#its not my only criticism with the land of the dead but this was the most jarring imo

[nomattertheoceans]

The biggest criticism I have about the plot in the Land of the Dead is about how the theme of storytelling was handled.

Lyra is and has always been a storyteller, although she lies her way through life so easily for such a large part of the story. The meeting with the harpy is so important for that, as is the rest of the arc with the harpy, because she learns the importance of being truthful and honest, and it makes her grow into a better person and actually literally saves all worlds from eternal damnation.

The moment where she starts telling the Deads her stories and that after a while she realizes the harpies are listening this time, because she's not lying, it's such a great moment.

And then when the harpy saves Lyra, and Lyra names her, and they make the deal, it has impact because we saw the development of it all in their previous interactions. We saw the importance the stories have for the harpies. In the show, it rang a bit hollow imo, I feel like Lyra knowing they didn't like being lied to came out of nowhere.

I don't know, the show rushed through this theme a bit too quickly for my taste, I wished they'd have taken more time with it

[incognit0slut]

Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

This isn’t a love story. This isn’t a fairytale. This is about a woman bent on setting the world on fire and the FBI agent assigned to her case, drawn to the very flame she ignites.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Unsub!Reader

Warnings: (18+) Typical CM violence, mentions of sexual assault and trauma, implied sex, fire/arson, and this is basically angst with no happy ending

A/n: For once, I am writing outside my comfort zone. This is heavily based on John Mayer’s song with the same title, Female Rage, and Megan Kane (she did nothing wrong!). Constructive criticism is welcome since I rarely write angst, but please be nice, it's my birthday🥺 (yes my birthday appreciation post is heartbreaking)

You wanted the world to burn.

You wanted to watch the ashes drift through the air. You wanted to smell the acid scent of smoke. You wanted to feel the heat envelop you, to wrap your body like a suffocating blanket. Because simply sitting in silence wasn’t enough for the rage that consumed you, the smoldering anger that craved the sound of the world cracking and crumbling under the force of your wrath.

You craved the chaos, but the man lying defeated before you was enough for now. His eyes, wide with horror, stared up at you—the look of a man who knew these were his final moments. He pleaded, his voice cracking in desperation, his hands bound tightly behind his back as you stood there, unfazed.

Please.

I have a family. Think of my children.

Just let me go—I'll disappear, you'll never have to see me again.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? How a man could beg for mercy, could invoke the sanctity of family only when facing his own end. How a man could think that running away could solve everything, believing that his disappearance would erase the past and the suffering he caused.

No, that was a choice you didn’t have. The luxury of forgetting, of escaping the shadows that clung to your every step. Not only was his pleading in vain, it was insulting, as if the depth of his misdeeds could be washed away by mere absence. You wanted him gone. You wanted him dead.

So you gave him a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. Your expression was serene, almost angelic, but it belied the reality of your intentions as your heels echoed through the empty warehouse, a jug of gasoline in hand.

He screamed. Your smile widened. It was useless—no other soul was near enough to hear his cries, too far away to save him. His desperation filled the empty space once again as you poured the gasoline around him, drenching him in its sharp, pungent scent.

Then you took a step back, your hand reaching for the lighter in your pocket. There was a moment of hesitation as you watched him struggle. Could you really do this? Could you cross this final line?

But then the memories surged forward, vivid and painful. He was one of them, one of the people who had taken advantage of your innocence when you were young and naive, who had shattered your trust and left you to pick up the pieces alone, leaving scars that never truly healed.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

Your fingers tightened around the lighter. What a foolish man, who was he to think that a forced apology could undo the damage? With a steady hand, you flicked the lighter, the flame springing to life. His apologies continued, increasingly frantic, but they were nothing more than the desperate noise of a man who had run out of options, out of time.

You threw the lighter. The small flame sailed through the air, landing amidst the gasoline-soaked ground with a burst of fire. The flame caught instantly, erupting into a roaring blaze that engulfed him in a matter of seconds, drowning out his piercing scream.

You continued to watch his body burn, and perhaps for the very first time in your life, you felt a terrifying peace.

~*~

“This is the third body in a week,” Derek mentioned, stepping into the old factory as he slipped his sunglasses on top of his head, scanning the scene before him. It was disturbing. The stench of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.

Spencer looked up from where he was crouched near what was left of the victim. “It’s getting more deliberate,” he observed. “The Unsub is trying to send a message.”

Derek moved closer, carefully stepping over a piece of evidence marked by the forensic team. “What are you thinking?”

He slowly stood up, his eyes assessing the place. There were actually a lot of things on his mind, and one of them being how this third victim seemed more calculated, more precise than the others. It was a stark contrast to the first victim, whose remains were found in a haphazard, chaotic state in that old warehouse.

But this one… everything was meticulously arranged, from the positioning of the body to the burn patterns that radiated outwards in a controlled manner. The Unsub was trying to perfect their methods in a short amount of time, and as much as Spencer hated to admit it, it was almost impressive.

“They want attention,” Spencer finally said, breaking the silence as he mulled over the crime scene. “They’re not just doing this for the sake of it; they’re communicating. Whatever message they’re trying to send, it’s getting closer with each victim.”

“You think they’re trying to tell us something?”

“No, I don’t think it’s aimed at us.” Spencer bit his bottom lip, his eyes narrowing in thought. “They’re trying to make a statement.”

“Like a public declaration?”

“Could be,” Spencer acknowledged, stepping back to view the scene from a different angle. “Or it could be a form of protest or revenge.”

“Burning people for revenge,” Derek mused, crossing his arms. “Now that’s a hell of a way to get a point across.”

“It’s deeply symbolic. Fire consumes everything, leaving nothing but ash. It’s final.” He looked up, his eyes meeting Derek’s. “Whoever is doing this is not just angry, they’re trying to erase their victims from existence.”

“Well, they’re doing a pretty good job at it, we haven’t identified any of them yet.”

Spencer frowned, his gaze dropping back to the scene in front of him. Identifying the first two victims had been nearly impossible due to the extent of the burns. The flames had consumed everything, leaving behind little more than brittle bones and ash. Dental records and DNA tests had been their only hope, and even those couldn’t identify the victims.

He continued to study the body, looking for anything that could help them. The burns were severe, almost total, but then something caught his eye. A faint mark, barely visible under the scorched skin. He leaned in closer, squinting to make out the details. There, peeking out from the blackened flesh on the victim’s forearm, partially obscured by the burns, was a small tattoo.

“I think we might have something,” he said, pointing to the mark.

Derek leaned in, his eyes widening slightly. “That looks like a tattoo.”

“You think we can get this to the lab?”

“We can,” Derek replied as he took out his phone and took a quick photo of it. “But we also have Garcia.”

Spencer watched as Derek quickly navigated through his contacts, his fingers moving with practiced ease. He tapped the screen, putting the phone close to his ear. It didn’t take long for the call to connect, and almost immediately, a familiar voice filled the brief silence through the speaker.

“I knew you couldn’t go a day without me,” Penelope’s unmistakable cheerful voice greeted him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this delightful interruption?”

Derek couldn’t help but crack a slight smile. “Garcia, we need your magic on a photo. There’s a partial tattoo on our latest victim, and we need to know if it matches anyone in the system.”

“Send it over and I’ll sprinkle some of my digital pixie dust on it.”

Derek attached the photo to a message and sent it directly to her. “It’s on its way.”

“Got it,” Penelope replied, her fingers already flying across her keyboard on the other end. “Okay, this might take a while, but I do have more information on our first victim, or I guess you can say, I have all the information that you need.”

“Our first John Doe is identified?”

“Rick Sullivan,” she confirmed. “He was reported missing a week ago by his wife. Turns out he has a bit of a past—multiple arrests for minor offenses, but nothing that would usually make him a target for this kind of violence.”

Spencer leaned closer to Derek’s phone. “Does he have any known associates or enemies that stand out?”

“Not on record,” Penelope said, her voice slightly muffled as she sifted through more files. “But listen to this, his bank transactions show some pretty hefty sums being spent regularly. Guess where most of it is going?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

"To an exclusive strip club on the east side of town called The Velvet Curtain,” she revealed. “Seems our Mr. Sullivan was quite the regular spender there.”

Derek smiled, shaking his head slightly. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“Not nearly enough,” she replied with a playful lilt in her voice. “Keep the compliments coming and maybe I’ll dig up even more dirt for you.”

“We’ll need all the dirt we can get. Thanks, Garcia.”

“Always a pleasure, gentlemen. I’ll keep you updated if I find anything else,” she said before ending the call.

Derek turned to Spencer as he slipped his phone back in his pocket. “Ready to see some strippers, Pretty Boy?”

Spencer glanced back at the charred remains. He’d seen too many bodies, too much senseless violence. There was nothing left that could shake him—not even the neon lights and dark corners of a strip club, or even the thought of being in a room surrounded by half-naked women. He could handle that. He could definitely handle that.

With a slight nod aimed at Derek, he followed him out of the building.

~*~

“Scarlett!” A voice rang through the dressing room. “You’re up in five!”

You swiped the red lipstick across your lips one last time, perfecting the bold arch that had become your signature look as your eyes swept over your reflection, eying the thin straps of your costume. The fabric was a deep, seductive red, almost the color of freshly drawn blood, and barely covered your skin. The material was sheer and see-through, leaving little to the imagination, something you preferred. Because the more skin you showed, the more you felt in control.

This was your armor, the persona you donned to hide the secrets buried beneath your glamorous exterior. As Scarlett, you were a siren. Untouchable. You had power and control, something your life outside these walls lacked.

“Scarlett!”

“I’m coming!” You snapped, capping the lipstick and placing it back in your makeup bag. You stood up, smoothing down your outfit, and made your way to the stage entrance.

The stage coordinator eyed you up and down. “No props for today?”

You shook your head, giving a confident smile. “Not today. I can manage without them.”

He nodded approvingly, moving to the side. “Alright, it's your cue."

You brushed past him and headed down the dimly lit corridor leading to the stage, the familiar rush of adrenaline surging through you. Taking one last deep breath, you finally stepped into the glow of the spotlight. The crowd's attention shifted to you, and you felt the power you had grown accustomed to, the control you desperately craved. The music pulsed through the air as you sauntered toward the pole at center stage.

You started to move.

Your fingers around the cold metal, and your body naturally found the beat as you began to dance seductively, letting the red fabric of your costume shimmer under the lights. A flirtatious smile played on your lips as you glanced around the room, locking eyes with a few patrons who watched. You slid down the pole, bending your knees and arching your back gracefully, biting back a smile as you heard the cheers and whistles from the crowd.

You took in the familiar faces and the usual gazes of admiration and desire, from the sleazy grins of regulars to the guilty looks of married men stealing away from home. But then, two men caught your attention, standing out starkly against the backdrop of the usual patrons.

One of them exuded confidence, his gaze steady and assessing as he watched your performance. The other, however, seemed out of place, his eyes darting around the room awkwardly. At first, he appeared uneasy, shifting uncomfortably on his feet and avoiding direct eye contact. But as you moved, dancing with the pole and letting your body sway to the rhythm, his gaze gradually settled on you. 

You had never seen him before. He was unexpectedly handsome, with soft curls that danced along the edges of his face and soft features that made him beautiful, almost angelic. But there was something more about him that intrigued you. Maybe it was the way he seemed to blend in with the shadows, making him nearly invisible among the brasher, more excited crowd. His presence was so out of place and yet so focused on you that it spurred you on. 

With a teasing smile, you tugged at the thin strap of your top, playing with it as you danced. His eyes followed the movement, his breath catching slightly as you slowly slid the strap down your shoulder. The fabric slipped further, revealing more of your skin as you twirled around the pole. 

You then arched your back and bent low, the thin strap finally gave way, allowing your top to slide down your body, exposing your perky breasts to the crowd. His eyes widened slightly, but he couldn't look away. Neither could you. For a moment, it was just the two of you, locked in a silent exchange as the cheers and applause became a distant hum in the background.

You could see the conflict in his eyes—part fascination, part restraint—and it only made you bolder. You slipped the last piece of fabric down your legs, and with each sway of your hips, you drew him deeper into your world, determined to leave a mark on his memory.

~*~

“Just talked to the club owner,” Derek mentioned as he walked over to where Spencer stood, hiding in the corner of the room. “He gave us permission to question the dancers.”

Spencer nodded, but didn’t say anything. Derek raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

���Yeah, I’m… fine.”

Derek gave him a knowing look. “Your first time being at a place like this?”

Spencer’s gaze lingered on the stage. That would be a good excuse for why he was acting this way, but it wasn’t the truth. He grew up in Las Vegas, after all. Even though he rarely found himself in these types of scenes, he knew what went behind the walls. He was aware of what happened inside clubs, the performers, and the whole spectrum of human behavior. But he had never seen someone so… mesmerizing.

His mind was still processing the way you moved, the way you commanded the room with such effortless confidence. The way you shamelessly captivated everyone’s attention, including his.

No, it wasn’t the setting that threw him off—it was you.

“Reid?”

Spencer cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m here,” he managed, snapping back to the present. “So the dancers?”

Derek nodded, sensing Spencer’s momentary distraction but choosing not to comment.

“Yeah, we need to start talking to them. With these many dancers, I think it’s better we split up.” His eyes scanned the room. “You take the bar out here, and I’ll handle the lounge area. If any of them seem to know more or are hesitant to talk in front of others, we can bring them aside for a more private conversation.”

“Got it,” Spencer agreed. He straightened his tie and took a deep breath as he made his way directly to the bar, nodding politely to the bartender before turning to address the group of dancers gathered nearby.

“Excuse me, uh, hi there,” he greeted, showing them his badge. “I’m Dr. Spencer Reid with the FBI. I’d appreciate it if I could ask you a few questions.”

The dancers exchanged glances as Spencer cleared his throat, trying to appear composed. One of them, a tall woman with striking pink hair, stepped forward. “What do you need to know, Handsome?”

Spencer felt a flush creep up his neck, momentarily flustered by the directness. “Have any of you noticed anything unusual or seen anyone acting suspiciously in the past few weeks?”

The pink-haired woman looked him up and down, taking in his crisp suit and tie with a playful smile. “Well, the only unusual thing I’ve seen lately is a handsome FBI agent in a place like this.”

Her comment drew a few chuckles from the group, and Spencer felt a wave of awkwardness wash over him. He usually could handle a bit of teasing—he’d even interviewed sex workers who blatantly flirted with him before—but being surrounded by half-naked women, one of whom was actually topless, was making him feel distinctly out of place. His usual confidence was slipping away, replaced by a deep, uncomfortable blush.

Before he could respond, another dancer, this one with blue hair, joined in the teasing. “Aww, look at him blushing. Aren’t you just adorable?”

Spencer cleared his throat, trying to refocus. “I, uh, appreciate your… observations. But really, any information about unusual behavior could be very helpful.”

One of them, with a mischievous glint in her eye, leaned closer and asked in a flirty tone, “Would you like to find a private room for questioning, Doctor?”

His eyes widened. “W-What? No, no, I—”

“Ladies.”

Spencer turned around, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw you standing close to him, your sweet fragrance enveloping him. His heartbeat quickened, and he found it hard not to stare. You had changed from your performance attire into something slightly less revealing but no less captivating that Spencer had to remind himself to blink.

“Stop teasing the poor guy,” you said, addressing the dancers with a slight smirk.

“We were just being nice,” one of them protested, feigning innocence.

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, let’s give him some space.”

The rest of the dancers giggled, picking up their drinks and retreating to another part of the club. You watched them leave before turning back to Spencer and gracefully took a seat on a stool where one of them had been.

“So,” you began, crossing one leg over the other, and Spencer made a conscious effort not to focus on how the fabric rode up your thighs. “I can’t help but overhear you’re with the FBI. I’m Scarlett.”

He stared at your outstretched hand but made no effort to take it. “Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“Ah,” you said, retracting your hand and placing it on your lap. “You’re that type of guy.”

“What do you mean?”

You tilted your head slightly, a wry smile playing on your lips. “You know, the type who might think less of this kind of job, of people who work in places like this."

Spencer shook his head quickly. “No, it’s not that. I grew up in Las Vegas, places like this don't surprise me. It's just that—l don't do handshakes. Personal preference, not a judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Well, studies show that handshakes transfer a significant amount of pathogens. It’s actually safer to kiss someone than to shake their hand.”

An amused smile played on your lips. “Is that your way of trying to kiss me, Dr. Reid?”

Spencer’s eyes widened, and a flush crept up his neck. “Uh, no, that’s not what I meant at all,” he stammered. “I just meant, scientifically speaking, it’s… safer.”

“Of course.” You chuckled, leaning back slightly. “So what brings the FBI here?”

Spencer cleared his throat. “We’re here to gather information about one of your customers.”

“Who?”

“Do you know anyone by the name Rick Sullivan?”

“Know him? He practically lives at the end of the bar some nights.” Your eyes swept over the empty seat where Rick usually occupied. “Although he hasn’t come here in a while, his wife probably decided to put her foot down."

“Do you remember anything unusual about his behavior or if he mentioned anything out of the ordinary recently?”

You thought for a moment, then shrugged. “He was always pretty quiet. But now that you mention it, a few weeks ago, he seemed more on edge than usual. Kept looking over his shoulder like he was expecting someone.”

“Did he ever talk to anyone in particular, or did anyone strange approach him?”

You shook your head. “Not that I noticed. But then again, it gets pretty busy here. Hard to keep track of every interaction.”

Spencer nodded at the information. “Is there anyone who seemed particularly close with him here?”

“I don’t think so. He’s friendly with some of the regulars, but no one stood out. He mostly keeps to himself unless he’s buying drinks for the dancers.” You watched him, noticing the way his brow furrowed slightly in thought and you couldn’t help but ask, “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but don’t you have to write all this down?”

Spencer glanced at you, a small smile forming on his lips. "I have a good memory. I'll remember everything you've told me."

"Really? Do you have a photographic memory or something?"

"Eidetic, actually.”

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. “That’s impressive. So basically you’ll remember anything?”

Spencer nodded. “Yes, I can recall detailed images and information with high precision.”

“Alright, I want you to remember this then,” you said, leaning in slightly. You recited a series of numbers, your voice smooth and confident.

He looked genuinely confused. “What’s that?”

“My number.”

He blinked, clearly taken aback, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Oh.”

“There’s a rule against sharing personal information while working here,” you explained, leaning in a bit closer, “But you can save it under Y/N. That’s my real name.”

Spencer found himself momentarily mesmerized by your proximity, the scent of your perfume, and the intensity of your gaze. He blinked, trying to maintain his composure.

“Y/N,” he repeated softly, as if committing it to memory.

You smiled. “Exactly. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” he assured you as you slipped off the stool and the space between you momentarily vanished. For a brief, unexpected second, your body lightly pressed against his. The contact was fleeting but there was an unspoken tension that seemed to pause the noise around you.

The closeness brought a rush of warmth, and your eyes locked with his. “Do you like jazz music, Dr. Reid?”

He frowned, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “Um, I don’t really listen to music.”

“Well, that’s a pity,” you replied with a playful smile. “There’s a great spot not too far from here. They have live bands on the weekends.”

“What… what are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to ask you out on a date.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly as he processed your words. “Oh,” he stammered, clearly taken aback by your boldness. He hesitated, his mind racing to catch up with the situation. “I, uh, I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Because you’re an FBI agent and I’m a stripper?”

He swallowed, looking a bit flustered. “It’s not that. It’s just… there are boundaries, and I’m supposed to remain professional.”

“Ah, I see. But if you decide to change your mind…” You moved closer, reaching out to fix his crooked tie, your fingers brushing lightly against the fabric. “I’ll be at the Blue Moon on Saturday around 9 p.m., sitting at the bar in a red dress with a drink in my hand.”

Spencer’s breath hitched slightly as he tensed but didn’t pull away, keeping his eyes locked on yours. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“I hope you do, Dr. Reid.” You took a step back, your hand lingering for a moment before you let go of his tie. “You know where to find me.”

And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there as he watched you blend into the crowd, conflicted and unexpectedly aroused.

~*~

You weren’t sure what you were trying to do. Asking an FBI agent out on a date went against every rule you had set for yourself. You were supposed to keep your distance, to remain anonymous and untouchable. It was safer that way, for both you and your secrets. Yet, here you were, sipping your drink as you waited for a man who represented everything you should be avoiding.

A part of you questioned your sanity. What was it about him that made you break your own rules? It was reckless, foolish even. Getting involved with someone like Spencer Reid could only complicate things.

But there was something about him. Maybe it was the curiosity in his eyes, the way he seemed both out of place and perfectly composed at the same time. Or perhaps it was the way he treated you with a respect and sincerity that you hadn’t felt in a long time. Whatever it was, it had been enough to make you take this risk.

But now, as you sat by the bar alone an hour later, you couldn’t help but wonder if it had all been a mistake. The minutes had ticked by slowly, and you tried to ignore the gnawing feeling that maybe you had misjudged him. Maybe he decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, and maybe that was for the best.

Just as you were about to give up and leave, the door to your side opened. You turned, not daring to hope, and there he was—looking slightly disheveled and out of breath, but undeniably there with a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, and a small, relieved smile crossed his face.

“Hi,” he said, a bit breathless. “I’m sorry I’m late, I got held up at work and I didn’t want to come empty handed, so…”

Your eyes drifted towards the simple bouquet of white lilies in his hand. “Are those for me?”

