried to kill her.

- - - Shaking his head, Jason tried to clear his head of the fear in Anita’s eyes as he shot her in the shoulder. He was right, hydrofluoric acid tore through her healing factor and wings like a shredder with paper. But had it been worth it? Scaring his girlfriend to death just to get in Black Masks good graces? He remembered the man clapping his hand on Jason’s leathered shoulder, smiling at The Red Hood “I see you’ve made your point, Mr. Hood. Welcome to the club.” Then he had been knocked over the head and woke up half naked in a fancy bedroom. Sure, Black Mask was now a mumbling, brain-dead pile in Gotham Hospital but Jason didn’t want to even think of Anita’s condition after their short fight. “Fuck me, what have I done?” Jason mumbled as he turned the shower faucet off, stepping out and drying his body. He should’ve contacted her the moment they got out of Black Mask’s HQ; he shouldn’t have gone to Qurac right away. ‘Shoulda, coulda, woulda’ Jason thought. He’d just have to fix things, buy her some flowers, that Banana Split from Freddie’s. He’d apologize and do anything. If she didn’t throw him halfway across the state. Slipping into a pair of black jeans and grey turtleneck sweater, Jason walked out the bathroom. Bizarro had surprisingly gotten past the tutorial and was now asking the merchant for his wares. “Why can’t me buy?” Bizarro asked as Jason slipped on a leather jacket then grabbed his motorbike keys and phone. “You need to do some quests, big guy. Head to the black robed guy on your left, he’ll get you started.” “Thank Red Him.” “You’re welcome. Artemis, I’m going out!” Artemis emerged from her room then, hair no longer in its ponytail and trailing after her tall figure. She too, had slipped into some comfy clothes. Wait, were they his? “That’s fine, I will most likely depart later and buy some clothing for myself. I’ll take Bizarro with me.” She stated as she joined Bizarro on the couch. “Cool, there’s a credit card taped under the microwave.” “Good luck with your Angel.” Jason was stunned into silence then, but quickly recovered with a weak laugh and a nod. “Thanks, I’ll need it.” Oh boy was that an understatement. - - - It was a 10-minute drive to Scoops & Hoops, the traffic had been less than usual, and Jason couldn’t help but thank the traffic Gods for this opening. The small bell above the gelateria’s door tinkled as the tall man walked in. He smiled at the owner, Freddie, who greeted him with a toothy, albeit cavity filled, grin. “Jason!” He sung and a few of the female workers there perked their heads up to greet him with soft giggles. “Hi, Freddie. You still got your famous Banana Split for me?” Jason asked, leaning against the pastel coloured counter. The older man nodded enthusiastically, “Getting one for that lovely girl of yours?” He said just loud enough for the giggling girls to hear, their heads dipping back to their tubs of ice cream in shame. Jason winced slightly, he wasn’t quite sure if Anita wanted to be his anymore, but he had to try. “Of course, I lost a bet and I owe her one. Do you think you could write a little message too?” Freddie lifted his head up, an eyebrow arched high on his glistening forehead. “Oh no. Did you two have a fight?” Jason’s eyes widened in shock, was it that obvious? “Uh, how didja tell?” The other man laughed at Jason’s bewildered expression, almost as though he had asked him a stupid question. “Jason, son. As a man whose dealt with a woman’s scorn let me tell you it leaves a mark you can’t miss. Especially one like your Anita. I’m amazed you’re in one piece.” Jason huffed out a laugh then, he was pretty amazed too. “How did you make them stop scorning at you?” “Well, there’s no one way, son. It depends what happened and on the person. You two have been together for what, almost a year? It hurts much more when your partner does something stupid 6 years into a relationship than 2 months. But a lot of the time. You must be patient but not passive.” “Like, let her know I’m there for her?” “Exactly! Think about a time you’ve been furious at someone. How long did it take you to come around?” Bruce. Jason instantly thought of Bruce and grimaced. “A while.” “Well, we’ll just have to hope Anita’s nothing like you in that regard. Now, what didja want me to write on this your banana?” Jason couldn’t help but feel sick at the thought of Anita never forgiving him. He was so screwed. “Maybe, ‘I love you’?” - - - 8 hours later, Red Hood stood on top of Gotham Courthouse with a medium tub of Freddie’s famous Banana Split in his right hand and a bunch of flowers in his left. If any criminal were to spot him now, his reputation as the bad one out of the Bat Bunch would be tarnished. But reputation was the last thing on Red’s mind. He had contacted Guardian a few hours prior, asking them to meet and hopefully hash things