#It has a collection of FOURTEEN BOOKS

[hinsaa-paramo-dharma]

My first step towards taking over the world.

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2024: WELCOME TO YOUR WORLD: How the Built Environment Shapes Our Lives by Sarah Williams Goldhagen.

[jadenvargen]

free online james baldwin stories, essays, videos, and other resources

**edit

James baldwin online archive with his articles and photo archives.

---NOVELS---

Giovanni's room"When David meets the sensual Giovanni in a bohemian bar, he is swept into a passionate love affair. But his girlfriend's return to Paris destroys everything. Unable to admit to the truth, David pretends the liaison never happened - while Giovanni's life descends into tragedy. This book introduces love's fascinating possibilities and extremities."

Go Tell It On The Mountain"(...)Baldwin's first major work, a semi-autobiographical novel that has established itself as an American classic. With lyrical precision, psychological directness, resonating symbolic power, and a rage that is at once unrelenting and compassionate, Baldwin chronicles a fourteen-year-old boy's discovery of the terms of his identity as the stepson of the minister of a storefront Pentecostal church in Harlem one Saturday in March of 1935. Baldwin's rendering of his protagonist's spiritual, sexual, and moral struggle of self-invention opened new possibilities in the American language and in the way Americans understand themselves."

+bonus: film adaptation on youtube. (if you’re a giancarlo esposito fan, you’ll be delighted to see him in an early preacher role)

Another Country and Going to Meet the Man Another country: "James Baldwin's masterly story of desire, hatred and violence opens with the unforgettable character of Rufus Scott, a scavenging Harlem jazz musician adrift in New York. Self-destructive, bad and brilliant, he draws us into a Bohemian underworld pulsing with heat, music and sex, where desperate and dangerous characters betray, love and test each other to the limit." Going to meet the Man: " collection of eight short stories by American writer James Baldwin. The book, dedicated "for Beauford Delaney", covers many topics related to anti-Black racism in American society, as well as African-American–Jewish relations, childhood, the��creative process, criminal justice, drug addiction, family relationships, jazz, lynching, sexuality, and white supremacy."

Just Above My Head"Here, in a monumental saga of love and rage, Baldwin goes back to Harlem, to the church of his groundbreaking novel Go Tell It on the Mountain, to the homosexual passion of Giovanni's Room, and to the political fire that enflames his nonfiction work. Here, too, the story of gospel singer Arthur Hall and his family becomes both a journey into another country of the soul and senses--and a living contemporary history of black struggle in this land."

If Beale Street Could Talk"Told through the eyes of Tish, a nineteen-year-old girl, in love with Fonny, a young sculptor who is the father of her child, Baldwin's story mixes the sweet and the sad. Tish and Fonny have pledged to get married, but Fonny is falsely accused of a terrible crime and imprisoned. Their families set out to clear his name, and as they face an uncertain future, the young lovers experience a kaleidoscope of emotions-affection, despair, and hope. In a love story that evokes the blues, where passion and sadness are inevitably intertwined, Baldwin has created two characters so alive and profoundly realized that they are unforgettably ingrained in the American psyche."

also has a film adaptation by moonlight's barry jenkins

Tell Me How Long the Train's been gone At the height of his theatrical career, the actor Leo Proudhammer is nearly felled by a heart attack. As he hovers between life and death, Baldwin shows the choices that have made him enviably famous and terrifyingly vulnerable. For between Leo's childhood on the streets of Harlem and his arrival into the intoxicating world of the theater lies a wilderness of desire and loss, shame and rage. An adored older brother vanishes into prison. There are love affairs with a white woman and a younger black man, each of whom will make irresistible claims on Leo's loyalty. 

---ESSAYS---

Baldwin essay collection. Including most famously: notes of a native son, nobody knows my name, the fire next time, no name in the street, the devil finds work- baldwin on film

--DOCUMENTARIES--

Take this hammer, a tour of san Francisco.

Meeting the man

--DEBATES:--

Debate with Malcolm x, 1963 ( on integration, the nation of islam, and other topics. )

Debate with William Buckley, 1965. ( historic debate in america. )

Heavily moderated debate with Malcolm x, Charles Eric Lincoln, and Samuel Schyle 1961. (Primarily Malcolm X's debate on behalf of the nation of islam, with Baldwin giving occassional inputs.)

----

apart from themes obvious in the book's descriptions, a general heads up for themes of incest and sexual assault throughout his works.

[19burstraat]

Random SOC Trivia I Gathered On My Reread

I'll be using this for fics, but it's fun just to read!

Jesper does not hold alcohol well (though this is according to Kaz, who is not exactly impartial)

Wijnstraat, Nemstraat, Havenstraat, Ammberstraat are all street names if you want em

Van Eck has been involved in trying to clean up the Barrel; pious. (Allegedly pious, I doubt he really is)

1/5 Van Eck (or general Kerch trading?) vessels are lost at sea

Kaz arrested three times at ten, twice at eleven, once at fourteen. Does stints in jail but it does not say prison (ppl assume he's been to Hellgate / another prison but I don't think so. He'd never have shut the fuck up about it if he had; I assume the Stadhall Jail)

Kaz's cane is lead-lined. I wasn't sure if this was canon or fanon

Kaz runs book on prize fights, horses, and chance games. Floor boss at crow club since fifteen-ish. Youngest to run a betting shop and has doubled the profits.

Gambling halls: Treasure Chest, Golden Bend, Weddell's Riverboat, Silver Garter

West Stave brothels: The Blue Iris, The Forge, The Obscura, the Willow Switch, the House of Snow

Van Aakster is the widow mercher who sees Nina to ease his grief

Inej likes orange cakes in white paper

Black Tips tattoo is a hand with first and second fingers cut at the knuckle, Razorgulls is 5 birds in wedge formation

Nina Jesper and Kaz definitely all have the crow and cup; the others don't

Jordie seems to like books

ridderspel and spijker are arcade games

Bilge, clams, and wet stone smell in the Barrel (per Retvenko)

Kaz definitely is partial to dogs; Smeet's hounds and the grey dog the Hertzoon household had, the windup dogs, the metaphors. He loves a dog metaphor sorry ur not real babycakes you'd have loved thematic web weaving posts

Geldspin is the cotton mill in Zierfoort, Firma Allerbest is a cannery. Both in Alys' name

Wylan was 8 when Marya 'died'

the black veil tomb is carved like an ancient cargo ship

3 flying fish on a grave: government. Palm trees and snakes: spices.

Inej's mother braids her hair with orange ribbons (colour of persimmons)

University a series of buildings built around the Boekcanal and joined by Speaker's Bridge (where people debate and/or drink). Boeksplein four libraries built around a central courtyard and the Scholar's Fountain

Shipping container at third harbour is a Liddie hideout; Jam Tart House is an old hotel near the slat that the Razorgulls use

Long scar across Kaz's right knuckle

Violating contracts and interfering with the market can get you hanged in Kerch; same sentences as for murder (this is. Insane)

Haskell holds court with his mates at the Fair Weather Inn every week

Belendt is the second oldest Kerch city and sits on the Droombeld River

Jesper was 7 when Aditi died

Inej has an uncle (who seems to have some sort of ringmaster role) and cousins; Hanzi and Asha

Kaz convinced a locksmith in Klokstraat that he was the son of a wealthy merchant who highly valued his collection of priceless snuffboxes, and that's how he knows what locks the rich are using

Hubrecht Mohren, Master Thief of Pijl, who Kaz doesn't appear to think much of; one of Haskell's old cronies

Martin Van Eck, Wylan's great great grandfather, was a ship's captain, brought back a big shipment of spices from Eames Chin and started the Van Eck fortune

Kaz and Jesper (+ other Dregs boys) taught Inej to fight

Kaz and Jordie are from a town near Lij, as per the 'Johannus Rietveld' exposition, but Lij is seemingly the closest major city/county so it's easier to just say they're from Lij lol

The last time the Council of Tides appeared in public was 25 years prior to CK

Kaz found Filip running a monte game on Kelstraat; he also got the clerks who turned over fake info, the fake attorney, the man who gave them free hot chocolate

The spelling of Zentzbridge lapses to Zentsbridge, not sure which is right or if they're actually separate bridges or if there's a lot of wrong quotes floating around lol

Dryden house symbol is the golden wheat sheaf bound with a blue ribbon; Van Eck is the red laurel but we knew that

Kaz taught himself finance and gambling hall rules

Church of Barter roof is copper and long has turned green

Church of Barter built around the First Forge / The Mortar, which is a flat lump of rock that's supposedly Ghezen's altar

Ghezendaal Hospital is. Idk. a hospital. Just thought ppl might want the name

[mindibindi]

Fourteen is just gonna turn that second TARDIS into a library, isn't he? It's gonna grow weeds around the bottom as it sits there in the backyard next to Rose's TARDIS. He's gonna dig through all of his outer space logs and find the weirdest creatures in the universe and then he's gonna sprint across and shove a picture in her face and say: Hey think you can make THIS one?? And all her customers are gonna be like: WHERE do you come up with this stuff?? And she'll tell em her uncle helps.

Over time, the TARDIS will learn to chill out too, grow smaller and slower and dimmer. The Doctor will get special issues and old tomes and otherworldly pamphlets delivered to Wilf's old newsstand and he'll wheel Wilf down to collect them and get a sneaky pie while Sylvia isn't looking. Sylvia is gonna say the TARDIS is too chilly (even though she barely steps inside the thing for fear of it flitting off with her) so she's gonna bring CHAIRS and pillows and throws and cups of tea. Mostly because Rose and her Dad like to hang out in there. Definitely not for the Doctor himself. (Although he does like her tuna madras better than anyone else does, so maybe she brings him some of that. Just so it doesn't go to waste). Sean will build the Doctor a desk and a little patio around the TARDIS perimeter so he can sit outside and sun himself. And when Donna comes home from a hard day's work at UNIT, he's gonna throw thick volumes at her, saying: oh I know what that is, read this, that'll help. And Donna will be like: WHY do I gotta read a big ole book when YOU can just TELL ME what we're dealing with? And Fourteen's gonna be like: oh no, I'm retired. And I'm working on a full written history of [insert weird alien name -- probly the horsey alien thing from "Wild Blue Yonder"]. But now and again, when things get really dire, she will persuade him to come to UNIT as a consultant. The TARDIS will stay put tho, it'll just keep growing grass around the bottom and gathering leaves on top. Instead, he'll chuck Donna the keys to the car and say: You're driving (and then he'll complain about her driving the whole way as he is scrunched up against the car door because Donna now has full license from UNIT to be a hoon).

[yourstrqly]

. ⋆⠀⁺ BURN YOUR FINGERTIPS / library

jenson button x reader

when jenson sends you letter after letter, you give him attention and a part of your heart but does he handle it carefully or are you one of the girls?

jenson button holds the reputation of being a notorious flirt because of his natural charm, the smooth contact of finger gazing on the other person's arm or back, and the effortless comfort of fitting in any situation, wherever he knows the people or not. he's a winner in that sense, can never stops himself to talk to whoever is available.

the brit could charm his way out of an interview, literally anything, if we're being honest.

you, on the other hand, are simpler, much more introverted and less likely to be interested in chatting with absolte strangers. this isn't your kind of thing, though it doesn't mean you'll sit quietly in a group sitting. it's depending on the people you surround yourself with, the current mood and how low your social battery is.

so the letter attached to a small box does surprise you but you don't think too much about it as you have to rush out of your door to get your bus. the gifts rest in your right hand and the other closes the door. you can't be arsed to wait for the next bus, which will leave in about an hour — you just want to buy a few groceries and maybe browse through the local bookshop.

on the way to the bus station, you stuff the box in your bag and open the letter. the first thing you notice is the texture of the paper — it doesn't feel as light as the conventional paper used for everything and it's more grainy and slightly yellowish, remainding you of handmade paper your sibling and you did with your grandparents summers ago. you unfold it. your name is written down with a dearest in front of it, making you heart tumble in your chest, eyes fleeting downwards, where the writer's name stands. jenson b.

his words are sweet and the invite is welcoming you like a warm embrace. he gives fantastic hugs.

but there's a big fat why swirling in your head.

sure, you both work in the same field, enjoying racing, especially formula one racing, however that's the only comment ground. and mark. but that's all.

you've never been alone with him, never talked without anyone else there, never exchanged personal information and desires.

he must be enchanted by you, but why? and how?

the whole thing is seems like a crush type of situation, you've experienced at the age of fourteen to sixteen on several classmates and other students.

at home you open the small box carefully, tracing the beads made out of porcelain. a beautiful piece which fits right into your collection. you snap a picture of it, dangling from your wrist, to send it to the gifter, who's number you don't have. instagram will have to do the trick.

the following day, you come home to another small box sitting on your doormat, a letter underneath it. this time the beads aren't the usual white but multicoloured, glowing in the dim light the lamp spends.

like the first letter, jenson has used the same textured paper and asks for a date, number attached. you're quick to agree, shooting him a message to which he responds in the next few minutes.

in only a few days, he's standing outside of your flat, your favourite flowers in one hand, wearing a lose button down and dress pants. jenson looks good, and if he wasn't your coworker you'd totally invite him in after the dinner date.

as you've already expected, jenson is the ideal date, table booked at a cute restaurant with a nice view and you have your fun sharing lots of different appetisers. you feel great and comfortable, laughing at his silly jokes though you can move on more serious topics without hindering the flow. and the end of the night, the brit drives you home and you find another letter in your handbag, doodles on the side.

maybe this is how it's supposed to be.

when you run into jense at work, quite literally like shoulders slamming against each other, you feel his hand brush yours and the weight of a paper note between your fingers.