Spencer nodded, extending the flowers towards you. “Yes, they are,” he replied. “I didn’t know what you’d like, and I thought lilies are a safe choice because they’re elegant and not too overwhelming, but then I started thinking maybe roses would have been better, but then roses can be a bit too—”

You cut him off with a warm smile, gently taking the bouquet from him. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”

He let out a small sigh of relief. “I’m glad you like them.”

You placed the lilies on the bar and gestured to the seat beside you. “Come here, you look like you just ran a marathon.”

“It felt like it,” he admitted, taking the seat right next to you. “I really didn’t want to be late.”

“You’re here now, that’s what matters.” You slightly leaned back and studied him. “I’m actually surprised you changed your mind.”

Spencer glanced at you. “I… I guess I realized I didn’t want to miss the chance to get to know you.”

“Yeah?” You tilted your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “What do you want to know about me?”

There were so many things he wanted to know about you, actually. He wanted to know your story, why you chose your job, and who you were beneath this confident exterior. But that was all too much for a first date. Glancing around the room, he decided to start with something simpler and said, “Start with how you know this place.”

You smiled, looking around the familiar setting. “I found it a few years ago. I was walking aimlessly down the road one night after work and stumbled this place. It’s become my little escape since then.”

“I can see why." His eyes drifted towards the band playing live music and the few patrons mesmerized by the soft tune. "It’s definitely got a charm to it.”

You leaned in slightly. “Do you have any secret escapes?”

He looked back at you. “Not really. My escapes aren’t quite as charming. Mostly books and chess. They're not exactly thrilling.”

“Books and chess?” you asked, tapping your finger on the bar. “You really are a nerd.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a man of knowledge,” he replied with a shy yet proud smile.

“Well, intelligence is attractive, and not only that, it’s also very sexy." You laughed when you noticed him slightly squirming. “Do you have any other hidden talents I should know about?”

He tilted his head, thinking for a moment. “I’m actually pretty good at magic tricks. It’s something I picked up as a kid.”

“Now that’s a talent I didn’t expect,” you observed, your eyes lighting up. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”

“I’d be happy to,” he replied enthusiastically. “What about you? What’s your hidden talent?”

You grinned. “I can make a pretty mean lasagna. And I’m good at dancing, but you might have already guessed that.”

Spencer suddenly felt the warmth spreading along his face as he remembered your performance on stage the other day. His mind flashed back to the way you moved with such confidence, the undeniable sex appeal you exuded effortlessly, and he could feel his cheeks heating up.

“Yeah, I, uh, definitely noticed,” he admitted.

“I hope that means you were impressed.”

Spencer nodded, still a bit flustered but managing a smile. “Very impressed.”

“Why, thank you,” you noted, leaning closer to him. “How about you? Do you dance, Dr. Reid?”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly at the question. “I’m not nearly as skilled as you are,” he confessed. “My dance moves are more… theoretical. More of an exercise in coordination than something you’d want to see in action.”

The image of this authority figure awkwardly dancing in his suit made you smile.

“Now this I need to see.” Sliding off the stool, you extended your hand towards him. “Dance with me.”

Spencer hesitated for a moment, glancing around the room. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “Trust me, it’ll be fun.”

You waited, half-expecting him to decline considering he didn’t even want to shake your hand the last time you saw him. But then, to your surprise, he took a deep breath and placed his hand in yours.

You couldn’t help but smile as he stood up and let you lead him to a small open space near the bar, slipping in between other couples swaying to the music as the band played a lively, upbeat tune.

“Okay, put your hand here,” you instructed, guiding his hand to rest lightly on your waist. You took his other hand in yours and began to sway gently to the rhythm, leading him in a basic two-step.

Spencer tried to follow, his movements slightly awkward at first. “I’m not sure I’m doing this right.”

“You’re doing fine,” you reassured him, smiling up at him. “Just trust your instinct.”

“My instinct is to find the nearest exit door.”

“No escaping tonight. You’re stuck with me,” you teased, your other hand holding onto his shoulder. “Besides, I think you’re doing pretty well for someone who claims to be bad at dancing.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his confidence growing slightly. “You think so?”

“Yep,” you replied, giving him a grin. “In fact, I’d say you’re almost a natural.”

“Almost?” he echoed, a teasing note in his voice. “What do I need to do to earn the proper title?”

“Maybe a spin?” You suggested, already positioning yourself lightly. With an encouraging nod, you prompted him, and he took the cue, lifting his arm and carefully guiding you into a smooth spin under his hold. You twirled gracefully and came back into his arms, beaming up at him.

“How was that?” He asked.

“Pretty impressive.”

He smiled, and a warmth spread through you, a sense of happiness you hadn’t felt in a long time. It was wrong, you knew that. You knew you were stepping into dangerous territory, blurring lines that should remain clear. But at that moment, all those concerns seemed distant and unimportant, especially when the music suddenly turned slower.

The soft, sultry notes of a saxophone filled the air as you moved closer to him, gently grabbing his hands before guiding them to rest behind your back.

“Now this,” you began, moving your arms around his neck. “Is how you dance to a slow song.”

Spencer smiled, a genuine, soft expression that made his whole features light up. He pulled you gently against his chest. “I think I prefer this type of dance better.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt. “Me too.”

You felt a hand press gently on your lower back, drawing you even closer as you took a deep breath, inhaling his scent. He smelled of fresh soap and something sweet, like vanilla or honey—a combination that you could easily find yourself getting addicted to.

The thought surprised you. For someone who loathed men, who had built a life around a cold, calculated revenge against them, you found Spencer oddly comforting. It was unsettling how natural it felt to be this close to him, how safe he made you feel.

You could almost laugh at the irony. Here you were, a woman fueled by a desire for vengeance, finding solace in the arms of a man. It was reckless. Dangerous. You needed to keep your head in the game. Allowing yourself to get distracted, to feel these warm, tender emotions, was a risk you couldn’t afford.

But as you pressed your face closer to the crook of his neck, it became increasingly difficult to push him away. You knew you had to be cautious. You knew you needed to keep your head clear, your focus sharp, and you promised yourself that you would.

But not now. Not when his touch made you feel something you hadn’t felt in years. For now, you allowed yourself to surrender to the moment, to the warmth of his embrace, to the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, and to the fleeting sense of peace that felt so foreign yet so desperately needed.

~*~

Spencer wasn’t sure what he was trying to do. He found himself awkwardly moving close to you, then pulling back, reaching out as if to take your hand, then stopping himself. The hesitation gnawed at him, torn between wanting to hold your hand and maintaining a respectful distance.

Was it too soon? Was there a rule about holding hands on the first date?

He mentally sifted through his limited experiences, trying to recall any useful advice or guidelines. But all he could think about was how natural it had felt to dance with you, to be close to you. He glanced over, catching the soft glow of the streetlights across your face. You looked serene, content, and he wished he could just follow his instincts without second-guessing every move.

“What?” You asked without looking at him. “Why are you staring at me?

He quickly directed his gaze away from you. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You turned to him with a small, amused smile. “You’re not making me uncomfortable. I was just curious.”

He hesitated as you both continued to walk, the rhythmic sound of your footsteps blending with the quiet night. Finally, he decided to be honest. “I’ve been trying to figure out the right moment. I guess I’m not very good with this sort of thing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I wanted to hold your hand,” he blurted, his face flushing slightly. “But I wasn’t sure if it was too soon. I didn’t want to seem too forward or make you uncomfortable. I’m sure there’s a whole rule to this that I don’t know about, and I’ve been overthinking it the entire walk.”

You chuckled softly. “Spencer, you don’t need to worry so much.”

He took a deep breath. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… can I hold your hand?”

“Of course, you can,” you replied. “I’d really like that.”

His face lit up as he reached out, his fingers gently intertwining with yours. You laughed at his boyish smile. “So this is why you’ve been silent this whole time?”

“I didn’t want to overstep any boundaries.”

“And here I thought you didn’t want to talk to me because you didn’t enjoy my company.”

Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, not at all! I was just worried about doing something wrong.”

“I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong tonight.”

He looked at you, relief washing over his face. “Really?”

“Well, except for making me wait for a whole hour.”

He winced at your words. “Sorry about that. I really didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “Don’t worry. The flowers were worth the wait,” you said, holding up the bouquet in your other hand. “And besides, I enjoyed dancing with you, I had a great time talking to you, and now you’re walking me home, which is definitely a bonus point.”

“So you’re keeping scores?” He asked, finding this conversation amusing. “What’s my score now?”

You pretended to think, a smile playing on your lips. “Well, punctuality could use some work, but excellent choice in flowers, charming dance skills, and chivalrous escort service? I’d say you’re doing quite well. Maybe an eight out of ten?”

“An eight? What happened to the last two points?”

“You need to earn them.”

“How?”

You slowed your pace, pulling him to a stop under a streetlight.

“Close your eyes,” you instructed. He hesitated for a moment, then complied, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he shut his eyes.

“Okay. Now what?”

You stood on your toes, trying to match his height, and leaned in close. Then, with a quick flutter of excitement, you pressed a soft kiss on his cheek.

His eyes widened in surprise. “I—uh, what—”

You just laughed, a light and carefree sound that cut through the night. “You just gained another point, Dr. Reid.”

Before he knew it, you turned and dashed away, your laughter trailing behind you playfully. He couldn't help but smile at the sound, and, almost without thinking, he started chasing after you.

Spencer wasn't sure why he was running, or even why this felt like the most natural thing to do, but he didn't care. Your laughter was infectious, and when he finally caught up, wrapping his arms around your waist, he couldn't stop laughing.

"Got you," he said, grinning as he met your gaze.

His eyes lingered on yours for a moment, taking in the way you looked up at him with those pretty eyes. There was a certain glow about you, a warmth that seemed to radiate across your face. His gaze then drifted down to your lips, slightly parted and still bearing the sweetest smile he had ever seen, and he felt an unfamiliar tug in his chest.

He liked seeing you like this. You always looked so confident and poised, but now you seemed... happy. There was a lightness in your eyes that he hadn't seen before, and like a moth to a flame, he wanted to bask in your warmth.

Without thinking, he slowly closed the gap between you, his eyes flicking down to your lips for a brief moment before meeting your gaze again. The world seemed to hold its breath as he leaned in, and then, gently, he kissed you.

Your lips were so soft.

He had imagined they would be, but not like this—not as delicate, not as perfectly in sync with his. The sensation was more than he had ever expected, more than he had allowed himself to hope for. His tongue gently traced your bottom lip, and the soft moan that escaped you urged him even further.

He pulled you closer, and you parted your lips to invite him in. The moment his tongue slipped inside your mouth, he was lost in the rush of flavors and sensations. Your tongues danced together, exploring, tasting, savoring every second while everything around him started to blur into shadows and muffled sounds.

He was so engrossed, so utterly consumed by the taste of you, that he completely forgot he was standing in the middle of a bustling sidewalk. It wasn't until he heard the distinct sound of a throat being cleared that reality snapped back into focus. Pulling slightly away, he turned his head towards the sound and met the stern gaze of an older woman passing by.

“Sorry,” he muttered, feeling incredibly flustered. The woman simply huffed and continued on her way, shaking her head.

You giggled as you reached up to wipe a smudge of lipstick from his mouth. “I thought you weren’t good with this sort of thing.”

“I’m not,” he assured you, his thumb gently brushing your sides. “This is... definitely a first for me.”

“Oh, really?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “So you’re saying you don’t usually make out with girls on busy sidewalks?”

The laugh he let out sounded almost ludicrous, as if the image of him kissing girls in public seemed completely out of character, out of place—until now, to his surprise.

“Nope, can’t say that I do.”

You smiled and tugged on his arm. “Come on.”

You walked together, and Spencer took your hand again. His grip tightened slightly, almost unconsciously, as if he wanted to imprint the way your hand felt into his memory. He was acutely aware of the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers fit perfectly with his. And this sense of wanting to hold onto you grew even stronger when you finally arrived at your building.

“This is me,” you said softly, turning to face him.

He looked down at your intertwined hands. “This is you.”

There was a brief, tense silence before you softly called out his name. He met your gaze, and dear god, how could he let go when you looked at him like that? He was mesmerized by the way your eyes sparkled under the light, the soft curve of your smile, the gentle confidence in your stance.

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you going to ask how you can earn your last point?”

He blinked, momentarily thrown off by your question, then a slow smile spread across his face. “Alright,” he said. “How can I earn my last point?”

Then he saw it, the same glint in your eyes that he had noticed when you were dancing on stage. It was a look filled with flirtation, exuding sex appeal and confidence. The way your eyes sparkled under the ambient light, the subtle but assured smile playing on your lips, all pointed to someone who knew exactly what they were doing and enjoyed the game just as much as the outcome.

“Well,” you started. “How about you come upstairs and we can figure it out together?”

Spencer’s heart raced at your words. He might not have had much experience when it came to dating, but he knew the look on your face all too well because he was sure he had the same expression. His eyes fell to your lips.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

You gave him a knowing smile. “Because you’re trying to remain professional?” You asked, recalling his exact words the other night. “Spencer, I think you’ve long forgotten about that the moment you agreed to spend the evening with me.”

He felt a rush of warmth at your words, realizing just how right you were. The boundaries he usually upheld seemed irrelevant now, replaced by the desire to be closer to you. He sighed, the tension easing slightly as he admitted, “I guess you’re right.”

You stepped closer, your smile seductive. “So, how about we stop worrying about what’s appropriate and just enjoy ourselves?”

He was going to regret this.

“What do you have in mind?”

He was really going to regret this.

“I think you already know what I have in mind.”

Oh, screw it. If regret was the price he had to bear, then he was willing to pay it.

~*~

The crowd pulsed when you stepped out into the main area, heels clicking sharply against the floor. You took in the scene before you, passing sleazy men, some slipping tips to a dancer on stage, others getting lap dances in the dimly lit corners. A group of men in sharp suits whistled when they spotted you, and you winked at them, flipping your hair back with a playful gesture before continuing on.

You could feel heavy stares watching your every move, but despite being in a room full of men, there was only one man you had your eyes on.

You spotted him by the bar with a drink in his hand, and despite your meticulous planning to bring him back here to observe him, the sight of the man who ripped off your dreams as a naive sixteen-year-old girl never failed to ignite a burning rage within you. You wondered whether his memory was as vivid as yours, if he remembered the disgusting things he had done. But there was never any sign of recognition in his eyes, just as there hadn’t been in the eyes of the three before him.

They all thought you were just a woman trying to make ends meet, working every night in this dark place by taking your clothes off on stage. To them, you were just another pretty face, another body to gawk at. They believed you were just another girl trapped in the cycle of survival, oblivious to the deadly game you were playing.

You had crafted this persona carefully, every move, every word designed to lure them in, to make them feel comfortable, even powerful. They had no idea that you held their fate in your hands. You made them think they were taking advantage of a desperate woman, but in reality, they were the ones being manipulated, guided like pawns towards their inevitable downfall.

And tonight, it was his turn. The last of the men who had tainted your innocence.

You slipped into the empty stool beside him, a coy smile playing on your lips. “I thought I saw a familiar face.”

He turned towards you, his eyes lighting up. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” you replied, your voice a soft purr. The words were easy, almost natural.

“You’ve been quite the distraction for me,” he admitted. “Couldn’t stop thinking of you.”

You laughed lightly. “Good, because I aim to please.”

“And you’re very pleasing to look at,” he agreed, his eyes tracing the curve of your smile. “You have a way of captivating an audience.”

“Well, it’s nice to know I have such a dedicated fan.” You leaned loser so your shoulders brushed. “What brings you here tonight? A fight with the missus?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, nothing like that. She’s out of town.”

You knew that already. You knew his schedule as well as he did, if not better. But you feigned innocence, like you always did.

“Lucky me then,” you replied with a flirtatious tilt of your head. “It means I get to have you all to myself tonight.”

“That’s the idea,” he said, his eyes roaming over you with undisguised interest. “I really couldn’t stop thinking about you lately.”

You leaned in closer, your breath warm against his ear. “Really? What exactly have you been thinking?”

“I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to spend some real time with you. Away from the club.”

You arched an eyebrow, your lips curving into a playful smile. “Oh? And what exactly would we do with that time?”

His hand brushed against your thigh under the table, a bold move that was more telling than any words. “I think you know what I mean.”

You pulled back slightly, giving him a flirtatious look. “You know it’s against the rules to do anything too... personal here. The club has strict policies about that sort of thing.”

“That’s a shame. I was hoping for more than just a dance.”

You smiled slyly, your eyes locking onto his with a promise. “Who says we have to stay here?”

His grin widened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, brushing your fingers along his arm. “We could go somewhere else…” you murmured, your hand continuing a path up his shoulder, tracing the line of his suit jacket. “Somewhere we can really enjoy each other’s company.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by your suggestion. “Like where?”

You let your lips brush his ear. “How about your place? Your wife isn't there, we can use it however we want.”

There was a pause as he considered your words. You could see the wheels turning, the temptation playing across his face. Sensing his uncertainty, you placed your hand gently on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart under your fingertips.

“Think about it,” you coaxed softly, your voice a seductive whisper. “Just you and me, no rules, no eyes watching...” Your body inched closer to his. “It’ll be our little secret.”

His eyes darkened with anticipation, the earlier reluctance fading away under your touch. “Alright,” he said after a brief pause. “Let’s go back to my place.”

You smiled triumphantly, standing up, brushing the nonexistent dust on his shoulders. “Meet me at the back exit in five. I need to grab my purse.”

He nodded excitedly as he watched you walk away, mesmerized by the confidence in the sway of your hips. But the moment you stepped into the dressing room, your façade cracked.

You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, taking a deep breath as you fought to keep your composure. The walls seemed to close in, the air thinning around you as if suffocating you under the weight of your own emotions. Your breath became shallow, the world spinning slightly as a wave of dizziness and anger overwhelmed you all at once.

You slowly forced yourself to move, your feet dragging you over towards the mirror. The reflection staring back at you was almost unrecognizable. The confident, seductive woman from moments was now replaced with a figure trembling under the weight of her memories.

Tears welled up in your eyes as the past rushed back in a wave of emotion. The image of the young girl you once were, the girl whose dreams had been shattered by the man waiting for you outside, seemed to blend itself over your reflection. The pain, the anger, the helplessness—it all came flooding back, threatening to overwhelm you.

But you couldn’t let it. Not now.

Wiping away the tears with the back of your hand, you straightened up, forcing yourself to take deep, steadying breaths. You grabbed your purse and checked its contents one last time, making sure everything was in place, and checked your phone.

There was a message.

Your eyes welled up with tears again as you saw the name glaring back at you.

Dr. Reid :)

Just seeing his name was breaking your heart. He had been trying to contact you for days now, ever since that night you spent together. The night that had been a brief, beautiful distraction from the dark path you were on. He was kind, gentle, and you couldn’t stop thinking of the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. 

Each message was harder to ignore than the last, and he wasn’t just reaching out; he was trying to reach in. His words were always kind, always thoughtful.

I had a great time. Can we meet again?

Just thinking about you. Hope you're okay. 

Did you know sea otters hold hands when they sleep to keep from drifting apart?

His random messages of facts always made you smile because it was so authentically him—something you had never encountered before. And every time he tried to contact you, the walls you had carefully constructed around your heart began to crack. You longed to reach out to him, to relive those short moments of happiness that had brought a rare light into your life. But you knew that if you allowed yourself to see him again, it would only weaken your resolve.

So you had been avoiding him, giving excuses about being busy or not feeling well. His presence had a way of grounding you, and you couldn’t afford that now, not when you were so close to the end.

Your eyes fell to your phone again. Despite the knot tightening in your stomach, despite knowing how much it would hurt, you clicked open the message.

Can I see you tonight?

The words on the screen blurred as your grip tightened. A part of you wanted to see him again, to have his arms wrapped around your body, to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat against yours. But surrendering to these desires would only put you in danger. It was only a matter of time until he saw through your act, and until then, you needed to move fast.

Because you knew that if you let him in, if you opened that door, you wouldn't be able to follow through with your plan. The plan that had consumed you for so long, and now with the final act right in front of you, you couldn't afford any distractions.

So you took a deep breath and crafted another lie.

I have work tonight. I'm sorry.

~*~

Spencer stared at the message, a frown creasing his forehead. Had he done something wrong?

He couldn't shake the feeling that you were avoiding him. He replayed the evening in his mind, analyzing every detail, every word exchanged. It had felt perfect to him—the connection, the chemistry. But now, your constant excuses and distant responses gnawed at him. Had he misread everything? Had he been too forward, or was there something he had missed?

"Reid?" Derek's voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality.

“Sorry,” Spencer mumbled, slipping his phone into his pocket. “You were saying?”

Derek opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Penelope entered the conference room with a laptop in her hand. "You guys are gonna love me," she sang, setting the device down.

“You found anything?” Derek asked.

“Remember that blurry picture of the tattoo you sent me a few days ago?” she turned her laptop screen towards them, showing a detailed emblem that was now clearly visible. "This isn't just any tattoo—it's mandatory for the members of a local club known for their… exclusive membership.”

“What kind of club?”

Penelope clicked through a few more screens, bringing up information she had compiled. “It’s a bit underground, not your typical social club. It appears to be part social, part cultural, but there are hints of something more... let's just say, illegal activities.”

“And all members have this tattoo?”

“Yep, it’s like a symbol of loyalty, almost like a badge of honor.”

Spencer felt a knot tightening in his stomach. “Is it… The Velvet Curtain?”

Penelope shook her head, typing quickly to bring up a comparison on her screen. 