out. She was 13 minutes late and he was sure the ice cream was melting. He knew he should’ve bought dry ice. The sky was full of clouds; it’d be a quiet patrol tonight for the rest of the family. Red just hoped she’d come. Just as Red was about to give up, there was a shadow landing on his helmet, looking up he couldn’t help but smile under his helmet. There Guardian floated, the moonlight giving her a soft glow and halo. “Beautiful.” He mumbled as she gracefully landed on the roof. Her wings ruffled slightly, and she ran a hand through her auburn hair, green eyes surveying the area before facing him. “What is all this?” She asked, motioning to Red Hood’s full hands. The man snapped out of his daze and began rambling. “Well I got you that Banana Split I owe you and some flowers. The ones in our kitchen were dying and I know how much you love them. The chrysanthemums mean loyalty, the Jasmine is beauty, lilies stand for humility and the roses…well. They mean I love you.” Guardian walked up and took the bouquet from Red Hood’s grasp, taking off her mask she breathed in their scent and smiled softly. She seemed lost in them and Jason thought briefly that he had rectified his mistake. Taking a step closer he nudged her with the tub. “If you want, we can take this back and eat it together?” Anita jumped back, as though lightning had struck her. The smile was gone, and a frown sat on her features instead. “Together? Like partners?” “Like lovers.” Jason clarified, taking off his helmet with his free hand. Anita scoffed, plucking a petal from a rose, “I must’ve missed the part in the relationship handbook where you put your own fucking girlfriend into critical condition.” “You-It was that bad?” Jason knees felt weak, no she couldn’t be serious. He didn’t even lace them with a lot of acid. "You really didn't think shooting me with my weakness, which by the way I didn't even know existed, wouldn't hurt me? Look at this, Jason. Look." Lifting her white Kevlar top Jason could see where the acid had left long, deep scars on her upper shoulder and lower back, his mouthed dropped open. “Yeah, that was my expression too when I saw them. Alfred told me if I’d have arrived any later to the Bat Cave that I could’ve lost all feeling in my kneecap.” “I-I swear Angel, I didn’t think-“ “Exactly, you didn’t think about the consequences. Instead you went ahead and almost killed me!” Anita’s wings spread wide, the moonlight making them seem bigger than they really were. She was trying to intimidate him. “I would never do that. I wouldn’t of if I knew…” “Then why? Why did you lie!?” “To protect you.” “Protect me!? Jason, you shot me! Shot me! Just so you could get in bed with Black Mask and make a new fucking team without me.” The flowers in Anita’s hand were becoming crumpled from how tight she was holding them, her body had never felt so hot, mind so frazzled. “That’s not- “Jason could feel her slipping from him, but damnit she wouldn’t let him get a word in. “I saw you land in Gotham today, Jay. You looked pretty happy with the Superman clone and Amazon. Glad it was so easy to replace me. But you wanna know what hurt more than being shot, replaced and lied to? The fact that you confided your crazy plan to the man you had trust issues with for YEARS, but not to your own girlfriend.” “Angel-“ “How many times have I rushed to your aid in meetings? How many times have I patched you up way before I put on this suit? How much have we gone through together for you to doubt my ability to be a hero? I can’t help but wonder if you even love me if it was so easy to turn me into a scapegoat.”

"Of course, I love you! Please, Anita, please just listen." God Jason had never felt so terrible, his ears were ringing, and he wanted so desperately to hold her.

Tears were spilling down both their faces and Anita’s booming voice was now soft and weak with her final question; "Then why didn’t we fight him together, Jay?" Jason didn’t know what to say, nothing he said would be right. But it wasn’t about being right, it was about the truth. Anita was right: Jason had underestimated her; he had hurt her. Unsatisfied with his sudden quietness, Anita shoved the flowers back at Jason who caught them expertly. "I can’t forgive you, Jay. You broke my heart… Here, I won't be needing this." Reaching into her utility belt, Guardian handed Red Hood the binoculars he gifted her after her first mission. It was his way of saying they were partners, The Angel & The Devil.

Jason could feel his throat tightening, he had to fix this. But his voice came out as a whimper, "Anita, please. Let's just talk this out." "No, Jason. I think we're done talking. Give those to your Amazon friend, you seem to trust her more than me." Then Guardian slipped back on her mask and flew off into the night, leaving Jason heartbroken with melting ice cream and crushed flowers.