"hey jense", you mumble, happiness floating your body at the sight of the man. there's a bright smile on his thin lips and his hair looks fluffy as if he woke up just minutes ago. "you look good."

"but not as good as you, sweets", he cooes, "can't compete with a beauty like you. did you get my letter?"

you nod. "couse I did. you should think about writing a booklet about love poems, they're phenomenal."

"then they wouldn't be from the depth of my heart." He winks before continuing his walk down the paddock, fingers brushing his hair away to the side. his tall figure weaves effortlessly though the throng of mechanics, media personal and other workers, and you start to miss him again.

the note in your hand reads "you have a place in my heart no one else ever could have" and you immediately know its by fitzgerald, a topic discussed on the phone nights ago.

you receive another letter but don't see the man himself for two weeks. only three weeks after you get a glimpse of him across the garages, chatting up a woman your age from a different team. she's blushing, eyes fluttering every few seconds and giggles leave her mouth as jenson touches her elbow, before handing her a letter.

its the same tone of paper, probably the exact material.

at the sight your heart shatters and you feel used, a part of his game, weaving girl after girl 'round his finger.

sure, you know and have already known beforehand of his reputation though he has a way to make someone feel special, treats them lovingly, which let's you forget about it. you thought you were different, close to his heart, but he moves on, giving every willing woman a place in his heart another woman had already filled before her. its a cycle and you are a part of it.

what happens next is your decision — move on or confront him?

[tamlinweek]

A little Suriel told us that you all are looking forward to getting the 2025 Tamlin Week prompts and we are here to deliver.

In The Suriel article above, all fourteen prompts (two per day) are hidden within the text. Let’s see if our clever Tamlin community can come together and uncover the hidden themes. We’ll also give you a hint: some prompts have combined wording.

Let us know in the comments what you think it is! We’ll be keeping an eye on your progress and adding to the tally 😉

We’ll reveal the official prompt list in one week.

PROMPTS UNCOVERED: 11/14

Below the cut, you will find a text version of the article for easier readability.

CHANGING SEASONS PROMPTS THE BEGINNING OF SPRING PREPARATIONS

By THE SURIEL

Artisans from far and wide have been seen crossing over into the Spring Court to prepare for the upcoming celebrations. As is tradition, and part of the Court’s Great Mythology, every Spring Equinox, the Great Rite must be performed by High Lord Tamlin. It is also tradition to spend the entire week before showing appreciation for all the Flower Prince has done for his people (and for blessing our eyes, oh yes). Creatures and faeries from every corner of Prythian are invited to worship the Mother and feed the powers of our land.

I remember when I was but a little fate-mite, a whirling ball of magic rolling across the land. Prythian was not as it was today, especially in this flourishing Court. Once upon a time, in Dark Spring, we begged the Mother for forgiveness in hopes not to be annihilated on the spot. Shout out to my brother, the Turiel. You were the worst, and I’ll always remember that.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

Over the course of the coming months, we expect the Spring Court to change and flourish right before our eyes. We expect a mass migration of celebrants, some hoping to secure lodging before all the inns are booked up, and the molehills are overflowing with guests. 

We’d also like to clarify in light of last year’s spy debacle that the human was not a from an alternate universe, but just a quirky new addition to our handsome High Lord’s polycule alongside Feyre, Lucien, Rhysand, Elain, Nesta, Azriel, Cassian, Beron, Eris, Jurian, and many more. For legal reasons, we are magically bound to say that it is possible that these famous faces may only share platonic relationships with High Lord Tamlin.

We’re also looking forward to this year’s performance from Tamlin’s warband. We are still reeling from the addition of fire breathers—what a beautiful way to integrate Spring Court emissary Lucien Vanserra’s heritage. 

If you or anyone you know is planning to spend your free days in Spring, The Suriel is continuously updating our collection of High Lord sightings. There can never be enough portraits of Tamlin’s glossy golden hair, his rippling muscles, and don’t you just want to take a bite out of his luscious chest—Sorry, sorry, our sprouts, we are getting ahead of ourselves, but sharing is caring, after all.

Stay tuned for more updates on Spring Court, and our favourite High Lord, Tamlin!

THE SURIEL is a Prythian Publishing Prize winner for several centuries in a row. They have been reporting the nation’s hottest celebrity news since the beginning of time, long before the lands had names. They currently reside in the Spring Court. If you have tea to spill, and for any advertising requests, sacrifice your freshest chicken in the Western Forest. The Suriel also responds to scenes of egging Beron’s house.

[heartfullofleeches]

Monster reader is my top fav of ALL readers.

Like just imagine if Monster reader just wanted food so they go into a place that looks like it has food. And somehow walks into a cult meeting that give their upmost dedication to some monster god that looks similar to monster reader lol.

“ Today, we have come together to give our upmost dedication and beliefs into our savior. Our savior who gave us our life and our creation! And that is why today, we will be sacrificing this fool who dared to disrespect- Door opens

“ Oh. Sorry for interrupting, but I was wondering if you have any spare food?”

“….. OUR SAVIOR HAS FINALLY RETURNED!”

“ FORGIVE US FOR BASKING IN YOUR PRESENCE WITH ASKING MY LORD!! EVERYONE GET ON YOUR KNEES AND PRAY FOR FORGIVENESS!”

Lol.

(small mention of gore)

Two months, fourteen days, and five hours.

The longest you've ever went without food. If you were human, the time frame would have held a heavy tax on your body if not killing you out right, but all it did leave was dull pains in your abdomen. During said period, you found a nice cave to sleep in and recover from the injuries sustained in your escape from the facility that stole you from your home. The rest cured your broken bones and scrapes, but unfortunately like every living creature - you needed to eat.

The area you resided in didn't have much going for it in the food category. Most of the edible plants and berries had been picked clean, and you were took out of practice to hunt for your meal. Being locked in a white room with meat thrown at you randomly really put you out of shape in more ways than one. Your fears of having to leave the forest were extinguished with the discovery of an old wrapper found one evening near a neck of the woods you had yet to explore.

The guards at that place walked around with similar papers, filling you with unease, but that anxiety goes out the door the second your nose picks up on a familiar smell. Raw meat.

Climbing over some rocks, you spot a collection of wooden enclosures with strange symbols painted atop. The books the researchers made you read never talked about those. Their knowledge led you to the conclusion that these buildings were cabins and the one where that alluring smell was coming from was the closest to you. There was noise from the neighboring buildings, but if you acted quietly then maybe you could just grab enough food to hold you off for a while and they'd be none the wiser.

Creeping past the red tap that secludes the camp from the rest of the forest, a shrill scream pierces the heavens. It pins you to place, the memories of the cellmates you lost rushing to mind. Is someone hurt? Despite your experiences with others, you wanted to help, but you needed strength in case of any danger.

You hurry to the door, breaking the lock and flinging yourself into the darkness. Your advanced sight guides you through the shadows and straight to your prize. The blinding light from the icebox is the most beautiful pain you've ever witnessed. Forgetting the manners you learned overtime, you claw open various bags of dead flesh and wolf down whatever you can get your hands on. A few of the bags have names on them, but you're too hungry to care why. Bewteen the wet squish of your teeth gnashing shut, a hush blows through the crowd forming outside.

"I told you I heard something, dude. Probably a fucking bear or something. It's eating the reserves."

"Relax. I'll handle it."

The light flickers on. You've been found The guilt you felt for eating the human's food without asking turns into panic as the first thing you see is the barrel of a shotgun pointed square blank at your face. You drop the meat in your hands and cower against the back wall; your first week of freedom spent pushing bullets of the same caliber out your spine. Your lips curl over your teeth as it clatters to the ground in front of you, still afraid as if it could do anything without a handler.

"Could it be?..."

You look up at the robed figures filling the room, the creases of their faces twisted in awe or fright. The first to fall is the one holding the weapon, followed by the rest of their group as they fall to their knees, bowing their heads and rising their hands in prayer. One of the memb pulls out another still standing in shock above you.

"The day of your arrival has finally come. Forgive us, Master. We didn't recognize you at first in such a weak state. Please spare us of your spite."

Master? That's an odd name. You quite liked the one a kind human gave you once. Y/n rolls off the tongue nicer.

"If you still require sustenance, we will leave you to your feast unless you'd prefer the fresher product of our harvest. If I may offer a suggestion, we can mend your clothes and prepare you a bath to cleanse you of our tainted blood."

Bath. Those were the only highlight of the facility. Why are these people being so nice to you compared to them? It made you feel terrible considering you were the one that broke into their home. Hunger beating the conflicting emotions, you continue to eat the meat until your stomach could carry no more. You probably stopped a few bites before you reached maximum capacity due to all the eyes on you making you a little uncomfortable.

You step out of the cabin, wiping your mouth with the bottom of your shirt to be polite. The cult watches your every move, but not one person makes a peep. Considering you were the center of attention, they must be waiting for you.

"Um... hello."

The members of the cult collectively lose their minds.

"Our messiah! They speak! To lowly beings as us."

"It really is them! I'm sorry for ever doubting your presence, my lord."

"This form suits you best in my expert opinion. Let us gather in celebration for your arrival."

They gather around you, examining your claws and taking measurements of your body to prepare proper clothing for you. The questions and praise your bombarded with make your head spin, but soon enough you're led to a bathing house in another cabin and your stress is washed away by the warm water and those who tend to your mated clothes and hair. Not long into your bath, others come with robes for you to wear. They sob and shrivel beneath your words of thanks, everyone here does.

After dinner where you sit at the head of the table, too full to eat a bite of food, you're allowed to wonder the grounds until your cabin has been fully furnished. You enter the room where the screams originated from hours ago, shocked by what you discover.

A mural of a beast similar to you was painted on the far wall in fine paint and what smelled like blood. Dual irises, onyx fangs, the cross scar in the center of its chest. This creature was you, a bigger, menacing and all powerful you. Below the painting was a dead human spilt open from sternum to belly, the bones broken away and organs scooped clean. Backing away from the scene, you bump into someone.

"We are so glad that you've come to us, Master. Please grant us the lasting benefit of your presence for the rest of our days - and beyond

[andvys]

We'll burn the sky | part fourteen

Warnings: angst, mentions of drugs, alcohol, heartbreak, mentions of unrequited feelings

Pairings: Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Rockstar!fem!reader

Summary: The hope of things getting better gets crushed too soon.

Word count: 6k+

Author note: In the fic, readers dad sang the song 'Hey Jude' by The Beatles. Also shoutout to @mysticmunson who made an article and a cover for a magazine for this fic!

Series Masterlist

-

It took a lot of convincing for you to join Eddie and the others for their friends' Christmas. While you got along with all of them and became friends with them quickly, you still felt like you would be intervening. They have been friends for years and you had only joined their group recently. None of them accepted a no from you though, the teens were begging you to come and so were Eddie and Robin. You and Steve haven’t talked since Wednesday night and you began to miss him.