“No, The Velvet Curtain is just a fancy, exclusive strip club. This one, on the other hand…” She paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard as she chose her words carefully, “...is much more secretive and, from what I can tell, much more dangerous. Think less about glamour and more about power and control."

“What kind of activities are we talking about?”

“Oh, you know, just the usual gambling and trafficking,” Penelope said dryly, scrolling through her screen. “I think you guys should check this out after we wrap up the case.”

Derek ignored her jab and crossed his arms. “So our victim can be anyone, which doesn't narrow it down much.” He turned to Penelope. “How many members are we talking about?”

“Over three hundred registered members.”

He let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of numbers.”

“Have you tried cross-referencing the members with Rick Sullivan?" Spencer suggested. "He might be our best lead.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Penelope’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she pulled up new data. After a few moments, she exclaimed, “Got it!”

Derek leaned in. “We have a name?”

Penelope quickly brought up a profile. “James Dalton, went to college with Rick. Mid-30s, a manager at a tech firm, lives in the suburbs with his family…” She trailed off, her eyes widening. “...and was reported missing a week ago.”

Spencer frowned, piecing it together. “He could be our John Doe.”

Penelope nodded, already typing away. “I’m cross-referencing his dental records and fingerprints as we speak.”

“You can do that?”

“You underestimate me, pretty boy,” she quipped with a smirk, her fingers flying over the keyboard. It didn't take long for her screen to flash with the confirmation she needed. “It’s a match. James Dalton is our John Doe. The dental records line up perfectly.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as they absorbed the news. Derek ran a hand over his face, breaking the silence with a sigh. “Did Rick and James ever contact each other after college?”

Penelope shook her head, scrolling through her data. “No, there’s no evidence of any recent communications. It looks like they hadn't been in touch for years until... well, until whatever pulled them back together recently.”

Spencer leaned closer to get a better view of Penelope’s screen. “Can you check his bank records? There could be any mutual transactions between them.”

“Pulling up his financials now,” she said, her eyes scanning the data that populated her screen. Moments later, she pointed at a series of numbers. “There are no mutual transactions… oh wow.”

“What is it?”

“He spent a lot of money over the past few months,” Penelope continued, her eyes wide with surprise. “We’re talking significant amounts.”

“Where?”

She looked up at him. “The Velvet Curtain.”

Spencer felt the blood drain from his body. It was as if a heavy, sinking feeling took hold, the kind that grips the stomach and pulls down hard. At first, he thought of your safety. The club you worked at was linked to the case, and worse, even directly to the victims. This connection sent chills down his spine, filling him with dread.

But the more he thought about it, especially when his mind replayed how you had been avoiding him lately, the worse his feelings grew. His concern turned into suspicion, and then that suspicion morphed into a sense of betrayal. Were you involved in this? Were you hiding something from him?

He shook his head. No, he couldn’t let his mind go there. You wouldn’t do that. You couldn’t. You were too kind, too genuine. There had to be another explanation.

“Reid, let’s go.”

Spencer looked up to see Derek standing by the door. “Where?”

“We need to go back there,” Derek said firmly. “We’re missing something.”

Spencer’s badge felt heavier than usual, the gun on his hip weighing him down. His mind was clouded with doubt, his heart pounding with anxiety. He always considered himself as someone who was confident when it came to his job, a man of knowledge who could win an argument with facts and logic. But now the lines of right and wrong seemed to blurred and he found himself questioning even his own judgment.

He let out a heavy breath. There was nothing else he could do but to follow Derek out of the room. He needed to see this through, for justice, for his peace of mind, and perhaps, for your innocence he hoped to prove.

~*~

You weren’t here. 

I have work tonight, I’m sorry.

You weren’t here.

Spencer was trying to come up with excuses for your disappearance. Maybe you got sick. Maybe there was an emergency. His mind went through plausible scenarios, but none seemed to fit quite right, and his curiosity continued to gnaw at him. He braced himself and approached the club owner, hoping to gain some information under the pretense of connecting you as a witness.

The man, with a burly frame, salt-and-pepper hair, and a scowl etched on his face, barely let Spencer get the words out.

“She was here,” the owner grumbled. “Her set was half an hour ago and I haven’t seen her since. If I find out she’s skipping out on work again…” He trailed off, shaking his head in frustration.

Spencer felt his heart sank. “Again?”

He nodded gruffly. “Yeah, she’s been a bit unreliable lately. Shows up late, leaves early. It’s becoming a problem.”

“Did she mention anything to you?”

“She never says much. Keeps to herself mostly. If she’s in some kind of trouble, she’s not talking about it.” He gave Spencer a once-over. “You know her personally?”

Caught off-guard, Spencer quickly shook his head. “No. I’ve just heard she might have some useful information on the case we’re working on.”

The owner seemed to accept this, nodding slightly. “Well, good luck with that. If you find her, tell her she’s got some explaining to do.”

Spencer nodded, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him even more. The pressure in his chest was almost suffocating. He knew he needed to focus on trying to find out anything about James Dalton, but his mind kept turning to you, unable to shake the fear that something terrible had happened, or worse, or worse, that you might somehow be involved. 

“What was that all about?”

He looked up to see Derek watching him closely. “Nothing.”

Derek studied him for a moment, noting the slight shift in his demeanor, the way his eyes darted away. “Reid, is everything okay?”

“I’m fine."

“You know you can talk to me if something’s up, right?”

“I know,” he snapped. Then he sighed, his expression softening. “I’m fine, really. Let’s just focus on the case.”

Derek studied him for a moment longer, wanting to press further, but was stopped when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, saw Penelope’s name, and quickly switched it to speaker.

“Found something new?” Derek asked.

“Yes,” Penelope's voice came through with urgency. “Have you found anything interesting yet?”

“No, nothing solid on our end,” Derek replied, glancing at Spencer who remained focused but visibly tense. “What did you find?"

“I think you should take this somewhere private,” Penelope suggested cautiously.

Derek nodded, catching Spencer’s eye and motioning for him to follow. They navigated through the bustling backstage area, moving past busy staff and performers until they spotted an empty dressing room. He ushered Spencer inside and shut the door behind them.

“We’re out of earshot,” Derek confirmed, his tone low. “Go ahead.”

“Alright, listen,” Penelope began, her voice serious. “I’ve been digging into the pasts of the two victims we identified and I found something disturbing that was buried deep in their college history. It took a lot of digging because it was almost completely erased from the public record.”

“What did you find?”

“There were reports of a group of men, including Sullivan and Dalton, who were accused of sexually assaulting a high school student who was a minor. The details were sketchy and it seems there was a significant effort to cover it up. The case never went to trial, the reports were sealed.”

“How many men were involved?” 

“Four. Sullivan, Dalton, Mark Eldridge, and Robert Lawson.” There were some clicking noises in the background before Penelope continued, “Mark Eldridge was reportedly missing a few days ago, and I cross-checked his dental records with our second John Doe—it was a match.”

Derek let out a sigh. “This looks like some kind of revenge plot.” He ran a hand over his face, the weight of the situation sinking in. “What can you tell us about Lawson?”

Penelope quickly typed in a few commands. “Robert Lawson lives on the outskirts of town. He’s maintained a low profile over the years, but nothing in his recent history suggests he’s aware of the danger he might be in.”

Derek nodded, absorbing the information. “Alright, send us his address. We need to get to him before the Unsub does.”

“Sending it now,” Penelope confirmed.

“Garcia?”

Derek looked up to see Spencer standing at the edge of the room, staring blankly at a spot on the wall. His posture was tense, his face pale, and his breathing uneven. It was the most uncharacteristic of him Derek had ever seen.

“Who was the victim?” Spencer asked, his voice low, almost strained.

There was a brief pause as Penelope searched through her files. “Y/N L/N,” she answered quietly. “She was a high school student at the time, just sixteen. The case was buried deep, but it’s all here—she was threatened, her family was paid off, and the whole thing was hushed up.”

Derek felt a chill run down his spine. “And where is she now?”

Another pause, this one more tense, as Penelope gathered the final piece of information.

“She’s a dancer at The Velvet Curtain.”

Spencer felt his world tilt. The realization hit him like a freight train, his heart dropping like a stone into the depths of his stomach. It was as if the ground beneath his feet had turned to ice, sending him slipping into a dizzying spin of shock and disbelief. The pieces clicked together with the painful precision of a knife twisting in his gut. All the clues that had seemed disconnected before suddenly formed a clear, devastating picture. 

“Reid.”

He couldn’t breathe, his chest tight with a constricting panic. The room closed in around him, the walls seeming to press closer with each labored breath.

“Reid.”

The reality made him feel sick.

“Reid!”

He needed to get out of here.

His feet carried him toward the door, pushing him outside to breathe. The fresh air hit his face, but it did little to ease the heaviness in his lungs.

“Reid, I need you to talk to me,” Derek’s voice followed behind him.

Spencer leaned against the cool brick wall, trying to steady his racing heart and chaotic thoughts. He struggled to find the words, the horror of the situation crashing over him like a relentless wave.

“What happened?”

He stared at Derek through blurry eyes. “It’s her,” he managed to choke out. “I-I didn’t know it was her…”

“Reid.” Derek stepped closer, gripping his shoulders. “Breathe.”

Spencer looked up at him, the pain suffocating his chest, building up inside until he couldn’t hold it back any longer. The words began tumbling out of his lips.

He told him everything. How you approached him that first night they came to the club, how you stood out in the crowd. He described the spark in your eyes when you had asked him out on a date and how hesitant he was at first until his curiosity got the better of him.

He recalled that night, how he felt a connection he hadn't known was missing. He told Derek about the conversations you shared, the laughter between you, and how deeply fulfilling it felt to be with someone who seemed to truly get him, a happiness he hadn't known before.

Derek stared at him when he finished. There was no judgment in his eyes, far from it, but what Spencer saw was even worse—it was pity.

“Reid…”

Spencer shook his head, trying to dismiss Derek’s sympathy that made him feel so exposed. “I know what this looks like,” he cut in quickly. “But you have to understand, it felt—everything with her felt real.”

“I know, I know. I believe you, man, it’s just—”Derek sighed. “You’re too involved in this.”

Spencer met his gaze. “I never wanted to be this involved.”

Derek let out another sigh, something he couldn’t stop doing when the person he considered as his little brother was going through so much pain. He took out his phone from his pocket. “Look, let me call Hotch and tell him to send someone else—”

Spencer quickly grabbed Derek’s arm, stopping him from dialing. “No,” he insisted. “I need to do this. I want to see her.”

“I don’t think—“

“I have to,” Spencer pleaded. “I need to. I can’t… I just… I need to see her.”

“Reid, she’s dangerous. She’s killed three men before, and there’s a chance she might do the same to you.”

Spencer shook his head. “What she’s doing is for revenge, you said that yourself. She won’t hurt me.”

“But—“

“Morgan, please,” Spencer interrupted, the desperation clear in his voice. “Let me talk to her. This might be my only chance.”

Derek watched him closely, seeing the pain and determination in his eyes. It was clear Spencer wasn’t going to back down, and understanding this, he finally gave in.

“Fine. But we’re taking every precaution, okay? You’re not going in alone.” Spencer nodded gratefully. “And I’m still calling for backup.”

“Of course,” he agreed, watching Derek turn around.

Spencer silently followed him back to the car as he replayed every moment without you. He tried to search for any clues he might have missed, wondering how he had been so blind, so caught up in his feelings. The thought of you being the one behind those murders was too much for him to bear, yet he knew he had to confront you. He had to know why you did it. He had to know whether any of those moments you shared together was as magical for you as it was for him, even though he was scared of the answers, of this new, cruel reality.

He just had to see you, no matter how painful it might be.

~*~

Your last victim was the easiest. You’d think he would have struggled a bit, or maybe he’d see right through your act. After all, this wasn’t the first time he had seen you, and sure, you might have looked different, but you still had the same features from when you were young. Your eyes. Your smile. You were still you, just older.

But he never noticed, because as soon as you started to seduce him, he was just like the others. All they sought was your body, or the thought of it, the fantasy they spun so easily in their minds. You realized that another thing that hadn’t changed was their disgusting perception of you, not as a person, but as an object for their desires.

Despite their oblivious nature, it came to your benefit. It was easy to put the drug in his drink, not much, but enough to make him drowsy. Enough for his body to go limp so you could tie his hands behind his back easily. You could see his brows creasing as he struggled to keep his eyes open. You knew the sedative was starting to get to his brain.

You managed to drag his body to his study. You had pulled him by his feet, his head occasionally bumping along the floor. He groaned but didn’t do much, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. His eyes, heavy and confused, flickered with a dim recognition of his state, a useless attempt to grasp the situation that was slowly escaping his control.

And you loved it.

“W-What…” He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “…help…”

You left him there to struggle as you grabbed the can of gasoline from his backyard, which you had hidden there that morning when he was at work. You wondered briefly if he had noticed it when he came back home, but just like the others, he was oblivious. It was still right where you left it.

You carried it back into the study and noticed his eyes widening slightly, a fear starting to seep through his confusion. You unscrewed the cap, the pungent smell filling the room, and stared down at him.

That was when you heard the ringing.

It was a loud, jarring noise and your eyes settled onto the house phone sitting on his desk. The sound was out of place, cutting through the tension-filled silence like a knife as you waited for it to stop. It kept on going, on and on, until the answering machine clicked on, and a familiar voice cut through the room, calling out your name.

You let out a cry. The sound of Spencer’s unmistakable voice echoed in your ears, the voice you had hoped to avoid was now invading this moment.

“Pick up the phone,” he pleaded. “Please.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his voice was already starting to shake your defenses.

The call ended not long after that. You took a deep, shaky breath, trying to regain your composure. But then the phone rang again. This time, his message was more desperate.

“Talk to me, please, I know what you’ve been through... I just want to help.”

The gasoline can shook in your grip. Help was the last thing you needed. “I don't want any help," you muttered to yourself, the words barely audible over his voice cutting through the answering machine.

“I-I’ll be here if you need me, you don't have to go through this alone.”

"I don't want any help.”

But he kept on, his voice calm yet insistent. "I know you're in pain, but this—this isn't the way to solve things. Answer me, please, let me help—“

It was your last straw. You finally snatched up the phone. "I don't want any help!"

You were met with a stunned silence on the other end. It was deafening, stretching out long enough for the reality of who was on the other end to sink in.

“…Spencer?”

“I’m here,” he replied softly. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Hearing his voice, so familiar and filled with genuine care, made you pause. For a split second, the walls you had built around your heart trembled. You wanted to scream at him, to push him away, but a part of you longed for his presence.

“Why?” you whispered. “Why are you not going anywhere?”

“Because I…” There was a pause. “Because I care about you.”

Your heart felt like it was going to burst. “You do?”

“I do,” he confessed. “More than I should have.”

You sniffed, gently placing the gasoline on top of the wooden surface of the desk. “Because you’re an FBI agent and I’m a stripper?” You wondered, recalling the same question you had asked him days ago.

“You know it was never about that,” he said. “But you’re smart enough to know the real reason.”

You glanced back at the man lying on the floor, barely conscious, his breaths shallow and labored. Spencer’s voice rang in your ears again.

“Don’t do this… please.”

You swallowed, your heart beating fast. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I’ll give you three,” he responded quickly. “One, you’re not a bad person.”

Your grip on the phone tightened.

“Two, you deserve a chance to find real peace.”

Your eyes welled up with tears, the resolve in your heart wavering.

“And three,” Spencer’s voice softened. “Because I want to dance with you again.”

The memory of that night, the connection you felt, rushed back, overwhelming your rage that you couldn’t help but laugh through your tears. “Yeah?”

“I want you to teach me again,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice. “I’m still not very good at it.”

The image of the two of you dancing at the bar brought a bittersweet ache to your heart. But it wasn’t enough to overwhelm the anger, the deep-seated rage that had driven you for so long.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into the phone, the words escaping in a breath so faint it was almost swallowed by the silence of the room.

Spencer heard it, though. “Don’t say that. It’s not over,” he pleaded. “We can still have more nights out, more dances.”

“Spencer, stop.”

“Think about it,” he continued, his voice softening as he tried a different approach. “Your family, they would rather take the money than fight for you. They left you to fend for yourself when you needed them the most.”

“Spencer…”

“And you’ve carried that weight for so long. You’ve been so strong, but now you’re not alone, you have me. So don’t let their choices define you,” he muttered. “You’re better than this.”

His words struck a nerve.

“Better than this?” You suddenly snapped, anger flaring up again. “You don’t know me. Just because we had one date, it doesn’t mean you understand what I’ve been through.”

“I don’t know everything you’ve been through,” Spencer admitted. “But I know pain. I know what it’s like to feel abandoned and betrayed.”

He paused, the line silent for a moment before he continued with a heavy sigh.

“When I was in school, a girl asked me to meet her by the school field one day… only for the football team to show up instead. They tied me up to a goalpost and stripped me naked in front of all the students.” He took a deep breath. “Everyone laughed and stared, and no one did anything to stop them.”

You knew what he was trying to do. And partly, it worked. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for him. You imagined how sad it must have been for him, how traumatic and devastating that experience must have been. It was heartbreaking to picture him in that situation. But despite your sympathy, it didn’t suppress the anger inside you.

As painful as his story sounded, you knew you’d rather take his place instead of enduring what you had experienced.

“Spencer, it’s not the same,” you said, your voice trembling. “What they did to you was horrible, but what happened to me… it destroyed everything.”

“I know it’s not the same,” he replied quietly. “But pain is pain. And it doesn’t have to define us. We can choose—“

“Pain is pain?” You cried, finally letting go of the tears you had been holding back. “You know what’s painful? Hearing your story and the first thing that came up to my mind was how I’d rather take your place, because unlike you, those men didn’t stop after they stripped me naked.”

The anger boiled over, and you couldn't stop yourself, tears streamed down your face as raw, unfiltered pain poured out in your words.

"Do you know what it feels like to be young and helpless? To have four men twice your size assault you?" You screamed, losing any semblance of control you had left. "Do you fucking know how it feels to see these disgusting men get away with everything while you have to endure the nightmares, the flashbacks, the fear every single day?"

Your voice broke, heavy sobs wracking your body.

"Do you know how it feels to be broken, to be so destroyed that you can't even look at yourself in the mirror without hating what you see?”

Silence fell, your heavy breathing the only sound in the aftermath of your outburst. Spencer's voice was gentle when he finally spoke. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course, you didn’t. Because you’re a man, after all.” You picked up the gasoline again, the weight heavy in your hand. “You’re just like them… all you want to do is to save them.”

“That’s not what I—”

“And you’re fucking wasting my time.”

You slammed the phone down, cutting off the connection.

You moved on instinct. You looked down at the man on the floor, his eyes half-open, barely conscious. You regarded him one last time before you poured the gasoline over his body. The fumes rose in the air as you spread the liquid around the room, creating a trail that led to the door. At some point, one of your heels cracked, and you kicked them off, feeling the cold ground beneath your feet. It was a minor inconvenience, nothing compared to the gravity of what you were about to do.

When you finally reached a safe distance from the house, you paused, taking one last deep breath, throwing the empty can onto the ground. The weight of your past, your pain, and your anger all converged in this single moment. You took out the lighter, your hands trembling as the reality of what you were about to do settled in.

You flicked the lighter, the small flame dancing in the night air. For a moment, you were transfixed by it, the flickering light a stark contrast to the darkness surrounding you. Everything you had endured, everything that had brought you to this point, seemed to hinge on this tiny flame.

With a flick of your hand, you let it fall to the ground.

The flame kissed the trail of gasoline, igniting it instantly. The fire took life, racing along the path with a hunger that matched your own rage. It moved back toward the house, consuming everything it touched, fueled by the fume and your deep-seated desire for retribution.

The flames grew and the fire roared louder, its crackling sound filling the silence of the night. The house began to catch, the flames eagerly climbing the walls. The sight was mesmerizing yet horrifying, and you stood rooted to the spot, the fire reflecting in your eyes, casting light on the tears that streaked down your face.

You felt a smile forming on your lips.

So this was what it felt like, to watch the ashes drift through the air. To smell the acid scent of smoke. To feel the heat envelop you, wrapping your body like a suffocating blanket. To hear the sound of the world cracking and crumbling under the force of your wrath. It was beautiful, and you were mesmerized by the flames, the destruction—they were your creation, your justice.

But deep down, it was so much more than that. This wasn’t just for you, but for everyone else who had been silenced, who couldn’t do anything. You realized your anger was more than just a personal vendetta. It was a voice for the voiceless, a stand against those who had used their power to hurt and destroy.

You thought of all the others who had been through the same hell, who had been left to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives alone, who had been dismissed by a system that should have protected them.

The fire was for them, too.

You continued to watch the flame dance through the night sky, and that was when you heard it, the distant sound of vehicles approaching you. The crunch of gravel under tires grew louder and you stayed rooted where you were.

There was no running from this, no escaping what was to come. You had chosen this path, you had already accepted the consequences long before the first match was struck.

As you turned around, a group of people in FBI vests came rushing out, some frantically calling for backup as they watched the fire consume the house, while a few others pointed their weapons towards you. But your eyes were fixed on the man who had given you a glimpse of hope, the man who had tried to save you.

You felt tears streaming down your face as Spencer approached you, and you sobbed uncontrollably, the reality of what you had done sinking in.

“I’m sorry,” you cried, your voice breaking. “I-I had to do it.”

“Reid.”