Now you are here, surrounded by your new friends at Robin’s place. Her living room smells like the pine from the Christmas tree, freshly baked cookies and a hint of cinnamon and pumpkin spice from all her candles. 

She has a small apartment but it’s cozy, a bunch of movies and books are all over the place, some are on the shelves, others are piling up on the floor. You checked them out the moment you stepped into her apartment, getting excited over all the horror movies she had collected.  

You finally met Jonathan and his friend from college; Argyle, who pulled you into a conversation right away, enthusiastically asking you questions about the tour. You settled beside him on the couch, quickly forgetting about all the heavy thoughts that lingered in your mind.

Steve kept looking at you all evening, eying you with an unsure look in his eyes, he wanted to talk to you but couldn’t bring himself to, he was too nervous. Even though you told him that you were okay and that everything was fine between you, he didn’t believe it and he still doesn’t. The fear that he messed up completely and broke your trust makes him feel so unbelievably angry with himself. 

He was supposed to be your safe place, the one who protects you from all the pain and yet he hurt you. He knows he did. 

“Hey Dingus,” Robin whispers. She nudges his shoulder and offers him a drink. 

He looks at her and then he looks down at the glass in her hand, eying the beverage. “Eggnog?” He asks, already taking the drink from her hand. 

“Yup.” 

“Cool,” he mumbles. Raising the cup to his lips, he looks back at you as he takes the first sip. You are laughing at something Argyle said, the man beside you looking proud at his jokes. 

Robin stares at him. She pities him, knowing that he likes you and that he is beating himself up for what happened two nights ago. You are not mad at him, you told her that and she told him that but he doesn’t believe it. 

“You should talk to her.” 

“How?” 

“Just talk to her the way you always do,” she mumbles.

“Yeah but how do I approach her?”

“Just like always, like ‘hey honey, can we talk?’” Robin says in a deep voice.

Steve scrunches his face up, furrowing his brows. “I do not sound like that,” he mumbles. 

“Yes, you do.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Yes, you do!” She exclaims with a teasing look on her face. “You always have that smirk on your face too, flick your hair and put your hand on your hip like a mom.”

“What? I– no!”

She laughs at him, drinking her eggnog and looking behind her best friend’s shoulder with a knowing look on her face. 

“What are you smirking at?” He mumbles, rolling his eyes. 

Robin raises her brows and tilts her chin, gesturing to something behind him. Before he can turn around, he hears your voice. 

“Steve?” 

Suddenly, he feels nervous again, in a way he hasn’t felt in a while. He turns around, trying to force a smile on his face when he looks down at you. He almost expects to see something negative in your eyes, disgust, anger, hate but he finds none of those, he only finds softness in them. 

“Can we talk?” You ask with shyness in your voice, something so unusual for you. 

He nods, eyes softening as he watches you sigh in relief. You take his hand and lead him to the quiet corner in Robin’s living room, you both sit on the window nook.

He doesn’t look at you, not yet. Instead, he looks around the room. Max is talking to Jonathan and Nancy. Argyle is now leaning against the kitchen island, joking around with Eddie and Dustin. The others are on the couch and on the floor, seemingly in a heated conversation about holiday movies.

He feels your eyes on him and he finally turns to face you. You eye him with an apologetic look in your eyes. 

What do you have to feel apologetic for? He is the one who messed up, Steve thinks. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, chuckling.

You nod. 

“Why are you so nice, why are you looking at me like that?” He asks. He feels genuinely confused. You should be angry at him, you shouldn’t be so nice, you shouldn’t look at him like that. 

“I don’t want you to feel bad about what happened, Steve.” 

“We– I messed up,” he mumbles, shaking his head a little as he stares at you with a frown on his face. “You– I didn’t even make sure that you were okay with it–”

“I was okay with it.”

“But I still feel bad.”

“You don’t have to, I promise. I just want to go back to the way things were.” 

“Really?”

“Yes.”

You look at Nancy, the girl that told you about the apparent feelings Steve harbored for you. With a nervous glance and an unsure look on your face, you turn back to him. 

Should you ask him? 

He knows it, he knows that you want to ask something. He can tell by the furrowed brows and the curiosity in your eyes. 

“A-Are we okay?” You ask the questions that you didn’t mean to ask. 

His gaze softens and he finally moves to touch your hand, something he wasn’t sure about at first. 

“Of course, we’re okay, honey.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, he keeps his eyes locked with yours, “but what do you really wanna know?” 

Your eyes widen a little, something that makes him chuckle. 

“Come on, ask what you wanna ask, it’s okay, I won’t be–”

“Do you have feelings for me?” You blurt out in a whisper, already blushing. 

His eyes widen, lips parting and his cheeks grow red. “W-What? Who told you that?” 

You grow nervous, your heart is beginning to race in your chest, you don’t want to hurt him, you don’t want to break his heart, he means too much to you. 

“I– no one,” you whisper, looking down at his hand, “I’m just wondering.” 

A small smile tugs on his lips as he watches you, for someone so tough and confident, you look small and shy, right now. You are worried about him and his feelings, that alone would be enough to mend the pain in his heart if it was there. You don’t want to break his heart. 

He whispers your name and you almost sigh in relief when you don’t hear any pain in his voice. He squeezes your hand, urging you to look at him. You do and meet his eyes again. 

“Listen,” he begins, “I would be lying if I said that I don’t feel something for you but it’s not– I’m not in love with you, I’m not gonna be heartbroken when you leave and when this thing between us will come to an end. I mean, I will be fucking sad,” he chuckles as he runs his fingers through his hair, “you and I, we had a really good time, one of the best times of my life, actually. You’ve become one of my best friends and I hope that you won’t forget about me when you leave because I sure as hell will never forget you and our time.” 

You blink, smiling at him, you squeeze his hand the way he did to you. 

“I could never forget you, Steve Harrington.” 

“Never?” 

“Never.” 

You smile at each other, despite what happened and the way you felt the other night, you still feel safe with him. 

“I got used to this,” he smiles, flicking his hand back and forth between the two of you, “having someone to hang out with, I mean other than Robin or the others. You made me realize that I miss having someone, someone to hold and kiss, you know?” 

You nod at his words. You understand it, you feel the same but while he misses having someone in general, you only missed one person and even though you did enjoy the time with him, you still always thought about Eddie. 

“At some point, I convinced myself that I don’t need anyone, that I’m not lucky in that department anyways,” he chuckles, rolling his eyes at himself, “I thought that all I’d ever get is meaningless hookups or just.. heartbreak.” 

You raise your brows, smile turning upside down as you stare at him. He deserves more than that, more than meaningless flings. 

“But then I met you and yeah, we hooked up too but it was also more than that. You showed me that it doesn’t have to be meaningless, that even though we aren’t in a relationship, we can still be something more than just this,” he mumbles, scooting closer to you, he looks down at the rings on your fingers, the ones that he played with when he held your hands, “you never made me feel used. Even when I knew you loved him, you never made me feel like I was a rebound or a thing to play with when you were bored. You never wanted something from me, you were just this sweet girl that wanted to be with me, even if only for a moment.” 

Oh. 

You and him, you are the same in a way. Perhaps this is why you got along so well. 

All your life, you have felt like people wanted or needed something from you. You felt used, still do.

“So uh– I guess what I wanted to say is, thank you,” he smiles, squeezing your hand, “and I’m sorry for what happened that night.” 

You blink, staring into his hazel eyes, you see so much in them. Emotions that you both share. 

Yeah, the night at the trailer was something that left you feeling weird, something that made you feel used and even when it wasn’t what they did, something inside of you was damaged when you let your thoughts get the best of you. Your feelings for either of them haven't changed. You care about Steve and you love Eddie and that is something that will always stay the same. 

Steve mended the pain in your heart after the horrible nights that followed when you found out about Chrissy. He became your friend and something more, there is an energy surrounding the two of you, one that makes you feel safe and comforted. It’s like having a safe haven that you know you can always come back to even after a long long time and you know it will still feel the same. There is nothing romantic about it but it’s nice. 

He is your friend, one that will stay with you forever. You can confidently say that knowing that it’s the truth. 

“Thank you, Steve,” you smile, “you made my life better and you made me happy when I needed it the most.” 

“Come here,” he whispers, opening his arms for you. You smile and lean closer to him, wrapping your arms around him, you hug him and close your eyes. 

“I’m gonna miss you when I’m gone.” 

He hugs you even tighter, sighing sadly, “I’m gonna miss you, rockstar.” 

On the other side of the room, Eddie stands there with a drink in his hand and a scowl on his face as he watches you staying in Steve’s embrace for longer than necessary. Letting the man touch your face after tucking your hair behind your ear. 

Your eyes light up when he says something to you, you laugh and slap his shoulder playfully. 

Do you look at him like that? Do you smile the same way when he talks to you? Do your eyes light up the same way? 

Eddie swallows, his chest feels burdened with jealousy. He feels ridiculous for feeling this way, maybe even a little hypocritical considering he let Steve touch you in a way that was nowhere near friendly but he can’t help it. Anytime another man gets a little too close to you, he gets both angry and insecure but most of all, jealous. 

“Damn, I never saw you look so angry.” 

Eddie snaps his head towards Lucas, who is happily munching on one of the cookies that Nancy made. 

“I’m not angry,” Eddie mutters, angrily. 

Lucas chuckles, nodding, “sure, whatever you say, Eddie. You are totally not jealous over the fact that Steve is kissing her right now.”

“What?” Eddie almost shrieks as he turns to look at you again, heart dropping to his stomach at his words only to find you gone and Steve joining El and Robin in a conversation. 

Clenching his jaw, he turns back to Lucas, “you little shit,” he says through gritted teeth. Lucas only laughs, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. 

“So you are jealous, huh?” 

Rolling his eyes, he only shrugs, “clearly.” 

“You’re so dense, man,” Lucas sighs. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You are dense!” He exclaims, throwing his arms up. “She is like literally in love with you and you are over here glaring at her–”

“I did not glare at her!”

“Yes, you did! You looked pretty scary right now, scarier than Henry Creel!” 

“Dude!” 

“It’s the truth!” Lucas mumbles, rolling his eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Listen, clearly you have messed up somehow, otherwise you wouldn’t look at each other like kicked puppies, all the damn time. You probably made things worse by trying to make them right ‘cause I know that you can be an idiot sometimes, no offense. But you really gotta man up and fix things before you lose her and trust me, you don’t wanna lose her.” 

Eddie blinks. 

How is this 17 year old boy wiser and smarter than him? 

He is right, he doesn’t want to lose you, ever. The thought of living a life without you makes him sick. Even if you never give him a chance again, he still wants you in his life, even if he’ll only get to love you from afar. 

You breathe in the cold air, closing your eyes, you lean back against the concrete wall. The wind is harsh tonight as the snow falls. You wonder if there is a storm brewing, beside the one inside of you. 

You are overstimulated by all the emotions running through you. 

Confusion. Sadness. Insecurities. Anger. Exhaustion. Heartbreak. 

The conversation with Chrissy left you with nothing but confusion, just like Eddie’s and Steve’s actions did. 

The days leading closer to Christmas and to your Dad’s death anniversary leaves you with sadness, too much of it. 

Your many insecurities have always been there but they have never been as intense as they are now. Despite Eddie’s words, Robin’s words or even Chrissy’s words, you can’t help but fear that Eddie doesn’t care about you in the same way you do for him. So far, things have only ever been physical between you two, at least from his side. 

Before Eddie, you had never felt an emotional connection to anyone else, you have never loved anyone romantically, you have never felt all of this for another person. You were scared of these feelings, of falling in love only to end up heartbroken. 

You were scared of falling in love with the wrong person. Though despite everything that happened, Eddie could never be the wrong person, even if he continues to put you through pain, you will never regret loving him. 

He is your person, even if you aren’t his. 

“Hey, are you okay?” 

You open your eyes and turn to see Max approaching you, even in the darkness, you can see the concern in her eyes as she looks at you. 

You smile at her and nod your head, “yes, I’m okay.” 

She doesn’t look convinced, raising her brows, she crosses her arms over her chest as she pulls her jacket tighter around her body to shield herself from the cold wind. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah,” you mumble with uncertainty in your voice. 

She takes a moment to think about her words as she looks into your eyes as though she tries to figure you out. 

“Is this too much for you?” She asks, “I mean the whole Christmas party.” 

She doesn’t have to spell it out for you to know what she actually means by her question. 

“No, I actually like it,” you smile, “I’m just not used to it, I haven’t celebrated Christmas in years.” 

Because what was there to celebrate after he died that day? 

“Honestly? I hate Christmas,” Max admits with a sigh and an eye roll, causing you to chuckle. 

“Really?” 

Her eyes widen as she nods, “yeah because even though my mom left my step dad, she still insists on spending holidays with him and Billy.” 

“Billy?” 

“My step brother who is a major asshole.” 

“Oh no,” you mumble with a scowl on your face. 

“Yeah, he is horrible and he always makes sure to make me feel horrible, especially during holidays, so I really just can’t wait for it to be over.” 

“I get it. I feel the same way,” you admit, “but I’m sorry about him, fuck that guy.” 

She chuckles at your words, “yeah, fuck that guy.” 

“What about your dad?” You ask. 

Her eyes light up and a smile appears on her face. “Oh, my dad is amazing, I don’t see him very often but he calls all the time. Lucas and I are going to visit him over the summer, he lives in California.” 

“That sounds nice,” you smile, “I hope you’ll have the best summer before you both go to college.” 

“I’m sure we will,” she smiles, “but back to you, what are you doing tomorrow?” 

“Oh umm.. I think that I will relax in my motel room,” you chuckle. 

You are not looking forward to tomorrow or the day after at all. No matter what you do, no matter how much you try to distract yourself, it doesn’t work, it never works. This day always brings you back to that horrible night.

“Alone?” 

“Yeah, I’m gonna get ready for tour, we’re leaving next week.” 

“You can’t spend Christmas by yourself,” she frowns. 

“I always spend Christmas by myself.” 

“You shouldn’t, that’s sad.” Especially because of your dad, she wants to add but doesn’t. “I’d invite you to spend it with us but I don’t think that you want to meet Billy,” she rolls her eyes, “did Eddie not invite you?” 

No. He didn’t. Eddie didn’t invite you. Steve did but he didn’t. 

Maybe he doesn’t want you around. Christmas is a holiday that you spend with your loved ones, not ones you keep around because you like the way they make you feel, because you like touching them. 

You shake your head. 

“What?” 

“Uh no, he uh– he didn’t invite me,” you mumble as the sadness begins to take hold of you, “which is fine, that’s a day you gotta spend with your family or with people you love. Eddie and I are just friends.” 

She furrows her brows in confusion. She opens her mouth to speak but quickly closes it again. You feel overwhelmed, just like you did minutes before you left the apartment. She could see the way you put on a mask, the way you smiled at Steve and laughed along to his jokes despite the pain in your eyes, you are good at hiding your emotions and so is she, that’s why she could see right through you. 

“It’s getting late, I think I’m gonna go,” you mumble, blinking away the tears that start to well up in your eyes. 

“Do you want me to get Steve, so he can drive you?” She asks even though she already knows that you will say no. You want to be alone. 

“No,” you shake your head, forcing a smile on your face, “it’s just a short walk, I’ll be fine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, thank you for tonight, the party was nice.” 

“You don’t have to thank us, you’re our friend now,” she smiles.

Her words warm your heart a little.

You give her a hug before you leave, telling her to enjoy the rest of the party before you walk away but then you make the abrupt decision to go the other way after Max goes back inside. The thought of being all alone in the quiet room makes you feel sick but going back to the party isn’t an option either. You need some time alone, a good drink and some music. 

That’s how you find yourself sitting at the bar you performed in this Tuesday. Ordering yourself a drink and opting to watch the people around you. 

Your eyes lock with blue ones, the ones that were stuck on you all night ever since you walked inside the hideout.

His hair is blond, a little messy. He has tattoos on his left arm, a dark look on his face and a smirk tugs at his lips when you don’t look away from him. He is attractive. If you weren’t so hung up on a man that probably only wants to fuck you, you would be over there flirting with this stranger already. 

You look away, running your fingers through your hair, you sigh. 

You’re a mess, a complicated mess with too many trust issues and feelings. You keep changing your mind about everything, your thoughts are running wild, making you feel as though you are going crazy. Everything that ever hurt you, keeps repeating itself in your head and you wish that your thoughts would just shut up. 

That the pain could just stop. 

Will it ever stop?

“Hey.” 

You already know who it is before you even turn around to face the man. 

“Hi.”

He smirks at you, eying you up and down before he looks at the seat next to you, “can I sit here?” 

“If you give me your name,” you say with raised brows. 

He licks his lips, chuckling, he holds his hand out to you, “I’m Henry.” 

Oh my god. 

“Henry,” you mumble, a smirk tugging at your lips. You assume that he must be the Henry Creel, the one that everyone kept mentioning, you expected him to look scary but there is not a single thing scary about him, well– maybe the look in his eyes is but you don’t care. 

You give him your name and watch as he takes the seat next to you. 

“I know who you are,” he chuckles, “you’re all over the television.” 

His voice is raspy and he looks deep into your eyes. 

“Yeah, do you want an autograph?” You joke. 

“No, I think I’d rather talk to you.”

“What if I don’t want to talk?” 

“Then I’ll leave,” he shrugs, “do you want me to leave?”

You tear your eyes away from him and look down at your drink, sloshing the dark liquid around, you down the rest of it, slamming the glass on the table. You call the bartender over, “can I get another one?” 

The bartender, a middle aged man with the name tag Tom, nods at you, reaching for your glass. 

“Actually make it two,” you request as you look back at Henry whose eyes light up. 

With the way he has been making eyes at you all night, you expected him to be flirting with you but instead you found yourself having a pleasant conversation with the man that your friends have warned you about. 

The only thing creepy about him is his obsession with spiders and zombies but he is probably just a really big fan of horror. He even has a big spider tattoo on his wrist. 

You find out that he lives alone in a big house, he stayed behind after his family left Hawkins but he works as a tattoo artist in a different town. 

The whole time he is talking to you, you nod along and listen. Leaning your elbow against the table, you cup your cheek and stare at him, wondering what gave him such a bad reputation. 

Hours go by and you knock back one drink after the other, letting the alcohol flood your system. You needed this. A distraction. To feel careless and free of your thoughts. Who would’ve thought that a talk with a stranger and a few drinks would make you feel better? 

“You are nice,” you slur, furrowing your brows. 

“Why wouldn’t I be nice?” 

“People say you’re dangerous and scary.” 

He chuckles at your words, “maybe I am dangerous and scary.” 

You shake your head, laughing, “no, I’ve met dangerous people before, you’re not dangerous. You just have that mean look on your face,” you mumble as you point to his eyes, “and your obsession with spiders makes you seem scary but you probably just want to be spiderman– hey, have you ever been to New York? You should go there but don’t have your first kiss there with someone you love or it’ll all go downhill,” you ramble carelessly. 

You don’t see the way he raises his brows in surprise, you are too drunk to notice anything at this point. Getting more and more dizzy and tired. 

“I fell in love with this– this guy who had a girlfriend but I didn’t know about her until she surprised him and then I got all heartbroken and we got into a lot of fights and blah blah,” you roll your eyes, “then I fucked his friend.” 

“Oh,” Henry mumbles, looking surprised. 

“Yeah and he got jealous. He got all pissed at me because I fucked his friend! He had a girlfriend! He had no right to be jealous, right?” 

“Totally not.” 

“But then he wanted to fuck me with his friend, how fucking stupid is that?” 

“Wait what–”

“I hate men, they are so dumb– no offense.” 

“None taken, you’re right.” 

“I know, I’m always right.” 

He chuckles as he looks down at you. 

You run your fingers through your messy hair, trying to sit straight. 

“I think I need another drink–”

“No, I really think you don’t,” he says, pushing the half empty glass away from you, “you’ve had enough. You should go home.” 

You tilt your head, squinting your eyes as you turn to look at him, “no, I don’t.” 

“The bar is closing soon.” 

“Oh,” you frown, “well, it was nice to meet you,” you mumble, jumping off the chair, your knees buckle and you almost fall to the ground if it wasn’t for him holding you up, “whoa, you okay?” He chuckles. 

A small laugh leaves your lips, you nod, “yeah, thanks,” you mumble, blinking, you feel yourself getting dizzy, “I think I had too much.” You stumble into his chest, “you smell good, is that Dior?” 

He chuckles again, placing his hands on your waist, he pushes you back a little. 

“Do you need some water–” 

“Hey! Get your hands off of her!” 

You look behind him, to see Eddie walking towards you with an angry and worried look in his eyes. 

“Oh no,” you mumble as a wave of sickness rushes through you, “there is the guy.” 

Eddie can’t believe it. He was sick with worry, searching for you everywhere after finding your motel room dark and empty. Here you are, getting cozy with Henry fucking Creel.

“What the fuck, y/n?” He mutters angrily as he stops in front of you, he reaches for you, pulling you away from Henry, he looks down at you, “I was worried about you!” 

“Why?” You slur, looking up into his dark eyes, “I’m fine, just hanging out with spiderman.”

He scrunches his face up, the smell of whiskey hits him. The red rimmed eyes and your drowsy state makes him even more worried. He cups your cheeks. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, “how much did you have?” 

You slap his hands away, “stop acting like my dad, you’re not my dad. My dad is dead.” 

Eddie frowns at your words. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Eddie–”

“You’re getting drunk with strangers now?” 

“Henry is my friend, he’s gonna give me a tattoo, right Henry?” 

Henry shrugs, “yeah sure.” 

“Or maybe some nipple piercings,” you smirk. 

“What the fuck,” Eddie mumbles. 

“Yeah, what the fuck, Eddie? Did you know that he is a tattoo artist and not some scary serial killer?”

He rolls his eyes at you, taking your hand, he squeezes it softly, “come on, I’ll take you home.”

To his surprise, you don’t protest. He grabs your coat and wraps it around your shoulders before he leads you out. He mutters something under his breath as you step into the darkness. Suddenly, you start giggling causing him to get even more irritated. 

You lean against the wall, almost stumbling to the ground again but Eddie holds your waist tightly. 

“What the fuck is so funny to you?” 

You look at the frown on his face, his eye is twitching and his cheeks are red. He is mad. 

“Get your hands off of her,” you imitate him with a low voice, “are you worried that someone else will use me for my body? I-I mean, that’s all I am to you, a body, right?”

“What?” He scoffs. 

“I’m just a body– a thing to you,” you slur, “that’s what you called me, a pretty little thing, that’s what you called me that one night on the tour bus. And that’s all you ever want me for. You always just wanna touch me and kiss me, otherwise I’m not interesting to you.” 

“What?” Eddie repeats, though he doesn’t sound shocked or angry now, just sad. 

“Can you bring me home– no, wait,” you giggle again, “I don’t have a home.” 

Eddie stares at you with tears in his eyes. Right here, right now, he realizes just how hurt you really are. Despite your laugh and the carefree act you put on, it’s so clear to him that you are in pain and it breaks his heart. 

“I’m a wreck,” you say, running your hand down your face, “man, I’m so annoying.” 

He shakes his head, stepping towards you, he cups your cheeks. Getting angry at himself for making you feel this way about yourself. 

“You’re not a wreck and you are not annoying, Sweetheart and you’re not some thing to me. You’re my girl, my best friend, okay?” 

Your glossy eyes widen at his words. 

“Best friend?” You whisper. 

“Yeah, you are my everything. I’m an idiot, a really big one. I know I made mistakes, too many of them but I can prove you wrong, I can show you that you are more to me than what you think.”

“Please?” You whisper with hope in your eyes. 

“I will prove it to you,” he says softly, leaning down, he presses his lips to your forehead, giving you a gentle kiss, “I won’t touch you unless you tell me to. We can start over, okay?” 

You nod. 

He pulls you into his arms and hugs you tightly. You breathe his scent in, a sense of comfort washing over you. You close your eyes and lay your head on his chest. 

“I can be your home.” 