An older FBI agent standing close called him, his tone a clear warning, but Derek, the other agent who you had also seen at the club, placed a hand on his shoulder. The older agent hesitated, then remained silent, allowing Spencer to approach you.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Spencer’s eyes took in your appearance. The confident woman he had always known was nowhere to be found, replaced by this version of you—vulnerable, sad, and angry at the world. The sight of you barefoot, the dirt and grime clinging to your skin, made it even more heartbreaking. Your hair was disheveled, your face was streaked with tears. The raw emotion in your eyes tore at his heart.

“I—I’m sorry too,” he whispered.

You let out a choked sob. “I… I-I really had fun that night.”

Spencer nodded helplessly. “It was the best night of my life.”

Your sobs grew louder, feeling the air restrict your lungs. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get to do it again.”

He shook his head. “We could.”

“You know well we couldn’t,” you murmured. The pain in his eyes after those words left your mouth was too much—that raw, unguarded hurt—and you had to close your eyes, not wanting to see it.

In that brief darkness you wondered what would have happened if you had never gone through with any of this. Would you still have crossed his path? Would things have been different? But no, your rage was too consuming, too deep-seated for you to second guess the path you had chosen.

His soft voice whispered your name, and you blinked your eyes open, noticing his outstretched arm.

“Dance with me.”

You let out a painful cry. “Spencer… don’t make it harder than it already is.”

“Please, I… I just want to hold you.” You stared at his hand trembling under the firelight. “Please.”

You had never felt so much pain, a crushing weight on your heart, and against your better judgment, you took his hand. He pulled you gently into his arms, holding you close as if trying to memorize every detail of your body pressed against his.

The world seemed to pause. You let your mind be happy for a while, you let it travel to the simple, mundane things you wished you could do with him—walking hand in hand through a park, sharing quiet breakfasts, laughing together over something silly, and feeling his comforting presence beside you during the small, quiet times in bed.

You dreamed of a life where your past didn’t haunt you, where the weight of your decisions didn’t crush your spirit. You dreamed of waking up to his smile, of whispered conversations in the dark, of his naked body pressed against yours as he whispered sweet nothings to your ear. You allowed yourself to fantasize of a life filled with those ordinary, beautiful moments, a life that felt so achingly close yet so painfully out of reach.

But the fire’s glow around you was a reminder of the reality you couldn’t escape. Still, for a few moments, the night around you seemed to fade, the chaos and destruction reduced to a distant backdrop. His hands were gentle on your back, holding you as if you were something precious, something to be cherished, someone to be loved.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he murmured into your hair.

You pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes, those deep brown eyes you knew you were going to miss. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

The sorrow there was mirrored in your own, a mutual recognition of the pain you both felt. His gaze held yours, intense and searching, as if trying to commit every detail to memory. The color of your eyes, the feel of your skin, the sound of your voice. He wanted to remember you for a lifetime.

With tears streaming down your face, you leaned into him, savoring the bittersweet moment. You ignored everything around you. The noise, the chaos, the destruction—all of it faded into the background. It was just the two of you, as if nothing else mattered.

And nothing else did.

So you danced for the last time, holding on to each other desperately, each step a silent prayer, each turn a tender goodbye, as the world continued to burn.

~*~

“Can't seem to hold you like I want to,

So I can feel you in my arms.

Nobody's gonna come and save you,

We pulled too many false alarms.”

~*~

A/n: If you managed to make it to the end, I applaud you! Thank you from taking the time to read this fic. I’m very self conscious about this because not only does it have 14k words, the plot is also very heavy. But I’m happy with how it turned out and I hope you liked it too. Also, I could go on and on about why I chose this specific plot, but I’d be talking too much here. So if you want to further discuss this story, feel free to send me asks. I’ll gladly reply to them <3

[still-searching-for-something]

I want to go back to how things were.

I want to go back to when I believed that the progressives were on the right side of history, fighting against oppression in all its forms, and had critical thinking, honest compassion, and understanding in a way that the right--inundated with racist conspiracy theories and absurd lies--did not.

In many ways, I'm a perfect demographic fit in the pro-Palestine circles. I'm bisexual. I'm a young university student who's been progressive for as long as he knew what progressivism was, and I never experienced genuine economic insecurity or wondered if I'd eat that night. In another timeline, maybe I'd be there marching and shouting their horrible slogans. But there's one, teeny little thing that ruins it, which makes me fall through the cracks and renders me politically homeless, outcast by the progressive left and the MAGA right.

I'm a Jew.

And I'm trying so, so hard to hold compassion for the suffering of minorities who have not extended us that same compassion. I'm trying to maintain my progressivist urge to go out and help minorities in solidarity, but it's so hard when they make it clear that they hate us and want our state dead and gone. I supported BLM, but Al Sharpton, Leonard Jeffries, Alice Walker, James Baldwin, Louis Farrakhan, Malcom X, Jesse Jackson and many others either were or are wildly antisemitic, especially Sharpton and Walker, and so are the BLM movement's leaders, who openly sneered at Jews for being shocked by them by announcing, "I guess their activism was just transactional. How (((Zionist))) of them!"

And the queer community forced me out of their ranks for merely questioning whether the war in Gaza is a genocide, for pushing back against them saying that Hamas is fighting oppression. And spread antisemitic lies about me, claims of harassment and supporting genocide to my friends because I dared to question them. And they've chosen to side with those who would throw both of us off roofs for being queer. Cast out by the outcasts.

Like, what do I do? Our only allies are Hindus, Iranians, Kurds, Republicans, and Christian Zionists (respect to all of these groups for that... even you Republicans. This is one of our only points of agreement). That's literally it. No loud show of from indigenous nations supporting what is effectively the most successful anticolonial land back movement in human history. No push from "antiracist progressives" against rising antisemitism and genocidal terrorism from a reactionary fundamentalist group against a historically discriminated group.

And they aren't even just leaning back and being silent--many members of these groups are being actively antisemitic--especially the progressive left, which has morphed into the most antisemitic mainstream political movement since the Nazis. Instead, we're 'Zionazis' and genocidal colonizers who aren't even oppressed anyway, that's just evil Jewish Zionist lies designed to stoke sympathy for their unrelentingly evil nature, which we can't even help. The notion that Jews are intrinsically predisposed to evil acts and deception--never heard that one before.

So now, when I look at pictures of Pride Parades, a celebration of an identity of which I am a part and would have previously killed to attend--I wonder... would I be allowed to hold up a rainbow flag with a Magen David on it? If I asked any of their views on the state of Israel, what will they say? What about on Zionists who support its existence? Would all parts of my identity be respected, valued, and celebrated? Or would I be forced to leave the Star of David flag at home, pretend I don't notice their antisemitic views, and pass the litmus test of disavowing Israel before being accepted?

I feel suspicious and wary of the very community which I am 'supposed' to belong in. I feel uncomfortable. I hate, hate, hate that I feel this way. That I've become more closed, more cynical, more angry. Those of us who fall through the cracks, who hold multiple marginalized identities--queer and Jewish, black and Jewish, Indigenous and Jewish--we are ignored and silenced, our voices and experiences entirely spat upon as being a front for 'Zionist crimes' or whatever new buzzwords they create.

I've decided that first and foremost, I am Jewish. The me that was proud to be a part of the queer community is dead. I want to support the progressive causes of antiracism and social justice, but they hate us. They want us dead. They wouldn't view my participation as being a genuine gesture of solidarity, but an evil Jew Zionist seeking to con them and co-opt support in order to aid our evil apartheid genocidal settler-colonialist white supremacist illegitimate entity in a land that should really be given to Hamas anyway.

How am I supposed to hold space for other minorities when nobody is holding space for us right now?

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico really fucking hates capture the flag.

Well, not always. Last week was fun. Last week was the annual Everyone Against The Stolls (to atone for their crimes), and Nico got to chase Connor around at top speeds, cackling, committing his shrieking and begs for mercy to memory. That was nice. That almost made him forgive the fucker for digging a trench under Nico’s unwelcome mat for him to fall into at seven thirty in the godsdamn morning.

But tonight’s game is boring.

He’s been standing, alone, at the base of the flag for the past forty bajillion hours. He’d raised a few dozens skeletons to spar with at first, since animating them to fight himself isn’t technically against the rules, but that got dull fast. (It isn’t much fun sparring with a partner who doesn’t have a brain. He already has to do that enough with Percy when he comes to visit camp.) He’d climbed the various trees around the clearing, or at least he tried until he got reamed by the dryads for climbing on a manner that was too annoying (?), and tried his hands at a few summoning spells. Nothing held his interest long.

And now he’s just standing, doing nothing, and he’s not allowed to leave. He has to stay in this stupid spot on the off chance that someone comes stumbling over to fight him for the flag.

“You’re our best swordsman, she said,” he says mockingly, beaming the nastiest vibes he can manage in Piper’s vague direction. “We need you on our defensive line, she said. Nyeh nyeh nyeh.”

His checks his watch. He groans. He looks critically over the grass, looking for a softer patch, and when he locates it he throws himself dramatically upon it, groaning louder.

“This sucks!” he yells, to no one.

“Will you shut up!” shouts back the dryad he pissed off earlier. “For the love of photosynthesis! Fuck!”

He bites his tongue hard to hold back laughter. (If he can avoid getting his entire cabin overgrown with prickle bushes again, that’d be great.) “Sorry,” he calls, trying with everything he has to sound contrite. Convincing his father to fight the Titan War was easier, actually. Acting is not his calling.

“Hmph!”

At least listening to see if she’ll come out and yell at him again provides something to ease his boredom. Yes, he’s going to regret bothering her, but in his defense, solo guarding is cruel and unusual punishment. He’d rather sit by an outlet with a fork and see if he can poke and let go fast enough to avoid dying. That at least would be interesting.

A rustling of leaves recaptures his attention, and he pauses.

“Holly?”

When no one answers, which is odd because she’s taken every opportunity in the last hour to either insult him or pelt him with stones, he lifts his head.

“You’re not going to scare me, dude. I had my fear glands surgically removed to become a better soldier.”

Not true. Obviously. But a fun bonus of being the camp weirdo is that no one doubts anything he says. He’s working on convincing everyone younger than him that he needs weekly tributes of chocolate delivered to his door every Friday or the dead are going to take over the world. So far, it’s working.

“Look, Holly, I’m sorry about the zombie, okay, I promise it didn’t mean to sneeze part of its brain on you —”

The rustling sounds again, only this time Nico can see that it’s not Holly’s tree, and in fact she is nowhere to be found. Alarmed, he jumps to his feet, shifting so he’s balanced on the balls of his feet, poised to attack. Is Piper’s plan failing? Has someone actually managed to make it all the way over here without getting (gently, probably, although they lost the last game and Piper gets cranky without dessert) maimed?

The rustling sounds for a third time. This time, an armoured someone stumbles out of the underbrush, tripping over their own foot and nearly landing flat on their face.

Nico has his sword at their throat in a millisecond.

“Wo-oah, Morbius. That’s probably my least favourite sword you could stab in me.”

Nico goes bright red. “I have never wanted to stab you more than right this second.”

Will, chest plate skewed to the right, quiver completely empty, and black paint smeared under his eyes, snickers. He puts a finger on the tip of Nico’s sword and pushes it away from his neck.

“The opportunity was right there, babe. I couldn’t not.”

“You really, really could. In fact at all times, you should remember these words of wisdom: shut up.”

“…Damn. Inspiring.”

Nico rolls his eyes, but the effect is somewhat lessened by the smile on his face and the obvious pleasure in his expression. He’s even feeling merciful enough to accept Will’s kiss, although his sword keeps a good amount of distance between them. (Will’s on the blue team, after all. It would be unprofessional to be fraternizing with the enemy.

…Well, too much, anyway.)

“What’re you doing here? You’re supposed to be with the other archers, sitting in trees and causing havoc.”

Will shrugs, grinning lazily. “I quit. This game is senselessly violent and I’m Against It On Principle. I’m a pacifist, you know.”

“Uh huh.” Nico raises an eyebrow. “I assume this doesn’t count you choking Cecil out in a headlock, this morning.”

Will opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He closes it again.

“Cecil is my mortal enemy,” he grudges after a moment. “He doesn’t count.”

“‘Course not. Not like you cried for two hours when he went to visit his mom last weekend or anything.”

“Will you — stop saying I cried. I barely teared up, okay. Barely.”

Nico can’t quite force down the stupid grin that pulls across his face, matching Will’s, nor can he resist grabbing the leather straps of his boyfriend’s armour and hauling him close.

“You better not be here to distract me,” he mumbles, leaning close and pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Will hums, settling his hands on Nico’s hips.

“Nope. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Drama queen.”

“Excuse — I am the least dramatic, I’ll have you know. I’m a pinnacle of solemnity. I am a shining beacon of stoicism. I am — mmfh,” He trails off. “Okay, doing this now, mhm.”

Nico smiles triumphantly into the kiss. Will, he has found, is very easy to shut up, despite his long-running nickname of Motormouth. It’s almost like he has an off button that can be accessed only by Nico sticking his tongue in his mouth. Nico is doing his civic duty, honestly. He should be compensated for his service.

(‘Course, doesn’t hurt that Will smells, like, really good, all the time, and his lips are soft as hell and he is actually quite the kisser, in fact. That is definitely a fun bonus.)

He smooths his hands over Will’s shoulders, travelling up the sides of his neck and settling in his hair. Will keens, slightly, when he wraps a finger around a frizzy golden curl and tugs, slightly, when he scratches his nails along his scalp. The rush of power at the feeling makes Nico dizzy, and his sword clatters to the ground as he busies himself with more interesting — and important — things.

Like pulling more of those sounds from his boyfriend’s throat. Or making his knees buckle, again, like he did the other night — gods, that was good, it made Will flush scarlet and Nico feel like he was fuckin’ floating, to have Will so needy and touchy and totally at his mercy —

“Free line to the flag! Go go go go!”

Nico startles, whirling towards the sudden cacophony of noises. To his horror, what looks like half the camp, helmets shining with plumes of blue, comes pouring into the clearing, weapons raised, voices mixing in one long, victorious shout. He lunges for his sword, but before he can grab it, two strong arms tighten around his torso, pinning his hands to his side.

Immediately, he knows he’s been set up.

“Oh, you — fucker!”

He feels the curve of Will’s grin against his neck. “First shower privileges for a whole month, baby.” He noses along his jaw, pressing an apologetic kiss to his cheek. “Couldn’t resist.”

Nico struggles, aghast, watching the once-red flag shimmer in Lou Ellen's hold to a bright, shining blue. “I am breaking up with you, you traitor, you Iago, you vixen — ”

Will snorts. He ducks down and pecks Nico on the lips, again, and again, and then shifts to his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his temples, his forehead, and all over his face, making louder and louder mwah sounds until Nico is laughing, punching his shoulder and shoving him away.

“Okay! Okay. Let me go, you villainous toad. We will discuss how much you’ll have to grovel for my forgiveness after Piper finishes yelling at me for getting distracted.”

Will presses one last kiss to his nose, smiling cheekily before stepping away, heading towards his boasting team. “Enjoy that lecture! Love you!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nico rolls his eyes, resting his aching cheek in his hand. “Love you too, asshole.”

[elliottkay]

You ever miss your hometown so much during a pandemic that you wrote a whole novel about it with magic and car chases and sexy immortal mercenaries and a sketchy secret FBI task force and adorable cats and the sweetest monster-chomping ghost dog ever? Or is it just me?

GRAND THEFT SORCERY is out now! You can read chapter one for free on my website!

The vampire lord of Los Angeles is dead, plunging the nightlife into chaos. His subjects fight over his title and his missing treasure hoard. The conflict brings werewolves, sorcerers, and djinn close to open war.

Repo man Evan Murphy knows nothing of the supernatural. He only wants a roof over his head and food for his cats. When a risky job lands him in the dungeon of a Hollywood Hills necromancer, a forgotten god offers him the power to escape—making him the target of a beautiful immortal mercenary and every monster within a hundred miles. Evan’s new magic may save the city from its shadows, but only if he can save himself.

WARNING: Grand Theft Sorcery contains explicit sex, explicit violence, explicit criticism of American law enforcement, bilingual profanity, a meet-cute that ends in homicide, conspicuous consumption, Los Angeles, demons, monsters, cops, vampires, talent agents, tautologies, street racing, attempted murder, successful murder, axe murder, motorcycle helmet murder, matching basketball hoodies, carjacking, kidnapping, brief torture, discovery of animal abuse (past/off-page), destruction of evidence, rampant traffic violations, premeditated hotel reservation with Only One Bed, desecration of the dead, awkward meetings with the ex, awkward meetings with the ex’s mom, deadly bisexuals, hypermasculine podcaster trash, acknowledgment of white privilege, false license plates, conspiracy, squatting, looting, mauling, home invasion, trespassing, witchcraft, abuse of authority, aggressive generosity, arguable cannibalism, destruction of private property, search warrant violations, outright lies, phone hacking, petty theft, grand larceny, vandalism, arson, defenestration, resisting arrest, driving under the influence of existential shock, appropriation of queer meme culture, shooting, punching, kicking, biting, couch surfing, bribery of wildlife, old timey Hollywood stereotypes, internet sexism and exploitation thereof, unflattering implications about Heaven and angels, two entirely normal cats, and the Black Dog of the Mojave.

GRAND THEFT SORCERY stands alone as a thrill ride unto itself, yet it shares a world and characters with the Good Intentions series. No prior reading required, but GI readers will recognize events and a few very familiar faces. Again, if you want a good preview, chapter one is here on my website!

Cover illustration by Julie Dillon, title design by Lee Moyer!

[itsclydebitches]

Hazbin Hotel: Let's Talk About Cursing!

Trigger warning for lots of cursing in this post (obviously) and discussion of canon abuse scenes

As I delve further into the Hazbin Hotel fandom, I’ve inevitably come across a variety of people who dislike the show for an equal variety of reasons. One criticism I’ve seen with some consistency is in regards to the cursing and yeah, I get it. That’s not going to be everyone’s cup of tea. However, the repeated claim that the cursing is only there as a—failed—attempt at bad, lazy humor got me thinking about why I personally liked the cursing, and why I think it serves a greater purpose in the show.

Now yes, some of the cursing does function as an arguably simplistic joke. The most common setup I’ve noticed is one that leans into a contrast in tone/personalities. We see this a lot with the polite, comparatively timid Charlie as she navigates her distinctly vulgar domain.

Charlie: “Hi, mister!” Demon: “Go fuck yourself!”

The entirety of “Happy Day in Hell” plays with this contrast, setting up Charlie’s slightly skewed, but significantly optimistic perspective of Hell. We are shown again and again how her lyrics are contradicted or twisted into something less innocent through the visuals: a “revealing” street where it’s “hard not to stare” has BDSM going on in a nearby window, Charlie will “open the door” for her people and then literally does so... for a guy who’s already dead. (Or, you know, temporarily out of commission until he heals, or whatever demons do when they’re ‘killed’ by things other than angelic steel.) The entire point here is to contrast the happy, skipping girl claiming that there’s a “warm, fuzzy feeling” in the air with the actual environment of unchecked fires and decaying limbs. And yes, that can be amusing. Not necessarily for everyone as humor is highly subjective and dependent on context, but distilling this contrast down to the shock of a polite greeting getting a “Go fuck yourself!” in response is a kind of entertainment. Especially when Charlie’s reaction adds another layer: for me that’s a very funny—and currently relatable—expression.

We can potentially make the case that this humor format overstays its welcome, but I personally think the show does a good job of keeping Charlie’s cursing both simple and comparatively rare, so that when she is put into these contrast situations the humor lands better. The best example I can think of in the latter half of the show is Susan. There we get the whiplash of polite, trying-to-get-these-people-to-like-her Charlie reaching a breaking point to become “FUCK YOU, YOU OLD BITCH” Charlie. It’s a moment that builds off of the earlier surprise of the courteous Alastor calling someone an “Ornery old bitch”—while Rosie is trying (and failing) to find a nicer way to phrase this.

However, as stated above I think the cursing serves more of a purpose than to just be funny for (some) viewers. Beyond those who simply find cursing distasteful, I’ve seen a fair bit of, “This is so stupid. No one even talks like that!” going around.

Except... I do? I talk like that.

See, I like cursing. I was born to former hippie parents and grew up playing MMOs, so cursing was something I became pretty acclimated to. Personally, I’m glad I was because I’m fascinated by language and cursing—for better or worse—is an integral way that many people communicate. I was taught to see cursing not as the Bad Forbidden Thing You Must Never Ever Do, but rather as just another form of expression, something to be used in moderation and under specific circumstances. Once I became an adult I already understood how I wanted to curse and when it was appropriate to do so. People at work are often shocked when I tell them I curse a lot because no, of course I’m not doing that at my job. That isn't considered professional in this space. Among my friends though?

We can sound a lot like the Hazbin crew.

Undoubtedly the most common curse in the show is “fuck” and its variations, which very much tracks with my personal experience among other people who curse. In fact, it’s so ubiquitous that it barely counts as a curse at all in some groups. It’s more of an easy, accepted way to add emphasis. Vaggie’s “What the fuck was that?” about Alastor’s commercial is a perfect example. She’s pissed and simply saying “What was that?” doesn’t carry the same weight, no matter how angry she may sound when she says it. Vox’s long “Fuuuuuuuck” at the end of “Stayed Gone” conveys an emotion you just can’t capture any other way. No dialogue at all would create a fundamentally different experience of Vox’s feelings and another non-cursing response is just gonna hit different. Not necessarily bad, just different.

“I don’t want to go to the party!” “I don’t want to go to the freaking party!” “I don’t want to go to the fucking party!”