“Really?” You mumble into his chest as the exhaustion takes over you again. 

“Yes baby,” he whispers, running his fingers through your hair, “and please don’t ever hang out with Henry again–”

“Henry is nice.” 

“No, he really isn’t,” Eddie mumbles in annoyance. 

“Yes, he is, he is a sweet boy.” 

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs. 

“Let’s get you to bed, Sweetheart.” 

He brings you back to the motel room, taking your clothes off and replacing them with comfortable ones. He takes your makeup off and brushes your hair while you brush your teeth. Eddie loves taking care of you, it’s something he never told you before but he does. 

Before you, he hated being responsible for others, he didn’t like taking care of other people but it’s different with you. 

He manages to convince you to drink a glass of water, hoping that it will make you feel less bad in the morning but neither that or the advil help you. You wake up with a pounding head.  

Groaning in pain, you open your eyes, feeling thankful for the closed curtains. 

You sit up, burying your face in your hands. You haven’t felt this way in a long time. You don’t drink much, ever. Hangovers are the absolute worst, that’s why you keep it light with the drinks, usually. 

You force yourself out of bed, you read the clock, 12:00 pm.

“Jesus,” you mumble. It’s unusual for you to sleep this long. 

You find a note and a full water bottle, along with some painkillers on the nightstand. 

Please eat something when you wake up and call me.

-Eddie.

You don’t think that you will get anything down right now or today in general. 

You don’t call him right away, opting for a shower instead, hoping that it will wake you up and make you feel better. You grab some fresh clothes before walking into the bathroom. Turning the water on, you start taking your clothes off. You turn to look at yourself in the mirror. 

Frowning at the puffy eyes and the circles beneath them. 

“Wreck,” you mumble to yourself, rolling your eyes, you turn away and step into the shower.

You close your eyes when the warm water touches your skin. You stand there for a couple of minutes before you begin to wash your hair and your body. You don’t think of anything yet, too focused on the headache and your craving for coffee. 

You take your time getting ready. You put lotion on your body, style your hair and put makeup on your face, hoping that it’ll make you look less exhausted. You pick out a warm sweater and some dark jeans.

The weight on your shoulder is heavy but some of it was lifted last night after your conversation with Steve and Eddie. 

I can be your home

We can start over

Start over. Yes, you both can start over. You can start over. Things don’t have to be this way. You don’t have to be broken and insecure. You can be more than that. You can be okay. 

You are surprised by the amount of snow that fell overnight. All the trees and all the streets are covered in snow and it's icy cold outside. 

You were meaning to go to the store but it’s too far away to walk in this cold so you stop by the gas station instead, hoping to get a hot drink and a few snacks here. 

You greet the very bored looking cashier as you walk inside. Last Christmas by Wham is playing on the radio. The only Christmas song you’ll ever tolerate. 

You walk past the drinks and the magazines when something catches your eye. 

The warmth that the store provided you only lasted for a moment. Your blood runs cold and your heart drops to your stomach when your eyes fall on the cover of one of the magazines. 

“What the fuck,” you whisper as you feel yourself getting sick already. 

A picture of your dad is on the cover of one of the magazines. You step closer, ignoring the pounding of your heart. With shaky hands, you reach towards it. Eyes filled with shock as you read the lines on the cover. 

HOLIDAY HEARTBREAK

BELOVED LEGEND DIED OF DRUG OVERDOSE, NOT MEDICAL CONDITION. AN INSIDE SCOOP INTO THE MAN WE THOUGHT WE KNEW. 

“No….” You whisper with tears in your eyes. 

You rush towards the counter with the magazine in your hand, slamming a fifty dollar bill on the counter.

“Hey, that’s too much!” The teen says to you as he looks at you in confusion. 

“Keep the change,” you mumble as you leave the store. Not even caring about the cold anymore, walk towards the bench on the sidewalk. Sitting down, you flip through the pages. 

Breathing heavily, you try to see through the blurry vision in your eyes as you begin to read the article. Your hands are shaking, you feel like throwing up as the bile in your throat rises. 

The Hey Jude singer secretly battled a drug addiction before being found by his daughter on Christmas. Is she following in his footsteps? 

You don’t even feel your heart racing any longer, you don’t feel any anger. 

You read the rest of it, only growing more scared and confused. 

Mentions of your apparent drug addiction only make you feel even sicker. 

“What the fuck..” 

You stare at it for the longest time, not knowing how to actually feel. Tears begin to stream down your face and you have to hold yourself together to keep yourself from sobbing. How do they know? How did this happen? Who talked? Who said all these horrible things about you?

You sniffle, closing the magazine, you get up. 

You never wanted this, you never wanted them to know about what happened to him. 

They waited for this day to publish this stupid magazine. You clench your jaw, looking up into the sky, you close your eyes. The pain and the anger and everything else begins to fade into numbness. 

You don’t even think about what will happen next but you know that the rest of the tour will be hell for you. 

Ever since he died, you have hated this day but now you despise it. 

His name is ruined and so is yours. 

You walk over to the telephone booth, throwing a coin into the phone box, you dial the number, already knowing that you are making a huge mistake. This person never gave you an ounce of comfort in your life and yet, you call her. 

You have never felt so low. 

You hold the receiver tightly in your shaky hand, ignoring the tears that stream down your face. 

“Hello?” 

“Mom?” 

The line goes silent and you are afraid that she hung up the phone. 

“Mom, are you there?” You ask, not even recognizing your own voice anymore. 

She says your name, almost regretfully. 

“Did you see?” You ask as you look down at the magazine. 

“See what, y/n?” 

“The article?” 

“Yes.” 

Her voice is monotone, strict. She doesn’t care, she never did and it hurts you more than ever today. 

“C-Can I see you?” You ask with a shaky voice. 

She sighs and you already know what that means. 

“Listen, I gotta go–”

“Mom, please,” you beg.

The line is silent for another few seconds. Your heart is racing, your bottom lip is trembling as your body is shaking, not from the cold but from the fear. 

“I need you.” 

She doesn’t say anything but she hangs up the phone, leaving you alone once again. 

You close your eyes as you place the receiver back in place, wiping your tears away, you hold the magazine tightly against your chest as you leave the booth. 

How much worse will it get? 

“Y/n?”

You look up, not caring about the tears on your face and the ones that are welling up in your eyes again. Even through your blurry vision, you recognize him. 

“H-Hi,” you mumble, trying to keep yourself from crying. 

He eyes you with concern in his eyes, holding the keys to his truck, he puts them inside of his pocket as he walks towards you. 

“Are you okay, kid?” He asks. 

You blink, trying to come up with words, trying to come up with a lie but you can’t, not right now. 

You shake your head, “no,” you whisper, unable to stop the sob from escaping. 

Wayne sighs deeply, a sad look taking over his features, he steps closer to you.

“Come here, darling,” he says as he opens his arms, pulling you into his embrace. He rubs your back softly, holding you as you cry. 

-

Here’s the article

-

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[slitheringghost]

Voldemort Fic Recs

I meant to post this for hprecfest over four months ago, but uh... I didn't. More fic recs in Part 2 here and Part 3 here.

The Limits Of Perception by deslea (800 words, G)

Rec: A truly fantastic character study in few words.

He meets a different kind of falsehood at school. The Pure prize the collective. They put aside their individual interests and feelings, follow codes of honour designed to protect family and name. It is still lying, but at least it is lying for something better than one's own ends. This is a kind of hypocrisy that he can tolerate, he decides.

of all my demon spirits by slashmarks (Tom & Ginny, 1.7k, T)

Rec: Ginny writes to Tom after the events of CoS. Paints a detailed picture of Tom and Ginny's relationship, and it's a great character study of Tom in addition to Ginny.

But I think maybe you were lying when you said that I was boring and stupid after all. Do you remember when we talked about the last war and I didn’t understand how anybody could think muggles were animals, because even if I don’t really know any muggles we go into the village to get groceries and stuff all the time and Mrs. Hoof keeps sweets by the counter just to give them to kids like me? You teased me about being bought with candy, but then you said the Death Eaters had to decide muggles weren’t people in order to kill them, and that really most people do that all of the time, like with house elves and stuff. You said that it was because most people are hypocrites and can’t face their real choices, but I think maybe it’s something you do, too, Tom. Maybe I had to be a boring and stupid little girl because you were about to kill me.

a shade amidst the shadowy dead by slashmarks (Tom & Cassiopeia Black, 2.4k, T)

Rec: THE Voldemort backstory of all time - Bellatrix's great-aunt Cassiopeia Black, a lesbian Dark Lord with a Muggle lover, and Tom Riddle and Bellatrix's mutual teacher and Mother Figure (TM) who they're both grieving when they meet. AKA Bellamort's very own Bathilda Bagshot.

Circling around to the potions shelving, she stopped halfway, a small twitch of a half-smile disturbing her serene face. Tom had fallen asleep with his face in a book in the armchair between bookshelves. In a moment he would wake, hearing her move. He would politely pretend he had lost track of time, and she would politely pretend to believe him. Of course, she knew perfectly well he was sleeping in the lab all the time for the summer, and she knew why. The school-leaving age in muggle Britain was fourteen, and Tom had therefore been expected to leave the orphanage two years ago.

The Shack at the End of the Lane by Asenora (Tom & Merope, 4k, G)

Rec: Voldemort’s victims meet Merope in the afterlife. A wonderful concept.

One day, a second bedroom materialised in the shack. It had white-washed walls and a black-and-white tiled floor, and contained no furniture other than a rickety iron bedstead, a wardrobe, and a hard wooden chair. She opened the wardrobe, and found nothing in it except an empty shoebox. 'This place needs some cheer,' she thought, and was unsurprised when a set of paint pots appeared in front of her.

the serpent's tale has come undone by slashmarks (Bellatrix/Voldemort, 6.2k, E)

Rec: Fantastic Voldemort POV in a Bellamort getting together fic. Slashmarks' ability to write both Voldemort's hunger for connection and intimacy and his cruelty is so impressive.

Orion Black's idiocy would be his prize, in this case. He understood what he was seeing when he looked into Bellatrix Black's cool gray eyes and the mind beyond them. He would gratefully use what Orion Black had discarded or overlooked as essentially worthless; or at least, not worthy of his attention and maintenance. He knew that pureblood men were often idiots about women, but sometimes the boundless capacity for it in otherwise intelligent ones surprised him. - Moreover... He had wanted family as a student, he remembered that; something to replace the loss that had occurred at and before his birth, someone to claim him, someone who would defend his interests and give him something to defend. He had the Death Eaters as the closest possible thing now. The demands marriage would have made on him would not be... tenable.

endless nights took on my whole life by slashmarks (Bellatrix/Voldemort, Voldemort & Rodolphus, Bellatrix & Rodolphus, Sirius & Bellatrix, 12.4k, M)

Rec: My absolute favorite Tom Riddle POV. A HILARIOUS Voldemort and Rodolphus dynamic in addition to a wonderful Bellamort.

Bellatrix was a new experience for Tom, as something of a kindred spirit. Abraxas might be the closest thing Tom would admit to a brother, but he had no real patience for magical theory or interest in it beyond utilitarian concerns, and Reinhard was simply too nice a person, deep down, a condition even the Lestranges had never cured him of. Bellatrix, though, was capable of sharing everything for the first time: she could keep up with him intellectually, she was as fascinated by magic as him, and any squeamish bone had long ago been extracted. Best of all, she shared Tom Riddle's fervent loathing for every aspect of magical Britain's society and his desire to personally torture to death most of the Wizengamot, which Tom had always known better than to fully express even to Abraxas.

The Edge of Reality by deslea (Bellatrix/Voldemort, 4k, E)

Rec: Fascinating exploration of the Death Eater cult and initiation.

To ensure their continued loyalty, they must be given a new family and future, better than the one they have agreed to cast away. When this is achieved, in his experience, they will do virtually anything in his service. Their loyalty to old laws and values and connections is either severed, or so conditional as to be irrelevant. It is a delicate exercise, carried out with an intricate blend of Legilimency and plain old-fashioned manipulation. It is magic at its finest.

'The son and heir of nothing in particular by @artemisia-black (2.6k, M)

Rec: Beautifully written, and I love Tom's musings on London in this fic.

But unlike the damp which pervaded the orphanage in the depths of winter, this scent did not evoke desperation and destitution. It did not remind him of scratchy government-issued pinafores and the flavourless soups that the matron insisted warded off the flu.  No, this damp smelled different. It smelled of ancient, untapped magic. But most importantly, it smelled like home.

The Velveteen Rabbit by Asenora (Tom & Mrs. Cole, Tom & Merope, 3k, G)

Rec: A unique take on Mrs. Cole and Tom's relationship, and a heartbreaking young Tom.

It’s just about pride - when he’s hurt, when one of the bigger lads punches him in the face, he won’t give anyone the satisfaction of knowing. He just watches, his face completely unmoving, staring whoever's attacked him down until they're the one that's frightened, and then whirling off triumphantly, with his chin in the air. But, if you know where to look, you can find him a wee while later curled up in a corner of the orphanage where nobody usually goes, running his fingers over his black eye or bruised jaw like he could cure the injury by magic, muttering words of comfort to himself, telling himself he’s all he needs, and he’ll be alright, and he will always, always manage to survive.

My True Family: Voldemort and Family Connections by slashmarks (Meta, 3k)

Rec: Cheating ‘cause this isn’t a fic, but a must-read essay that challenges the idea of an inhuman Voldemort who can’t love.

Voldemort immediately knows how to lure Harry to the Department of Mysteries when curiosity isn't enough: a threat to Sirius Black will be enough, and it is. Sirius is not only Harry's only remaining magical family, but he represents a hope Tom Riddle once shared, and once was equally disappointed in: a magical guardian who would take either boy away from the muggle world and status as a friendless orphan.

In Place And Blood. by Lanna Michaels (Tom & Merope, 2.3k, G)

Rec: Tom raised by Merope still becomes Voldemort and this time his motivation is solely revenge on purebloods for his mother.

That night, for the first time, he shares a room with six other boys, five of them purebloods, and he wants to murder them where they sleep. He doesn't know how to do it, but he has ideas. They all deserve it. They deserve it for what they did to his mother. Purebloods had left his mother friendless, a disgrace, had thrown her out and left her to die and her son with her. Tom is going to make sure they live to regret it. Tom is going to make every one of them regret it.

if the sea were sand alone by Anonymous (Tom & Dumbledore, 12.8k, G)

Rec: A gorgeous and heartbreaking what-could-have-been for the Dumbledore and Tom relationship, the starting point being Slughorn comes to the orphanage to introduce the magical world to Tom instead of Dumbledore.

"I wanted to kill them," he said. "They left me there. All those years, and my father, and my grandparents, they left me there. The last thing my mother said to him was, 'What about the baby?' and the last thing he said to her--" He cut himself off. There was so much pain etched into his face that Albus shuffled off the bed, and, standing over him, pulled his head to his chest like he was still a small child. He had felt abandoned, once. It was a wound that had never truly healed, and it had taken him years to realize the extent of the damage.

More fic recs are in Part 2 of rec list here and Part 3 here.

[lizardsfromspace]

Stumbling across that weird fanatically anti-transmasc cult again and this tweet really sums it up better than anything

Trans women are defined entirely by misery and tragedy. Historical trans women all died in asylums. That's why Christine Jorgensen, the first trans woman to get gender-affirming surgery in the US, tragically *squints* spent decades as a in-demand public speaker and headlining entertainer. Because trans women literally can't experience anything other than misery

I have a book from the 70s with an ad for a speaker's agency that lists her alongside Rod Serling and Cicely Tyson. And underneath Erich von Daniken, which is irrelevant to my point but really weird. She was not wasting away in an asylum. Many trans women led tragic lives; but many is not all, and there are historic examples, even really famous ones, of trans women who were happy

Why would they erase that to tell people trans women all suffer tragic fates and must suspect everyone oh yeah bc they're a cult preying on the vulnerable and trying to convince them they need protection (but oddly enough from other trans people more than anyone else?)

The trans man thing is a reference to Victor Barker, who was, indeed, a trans man and a fascist in the 1920s. But I think another key point is, uh, that was one fuckin' guy. Why are they tacking that on, except if they're trying to imply trans men are secretly fascists? But that'd be an absurd thing to belieTHEY BELIEVE THAT. That is a real thing these creeps believe now and are seriously implying on the reg

"You must be suspicious that trans men are fascists" is now part of their ever-evolving litany of apparently endless evil from transmascs who...called a internet famous trans woman an asshole? Made a bad tweet once? Literally anything a trans man ever does (or doesn't do) transforms into a collective action on the part of all trans men in their minds. Trans men aren't just not allies in their mind, but are comically evil Saturday morning cartoon villains

Also, of course, the insistence that trans men had it much easier than trans women. If all trans women's lives weren't misery, all trans men's lives weren't happy, either. This insistence they had it "easy" is giving James Somerton on Radclyffe Hall

This is, again, A Single Guy. You have proved two white trans men are fascists, one in the 1920s and one now. Maybe. Maybe some other factor is at play, some other identity shared, by these two men, and the majority of fascists. "Why do people think I hate trans men?" says a group with a list of trans men they hate they can trot out instantly

I think people are just primed to think evidence of one member of a marginalized group doing a shitty thing is proof they all do it, or to go "that's just one guy?". In another life this jabroni wouldn't be posting about how Mao would be a Baeddel (???), they'd be sharing Fox News stories about crimes to declare we need to deport all Muslims and Mexicans. It's the same psychology, just rotted by internet discourse instead of a more traditional reactionary ideology

Also you may wonder "wait, I'm a trans woman, and trans men calling me a Nazi happens quite rarely, actually". I'm a trans woman on the internet and trans men calling me a Nazi has happened a grand zero times. So you may then wonder why, precisely, this sweet, innocent bean who's never done anything wrong is called a Nazi so regularly they think it's a universal problem.

Anyway they tweeted out the Fourteen Words, but they said gay women instead of white children. Truly, how could anyone ever get the idea they're a Nazi

[firefly--bright]

september coffee

jean kirstein x reader, modern au

summary ; september feels alot like the start of the year. jean brings you pastries while you make coffee, and september feels less daunting than january. warnings ; none! a/n ; im sorry for the last atrocity. please enjoy this domestic slice of life and forget i ever wrote the last one. thanku. also this is just me revealing my mocha recipie. enjoy :3 taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿

middle tile art creds ; @ppushable !

september feels a lot like the start of the year. more than january, a better fit. maybe it's the air, maybe its the cool breeze, maybe its the fact that your hair falls a little better, maybe its the fact that your coffee tastes like how you know how to make it, or that your music fits the occasion of the leaves falling on the ground. orange, a little soft still, littering the entrance of your apartment building.

or maybe it's none of those. maybe you're reading too much into it. the wind holds your face with its coolness and you think it's okay to breathe a little better. you think it's better to forget you were ever fourteen. its okay if your bedside table is lined with coffee cups, a dark band running on the inside of them, indicating that it has been used well enough to know it isn't forgotten. youre barely there but its okay because the year is just starting - nine months in.

or maybe it's him. his hands in his pockets, waiting outside your door with a brown bag holding croissants and some cheese. the good one, he says, holding a grudge against everything that doesn't meet his taste. his coffee is black and made by you, just how he likes it, sitting on your kitchen counter patiently, cooling down.

maybe he just happens to breathe life into the september's stillness to make it a little fuller. which is an important title to give to someone, akin to god, being the one your risky and dangerous hopes are pinned on, an unknown specter.

he balances his coffee on his laptop, carrying the both of them - dangerous, risky, hopeful. places both on top of the kitchen counter in front of your quarter-made coffee. it's barely starting, the brew of your present concoction being only planned out and the mug is empty when he peers into it, curious.

"what's it gonna be this time?" he asks, taking a sip from his cup with gentle breaths, knowing just how hot the coffee is going to be. this is not hope. no, its the fullness that comes with being with him. being with him is to feel september around you, semi-crunchy leaves on the ground being forgotten by everyone else but you even if you're in your home making an iced mocha.

"you'll see." you say, speaking about hope. he'll see. you'll wait.

he nods, slowly, twice, uncalculated movements that you have somehow counted and known since you'd met him. "show me." he says. this is also not hope, and you dare not to mix the two - his voice isn't a command but its a plea. not a hope, because he knows you enough to know you'd comply. its certainty. not risky, not dangerous. safe and sound in your home, cup of quarter-made coffee, marbled floors, september air, his voice. safe. easy.

you've been too focused on stringing hope together. beady rocks of what people describe as a glimmer. you'd describe it as something more of a small weight. beads. something that required effort to be collected together once they scattered away. hope came with the dangers of risk and its own existence, a mapped road that you had been down to several times, hoping against hope. but this was good. the little shine in his eyes, looking at you without expectance.

"two spoons of coffee." you start, taking your shitty pack of instant coffee, crumbled at its zigzagged edges, cut unevenly. jean's face scrunches up at your choice, something you cant show you agree with. "why this one?" he grumbles, and you spare him a glance from the corner of your eye.

"its backup coffee." you say, shrugging. the plastic crinkles under your fingers as you slip a spoon inside it.

"backup coffee?" he asks, pushing the cup closer to your spoon - things that dont go unnoticed by you. its not about actions being added up in the end, you think, because you were always taught that it was the sum of all your actions that determined if you were good or bad, but its not. in this moment, you decide that everything - little or big - that he did made your heart feel like it actually mattered. every thing had its own consequence.

"my actual coffee's finished. this is the one i use when i have to wait for the next grocery run to buy the good stuff." you answer, and he hums, his hands folding themselves over his chest, nodding, attentive, certain. You turn your attention to another cabinet – the one containing the sugar and cinnamon – and jean’s attention rests on you. the music sounds different, you think, clearer. another thing about September stillness. Another thing about the normalcy of hopelessness. Despite how big and scary the word sounds; hopelessness isn’t a curse. It doesn’t have to be, not when jean’s eyes are on your hands and the way you turn the cap of the sugar jar, careful, certain. Hopelessness is certain. It’s a favour. it’s the lack of hope, the lack of the blood-curdling risk that comes with it. It’s the lack of the expectation for something to be perfect, you keep thinking, take one spoonful and dumping it on the coffee powder in your less-empty mug.

Another spoon. Your mind shifts - you're going to add chocolate syrup in this, that’s going to have sugar too - you shake some sugar off the spoon and back into it’s jar, grains falling in-between the space of the jar and the mug, spilling on the counter. Hopeless. Jean snickers. “shut up,” you say with a smile of your own, capping the lid back on before moving on to the next step.

“cinnamon?” he asks, tilting his head. You nod, flipping the lid open to the part with tinier holes than the other side and sprinkling some in. “how do you know how much?”

You shrug, but your moves are decisive. “just eyeball it.”

he rolls his eyes, hopeless. “I need measurements.” He says. you scoff. “and you’re going to actually make this?” “yes.” He says as if its obvious, “for when you want it but cant make it.”

Little things. You were always taught about adding things up to make them count more, but this counted just as much. You pause, taking a breath to take in the fact that he admitted to the act of loving you. admitted to the fact that he’d love you into routine.

September air breathes a little more into life.

“just… trust your gut.” You say, a little hopeful, you think, because your heart’s beating a little bit faster. Risky, dangerous. pearls of hope are scattering away from you. in the silence where you don’t speak, jean seems to have made up his mind, giving you a deadpan expression when your eyes meet his. “don’t give me that bullshit.”

“what? I trust your gut. Why cant you trust your gut?” you challenge, closing the lid, placing the bottle on the marbled counter, turning your face towards his. He runs one hand through his hair, shaking his head. “my gut cant even digest lactose.” “and yet you eat blocks of – what is it you got?” “gouda-“ “gouda with wine.” “yeah that’s because…that’s my duty.” You laugh in affectionate disbelief. “then its my duty to drink how much ever cinnamon you put in my coffee.”  

The same silence spreads across the room again. Contemplative, comfortable; an unsaid recognition of your own version of a confession, just as his was. And jean thinks about how you claim you don’t know how to talk about things in a way that make sense and have shape, but then you do. You always somehow find a way to make everything into a prayer, into a sentence that hopes to be something more than itself. And then he thinks about how comforting it is. The fact that he’s the only one that can decode your false bait into its much more real, much scarier reality. Each phrase hoping to be an “I love you” that only jean can hold, seeing it to be something akin to a scripture rather than three countable words.