The above represents three distinct characters to me and I think Hazbin Hotel gets that. Cursing isn’t thrown around randomly because something something cursing supposedly sells; it’s all linguistically logical. Characters curse when something surprising or bad happens, or when something unexpectedly good happens, when they’re angry, trying to be sexy, or they want to add that emphasis. That’s a lot of different situations where cursing can be useful and when you use “fuck” in your daily life a lot you become pretty desensitized to it. As said, for many it’s barely a curse at all. Which means that when you really want to curse you’ve got to up the ante. It doesn’t surprise me one bit that the two uses of “cunt” I can recall—a word that is generally considered far worse than “fuck” and makes a lot of people understandably uncomfortable—is used by two of the worst characters in moments that are meant to horrify the viewer:

Adam: “Can’t wait a whole year to slaughter those little cunts / I know it’s just been a week, but we’ll be back in six months!” Valentino: “When I say you’d better get that fucking cunt out of my studio, you say...?”

This horror is especially emphasized in Valentino’s scene. The creators know this word is coming up and deliberately build towards it. Angel is currently being abused and has been reminded that Valentino “owns” him. The above question is a part of a trio that Valentino asks (a standard structure in writing), wherein the third option is the outlier/most shocking of the three. The animation leans into that shock, with the music building and Valentino grabbing Angel to pull him close right on the word “cunt.” Perez even puts emphasis there because he knows that this is a significant word that will change our understanding of Valentino.

Despite having hit Angel multiple times and taunting him with the contract, this is the moment Valentino stops playing the ‘nice’ employer. This is the real him. No more fake compliments and endearments aimed at Charlie, no more fake comfort/intimacy aimed at Angel. That “cunt” conveys a hell of a lot about how Valentino really sees them and when you have a cast of characters who are already cursing on the regular, it takes a word on that level to do that kind of work. If Valentino had said, “get that fucking bitch out of my studio” it wouldn’t have had nearly the same impact because he’s the kind of guy who uses "bitch" even when playing ‘nice.’

Adam’s line from “Hell is Forever” does very similar work. The scene needs a word to align with the horrific reveal that another extermination is just six months away, that conveys Adam’s deep disgust for Charlie’s people, and that still catches the viewer’s attention even though he’s the character (I believe) who curses the most. Here the music drops and Adam is a little closer to speaking than singing; there's this shift because, like with Valentino, our perception of him is shifting. This isn’t just some egotistical idiot who wants to be called “Dick Master,” he’s the leader of an army coming to gleefully kill them. Framing a whole world of people—people Charlie loves—as “cunts” while treating their murder as a holiday that can’t come soon enough creates an, 'Oh shit. This guy is actually a threat' understanding that you can’t quite get with anything else.

On a smaller scale, cursing does other character work throughout the whole show. I watched a number of cursing compilation vids for this meta (that was a trip lol) and again, cursing is not thrown in randomly. Each character has a unique way of cursing that aligns with their personality and motivations:

As said, Adam curses the most in the show which helps sell his truly over-the-top, irreverent personality. Linguistically, the amount he curses also allows for some fun grammatical play. Lines like, “Fucking love putting my name on shit, shit’s the best!” help convey the versatility of cursing.

Also as said, Charlie curses a fair bit but she’s comparatively polite and her cursing tends to be a result of genuinely big emotions—like saying “Crap” when she’s shocked and falls, or “Shit!” when Adam locks her out of the room—rather than sprinkled into her conversations as a modifier. That leaves space to create those moments of amused surprise when Charlie really let’s loose.

Sr Pentious curses even less than Charlie which fits his secretly gooey center. He talks a big game at the start of the show, but he’s actually quite bad at being, well, bad (especially the Amazon version compared to pilot!Pentious). His idea of getting one over on Alastor is ripping a bit of his coat. He loves his Egg Bois and “doesn’t want to live” without them. He has no desire to go into battle without minions/a big machine to hide behind and, of course, he’s the first to be redeemed. He's too much of a secret sweetheart to curse a lot.

Interestingly, Niffty doesn’t seem to curse at all. At least, not enough for me to think of examples off the top of my head. Right now I’m inclined to read that as an extension of her lived experiences/design—the cute 1950’s housewife archetype who is obsessed with keeping things clean doesn’t [gasp!] curse—as well as a way to maintain her legitimate creep factor. As said, cursing is common among the hotel residents and is a way for them to linguistically fit in. Niffty, however, is positioned more as an outsider (despite how much they all obviously love her): she’s actually scary in a way most demons aren’t and despite how weird this whole world is, she stands out as someone no one else can make sense of (even Alastor). If cursing is normal, Niffty is a character who is decidedly positioned as not normal.

Angel curses a fair bit, though his irreverence is conveyed more through innuendos. Angel is great at verbally twisting others’ words (especially Husk’s) to give himself a conversational advantage:

Husk: “Go fuck yourself” Angel: “Only if you watch me~”

Husk: “You’ve come—” Angel: [very loud orgasm noise] Husk: “...to the right place.”

Meanwhile, Husk uses “fuck” plenty, but he’s also one of the few characters who use “bullshit" too. I wouldn’t say there’s anything particularly revealing about that choice, but just giving him a go-to curse that’s otherwise used infrequently helps make his character distinct in a cast of other cursing characters.

Vaggie occasionally curses in Spanish, showing us her heritage if she used to be human, or a distinct knowledge/verbal preference if she’s always been an angel.

Heaven, as the ‘good’ side, doesn’t curse as a general rule, which leaves room for cursing to do more of that silent character work. We’re reminded of the stuffy, overly critical beings she’s dealing with when Charlie receives the combined judgement of the court for saying, “Fuck yeah!” In contrast, we understand just how shocked St. Peter is to see a Morningstar when he lets out an unintentional “Fuck!” The angry vindication of Charlie’s “That’s what the fuck I’ve been saying!” lands harder after multiple scenes of very little cursing, and Lute’s “Some crack-whore who fucked up already? / He blew his shot like the cocks in his mouth—” helps set her apart as an exorcist + Adam's second in command: her shocking violence comes through in her word choice too; words that supposedly don't belong in Heaven.

In what’s arguably the funniest line in the whole show, Lucifer undermines his dramatic standoff with Adam by going, “You mess with my daughter and now I’m going to fuck you.” Beyond just cutting the tension, that fits his bumbling, oblivious personality perfectly. Lucifer is crazy powerful and can absolutely wreck Adam. He also has none of the classy intimidation that, say, Alastor displays when he tries to convey that. This is a depressed himbo who makes ducks in his free time and settles on, “Hey, bitch!” when greeting his estranged daughter. Of course he’s going to accidentally turn a threat into a promise of sex.

Which finally brings me to Alastor, someone whose cursing is already understood well by the fandom. He’s characterized as manipulatively courteous, using manners to both hide his true nature and draw attention to his power—’You’re so beneath me I’ll just calmly sip my coffee and politely ask who you are, despite the fact that we've fought multiple times.’ This is a guy who calls people “My dear” and unironically insults them with the phrase “wacky nonsense.” So when he curses you can BET it’s gonna have an impact. It sure did for me. I had to pause the episode after Alastor’s first “Fuck you” because it was so shocking to hear that language from him. And that’s the point! The scene wants that reaction from the audience. The "Fuck you"s visceral anger contrasting the fake laughs he and Lucifer have been giving, the quick-fire exchange that’s suddenly cut short by Alastor’s choice of a direct insult, the fact that he’s officially dropping the polite veneer they’ve both been indulging in and raising the stakes before Charlie intervenes, the loss of the radio filter that otherwise demonstrates his control over a situation... all of it screams, ‘THIS IS AN IMPORTANT CHARACTER MOMENT.’

"Fuck you” reveals that, for the first time in the show, Alastor is legitimately threatened by someone. Which makes sense given that, you know, Lucifer is the King of Hell. Cursing for Alastor isn’t normal, so when he does curse it’s going to reveal something about a guy who otherwise is obsessed with being unknowable. Having the King of Hell dismiss him is actually infuriating in a way Sir Pentious’ threats could never be and the exchange kicks off a rivalry that rattles Alastor in ways Vox’s never has. (Side note: is it any wonder people ship them? Character A making control freak Character B feel vulnerable is classic!) It’s no surprise to me than that the one other true curse we get from Alastor is, “I’m about to end your fucking life,” delivered to Adam who, like Lucifer, poses a legitimate threat and does end up beating him. I say “true” curse because calling Susan a “bitch” does similar work for him, but the takeaway is humorous rather than dramatic. It’s funny that the only people who can piss Alastor off enough to curse are the First Man/a powerful exorcist angel threatening his life, the literal King of Hell... and Susan.

So there’s a lot going on here, more than what many viewers might assume if they approach the show as just “stupid,” needlessly vulgar entertainment. As shown above, I don’t think the cursing is needless, especially given that, well... they’re in Hell. They’re sinners, supposedly the worst that humanity has to offer, so of course they're going to curse a lot. Does cursing mean you’re a bad person? No. Can you craft a hellish world that doesn't rely on cursing to convey a group's immoral nature? Sure.

Does it make sense that a writer would equate a sinful, irreverent cast with linguistic rebellion and would want to convey a certain vibe that, frankly, you just can’t get without dropping an F bomb?

Yeah, I think so. No one has to like that kind of creative decision, but it’s worth acknowledging it as a deliberate choice.

That’s all! Thanks for reading this fucking long post ✌️

[historicity-was-already-taken]

pixeljade: #it IS very much a complex issue and I feel like saying that has been pissing off a lot of folks on both sides #one fact i would add to the table is that the current actions against palestine DO constitute a genocide by definition #its a word i hear pro-Israel people get very upset by because they think it is inherently comparing this to the holocaust #but its not. some people DO and thats its own discussion. but calling it a “genocide” is simply accurate and undeniable

Speaking as someone who was that pro-Israel person in her teens and very early 20s, the reactions you're describing are 800% cognitive dissonance freak outs. Most of these people, like me, received either directly or indirectly from their Elders in the Jewish community a very trauma-induced and deeply emotional information about the history of this situation, which boils down to: "They tried to kill us all once and they didn't now we finally have returned to the Promised Land, the only place we have to shield ourselves against It Happening Again. Israel's detractors hate that Jews can defend themselves now, and if any of them, including the Palestinians, were to have their way, they'd see us all dead. We must defend ourselves at all costs, and not let anyone ever put us in existential danger as a people ever again."

And then to have some rando 19 year old who knows jack shit about your or your community or your community's trauma to get up in your face and start screaming at you about genocide? It's only going to trigger that intergenerational trauma, and cause the party being screamed at to dig deeper into their defensive, cognitive-dissonance fueled response. Which, if we were to boil that response down to a thought process, looks like "This person hates me and all Jews. They think we're a hive mind who don't deserve to live. Thank G-d for Israel."

What's complex, is that not everything in that trauma response is wrong, and not everything the dumbass 19 yo who has no interest in unpacking their own learned anti-Semitism was wrong.

Israel's actions towards Palestinian Arabs since 1948 does fit several definitions of genocide and/or ethnic cleansing. And many of the Westerners who scream about it the loudest are fairly openly anti-Semitic.

Now, as someone with big Holocaust intergenerational trauma in her family, I am sympathetic to the Jewish kid in this scenario. But cognitive dissonance is just that: the domain of a child. Adults understand that cognitive dissonance is a little voice in our head telling us "Hey comrade our discomfort with this is a little much. Maybe this is a learning opportunity?"

I mean, that's what I did. But it's difficult. Its uncomfortable, and that scares people. It's much easier to believe that "They call it the Naqba because they hate us and think our survival and access to national self-determination is a disaster,"* than it is to understand that "They call it the Naqba because it was the near total dispossession and ethnic cleansing of Palestinian Arab populations from their generational homes and properties."

And again, everything I'm saying here is a result of my journey from a hardcore Zionist-in-the-contemporary-sense child (though always left in terms of domestic US Politics), to a grown Holocaust historian who understands that Israel is no better and no worse than all the other nation states (for new readers, I understand the nation-state as a political entity, the logical end point of which is genocide and/or ethnic cleansing), and openly criticizes it on those grounds.

*A rabbi in a youth group I belonged to told me this almost verbatim when I was 15. And when you're 15 and somebody tells you they love you you're gonna believe them.

[hunny-bean]

Hello, I have a Matt x reader x Frank castle smut request. Frank tells Matt what he does with you after his patrol, how tight you are and how good your pussy tastes. Frank takes Matt to his apartment and the two have a lot of fun with the reader. They use the reader like a sex doll. Despite the years with Frank, the reader is too tight and Matt is too big.

In High Demand

Pairing: Frank Castle x Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Matt's been overworking himself. Frank knows someone who can help him relax.

Word Count: 8.2k

Warnings: 18+ (Minors DNI), Explicit Sexual Content, Threesome, Oral Sex (M and F Receiving), Unprotected P in V, Praise and Degradation, An Obscene Amount of Dialogue, The Reader is Very Slutty (I'm Sorry. . . No I'm Not).

A/N: Well, I'm officially out of the frying pan and into the fire. Of course, by fire, I mean threesome. I'm sorry this took so long for me to finish. I'm a bit of a slow editor. If you have any constructive criticism, I will absorb ALL of it happily. I'm trying to improve my writing skills as much as I can. Also, I'm always taking requests! XOXO.

Read on AO3

���ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

"I really appreciate you helping me out with this, Frank."

Frank looked up from where he was sitting with his back against the brick barrier. "Yeah, well, I owed you one," he replied, "and I'm not a huge fan of being in debt."

The two vigilantes were resting on a vacant rooftop, listening closely for any signs of danger. Hearing nothing, Matt figured the "Devil of Hell's Kitchen" had driven everyone with something to fear from him back inside. He declared his nightly patrol a success. As soon as he switched off attack mode, he felt the exhaustion hit him, and he slumped down on the wall next to Frank.

"So, you're saying you did all this to balance the scales?" Matt asked incredulously.

"Just about," Frank muttered, scratching a little blood stain off the knife Matt let him borrow. "And I only beat up one guy, so it's not like I actually had to work for it."

"I'd say you worked hard enough. I mean, you did make it all night without killing anyone."

"There you go again with that self-righteous bullshit," Frank groaned. "What I don't get is why you would ask someone you constantly feel the need to babysit for help."

Taking a deep breath in, Matt forced himself to stand, getting ready for the walk back to his apartment.

"You were convenient," he explained. "I knew your skills and I knew where to find you. Also, you're not nearly as lethal without all your guns."

"Well, fuck you too," Frank grumbled. He waited for Matt to take a few steps towards the ladder before chucking the knife he was holding directly at the back of his head. He watched it spiral through the air, perfectly on course, only to land gingerly in Matt's hand. It was almost like the knife changed its trajectory at the last second, but Frank knew that wasn't the case. Besides, it's not like he actually wanted to hit him. He didn't even think that was possible.

Matt turned back in his direction. Even through the mask, Frank could feel the raised eyebrow. He ignored it. Hopping up, he made his way over so the two of them could walk together.

"Okay, but why ask for help at all?" Frank pressured. "It's obvious you can handle yourself, and you've never asked before."

"You know as well as anyone how unpredictable these streets can be," Matt began. "You're right, most nights I can handle myself, but. . . I wasn't so sure about tonight. I wanted someone there, just in case."

He was about to start climbing down the ladder, but Frank's voice stopped him before he could.

"Something tells me you're not gonna be so sure about tomorrow, either."

"What?"

"Come on, Red. Look at yourself. You're practically dead on your feet," Frank pointed out. "It's three in the goddamn morning, you just fought like fourteen people, and now, what? You're going home to get your two hours of sleep before work?"

"Four."

"That's still not enough, and you know it."

"I'll be fine," Matt asserted.

"No one can do that every night and be fine."

"Why do you care?"

"Because unlike some people, I actually respect what you do around here, and I don't wanna find out what this shithole would look like without you," Frank raved. There was a long silence after that, both men startled by the declaration.

"You won't."

Matt began his descent, ready to end their conversation. Frank, it seemed, had other plans.

"If you were fine, you wouldn't be taking the ladder," he called down after him.

Matt paused, resting his head against the metal rung in front of him. He was really starting to get aggravated by Frank's incessant concerns. The most annoying part was that he was right. Matt would usually make it home from patrol in two minutes flat, his feet touching nothing but rooftops. He picked a shorter building with a ladder tonight because he feared his body was too sore to make the jumps. To say it had been a rough week would be an understatement.

'You have nothing to prove,' he repeated in his head like a mantra. It worked at first; he made it another three steps down, but then he heard Frank's stupid voice again.

"Why won't you just admit that you're burnt out?"

Matt gritted his teeth, unable to hide his frustration any longer. He gave up on avoiding conflict and began climbing back up to the roof to be on the same level as Frank.

"I am not burnt out," he growled.

There was an awkward pause as Frank looked Matt up and down, thinking. He carefully considered his slumped posture and his shoulders racked with tension. Matt couldn't see him, but he could feel Frank's eyes examining him, and it made him uncomfortable. He was about to say something, but Frank broke the silence before he could.

"When's the last time you got laid?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"I'm sorry-"

"You're not a virgin, are you?"

"What? No!"

"So how long's it been?"

Matt wasn't sure how to feel about the sudden shift in the argument. he kinda felt like he was in a train headed towards a cliff that suddenly veered off course. He was safe from the fall, but who knew what lay ahead of him now?

"Why the hell would you want to know that?" he asked.

"Just answer the question."

"Uhh, a few months? I don't kn-"

He was interrupted again by Frank letting out a low, impressed whistle.

"That's even worse than I thought," Frank said.

"You've thought about this?" Matt asked, horrified.

"No, jesus christ, man, it's obvious. You're all tense 'n shit. You look like you haven't relaxed in a while, that's all."

Matt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose through his mask. "I think we should go," he mumbled.

"I think you should get some."

"Ok, well it's not like you've got someone waiting for you at home either," Matt snapped.

Frank looked at Matt quizzically, letting out a surprised chuckle.

"What?" Matt asked, exasperated.

"Nothing," Frank responded. "It's just that you really are off your game."

"What are you talking about?"

"There is someone waiting for me at home right now."

"Bullshit."

"I thought you could, like, smell it on me or something," Frank speculated.

Now that he mentioned it, Matt did notice something different about Frank's unique smell. There was a slightly sweeter scent intertwined with his typical smoke and rosewood. He knew Frank wasn't lying, but for some reason he didn't want to believe it.

"I didn't hear anyone else inside when I came to get you," he added.

"She was out with some friends. She should be home by now."

"You realize how made up that sounds, right?"

"Cut the crap. You know it's true."

"Yeah, I know," Matt conceded. "She your girlfriend?"

"Yeah. . . At least, I think she is."

"Do you go out on dates often?" Matt supplied. He made a 'come on' gesture to encourage Frank to follow as he started down the ladder once more.

"I don't exactly know what counts as a date in your world, but I think we do." Frank inhaled sharply as he almost lost his footing on a loose bar.

"Wait, does she know who you are? The terms of your agreement-"

"I remember all the terms, thanks," Frank muttered. "I didn't tell her. She figured it out pretty quick though. Maybe I should grow a beard or somethin'."

"Do you love her?" Matt asked when they reached the bottom. The two of them started off in the same direction for their homes, taking only the deserted back alleys they were all too familiar with.

"Well I've only known her for three months," Frank answered, dusting little flakes of rust off his black jacket, "but I think I'm really starting to. She might just be the prettiest, sweetest girl I've ever known."

"That's a good sign. Okay, one last thing: Does she sleep with other people?"

Frank suddenly looked like he was remembering something funny. "Only if I ask her to," he smirked.

Matt was pretty sure his brain short-circuited, and he stopped dead in his tracks. "The correct answer would have been no," he deadpanned. "Why the hell would you ask someone to do that?"

"Well, Red, there's this thing you should know about my girl. I know she seems all cute and innocent at first, but she's actually the biggest slut I've ever met."

"Okay, TMI," Matt complained. Naturally, Frank ignored him. They began walking again, talking more about Frank's secret girlfriend.

"I'm telling you, man, she's perfect," he bragged. The night we met, I found her blowing some guy behind a bar."

Matt had to admit, that was a little amusing. "And what?" he asked, "you just went up to them and started hitting on her?"

"Not exactly," Frank laughed. "I was just walking home, and the guy she was with thought I said somethin' to him or some shit, 'cause he came over to me and started tryin' to pick a fight, right? Well, anyway, I knocked him out cold. Save the lecture, he was a dick wad and he wasn't even that drunk. But this girl, she thought it was hot, can you believe that? So, she starts hitting on me, saying I look strong and dangerous, 'cause apparently she's into that. She kept asking me to take her back to my place, and she was obviously hammered, so I did, just to keep her safe, you know? Almost immediately, she passes out on my bed, too tired to even try to fuck me anymore. Luckily, when she woke up, she remembered everything that happened, and I gave her my number in case she ever needed me to punch somebody else for her."

"And did she?" Matt prompted. He didn't actually care that much, but it was a decent story and it was definitely helping him keep his mind off his injuries.

"Yeah, two days later," Frank grinned. "She wasn't calling for a bodyguard, though. When I picked up, she told me she hadn't been able to stop thinking about me and was wondering if we could talk for a while so she could 'satisfy her curiosity'."

"She sounds very forward."

"You've got no idea. She's absolutely shameless, especially when she's drunk. You know, when she called me, she spent the whole conversation trying to pretend like she wasn't getting herself off."

"Wait, what?!"

"So, I had to sit there for an hour and listen to her try not to moan, and she's usually pretty good at staying quiet, but sometimes she gets so fuckin' wet that she just can't."