A duty to make coffee for his beloved; a penance, an act, a confession. And then the duty to drink the coffee if it turns out worse than promised; a recognition, an act, a confession.

You move to get the milk from the fridge. Its half empty, half full, and you pour just enough for the milk to cover the powdery mix in your mug, filling up around one-third of the glass.

“hmm. Milk. Right after you made fun of my disability.” He says. you laugh. It’s a ritual. “being lactose intolerant is a curse, not a disability.” He waves his hand around in dismissal. “whatever,” he says, just as you place your mug in the microwave. The action catches his attention more than the rest of your actions do.

“microwave?” he asks, tilting his head again, a strand of hair falling over his forehead. Your hand reaches forward, brushing it back, your fingers tangling in his hair. His eyes flutter, cheeks tainting a watery red.

“helps the sugar melt faster.” You say. You watch his adam’s apple bob, his eyes opening to meet yours, your hand still in his hair. He hums, and you're almost afraid he’s going to fall asleep – standing up, leaning against the marbled kitchen counter, with your hand where its supposed to be, soft strands against your fingertips, just where he’s supposed to be, the slope of his shoulders relaxed, calm, only moving with his breath.

The microwave dings. Once, twice, and you open it before it reaches it’s last beep. Another ritual. The song changes, playing another soft tune, and jean’s shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, scratching the back of his neck and hiding his stupid blush from you even though you’ve already seen it and taken pride in it. You’ll grant him the illusion of having gotten away with it. Just this once.

placing the mug on the counter again, you stir the sugar into the milk and coffee and cinnamon. “how do you know if the sugar’s dissolved?” jean asks. He leans back to his left foot, shifting closer to you. his chest is against your arm, just enough space to let you mix the liquid, it’s warm scent filling the room, taking up space, mixing with your breath. September air lulls – its all just shitty instant coffee and cinnamon now, and the old, burnt-out candle on your coffee table not even three steps away is long forgotten.

“I kinda… stab the cup? With the spoon? To feel the bottom…if there are any grains left, id feel it though the spoon.” You say, demonstrating exactly what you were saying. Your spoon hits the bottom of the mug, and you feel a crystal of sugar through the tip of your spoon. “complicated,” jean whispers from beside you and you try to stifle a laugh.

“not really. Youre stupid.” “im not.” “sure.” “im not.”

“chocolate next.” You say. Jean nods, moving off of the counter to the cabinet beside him, and you try not to focus on his movements too much. It proves to be hard when his forearms flex with little effort and his face lights up subtly when he spots the bottle of the syrup, reaching forward to grab it. Another confession, you think, that you didn’t ask him for this. You didn’t ask him to come to your apartment just to watch you make your coffee, you didn’t ask for him to waste his time while you could ramble about the day you spent without him. He didn’t ask for you to look at him as if he was doing you a favour, but he was. Is it a favour if you didn’t really ask for it? You didn’t ask him to open the bottle for you, you didn’t ask him to squeeze whatever was left at the end ontop of your warm coffee. And you mumble out a “thanks” anyway, because what else can you do?

Pearls of dangerous hope string themselves together without your say in the matter. You breathe out and watch as the remaining ribbon of smoke from the heat of the coffee distorts around your exhale. Jean’s hand rubs the flesh of your arm, the un-asked for warmth leaving it’s traces on your skin. You didn’t ask for this. His hand is on your shoulder now, and you cant help but enjoy it. You stir the chocolate into your concoction, and jean leans forward to place a small kiss near your collarbone without prior notice. But you don’t flinch from surprise, relaxing under his lips. He pulls away before you can start wondering again, and your mind lulls.

You love him. there are no favours to ask for. After making sure the chocolate’s dissolved, the colour of the coffee changing from what it was before, small bubbles gathering at the edge of the liquid, you move to the fridge to get some ice. Jean’s eyes follow your figure, glued to your face as you reach into the freezer, prying the ice cubes out, holding them in your hands.

“you could’ve just got the mug near you,” jean says, watching you pour the handful over the coffee. “and I’m the stupid one?”

“shut up.” You tell him with a smile in defeat, unable to come up with a clever response. You wipe your now damp hands on your pants, and jean grabs the milk, pouring it over the ice, knowing just how much you’d like. A couple of the cubes float to the top, just as he stops, and now its your turn to lean on the counter beside him, hands resting on the marble as he stirs the coffee.

“if this were a glass mug-“ you say, and he looks at you with a soft smile you cant quiet place, “-you could see the layers of the coffee and the milk and it looks really pretty,”

he hums in response. “when did you find out you liked it like that?”

“I just followed some video at first and then I hated it. And then I just fucked around and found out. my first coffee was with my cousin sister when the lights went off. We all went to the grocery store because that was the only place with the a/c still on, and she got a can of cold coffee and I had a sip and now my only goal in life is to make coffee that was exactly like the shitty can of coffee we had then.” You said, overexplaining while the ice in your now full mug of coffee melted slowly. Jean took a sip of it, nodding to your story. His brows lift in little surprise after taking a sip, shaking his head in appreciation. “don’t know if this counts as shitty,” ���you like it?” you ask with a smile, and jean pretends it doesn’t affect it as much as it does. The coffee settles in his stomach as do the butterflies. He nods.

“its good. Sweet,” he remarks. You tilt your head knowingly, “you pretend to like black coffee but I know you’d tear up a frappe,” “I would not-“ “literally last week.” “that was different.” “how?” “I bought that for you!” “and you drank all of it before I even knew you got it for me-“ “I was tempted.” “sure, jean.” You say, laugh laced in your words. Jean pushes the mug towards you as if to prove you wrong.

You take a sip. The song changes again, and jean’s hand finds its way to the small of your back. With your lips still touching the cup, his lips touch your cheeks. His stubble tickles your chin, but you don’t flinch. September air is calm, quiet, there’s little breeze. Jean kisses your cheek. “how was your day?” he asks, ready, quiet, calm.

you breathe a little better, turning your face to his and pecking a kiss to his lips. He unwraps the pastry he bought not too long ago while listening it you, hopped up on the kitchen counter with a cold iced mocha in your hands, jean’s eyes on you. pearls become a necklace, and the string is stronger than before because he’s here. His eyes are on you.

[f1version]

BARBARA ROBERTS ★ DTN SERIES

series’ masterlist

An old chapter is reopened, that force and distinction that drove Barbara Roberts to the top of F1 for two consecutive years, back home. Malibu Racing is a new temple, the extension of a legacy.

Barbara Roberts, Team Principal and CEO of Malibu Racing F1 Team has her origins tied to history books. A two-time world champion whose on-track abilities couldn’t be ignored. A fierce competitor who came back for more.

At the young age of four, Barbara began chasing the excitement behind the wheel, observing karting races closely, going home, and developing her talent with each lap of her uncle’s old kart. She found happiness in speed, enjoyed visiting the Phoenix Street Circuit each year, obsessed over the Indy500, and watched Ayrton Senna and Alain Prost challenge each other throughout the years. Suddenly, she began to dream about a hot-pink car, all her notebooks filled with drawings of it. She, as well as her family, then understood that racing was a fire that needed to be fueled.

Roberts made her kart racing debut at the age of eight, and after winning her first race, it was a matter of time before her name was engraved on several US-based kart championship trophies. However, further progress would require expanding horizons, which prompted the Roberts to move across the ocean in 1994, supporting Barbara for what could be a challenging career. 

Europe was fast, she stayed faster. By fourteen her collection of kart titles included national, international, and world championships. Every race and practice aimed for that unattainable perfection, being aware of the judging eyes on each step she took. At 16 years old, Roberts was fearless, deciding to pursue another dream of hers, an engineering career. She used to say that the pressure was a reminder of what was yet to come.

Pieces began to fall into place, Barbara embarked on single-seaters as soon as age allowed it. Her first title in Monoposto Racing Club was followed by titles in Formula BMW ADAC, Formula Renault, and the Formula 3 Euro Series — all consecutive titles. And bound to keep the momentum, she started hunting for a seat in Formula One, closing the deal with BMW Williams in a reserve capacity for 2004 and securing a race seat for the 2005 season. 

Debuting at 21, Barbara spent her year fighting at the midfield in struggling machinery, yet was able to finish 10th in the World Championship, once again pouring ink on paper for what would be BMW Sauber in 2006. An improvement in reliability for her sophomore season placed Roberts on track for her maiden Grand Prix victory in the streets of Monaco, an unbelievable, emotional, and well-remembered drive that holds her in the tracks’ spotlight to this day.

For the 2007 season, Scuderia Ferrari took the bet on two young talents: Barbara Roberts and Kimi Räikkönen, giving both drivers the exact same 3-year-contract and an opportunity to make history. 

The pair held a fiery battle all season, ending in one of the most astonishing title deciders in the sport’s history, where the world championship rested on their number of wins due to a tie in the points. The crown sealed on Räikkönen, but Barbara’s own would arrive that very next year, securing it after 8 wins and 15 total podiums.

In her final year of mastery, Roberts became a double World Champion after a year-long battle against Brawn’s Jenson Button, three points separating them. And despite being contracted to race in 2010, Roberts decided to leave F1 behind at the end of the 2009 season.

After her F1 retirement, Barbara has taken on different roles and challenges throughout the years. In 2011 revealing her retirement's original reason, Roberts announced her new position as CEO of her family’s emblematic automobile manufacturer, Malibu Motors, linking nostalgia with modernity. In 2016, they held the biggest car launch in history, presenting one supercar and seven SUVs which resulted into having six of those as the bestselling cars of the year. In 2017, Malibu Motors became part of the Formula 3 engine programme, making the public think that was her only form of a comeback to motorsport. Yet, one year later, a victory in the 24 Hours of Le Mans was waiting for her and former rivals, Fernando Alonso and Jenson Button. And, in for 2019, she begun sponsoring multiple young women across motorsport, mentoring those in the path to Formula One.

Important figures of the sport, old colleagues, and the public, believed Barbara would be back in the car sooner or later, but after fourteen years, she has opted for a different path. A decade-long project becomes reality in 2023, with two hot-pink cars flying on track, resembling Barbie’s old childhood drawings.

★ Malibu Racing F1 ⓒ 2023

THE PINK MEMBERSHIP — @lorarri @fefieverywhere @inejghafawifesblog @lenean7 @boiohboii @monacokisses @nyxblessed @whenelisefallsinlove @peachiicherries @folklorelvrr @spencerrxids @destourtereaux @lovelytsunoda @landonorizzz @love4lando @evans-dejong @cielolercs @mae119 @spacius @almostjollypizza @elliegrey2803 @thatsadsmallchild @formulaoneluver33 @obsessed-fan-alert @teamspideyman @mikauraur @goldsainz @iamk-shale @fefieverywhere @be-your-coffee-pot @asian-vulcan @schumacheer @opheliaas-stuff @satellitelh @sialexia @folkloresreputation . . . join the taglist here

[unhinged-romione]

what is your favorite romione fics and what are the ones you’ve written you like the most 👀👀👀👀👀 finding fics on archive have been impossible and a girl is desperate 🌞

Oooh chileeee *rolls up sleeves*

Okay, so I'm listing my all-time favorites below (mostly on FFN since it's been YEARS since I've been plugged into this fandom).

As for my stuff *buries head* this ridiculous ass fic that I wrote when I was FOURTEEN is my main claim to fame (it's trash but also still kinda slaps?). BUT I'VE BEEN WORKING ON A TON OF NEW STUFF. I have six fics coming out this month through the @romione-trope-fest (btw the best active Romione writers are participating in that fest, so you should definitely follow it if you haven't been already! Here's the AO3 collection for the fest.).

ALSO I saw that you are a Renaissance fan. I have one that's 50% done called "Virgo's Groove" (EDIT: it's here!) and it takes place in the seventh book when Lupin announces Teddy's birth. I can share a snippet tomorrow if you'd like 🙂

Okay enough self promo lol. On to my recs!

Seven Simple Years by HalfASlug (FFN): Best Romione missing moments series ever. I think HalfASlug has the best Ron voice. Everything she's ever written for Romione is worth reading.

Moments by Armaysha (FFN): Another missing moments (I'm a sucker for those) that I feel kind of mixed about, even though it's still one of my favs. The writer has a different take on Romione than most of the fandom. It generally works IMO, but some of the choices she made I really didn't understand. But what she did well, she did really, really well.

I Must Not Tell Lies by TMBlue (FFN): I think this is the best one-shot of Romione's first fuck. TMBlue is GREAT at writing Ron and she's like the queen of Romione smut.

Six Foot of Ginger Idiot by Pinky Brown (FFN): This classic is HBP from Ron's perspective. Pinky Brown is another iconic Ron writer. You can't go wrong with anything she's written, but Biscuits (her missing moments series starting in Book 1) starts dragging in the last few chapters IMO.

Australia by MsBinns (FFN): Post-war series, arguably the greatest Romione fic of all time. To be totally honest, I didn't finish it because it does kind of drag. But I'm always meaning to get back into it. Just know that it's heavy.

Love Me Forever by Aloemilk (AO3/FFN): I JUST read this and I can't stop thinking about it. It's a post-war series that has a great mix of angst, trauma, and fluff (lighter than Australia). The slow burn from Romione's first kiss to a full-fledged adult relationship is perfect and the smut is SO GOOD. Reminds me of the time I stumbled upon porn that made me ugly cry (in a good way?)

Not single fics but thesecondself and realmer06 (both on FFN, although realmer06's next gen stuff is also on AO3) are my favorite one-shot writers.

[indigovigilance]

The Erasure of Human!Metatron

The elephant in the room is that Neil has [purportedly] denied the existence of a human Metatron. But I, for one, think an elephant really ties the room together. So let's get started.

First, I will address Neil Gaiman’s apparent denial of the Human!Metatron storyline (below the cut):

Caption: The Metatron in Good Omens wasn't ever human.

Which would seem to put the debate to bed.

Except.

Caption: That’s not really his father. It is. It is now, and it always was.

By Adam renouncing Satan as his father, we have in-story canon evidence that the past can be retroactively changed. So a storyline past can be divergent from an in-world past which has been modified. But only to a degree, because Aziraphale and Crowley clearly remember that Adam ~was~ Satan’s son, and Adam still retains some residual powers. Like pencil marks on paper, the past can be erased, but the shadow of its former self will always be there. But if that's not enough for you, there's also...

Lucifer!Satan

Neil Gaiman has also been pretty consistent with this characterization about the non-existence of the past in other characters, for example Lucifer!Satan:

Basically (not to be rude), if you think that these statements can be taken to mean that we will definitely not get a story about Enoch aka Human!Metatron in S3, you have fundamentally misunderstood how time, history, and identity work in Neil Gaiman’s Good Omens universe.

So what Neil said about Metatron never being human… can we just collectively set that aside for a moment?

Caption: Work with me, I’m extrapolating here. Yes? Good. Read the rest of the meta.

Evidence of Human!Metatron

Now that we have established that a former, no-longer-existing version of Metatron could have been human, let’s examine the in-world evidence. The best direct evidence is:

Caption: I’ve ingested things in my time, you know.

This is weirdly important in the Book of Enoch. Food is mentioned in the Book of Enoch at least fourteen times, and consistently it is associated with being human, and having earthly desires, and subsequently with sin, whereas the angels are described as not needing to eat food but instead being nourished by faith alone. Enoch!Metatron’s own relationship with food is also explicitly elucidated:

Enoch answered to his son Mathosalam (and) said: Hear, child, from the time when the Lord anointed me with the ointment of his glory, (there has been no) food in me, and my soul remembers not earthly enjoyment, neither do I want anything earthly.

I propose that "in my time" is a direct reference to Metatron's prior existence as a human, and the fact that this time is over serves to underscore his current inhumanity, making him all the more sinister.

Other Evidence Pointing to Book of Enoch

This next bit is somewhat dubious evidence, but the entire reason I wound up investigating this is that I was actually investigating Baraqiel:

…and for the God-fearing life of me, I cannot find any reference to Baraqiel except in the Book of Enoch. So this is a pretty big ✨Clue✨ to just leave hanging out there if it’s not supposed to lead us to this text.

The Scottish Mason

Okay guys, this the part where it all comes unhinged, but I promise the payoff is worth it.

The Book of Enoch was recovered from Ethiopia in 1773 by a Scottish explorer named James Bruce, who also happened to be a Mason. In 1774, upon his return, he was made a Fellow of The Royal Society of Edinburgh. And if this quote doesn’t get you, I don’t know what will:

Amazingly, Bruce brings back not just one copy, nor two, but three! Three copies of this text, which was previously thought to have been lost to the West forever. This inevitably led to all kinds of accusations as to where he had come by them, and more importantly how? Add to this that Bruce was a Mason in one of the most influential lodges, a Bruce descendant, and an imposing physical figure and 6 feet 4 inches tall, with dark red hair and an irascible temper, it is no wonder that so much excitement and mystery surrounded the man. [source]

So, you know, this guy:

In summary:

There are reasons that we should be looking to the Book of Enoch, and the story surrounding its reintroduction to the Western world, as source evidence for Good Omens S3.

If you enjoyed this, you may also like my meta on Baraqiel and Azazel, which draws upon the Book of Enoch.

My original (in retrospect, kind of terrible) Metatron meta is here.

[topazy]

Hunted

Pairing: Liam Dunbar x reader

Warnings: Swearing

Chapter: 6.04

You were thankful Scott’s mom hadn’t returned from work yet; you didn’t want to be there when Melissa McCall discovered the large black scorch marks on her ceiling or when Liam went to a party in her house. You were collecting red cups and other trash that was scattered across the living room and tossing them into a black bag.

Realizing you’re the only one cleaning, you drop the bag and say, “I’m gonna need some help if we want this done before Scott’s mom gets home.”

Hearing multiple heartbeats racing in the next room, you go through and see Scott, Liam, Mason, and Corey staring up at the ceiling. You walk towards them and gulp down, “That’s where the ghost rider came in. It looks like it was burned.”

“Usually you'd find charred spots like that on the ground after a violent thunderstorm.”

Scott’s eyes widen as he processes Mason’s words: “That's how the Ghost Riders got in. He rode the lightning.”

Liam tenses, “If they can use lightning to pass the mountain ash...”

“We can’t hide from them. Nowhere is safe.”

“What about the others?” Corey asks. “It's my fault they're marked.”

“Hey, it’s not. We are all still learning about the ghost riders.”

“We'll find a way to protect them. All of them.”

Although Scott was determined to save everyone, you still doubted it could be done. Breaking the gloomy atmosphere, you pull two black bags out of your pockets and shove them at Mason and Liam. “Come on, we better clean this place before Melissa kills us.”

Scott gives you an appreciated nod.

—

Frustrated, you shove your phone into your bag before going to join Liam and Mason in the library. You hadn’t heard back from your dad in a couple of days and were starting to become worried.

The first thing you notice sitting across from Liam is the frown on his face as he stares at the book in front of him. You felt bad for Liam; he still blames himself for what happened at Scott’s party. “The k-index quantifies the horizontal component of the earth's magnetic field.” He bites on the end of his pen, looking lost in a deep thought, before asking, “What’s a k-index?”

“It’s a scale that meteorologists use to measure thunderstorm activity,” Mason explains. “So, a k-index value less than twenty meters means no activity, and above thirty-five is severe.”

“How bad is it?”

"Well, your average storm has about ten thousand lightning strikes. In the past three months, the average storm in beacon hills has been five thousand.”

“What’s it reading now?”

Mason types onto his laptop and brings up what he’s looking for: “It’s at fourteen. We’re clear.”

“If a spike in the K index means more lightning, we could know if they're coming.” Liam says, sounding unsure.

“That’s good. As long as it stays low, we’re good.”

Just as the words leave your mouth, Mason’s computer starts beeping. A few students turn and glare in your direction as he struggles to turn it off. You can’t see the screen, but sensing how anxious they are both becoming, you know it’s something bad.

“What’s wrong?”

Mason gulps down, “Oh, this is really bad.”

Under the table, Liam links his fingers with yours, attempting to comfort the both of you the best he can.

—

You pace back and forth up the hallways of Beacon Hills High School. You keep glancing back over your shoulder, waiting to see someone standing there. You didn’t know how to describe it, but you just had a feeling that you shouldn’t be there alone. Someone else was supposed to be with you, helping you.

Stiles.

That could maybe be the answer if you knew who Stiles was.

Liam and Hayden had managed to get everyone who was at the party, aside from three lacrosse players, into the underground tunnels. Your uncle Chris and Malia were staying with them underground to keep them safe.

Since the majority of the lacrosse team and coach were in the boys locker room, you couldn’t go in to help try and persuade the players to leave. Hearing familiar footsteps, you turn and see nobody, yet you have the feeling someone is standing right in front of you.

“Stiles,” you whisper. “Stiles, can you hear me?”

“Lu, who are you talking to?”

“No one,” you mumble. Turning back around, you met a confused-looking Mason’s eye. “Where’s Scott and Liam?

“They are playing the game.”

—

You sit beside Mason on the bleachers, cringing as coach becomes more and more angry. The Bulldogs had scored three times, and your school's team hadn’t had one goal all game. You weren’t happy about Liam being out on the lacrosse field, but they reasoned it was the only way to keep the other players safe.

“What are you doing out there?! i'm gonna kill the three of you!”

“Look how red coach’s face is,” you whisper. “He looks like he’s gonna blow.”

“This is the worst ga—“ Mason doesn’t finish his sentence when he notices Scott and Liam looking at him from across the field. “But of course we have bigger things to worry about.”

Over the cheers and boos of the crowd, you hear someone saying your name; they were calling for you. Suddenly sensing who it was, you stand up, and Mason takes your hand to gain your attention. “What is it? What do you hear?”

“My dad's here; he’s with Parrish. He needs to talk to me.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“Find Hayden first, and then I’ll meet you inside. Liam and Scott will call if anything is wrong.”

You sprint from the bleachers towards the high school just as the light rain becomes heavy, soaking your clothes almost immediately. You burst through the doors. “Dad, dad?”

Derek appears behind you and pulls you into him. “We need to go.”

“What?”

“Kate’s coming. We need to go now.”

“But I—“

“The ghost riders are afraid of hellhounds, which is why I called Parrish.” Placing his hand on your back, Derek starts moving you towards the exit. “I’m parked outside. Soon as Liam is here, then we are leaving.”

“Liam is coming?”

He pushes the main doors open and says, “Liam will stay with you while I come back and help Scott and Chris with the ghost riders.”

On the opposite end of the hallway, you hear Hayden and Mason’s voices; they sounded panicked. You spin back around, “Somethings wrong!”

A brunette woman overtakes your friends while running in the hallway but is shot by one of the ghost riders bullets and disappears. Turning into his hellhound form, Parrish is shot by one of the ghost riders. The flames surrounding his body turn green, and he falls back, but is only momentarily stunned before getting back up.

The ghost rider turns its body to face in your direction and aims its gun at you. Growling, Derek shoves you forward just as the bullet skips past where you stood seconds before.

Parrish grabs the ghost rider from behind, giving Hayden and Mason a chance to run by it without being attacked.

You go to run outside but are pulled back. “There’s more out there, fuck.” Being faster than you, Derek takes hold of your hand and keeps you beside him. “Go to the nearest classroom and lock yourselves in.”

Mason’s eyes were widened with feet and adrenaline; he looked as if he were going to throw up. “The science lab is just down the next hall!”

The four of you make it to the classroom. Mason slips and falls. Derek, let’s go of your hand to help him up. Just as you’re about to step inside, a black cord tightens around your ankle. You sink your claws into the side of the door to fight against the ghost rider trying to pull you backwards.

You let out a piercing scream, “Dad!”

The ghost rider pulls on the whip, dragging you along the floor. Expecting to be shot, you squeeze your eyes shut, but they quickly open when the pressure around your ankle disappears. Derek had cut the cord with his claws before lunging on top of the ghost rider.

“Dad!”

Hayden yanks you backwards into the classroom. There’s a bright flash of lightening, then the ghost rider disappears.