"That's disturbing," Matt lied, and was once again ignored.

"It's real easy for her to cover up the noises coming from her mouth, right? But the other ones. . . not so much. So, the whole time, I was just on my couch talking to her, and I was going absolutely insane 'cause I could hear what she was doing. After a little while, I just snapped and I told her if she wanted to hear my voice that badly, she could come over and I'd help her out."

"And?. . ."

"And she did."

"You slept with her the second time you met?"

"Yep. And the third, and the forth. . . probably the first eight times we got together. I mean, we were just goin' at it like every single night. It was amazing. She's so fuckin' tight, like tighter than most virgins. And she's damn good with her mouth. Like, the first time she sucked me off I almost saw your God. I don't think there's a single thing she can't do. Not much she won't do either."

"Really, dude. Stop."

"Whatever, man. I realized I actually liked her when she spent a full weekend at my place. We went out for lunch and played cards and watched a movie. She was just so smart and funny and I couldn't stand the thought of her leaving," Frank reminisced.

"So, is that when you asked her out?"

"No, that was when I asked her to move in with me."

Matt didn't even know where to start unpacking that. Before he could say anything, Frank stopped walking in front of a tall staircase behind a brick building.

"This is me," he announced.

"Hold on, you still haven't answered my question," Matt reminded him. "Why did you ask her to sleep with someone else?"

"Oh, yeah," Frank mused. "About a month ago, I went out for drinks with this old friend of mine, and was going on and on about how he hadn't gotten laid since his divorce. He seemed about her type, so I took him back to our place and had her take care of him for me."

"And she did it, just like that?"

"I told you she was great, didn't I?" Frank beamed.

"And neither of you cared?" That was something Matt was having trouble comprehending. He'd always been pretty possessive in his relationships, and the thought of sharing his partner was completely foreign to him.

"I am not a selfish man, Red. Anyone who dies without experiencing that pussy has never truly lived."

"Good to know."

Frank leaned casually against the wall behind him, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So, uh. . . you interested?"

It look Matt a moment to process what he was being asked, and when he did, he didn't know how to feel. On the one hand, he didn't want to take any more help from Frank, especially not for something like this. He didn't want to come between a happy couple, either, even by invite. On the other hand, it had been a while, and the girl that had been described to him sounded remarkably satisfying. He began to realize that Frank was right: He seriously needed to get laid.

Frank decided Matt had been thinking a little too long.

"Do you like eating pussy?"

Matt was startled out of his inner turmoil. "You can't just fucking ask someone that," he hissed.

"Why not? You seem like you would," Frank stated nonchalantly.

"Fine. Yes, I do."

"Good. I'm tellin' you right now, there ain't a woman in all of New York that tastes sweeter than my baby. You get between her legs, you come out knowing things you didn't think were possible, swear to God."

"I find that hard to believe," Matt scoffed.

"I mean it. I could spend hours down there. I did once, actually, 'till we both passed out. . . But I guess you'll just have to find out for yourself, won't you? Come on, man. You really need this."

"I don't know, it just doesn't sound like such a good idea."

Frank rolled his eyes. "We're all adults, we can have a little fun. If you want, you can come up to get your dick sucked and then head home. It doesn't have to be a big thing."

"You seem very adamant about this," Matt noted.

"Well, I do aim to please," Frank quipped. "I'm talking about you and her. I think my girl would have a lot of fun with you."

"What makes you say that?"

"You're pretty easy on the eyes, you know. Also, she seems to have a thing for jaded middle-aged vigilantes. So, what do you say? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Murdock."

Matt sighed, and reached up to rub the back of his neck. For the life of him, he couldn't seem to remember any of his reasons for saying no.

"Alright," he decided.

Frank's face broke into a wolfish grin, and he began ascending the staircase towards the window at the very top of the building. Matt followed close behind him, wincing at the pain in his sides as he climbed. When the two men got to the top, Frank knocked four times at the glass.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You had just finished changing into one of Frank's old t-shirts when you heard the familiar rattling of the window pane. You dried your hands on the bathroom towel and smiled as you went to let your boyfriend back inside.

Using that word was strange to you, but still it made you giddy with excitement. You never thought you would meet someone wonderful enough to settle down with, but finally you had. Frank was the most perfect man you'd ever known. He understood you in ways no one else could, and with him, you were satisfied. That was a miracle in and of itself.

You slid open the creaky window with a hard push, and watched as Frank hopped through it with a gracefulness that contrasted sharply with his bulky exterior. He seemed completely unharmed, as per usual, but you had still been worried about him. There was always that small chance he would come home covered in his own blood and full of broken bones. You were about to tear into him for not leaving a note when you noticed the red figure slipping in behind him.

"Hey, sweetheart, you remember me telling you about Matt, don't you?" Frank asked, cradling your face in his hands and giving you a sweet hello kiss.

"Is this him?" you responded, giving the new arrival a once-over.

"Yeah, this is him. Hey, Red, why don't you introduce yourself."

Matt stepped up to you and offered his hand for you to shake.

"Hi, I'm Matt. Frank's already told me all about you," he said cheerfully, almost like he knew something you didn't.

Frank stepped up behind you, resting his hand on your lower back and leaning in to tell you something.

"If you're up for it, I'm gonna need you to do me a favor, alright?" he mumbled. You could tell Matt heard everything. You remembered what Frank had told you about him and his unique talents.

You turned towards Frank, sliding your hands under his jacket and leaning in close.

"By that, do you mean you're gonna need me to do him a favor?" you wondered. Frank tucked your hair behind your ear and twirled it idly around his fingers.

"He's pretty high strung right now. I figured he might need a little somethin' special to relax."

"I'm perfectly capable of getting laid on my own, Frank," Matt butted in. Frank ignored him.

"Have I told you how beautiful you look today?"

You laughed. "Yes, about twelve times this morning. You don't need to flatter me, I'll do it."

"You're amazing," Frank marveled, giving you another chaste kiss before turning to address Matt.

"How about you start by taking that stupid helmet off. Let my baby see what she's working with."

A small thrill ran through you when you heard Frank address you as his. You watched as Matt pulled his mask off, revealing the rest of his face. He looked a little nervous but you couldn't see why. He was absolutely gorgeous. His messy hair from the suit only added to the effects of his boyish charm. You noticed he did look rather tired, but that did nothing to dull his handsome features. You could tell you were gonna have a lot of fun with this one.

"He's even prettier than you," you joked.

Frank swatted you lightly on the ass and pushed you in Matt's direction. "Watch it," he growled playfully.

You stalked over to Matt and kissed him lightly on the cheek before pulling him over to the couch.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" you asked gently.

Matt swallowed thickly, trying to adjust to his situation. "Yeah, I'm okay," he responded. You hoped he'd settle in soon. There was something about him that told you he could be a lot of fun when he warmed up. Then again, that was what you were there for.

"What do you want?"

"I'm not exactly sure. Really, I can just go if-"

"No!" you interrupted. "I don't want you to go, I want to make you feel better. I'm okay with whatever you want, promise."

Matt seemed to be struggling to come up with what to say. Honestly, you were feeling a little nervous too, even though there was no reason to be. Suddenly, you realized what the issue was.

"Hey, Frank?" you called out. He came over to the two of you holding a couple of beers in one hand. He passed one to Matt, who accepted it gratefully.

You waited until he was next to you before admitting your problem to him. "I think we feel a little weird because we don't have any rules. Could you maybe. . . tell us what to do?" you asked.

Frank nodded, sitting down in the ratty old armchair next to the couch.

"Why don't you ask me what you wanna do with him, and I'll give you the go-ahead. Sound good, baby?"

You looked over at Matt who seemed to have relaxed some. You definitely found the source of the problem. All you needed was permission.

"Can I kiss him?" you asked.

Frank's eyes were sparkling with his newfound control. "You can kiss him all you want, sugar."

You slid closer to Matt, turning his head towards yours. "Stop me if you get uncomfortable," you whispered, and then leaned in to press your lips to his. Matt groaned and immediately deepened the kiss, eagerly exploring your mouth with his tongue. It was obvious now how much he needed this.

He tasted good in a way you couldn't explain, and you didn't want to pull away until you'd figured out what it was. You could feel the throbbing in your core picking up with every passing moment. Your breath caught when you felt Matt reach up to run his fingers through your hair. Wanting to move things along, you climbed into his lap so you could be pressed against him, chest-to-chest.

"Pull her hair. She likes that," Frank suggested.

Matt complied, tugging gently, then harder when he felt you shiver against him. Leave it to Frank to know exactly what you want and when you want it. You pulled back from the kiss to look at your moderator, rolling your hips hesitantly to gauge his reaction. He nodded, and you watched him palm himself roughly through his pants. That was all the encouragement you needed.

Returning to the kiss, you began grinding down hard against him, hoping that he could feel your movements through his thick suit. Matt reacted in a way that showed you he certainly could, gasping and grabbing onto your hips to push up against you. You moaned when one particularly hard thrust allowed you to feel the outline of his cock through your clothes.

"Oh, what the fuck," you breathed, pulling away from the kiss in shock. There was no way in hell he was that big. You settled your weight fully on his lap, gently rocking back in forth to feel more of him. You had to make sure that you weren't just imagining things. You weren't. He was absolutely fucking huge. You weren't sure how he was supposed to fit inside you, but dammit if you weren't excited to find out.

Matt seemed amused by your reaction to your recent discovery. He could smell the sudden increase in your arousal that accompanied the feeling of you getting wetter. You felt his hands tighten on your hips, holding you still as he grinded up against you. Every thrust was deep and dirty, inciting the growing heartbeat between your legs. It felt like he was showing off, or using his knowledge of a secret you had to tease you.

"Feel something you like, baby?" Frank asked from the sidelines.

"Uh-huh," You responded inattentively. You were too focused on the feeling of Matt's bulge rubbing against you to say much more than that.

"Why don't you head on down to the bedroom, alright sweetheart? We'll meet you there in a minute," Frank urged.

Reluctantly, Matt released you and you wandered down the hall to wait for the two men to come join you.

Frank waited for you to be out of earshot before moving to the couch next to Matt. They sat for a second, sipping at their drinks before Frank spoke.

"I know you have a fuck ton of ideas about how you should treat a woman, but I'm gonna need you to forget that shit before I take you back there, okay? I'm doing this for you, but if you don't make this good for her, I will kick you out, got it? She's not interested in your kindness tonight. She wants you to treat her like an object. Like a dumb whore you're just using to get off. I know you've got a dark side in there somewhere, Red. I need you to tell me right now if you think you can use it."

Matt never expected that to be something that would intrigue him. It had always seemed so cruel and taboo. . . but if it was what you wanted. . .

"I can."

"Good." Frank stood up and began walking towards the bedroom. After a few steps, he remembered something and turned back around. "Also, what the hell, man? I'm not letting you fuck her without stretching her out first. I know I said you could hurt her, but I don't want you to make her bleed."

When they made it to the bedroom, they found you laying back against the pillows, gently teasing your clit through your panties. When they came through the doorway, you pulled your hand away, looking up at Frank shyly. He raised an eyebrow at you, scoffing at your innocent expression.

"You couldn't wait two minutes?" He sighed. "I'm not gonna embarrass you in front of our guest, baby, but next time you might not be so lucky."

"I'm sorry," you whined.

"No you're not." Frank came around the bed to sit next to you and directed Matt to sit down on your other side. "I think it's about time to take this off, what do you think?" Frank asked, tugging on the hem of your (his) shirt. You nodded, and he pulled it over your head, leaving you completely naked save for your soft cotton panties.

"What do you want right now, baby? His mouth or his fingers?" Frank offered, turning your head towards him. You were a little confused that those were your only options. Weren't you supposed to be making Matt feel good? Confusion aside, you still couldn't choose. They both sounded very appealing.

"Damn, Red. You must've done a good job back there. She's already having trouble thinking," he teased, flicking you gently on the forehead. "Why don't you use both?" he suggested.

Matt smiled, beginning to understand how Frank expected him to treat you. "If she's all fuzzy from a little kiss, are you sure she'd be able to handle both?"

"I guess we'll just have to find out, won't we?"

You weren't sure what it was, but when Frank talked about you like you weren't there, a combination of arousal and safety washed over you. It always seemed to put you in a different headspace.

Matt climbed on top of you, finding your lips again as he slid your underwear down past your knees for you to kick off. He pulled your legs apart and began tracing your folds gently with his fingertips. Every touch was a completely new sensation. Matt was experimenting, figuring out where you were most sensitive, which motions you preferred and how hard he had to rub your clit to make you whimper.

He circled his fingers around your entrance, dipping into you just enough to feel you pulse and tighten around him, trying to pull him deeper. Right before you started begging, he pushed two of his fingers all the way in, curling them to explore your soft walls. It didn't take long for you to gasp and melt into the pillows as he brushed against your sweet spot. You hid your face in his neck, whining as he assaulted it over and over while bringing his thumb up to massage your clit.

Frank shushed you gently from his spot on the bed, reaching over to stroke your hair as you shook from the intense stimulation. You felt yourself dripping down Matt's fingers, and you could hear the wet sounds you were making as he fucked them in and out of your tight heat.

He pulled you right up to the edge before you heard Frank tell him to stop.

"Not yet," he muttered. "She'll get worn out after the third one, so you should probably make 'em count."

You huffed as Matt pulled his fingers out, earning you a proud and dangerous smirk. He gave you another sweet kiss as an apology.

"Sorry, angel. I don't make the rules," he reminded you.

Any disappointment you felt was soon replaced by the image of Matt sliding down the bed to get between your legs and pull them over his shoulders. Almost as an afterthought, he brought his hand up to his mouth to taste the palm you had drenched. As soon as his tongue touched his skin, you saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. His eyes darkened to look almost predatory, and he tightened his grip on your thighs. He glanced in Frank's direction, silently begging for his permission to proceed.

You didn't see Frank's approval, but you knew exactly when Matt got it because he dove into your cunt like it was a fucking desert oasis. In a lot of ways, it was. He wasted no time with teasing, instead shoving his tongue inside of you as deep as he could get it. Your vision went blurry as your eyes rolled back in your head. Grasping desperately at his hair, you pulled him harder against you until you were worried you would hurt him, but he barely seemed to notice.

He drew his tongue out to give your soaked pussy a few hungry licks, drinking up everything that dripped out of you. The wet noises he created with every suck or swipe of his tongue were enough to have your face flushed with embarrassment and excitement.

Feeling ignored, Frank grabbed your jaw, pulling you into a fervent kiss. He dislodged one of your hands from Matt's hair, guiding it over to rub at his clothed erection. You squeezed him through his pants, humming happily when you felt him twitch and grind up into your palm. Deftly, you undid his button and zipper, tugging his pants down just enough to slip your fingers under the waistband of his underwear. You didn't do anything else until he said it was okay.

"You want it, baby?" he murmured against your lips. You nodded, pushing your hand farther in, but you just barely managed to brush against it before he grabbed your wrist. He broke the kiss to look you in the eye, moving his hand from your jaw to gently hold your neck.

"You gotta use your words, sweetheart. You know that," he crooned.

"Please, can I touch it?" you sighed, moaning when Matt started stroking your clit again. Frank used his grip on your wrist to pull your hand deeper in until you could firmly grab his aching cock. You began tugging it slowly as it pulsed and hardened further in your grasp. You swiped the pad of your thumb over his slit and felt him drip onto your fingers, easing the glide of your palm.

You felt yourself getting close again when Matt stuffed his fingers back inside you and sucked hard at your clit. This time, no one stopped you from falling over the edge. You sobbed as your release rushed through you, tightening your thighs around Matt's head and your hand around Frank's cock. Matt groaned against you, savoring the scent and the taste of your satisfaction. Frank hissed at the added pressure, thrusting up into your fist which was slick with his precum.

The two men reluctantly pulled away from you as you came down from your high, giving you time to catch your breath. They returned to their positions on either side of you, stroking your hair or your shoulders as you refocused on reality.

"You were right," Matt announced, breathing almost as heavily as you were.

Frank smirked, looking over you to assess Matt's disheveled state. "Yeah? 'Bout what, exactly?" he asked.

"Everything," He admitted dreamily. To anyone who didn't know the effect you had on fortunate men, he might seem drunk or high. You supposed he kinda was.

"You were talking about me?" you whispered, hiding your face in Frank's neck. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him.

"I was just braggin' about how good you are, baby," he promised.

Matt laughed quietly at Frank's statement like it was an inside joke no one else would understand.

"He said a lot more than that," Matt disclosed to you. "He said you were the biggest slut he'd ever met. Honestly, he would not shut up about how tight you were, or how good you tasted. I thought he was exaggerating, but I think you just proved me wrong."

You smiled into Frank's shoulder, enjoying the attention. He tapped you lightly on the hip to get you to focus on him.

"I believe you were just given a compliment," he signaled.

Taking the hint, you rolled over to face Matt, angling his face towards you to give him a soft kiss as a thank you.

You looked down to where he was straining against the fabric of his suit. A small wet spot was becoming more visible at the tip of his swollen bulge. You caught yourself before you stared for too long, worried you might start salivating if you let your mind wander far enough.

"That looks uncomfortable," you pointed out. "You should probably take it off before it starts hurting you."

Matt agreed, standing up beside the bed to start stripping off his clothes. If he were dressed normally, you would offer to help, but you didn't even know where to begin with that thing.

"I'm sure she wants to return the favor," Frank advised Matt. "I'll go ahead get her stretched out while you use her mouth, alright?"

When Matt was in just his boxers, you tugged him back down to take your spot in the middle and climbed on top of him. Frank had stood up to finish taking off his own clothes, and when he was done, he kneeled behind you on the bed to get you in the right position.

You found yourself face-to-face with Matt's thinly veiled hard-on and your ass up high for Frank to take you from behind. He slid three of his fingers inside you, pumping them in and out a few times to see how relaxed you already were. As soon as you had freed Matt from his final barricade, Frank pulled his fingers out and shoved his cock inside you in one smooth thrust. You moaned loudly at the sudden intrusion, wincing at the stretch but enjoying it nonetheless. Frank gave you a moment to gather your bearings before he began to move.

"Focus on him, baby. He's the one you're supposed to be paying attention to," Frank directed. That was easier said than done when you were being relentlessly fucked from behind, but you had been wanting to get your mouth on him for a while now, and you weren't gonna pass up the opportunity.

Now that you were seeing him in person, Matt's size was almost intimidating. You were glad Frank took it upon himself to stretch you out first, because you were sure you'd be feeling it in your stomach when it was time to switch. His head looked tight and angry, and you watched as a small bead of clear fluid welled out of the tip and ran down the side. You leaned in to catch it with your tongue, whining softly at the taste.

"There you go, sweetheart," Frank praised.

You licked a long stripe up the underside, stopping when you got to the top to suckle gently at the head. You wrapped your hand around the base to stroke him firmly as you focused on taking the first few inches comfortably. It was already stretching your mouth quite a bit and your jaw was aching from trying to force yourself down on it. Before long, your spit was dripping onto your fingers and sliding down to settle at the base, creating slick sounds as you tugged at his length.

You moaned around him when Frank gave a particularly pointed thrust, nailing your spot dead-on. Provoked by your reaction, he repeated the same motion until your eyes rolled back in your head and you could no longer focus on the task at hand.

"Come on, pretty girl. You can take more than that," Frank fussed. "If you want his help, you can ask for it. Don't be shy, baby."

You were reluctant to ask because you wanted to prove yourself to Matt, but you didn't think you would be able to take more on your own. Usually, you were pretty good relaxing your throat, but there was no way you could swallow even half of him without choking. If you wanted to make him feel good, you would need him to take over and force you to blow as much of him as he wanted.

You pulled off of his cock teasingly, hollowing out your cheeks on the way up and swirling your tongue around the tip. You gave it one more little kiss before resuming your strokes, looking up at him to see which motions garnered the best reactions.

"Please," you whined, using your other hand to guide his to your hair.

"Please what, sweet girl?" Matt asked, petting you gently where you placed his hand. You swallowed your pride, giving in completely to both of them. You no longer had anything to prove. You were ready to be used however they saw fit, not caring about anything except making them feel good.

"Please, fuck my mouth."

"Aww, is it too big for you?" Matt consoled, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Do you need my help, angel? You're already being fucked on one end, is that not enough?" he mocked, tightening his grip on your hair.

He knocked your hand away from his cock, replacing it with his own so he could rub it across your lips. You opened your mouth for him, and he slowly pulled your head down, forcing you to take him in until you choked. He held you there for a moment, groaning and thrusting up into the wet heat of your mouth before letting you take a breath. He continued like that for a while, guiding your head up and down, forcing you to go deeper each time until you couldn't take anymore.

Behind you, Frank wedged a finger in beside his cock, grunting at the added friction. You gasped at the new stretch, your release slamming into you unexpectedly. You arched your back and pushed into the feeling as he deftly attacked your sweet spot. Frank grinned at your reaction, smacking your ass once to watch you jump and hear your muffled yelp.

"I'm just tryin' to get you loosened up. I didn't mean for you to like it that much, you slut," he teased affectionately. He slipped in another finger, curling them to tug gently at your entrance until he felt that you were ready.

He took his fingers away, giving you a few more hard thrusts before he slid his cock out too, leaving you completely empty. He left a sweet kiss at the base of your spine, letting you know you had done a good job, and moved around you to talk to Matt.

"She's ready for you, if you're interested," Frank informed cockily. He watched how Matt was thoroughly fucking your mouth, hitting the back of your throat with every thrust, pulling you down to meet him half-way. You were doing much better than Frank had expected you to. It looked like your mind was somewhere far away, and you were just letting Matt use your mouth as a cocksleeve.

He started slowing down his movements, letting you up further and further, until you were back to just sucking at his head while he gently stroked your cheek with his thumb. Finally, he pulled you off of him with a soft, wet pop, edging out from under you so he could switch places with Frank. You whined at your sudden emptiness, burying your face in Frank's stomach as he took Matt's vacant spot.

"Is she always this desperate?" Matt asked, replacing Frank behind you. Frank laughed, caressing your head softly as you began mouthing and licking at his abs.

"Pretty much. Actually, she's doing better than she usually is. I think she's just upset that she didn't get you to finish."

"Really? She likes that part?"

"Oh, she loves it. Some days, she even asks me to pull out so I can come in her mouth. Ain't that right, baby?"

You nodded into his hip, sucking a dark bruise into his v-line.

"Why don't you go ahead and finish me off," Frank suggested to you. "I'm sure it'll make you feel better."

He grabbed himself around the base, enticingly pressing the wet head against the seam of your lips. Without hesitation, you took him into your mouth and swallowed him all the way down. You moaned lowly, purring at the feeling of being able to take him comfortably down your throat. He wasn't small by any means, but he was more familiar and significantly less jaw-breaking that Matt.

"Fuck, baby," Frank groaned, tugging at your hair. You were content just to stay like that for a while, holding his heavy length on your tongue and feeling him subtly grind his tip against the back of your throat. With your head still, you could feel every little twitch and taste yourself in every drop that leaked down your throat.

"You wanna move at all?" Frank asked, his muscles tight with restraint. In response, you nuzzled your nose against his skin, swallowing around him in the hopes that he'd let you stay there.

"No? You just like having your sweet little holes filled, huh? That's fine, sugar. You don't have to move an inch, but I'm gonna need more than that if you wanna make me come. Do you wanna make me come, baby?"

You hummed your assent, the vibrations sending a shiver up Frank's spine.

"Then suck," he commanded, and you obeyed. You used as much suction as you could manage, creating a satisfying friction without all the typical motions. You teased the underside of his cock with the flat of your tongue, listening to his quiet grunts as you drew him closer to the edge.

Behind you, Matt was listening to the sound of your wet cunt dripping onto the bedsheets. He kneaded your ass and thighs in his hands, ensuring that you were fully relaxed before trying to fuck you. Soon, he was nestling his cock between your soaked folds, lining himself up with your tight entrance.

He rubbed the small of your back as he began pushing himself in. He was met with an alarming amount of resistance, and he didn't even get the first inch in before you were clenching down around him and letting out a pained whimper. He pulled back, afraid he would tear something if he carried on.

"Frank, it's not gonna fit," Matt told him. Frank huffed, too busy chasing his own pleasure to think about problem-solving.

"It'll fit, just keep going," he reassured. "She likes the stretch. Hurry up and fuck her already."

"If I tried, I would break her," Matt warned. "Why don't we test out a different position?"

"Fine. Hang on for just a second."

Frank tightened his grip on your hair, whispering a quick apology before pulling you halfway off of him. He gave you no warning before he was slamming back in, forcing a surprised squeak out of your chest as he ruthlessly fucked your mouth. Barely a minute passed before Frank's thrusts grew sloppy and more desperate. His cock pulsed wildly against your tongue, and he let out a guttural groan as he came hard down your throat. You eagerly swallowed every drop that spilled out of him, waiting for him to soften a bit before releasing him from your mouth. Laving sweetly at the sides, you cleaned him up as best you could before he pushed your head away from oversensitivity.

"Alright," Frank mumbled, scooting over so you could take his spot in the middle. "On your back, baby."

You flipped over to face Matt, opening your legs so he could settle in between them.

"Pretty slut," he commended, leaning in to kiss you as he lined up with your needy hole once more. "We're gonna make it fit, alright? Don't you worry your cute little head about it."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he began pushing his hips towards yours, his thick cockhead stretching you out obscenely. You winced at the pain, trying to force yourself to relax, but it wasn't working. Matt grunted at the vice grip you had on him, but he didn't advance further until he felt you could handle more.

From beside you, Frank played with your hair and kissed your neck in all your favorite spots until he had taken your mind off the pain. When Matt felt you unclench, he gave you another inch, once again stopping to allow you time to adjust. He continued on like that for a while, feeding his cock into your pussy in small increments until he was completely buried inside you.

As soon as the pain subsided, feeling something that deep was absolutely incredible. You felt yourself get wetter when you realized you could just barely make out the outline of his length poking through your tummy. It was evident to both of you from the very start that this wasn't gonna last long.

"Holy shit, you're squeezing me so tight," Matt groaned, starting a series of very shallow thrusts to get you used to the feeling. "This is what you were made for, sweetheart. You feel so fuckin' good," he praised. Slowly, he began picking up speed, fucking you harder and deeper like he couldn't control it anymore. You felt so full, you figured it was a miracle that he was even able to get half-way in. You couldn't stop the noises that Matt punched out of you with every heightened thrust. Because of his immense size, there was never a moment when he wasn't rubbing directly against your most sensitive areas.

Matt could sense that you were getting close, and he knew he wouldn't be far behind you. He started snapping his hips into yours impossibly harder, spurred on by the prospect of your impending release.

"You gonna come on my cock, angel? It's okay, you can come," Matt encouraged. He heard you cry out and smelled the sudden spike in your arousal. He knew he had you right on the edge. "Come for me sweetheart," he breathed.

You almost screamed as you came, your body arching up off the bed, every muscle tightening and trembling as your pleasure coursed through them. Matt cursed at the feeling of your walls clenching and fluttering around him. He let out a subdued moan as he fucked into you three more times before coming deep inside you. You felt the comforting warmth dripping down your thighs when he slipped out and collapsed on the bed beside you.

When you came down from your high, the night's exertion finally caught up with you. You cuddled into Frank's chest, and he pulled you closer, murmuring to you about how good you were for them. Matt slotted his body into place behind yours, leaving kisses on the back of your neck and stroking your side gently.

"Thank you," he whispered, and before you could respond, he was already asleep. You were about to follow suit, but a thought popped into your head, keeping you awake.

"Is this gonna be a one-time-thing?" you asked Frank, opening your eyes to see his face. He didn't seem surprised by your question. Honestly, he seemed like he'd been expecting it.

"It doesn't have to be," he responded. "If he's ever up for it again, I'd be fine with it."

You nodded, closing your eyes again and starting to drift off to sleep. You passed out in less than a minute, but not before you heard Frank say something that, in the morning, you thought must have been a dream. Nevertheless, it was nice to pretend it was real.

"I love you, baby."

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

[writerlyhabits]

Ration Packs

Pairing: Din Djarin x female reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Summary: based on this request...

“I’m guessing it’ll be ration packs for dinner?” you added, nodding towards the empty satchel hanging from his hip.  “There wasn’t a market on the way back to the ship,” he almost pleaded, trying to explain his intentions, but you simply gave him a tight-lipped nod in acknowledgment.  “I’ll get the packs started so it's ready by the time you’ve unloaded.” Your voice lacked its usual kindness. This shift in the conversation had you speaking with him as if this were all just… business. Had he pushed you too far? Were you trying to remind him that he had hired you to be here? That he should be keeping things… professional? Fuck. This was why he worked alone.  

Warnings: mild language, miscommunication [but not in a horrible way, don’t worry, I’m better than that], young dumb in love din djarin, mild angst, angst with a happy ending, everything is in Din’s pov because i love his dumbass train of thought, idk it’s pretty soft

AN: oh my god i’m back from the dead! I told you guys i’d be back 😂 This request has been sitting in my inbox for probably about a year… and I have no end of apologies, but i’m finally done and it’s a miracle I don’t hate it 😂 I did change the prompt a little… the idea of them putting Grogu to bed was cute, but I had an idea for a younger Din and just fell in love with it, so i ran with that. I hope you guys enjoy 💖 Thank you @deceiver-of-gods for putting up with me all this time, ily 😘

Din had traveled through the toughest parts of the galaxy without batting an eye. He’d run with a mercenary group and proven himself to have more skills, more hits, more value… and more of a moral compass than anyone else in the group. After fighting his way out of their grip, he had taken out high-level targets with ease to earn his way into the Bounty Hunters guild. Din continued to be not only one of the youngest of their ranks, but also the most highly sought after. And after all of that? 

You were his greatest challenge. 

His Razor crest had taken one too many hits for him to be able to repair on his own, and the costs of repairs on his pre-imperial ship were starting to eat into the funds he usually gave back to his covert. Not providing for them was not an option; the Beroya was supposed to send their spoils back to the covert to provide for those in hiding. This is the way…

So when he landed on a planet with lush, colorful flora, and a generally trusting local people, he least expected you to strike a bargain with him. He needed a mechanic, and you wanted a ticket out. Free boarding and transportation in exchange for a live-in repair crew, he just had to get you the parts. It was his perfect solution. He hired you on the spot and scheduled to ship out as soon as the Crest was back in working order. 

On that first day of travel, Din had only just entered hyper-speed when he became overly critical of his ship. The cold, metal surfaces of the hull were uninviting, full of sharp edges, and devoid of any personality. It didn’t take him much longer to realize that, to an outsider, his armor looked much the same. 

But he’d never seen it that way before. To him, the Mandalorian armor was a sign of home, of belonging. It had been his savior in his childhood, and a beacon of his people as he grew into his own. He had tucked away into coverts where the blank metal lining of their ships and their walls meant protection. 

But you were not Mandalorian. You hadn’t grown up around sharp edges and cold surfaces. The place you called home was filled with warm colors and soft curves, the buildings made to flow with the organic structures of the nature around them, letting in the bright sunlight necessary for its growth. You yourself walked with an elegance Din was unfamiliar with, treading softly on the ground and smiling brightly at him each time your kind eyes met his dark visor. You had shared your warmth with him since the moment he’d met you, despite the coldness he was certain he portrayed, and it surprised him how much he found himself drawn to it. Drawn to you. 

You were everything he wasn’t. But Din would do everything in his power to make sure you never came to regret agreeing to this strange setup, that you never felt isolated or alone because you’d chosen him – a walking wall of cold beskar – as your traveling companion. 

At first, he’d merely wanted to bring you things that reminded him of your home, things he thought might do the same for you. Anytime he was in a market passing through, either on a supply run or with a bounty in tow, he found something colorful to bring back to you. The first few had been small trinkets, things you could keep in the small cupboard you had decided to call your quarters, or delicate pieces of jewelry he would later catch you wearing around the ship. 

The feeling Din got seeing you wear something he gave you made something warm swell inside of him… It made it hard to come back to the ship empty-handed, especially with the promise of your soft smile when he held his hand to you with a new gift. 

On one of his trips, he’d brought back a woven tapestry; the craftsmanship had been beautiful, and the colors matched those of the outfits you wore the most around him. Din was about to launch into an apology when he first gave it to you, not having thought about where you would even be able to put it, but his statement was cut short when you happily grabbed it from him and turned on your heel to find something. 

Not even a few moments later, you returned with a handful of powerful magnets you’d picked up on a market a few planets back, and he watched as you excitedly hung the artwork from one of the walls in the Crest’s hull, creating a curtain in front of one of the panels on that wall – you must have thought it was as ugly as he did. 

“What do you think?” You had asked him, and he watched self-consciousness start to creep in now that your initial excitement was starting to wear off. 

“It looks good,” he’d replied a little stiffly, still having a hard time finding the courage to speak around you. A bounty hunter, with hundreds of captures under his belt, was still too shy to talk to his mechanic… he at least wasn’t dumb enough to miss the irony in his own predicament, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t his truth. 

Since then, Din had started bringing back more things you could use to decorate the ship with; tapestries, blankets, and cushions accompanied the trinkets and jewelry he brought back with him. He could tell that your favorite of his gifts had been a soft shawl he’d seen hanging at a market in the rural areas of Naboo. The politician’s son he was paid to deliver back home had gone on about the luxury material it was made of, something about ancient processes and unique resources… All he knew was that it brought out your natural beauty when you wrapped it around your shoulders, and he felt his cheeks get warm under his helmet when you did. 

The two of you started to fall into these new routines fairly easily, and with all of your redecorations, it was becoming a welcome change. In the evenings – or at least what you thought was evenings in the darkness of hyperspace – you would prep a set of ration packs for the both of you. It was always two of the same kind so that you could feel like you were “sharing a meal,” a concept he had very little experience with. At least, he hadn’t for a very long time. 

Since eating required removing his helmet, Mandalorians often took their meals in solitude, or within the confines of their family. You, on the other hand, were used to shared meals in dining rooms with someone at every seat, and communal dining halls bustling with people. At first, Din was afraid you might take offense to him leaving during meal times, never quite sure how to phrase his dilemma. 

Luckily, he never had to. 

You caught on pretty quickly to his predicament, handing him a warm ration pack with a smile before turning to let him eat in peace. He always rushed through his meals in order to join you in the hull, to thank you for your silent understanding by coming down to talk with you as you ate yours at a leisurely pace. 

As the weeks went by, Din picked up on some of your silent requests as well, memories of food that didn’t need to be rehydrated before you ate it. He began looking out for other booths at the markets, and fresh ingredients began coming home in place of some of the gifts and trinkets he always brought back with him. Each time he did, a home-cooked meal would follow, and Din always made sure he expressed his gratitude when he came back down to join you for the second half of your meal. 

Your routines continued like this for a while, silently assessing each other’s needs, and wordlessly adjusting to accommodate. And it worked. The Razor Crest felt more and more like a home rather than the metal casing of a ship, small traces of your personal touch nearly everywhere he looked. The food had been better, the companionship had been better, far better than the cold silence he’d had to put up with before you came to him. 

And Din started to catch on to just how much his own feelings revolved around you. 

He craved your warmth at the end of a rough day, he sought to provide your happiness, to get your approval… He tried to be better at actually opening his mouth, being able to express more of his feelings for you outside of your usual, quiet understanding of each other. He tried asking you more questions, wanting to not only hear about the events of your day but to actually get to know you better, showing you how much he genuinely cared. And Din was elated when you started to do the same in return. 

After he came back to the ship from a particularly taxing hunt, he heard your soft footsteps descending the ladder from the cockpit while he secured the unconscious bounty into the corner of the hull you had affectionately deemed “time-out.” The most uncomfortable chair had been secured behind some of your tapestries, acting as a set of curtains that kept the bounties from view. 

When Din emerged from the hanging fabrics, he could feel some of the tension leave his body at the sight of you in your work clothes, a warm smile dancing on your grease-stained cheeks, wiping your hands on the old flight suit you’d brought with you from home. No matter how difficult his hunts had been, being able to debrief with you upon his return always made him smile beneath the helmet. 

“Hey!” you lilted. 

“Hey,” he responded, still a little awkward despite how long you’d been working together. He was getting better, but it could definitely still use improvement. 

“How’d the hunt go?” you asked, gesturing to the closed curtain beside him. “Obviously successful if you’ve got someone in time-out.” Din chuckled under his breath at your quip, mulling over the events of his day before he replied. 

“It was fine.” You looked at him expectantly for a few moments, waiting for him to continue. 

“Just… fine?” you half giggled, one brow raised in question while you donned a crooked grin. It hadn’t really gone bad, he did have the bounty in hand. It could have gone better, but nothing that came to any detriment in the end… 

He nodded. “It… went well. There’s nothing to report,” he shrugged, unsure what else you were looking for in his answer. 

But your face fell. Only for a moment… but enough for him to see it. 

“How are your repairs coming?” He tried, hoping to stir the conversation again, to fix whatever had caused your sudden change in attitude. 

“Fine. There’s nothing to report.” Your answer was short, both in your words and your temper. You usually volunteered the finer details of your projects, explaining with a dramatic flair all of your trials and your victories, stories that Din was always happy to be an audience to. 

Why hadn’t you done so this time?

“I’m guessing it’ll be ration packs for dinner?” you added, nodding towards the empty satchel hanging from his hip. One that usually carried whatever gift he had brought for you. Dank farrik… he already hated coming back empty-handed – something you had never made him feel guilty for – but right now it was only making him feel worse. 

“There wasn’t a market on the way back to the ship,” he almost pleaded, trying to explain his intentions, but you simply gave him a tight-lipped nod in acknowledgment. 

“I’ll get the packs started so it's ready by the time you’ve unloaded.” Your voice lacked its usual kindness. This shift in the conversation had you speaking with him as if this were all just… business. Had he pushed you too far? Were you trying to remind him that he had hired you to be here? That he should be keeping things… professional?

Fuck. This was why he worked alone. 

One of the downsides of having grown up around the Mandalorians was that his concepts of interpersonal relationships were skewed. The two of you were operating on completely different sets of rules, and where you had been able to read each other incredibly well… Now he was left to try and figure out where he’d gone wrong. 

With Mandalorians, he knew where he stood. They spoke with purpose, meaning exactly what they said. Even growing up constantly harassing and sparring with Paz, Din knew where his sentiments came from; competition, comradery, and a deep passion for his people. But outside the covert… Din was still finding his footing when it came to the beings he interacted with. Riding with the mercenary group had at least taught him how to weed through the tangled lies that spewed from their mouths, trusting them only as far as he could throw them – if that. 

But you were nothing like those slimy low lives. He didn’t know how to start friendships, how to engage in small talk… and he had no idea where to start when it came to the way you made his heart rate pick up. You made Din nervous, but you were also a comfort. You were new and familiar all at once, a new adventure as well as a place of rest. 

You meant so much to him… and he’d managed to drive you away just as quickly as he had let you in. 

…

The fog of uncertainty hung around the ship for days, and with it, the cold emptiness he had been so accustomed to in his solitude had returned. But after the warmth you had brought to his Razor Crest, being without it was almost suffocating. Din missed you. 

That was a fact he was trying to wrap his head around, seeing as you still lived with him on the ship… but it wasn’t the same. You stopped humming while you worked on different panels across his ship, blanketing the hull in silence. Any questions Din tried to ask you were met with short, quiet responses. Surprisingly, you still made the effort to prepare a ration pack with yours during meal times, but when he rushed back down from the cockpit in record time to join you, you were nowhere in sight. 

There was nowhere to go inside his ship. That was one of the things he’d liked about it; there was room for him to live on board comfortably without giving his bounties anywhere to hide. And yet, you still managed to avoid him. When he entered the hull, you escaped to your room. When he climbed up the rungs to the cockpit, you would make some quiet excuse and scurry out the door behind him. No matter where he went, what he said, or whatever measures he took to try and catch you off-guard, you were gone before he could even open his mouth. 

He was fucking sick of it. He had made a promise, when you came aboard, that he would make sure you never came to regret choosing this life with him. That you would continue to choose to stay with him, to choose him over the home planet you were so desperate to leave. He made a promise, and he intended to keep it. 

After landing on Nevarro a few days later to return his bounty, Din’s plan began to unfold. He walked out of the run-down cantina Karga liked to meet up at – insisting that he was going to fix it up and make it ‘a place of gathering’ – the spills of his hunt clanking against the mechanical chip he had tucked away in the satchel that sat on his belt. A chip that, if missing, would cause systems in the cockpit to go offline. 

Something his mechanic would find during her daily diagnosis check. 

Din felt a pang of guilt at the thought of you being buried arms deep in the underside of the control panel with no hope of finding the repair, because he was the one to take it from you... But then he thought about the worser fate; what if you figured out what was missing, and had more reason to dislike him than before? His guilt quickly turned into slight panic, making haste to get back to his ship to enact his plan before your clever brain could figure out what he’d done. 

When he returned to the Crest, the harshness of the metal hull was almost overwhelming. You had started taking down your tapestries and decorations, save for everything but the “time-out” corner, and it felt cold. You didn’t come out to greet him or welcome him back, let alone acknowledge him at all. You hadn’t done so since the time your conversation had taken a turn for the worst. He did, however, hear a loud metal clang and your familiar grunt of frustration from exactly where he assumed you would be. He wondered if you had even heard him come on board… 

Din quietly discarded his weapons before stealthily moving to the ladder just below the cockpit, stopping in his tracks when he heard a slew of colorful curses leave your lips. He waited a few moments until the sounds of your hard work continued, none-the-wiser to his oncoming ambush. 

By the time he reached the top of the cockpit, he took a moment to assess the situation and figure out the best approach. You were exactly where he thought you would be, laying on your back just to the side of his pilot’s chair, agile hands fiddling with different cables and boards inside his instrument panel…

And your head snapped up to look at him when he made the door to the cockpit slide closed behind him. 

You stared at Din for a couple moments before you opened your mouth. “Did you… are you cornering me?” When you put it that way, this was not going quite as he’d imagined, despite everything going according to plan. He had to keep going. 

“You’re ignoring me,” he said firmly, his tone reminiscent of one he took with his bounties. 

“Fucking maker, did you hunt me?” You asked with furrowed brows, and your slightly agitated tone made him fairly certain you didn’t actually need his answer. “I live on the same kriffing ship, and you had to treat me like one of your bounties just to say something to me?” 

“I had to talk to you. You wouldn’t let me,” he pressed, keeping his voice steady. You gave a huff of indignation. 

“I don’t have time for this, Mando, I have to fix your ship,” you threw at him before your body thumped dramatically on the ground as you went back to your work. 

“So you are angry at me,” Din stated, sounding more like an observation than a question. He could work with angry. You shot him a glare without moving too much from your position, and he took that as a good enough indicator to continue his interrogation. “Did I do something to upset you?” 

“Mando…” you started, his moniker leaving your lips in an exasperated sigh, not without a flame of annoyance lurking behind it. 

“Don’t make another excuse. I’m tired of avoiding this.” He watched the bluntness of his words hit you, not surprised when you furrowed your brows as you started to slide out from under the console, sitting up to scowl at him properly. 

“Another- what? I didn’t make any fucking excuses, I’m not avoiding anything,” you fired off, your tone indicating the exact opposite of what you were saying. 

“Then why have you stopped talking to me?” Din expected another fiery response, but instead a split-second of realization crossed over your face before it was replaced with one of irritated confusion. It made him — him, the stone-cold Mandalorian bounty hunter — shift on his feet. 

“I stopped talking to you?” You countered, and you waited a moment to let him respond… but he didn’t know what you expected him to say. “Right, because you’ve been super talkative after ‘there’s nothing to report’,” you mumbled, and it caused those same words to ring in his head from the night everything went wrong. You had said them so coldly…

After he had said them to you. 

“I- I meant no offense,” he tried a little lamely, still not understanding where he had gone wrong, but wanting more than anything for you to understand that he was willing to fix it. “I didn’t have anything to say.” You gave another sigh, but this one was softer, like you were about to level with him. It was progress, if nothing else. 

“Nothing? You couldn’t give me the details of your hunt the same way I tell you about the market? I mean, it’s not as exciting as I make it out to be, I just... “ You trailed off and looked away from him without finishing your sentence, but he wasn’t going to let that happen. He was finally getting answers out of you, he was going to get to the bottom of this, and make good on his promise to keep you happy. This was the way. 

He was quick to kneel in front of you, trying to get closer to your level to get away from his interrogation tactic, and communicate that he was willing to listen and receive. “You just what? Help me understand.” 

You scoffed a laugh as you shook your head. “There’s not a lot to understand. I like talking with you, I like when we share stories. I just… I wanted to be close with you.” 

Din wanted to bang his head against the wall. With or without his helmet. This all started because he was an idiot who didn’t know how to talk? He was a bounty hunter, he should have been smarter than that. He should have been able to tell what had caused such a shift, and been able to fix it before the mission could go sideways. 

But, in all fairness, he was a bounty hunter who was used to being alone. 

Before Din had lucked into having you travel the galaxy with him on his hunts, he came back to an empty ship. There was nobody else to talk about the day with. And after living amongst the Mandalorians, a people of few words, he wasn’t exactly in the habit of speaking to himself or others. Before you, everything that surrounded Din was just… quiet. 

“But… this is just professional, I get that now. I’ll stay out of your way, and I won’t pry. It is your ship, after all.” 

And he was about to get himself into even more trouble if he didn’t figure out how to speak right fucking now. 

“No,” he started firmly, desperately catching on to the tail end of your admission, but not entirely sure what was about to come out of his mouth. “This isn’t- I don’t… I’m not good at talking.” Strong start Djarin. 

“What?” You asked softly. If anything, you pretty much justified his statement. He took a breath to try and steady himself, to dig through the chaos inside his head and find a half-way coherent string of words to offer you, to clean up his mess. 

“Mandalorians are quiet. Bounty Hunters keep to themselves. I’m not used to talking,” he reiterated, and he watched your confused expression shift gently into one of intrigue, your sign for him to keep going. “I wasn’t trying to shut you out, I just… didn’t know what else to say. I’m used to sparing people any details that aren’t deemed necessary. Now I know that I shouldn’t do that with you. I’m sorry.” 

Din was pleased to find a small smile growing at the corners of your mouth. “I mean… You don’t have to give me every detail. Just the good stuff,” you smiled, making Din’s heart feel warm. He didn’t realize how much he missed the radiance of your smile until now, feeling like he was finally stepping into the sun after spending so long in the dark. 

“Just the good stuff… So I’ll tell you how much blood there was when I-”

“No, no thanks,” you cut him off quickly, making a fake gagging sound as he laughed under his helmet. “I take it back, let’s go back to no more talking, I’m good. I’ll just stay up here with all my busted circuits, thank you very much.” 

“Please don’t, I can’t go back to quiet,” he said quickly, the smile still plastered on his face as the weight of his words hit both of you.

I can’t go back to quiet.

It was true, he couldn’t. The past few minutes talking with you again, even when you were angry and yelling at him half of the time, had him feeling better than he had in days. 

“Oh yeah?” You offered, and he could tell by your knowing smile that you had come to the same realization that he did. You knew how much he had come to need you. “You don’t want a break from all my rambling?” 

“Never,” he admitted. Din watched your shoulders relax and your soft smile get brighter as his answer left his helmet, and he realized how much you needed him in return. It made a warmth bloom from deep within his chest, warming him all the way out to the very coldest parts of his Beskar armor. “Never stop. I want you to fill this ship with all your stories, real or exaggerated.” 

It caught him by surprise when you leapt up from your spot on the ground to meet his height, flinging your arms around his neck as you held him tight, fitting together perfectly even as you knelt on the floor in front of each other. With only a little hesitation, Din wrapped his gloved hands around you, arms circling your waist and pulling you flush against the plates of his armor, and soaked up everything that was you. 

This is the way. 

Sooner than he would’ve liked, he felt your grip around his neck loosen, and you leaned back to lock you gaze with his dark visor. 

“As much as I’d love to catch up, your ship is driving me crazy and I have got to figure out how to get these control panels back online,” you explained, and Din slowly started to realize he hadn’t thought this part through. 

“Well, I uh…” 

“You’re welcome to stay and chat, if you’re in the talking mood. I’d love to hear about your meeting in town,” you offered playfully, sending him a wink as you began to shuffle yourself back down under the open compartment of his shift. 

Instead, he got down on the ground and laid himself next to you, as if he was going to look at what you were doing with the repairs. Your hands stopped mid-action as you looked at him, and he enjoyed the airy laugh that escaped you at his actions. 

“Or you can watch from here, that’s fine, too.” 

“I was actually going to offer a suggestion,” he started timidly. You turned away from him as you focused on the wires in front of you again. 

“I'll take anything you’ve got. I haven’t seen anything like this in ages… I’ve only got one idea left, but I doubt it’s right. It’s like the reactor chip is missing, but the only way that thing would’ve even budged is if someone-” You stopped in your tracks as Din lifted a gloved hand into your peripheral view, the small reactor chip held between his fingers for you to see. 

You paused a moment before turning your head dangerously towards your companion. He could see the corners of your lips twitching as you did everything you could to avoid a smile, and he remained grateful for his helmet as it hid his beaming face from view. 

You snatched the chip from his hand and looked back to your circuits. “Get out of my cockpit,” you said quietly, the last few words of your threat lost to your laughter. Din couldn’t stop his own laughter from coming through the modulator as he began getting up from the floor to do as he was told. “You’re making the ration packs tonight,” you added, the smile on your cheeks evident in your voice. 

"This is the way."

Thanks for reading!! If you’d like to be notified when I post a new fic, be sure to follow @writerlyhabits-library + turn on post notifications! 💛

[awesomesauce-abbie]

Braving the storm

Word Count: 991

TW: None

A/N: Hello! This is my first time writing for Lotor and my first time writing for over a year so please feel free to leave any constructive criticism and let me if you enjoyed the post! Requests are closed as I can’t guarantee I’ll be posting frequently.

You and Prince Lotor had landed on an unknown jungle planet in hopes of finding food and shelter. The sinclince ship was fine but not exactly comfortable and your food supplies were nonexistent, purchasing them from a civilised planet was out of the question now that Lotor was labelled a traitor to the Galra Empire. His generals had abandoned him but not you, your loyalty to the prince was unshakable and was your love for him even if it was possibly unrequited. Lotor was a brilliant fighter and an even better strategist who unlike most Galra had a heart and cared about the lives of others including the lives of the planets he once conquered. He was so different from his monster of a father and was now wanted dead because of it. How lonely he must be you thought to yourself, even if your heart was broken you were glad to have stayed by his side.

You were distracted from your thoughts as Lotor approached you. “Here, it's not much but you should eat” The Galran prince held out a large unusual-looking fruit, it looked like an apple but it was the size of a melon, square-shaped and cobalt blue. “Thank you, sir” you smiled politely and took the fruit. “Oh come now, it's just the two of us. There is no need for titles” Lotor chuckled before taking a bite out of his space apple. “Sorry, I’m not used to addressing you so formally si-Lotor” you quickly corrected yourself, something that Lotor didn’t miss. He chuckled again, the noise was music to your ears. It was so rare for him to have a genuine smile let alone a real laugh, you committed the sound to memory lest you never heard it again. You had been staring at him for a few minutes now as you quietly munched on your fruit, you looked up to the sky and immediately frowned. The clouds, which had been white and fluffy less than an hour ago, were now a dark grey. “Looks like we’ll have a storm tonight” you muttered miserably “yes, we’ll have to find some kind of shelter. The sincline ship aren’t exactly comfortable but I did spot a small cave not far from here, it should be satisfactory for tonight.”

You both finished your food which was surprisingly filling despite its small size before gathering the few supplies you had and headed to the cave. It was small but it was dry and on higher ground so there was little chance of getting flooded. Lotor made a small fire just as the rain started but then there was the sound you dreaded most. Booming thunder, you thought your eardrums were about to burst. The horrid sound made you jump and you covered your ears just as the sky was lit up by a flash of lightning. You were shaking like a leaf, oblivious to the worried stares Lotor was giving you. The rain pounded on the roof of rock and the thunder only seemed to be getting louder, it wasn’t long before you were trembling and on the verge of tears. Lotor moved over to you and carefully placed a hand on your shoulder, you flinched at his sudden touch but looked up at him. Before he could get another word in, the thunder boomed again and you practically jumped into Lotor’s arms. He held you tightly for a few moments, a soft smile on his face. “It’s alright darling, you’re safe here with me” he said soothingly almost in a whisper before using one hand to cover an ear and pulled you into his chest. His gloved hand offered more protection from the storm, you focused on his heartbeat as you found it soothing and soon enough the calming rhythm lulled you to sleep.

When you woke the next morning, Lotor still had his arms wrapped around you. The storm passed, the sun shined brightly in the morning sky and it was a peaceful start to the day. You tried to sit up without waking him up but your efforts were in vain. He opened his eyes with a tired groan and looked over at you with a small smile. “Good morning, sleep well?” He asked, sitting up and moving away to give you space. You tried not to show the sadness on your face as you nodded. “I did thanks to sir, I appreciate what you did for me.” Lotor smirked at you “I told you to drop the titles or do you not remember? Never mind that I’m glad I was able to help you brave the storm and I will happily do it again for you.” Your heart pounded as he moved closer to you, any closer and you’re sure he would be able to hear your heartbeat. “T-that’s very generous of you Lotor” You smiled bashfully as you looked down to avoid his gaze. He reached out and cupped your chin in his hand and lifted your head up. “It’s the least I can do for the person who stolen my heart” he leaned in and kissed you. It was soft, delicate, you thought you were still asleep and having the most wonderful dream but you opened your eyes as Lotor’s warm lips were on your own. He pulled away shortly after, the kiss had been real and it had been perfect.

“You stole my heart long ago, my precious starlight but with so many eyes on us I feared that you would be in danger if you ever discovered how I truly feel about you. You understand don’t you?” Lotor was anxious as he asked but all you could do was smile. “Of course I understand, Lotor your heart isn’t the only that was stolen” you chuckled, his face broke out into a grin as he kissed you once more and you knew that you could brave any storm with Lotor at your side.

[minaloywhore]

hey, it's been a minute, but let's talk about dark academia that isn't as euro-centric cause i'm like, really sick of it lmfao

(also, i'm white and live in the US! people who aren't white and who don't live in the us, lemme know if there's anything I'm missing!)

yeah yeah, dark academia, learn a dead language. latin is good because of science, but have you ever considered learning arabic? lots of our math stuff comes from arabic and the scholars in the baghdad house of wisdom (hell, al-gebra)

or maybe learn sanskrit! like latin is an "academic language" in the west, sanskrit has similar connotations in the indian subcontinent, with many historical records having been written in sanskrit

hell, if we're talking liturgical languages like latin, why not try church slavonic or coptic?

please stop romanticizing only european architecture. its beautiful and stunning, and so is architecture from all over the world! just as a couple examples:

st michaels golden-domed monestary

 the bibi-khanym mosque in Uzbekistan

the tomb of askia in gao, mali

machu picchu

the iron pagoda in Kaifeng, china

etc etc etc!!

read academia from all over the world!! there are scholars in india and china and kazakhstan and south africa with wonderful writing about their own histories and cultures, you just have to do a little google scholar search to find it!

look at oral histories and folklore from all over the world! like blue from osp said, if people consider the witcher (which is just medieval poland) as exotic, what will they do when they read gilgamesh or the monkey king? look at the wonderful parallels between our bodies of folklore and mythology and oral history, like the floods in the bible and in gilgamesh!

that being said, look for sources written BY the people who are telling these stories. outsiders have their own biases and agendas, so read anything about different cultures than the author (especially ones that no longer exist) critically and biographically. looking at you, snorri

be more chill about people with bodies that you dont think are normal. be more chill about people with bodies that you don't think should be wearing DA clothing, or that you think are doing it wrong. they have every right to wear DA clothing, and they're doing it better than you are.

understand that if you're in a position to be enjoying DA, you're probably privileged. use that privilege for good, fight for what is right, and listen to marginalized voices. if you fuck up, acknowledge that you fucked up and work to right the wrong and not do it again, but don't take someone telling you you fucked up as a personal attack. it's not.

i acknowledge that the land i live on was originally stewarded and lived upon by a native american tribe that no longer exists because of european colonization. i acknowledge their (and the tribe that survivors of the colonization in my area went to)'s right to the land.

[thecreaturecodex]

Skelm, Soul

Image © Paizo Publishing, accessed at Archives of Nethys here

[Hey! A new monster! I am feeling a bit more rested and rejuvenated after my long hiatus. I'm still only planning on releasing one or two new monsters a week, but I feel much more motivated to write now, and think I've worked out why my block has been what it is.

The soul skelm is the last and most powerful of the skelms in PF2e's Bestiary 3, and I like that it has a similar ability to the weakest, the street skelm. I wonder if all four of them had a "X Strike" ability at some point in development. I added some more spell-like abilities to play into their "bullying the dead" flavor text.]

Skelm, Soul CR 10 LE Outsider (native) This humanoid male has translucent gray skin and a rack of antlers. His face is contorted into an expression of mock agony and terror.

Soul skelms are among the most powerful of skelm-kind, and are some sort of occult parallel to night hags. Unlike the more metaphysical connection between night hags and mortal hags, soul skelms are a further transformation, and can form from any kind of skelm. A soul skelm is one that has completely abandoned its original personality and mortality for pure hatred and ambition. Soul skelms are especially feared because their cruelty does not stop when their victims die. A soul skelm continues to bully the souls of their victims, calling them from the grave to interrogate them as to the weaknesses of their friends and loved ones, and using them to invigorate their withered flesh. Soul skelms do not have a natural lifespan; they only die through violence or misfortune, and many of their souls immediately go on to reincarnate as rakshasas, asuras or oni.

Soul skelms enjoy using the undead as tools, and often collect a region’s undead under their banner, using bribes, threats and magic if the first two fail. Soul skelms are even more isolationist and paranoid of their fellow skelms as other varieties are, and rarely associate with them except as part of a plan to get their lesser killed. Soul skelms delight in breaking apart group unity and cohesive tactics, using illusions to separate each of their victims into a solipsistic reverie before picking them off one by one. They prefer spiked chains, whips, or other ostentatious, showy weapons.

Soul Skelm CR 10 XP 9,600 LE Medium outsider (native) Init +3; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +17

Defense AC 24, touch 14, flat-footed 20 (+3 Dex, +1 dodge, +10 natural) hp 126 (12d10+60) Fort +9, Ref +11, Will +13; -2 vs. emotion effects DR 10/cold iron; Immune death effects, possession

Offense Speed 30 ft. Melee +1 spiked chain +19/+14/+9 (2d4+10/19-20), gore +13 (2d6+3 plus trip) or slam +18 (1d4+6), gore +13 (2d6+6 plus trip) Special Attacks bully the departed (7/day), isolating strike Spell Like Abilities CL 10th, concentration +17 (+21 casting defensively) At will—dimension door, ghost whip, invisibility, silence (DC 19) 3/day—call spirit (DC 22), command undead (DC 19), inflict critical wounds (DC 21) 1/day—entrap spirit (DC 22), greater oeneiric horror (DC 21), mind probe (DC 21), plane shift (self only, Material and Astral Planes only)

Statistics Str 23, Dex 17, Con 20, Int 16, Wis 20, Cha 25 Base Atk +12; CMB +18 (+20 disarm, trip); CMD 32 (34 vs. disarm, trip) Feats Alertness, Combat Casting, Combat Expertise, Dodge, Exotic Weapon Proficiency (spiked chain) (B), Improved Critical (spiked chain) (B), Improved Disarm, Improved Trip Skills Bluff +17, Climb +16, Disguise +17, Intimidate +21, Knowledge (arcana, local, nobility, religion) +10, Perception +17, Sense Motive +17, Spellcraft +13, Stealth +13 SQ change shape (Medium male humanoid, alter self), conspicuous combatant, ghostly grasp, skelm traits

Ecology Environment any land or urban Organization solitary Treasure standard (+1 spiked chain, other treasure)

Special Abilities Bully the Departed (Su) As a move action, a soul skelm can call upon the souls of his victims to invigorate himself. Until the end of his next turn, he gains regeneration 15 (force, good), and deals an extra 1d6 points of damage with all his melee attacks. During this time, his melee attacks count as evil for the purposes of overcoming damage reduction and regeneration. A soul skelm can use this ability a number of times a day equal to his Charisma modifier. Conspicuous Combatant (Ex) A soul skelm gains Exotic Weapon Proficiency and Improved Critical for one exotic weapon of his choice. Ghostly Grasp (Su) A soul skelm’s natural weapons, and any manufactured weapons he wields, are treated as being ghost touch weapons for the purposes of interacting with incorporeal creatures. Isolating Strike (Su) As a standard action, a soul skelm can exert himself to make a single powerful attack. When he does, he adds an additional damage die of the same type to the attack, and the creature struck must succeed a DC 23 Will save. If they fail, they are invisible, inaudible and otherwise completely imperceptible to their allies for the next 4 rounds, and their allies are likewise invisible, inaudible and completely imperceptible to them. Regardless of whether it succeeds or fails, that creature is immune to that soul skelm’s isolating strike for the next 24 hours. The save DC is Charisma based, and this is an illusion effect. After making this attack, the street skelm is treated as being flat footed until the beginning of its next turn. Skelm Traits (Ex) All skelms gain a +4 racial bonus to Intimidate checks, but a -2 penalty to all saving throws against emotion effects.

[studiodaydream]

genuinely, genuinely, in the most neutral way possible: zionism in no way claims that jews control the world. idk where you got that from. all zionism is is the belief that jews should be able to live in their ancestral homeland freely. it's not white supremacy, because not all jews are white. please stop spreading hate ❤️

There is no hate for Jews here, only for White Supremacist ideologylies like Zionism.

I have proof that Israel mutilates, and guns down African Jews, who are not the so called "Evil Muslims" that Zionist love to kill and murder for their land and resources.

Most of this is about Ethiopian Jews but the treatment of Refugees from African Countries is even more so appalling.

You cannot tell me to do my research and all I've found is Racism, Islamophobia, Genocide, Mutilation and Murder.

Talks about a Chosen Race, and Superior Bloodlines and not see the White Supremacy that has plagued America and Europe for hundreds of years.

You can not tell me to do my research about Zionism and tell me I don't know anything only to see that your so called "Jewish Nationalist Independence" came from an Antisemitic British man

So no im not spreading hate, I'm spreading facts about the White Supremacist ideology of Zionism. That believes that it shouldn't be criticized because it's Jewish White Nationalism and it's different from regular White Nationalism and if you compare the two and criticize Israel you're antisemitic and you hate Jews.

Judaism is a non violent religion. Jewish Culture is non violent. What is Violent is Zionism and its settler colonialist aggression towards its neighbors, relentlessly bombing them out of "self defense" well the world is watching what youre so called "self defense" looks like.

It looks like dead babies left in hospitals that have been bombed

Isreal's "self defense" looks like a father asking for help with his child, as his dead child's REMAINS are stuffed in bags and yet he begs for help

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Joudie Kalla - جودي القلا 🧿 (@palestineonaplate)

Israel's self defense looks like White Phosphorus being dropped on innocent civilians

https://youtu.be/geqdxdNEToU?si=js5ZGZC4eajY7uO2

These links show that Israel is not only a White Supremacist Nation like its parents The US and UK but also that Zionism is a White Supremacist Ideology.

I am not spreading hate Anon, I am spreading facts. To deny these facts is to spread hate. To deny that Israel is not a criminal empire and is simply "defending its right to exist" is to spread hate.

Antisemitism is on the rise and it's not because of people like me Anon is it because of Israel and Zionist Settler Colonialist Aggression towards the Palestinians and towards its Arab Neighbors. Israel denies the Nakba and that it stole land at all claiming that "no one lived here before we came" a "empty land with no people". Well there were people and those people had neighbors who saw what Zionist did to their defenseless neighbor with the backing of terrorist countries like the US and the UK. Terrorist Nations that destabilized and murdered millions in 3 separate nations in their "War on Terror".

White Supremacy has no ally on this blog, including Zionism.

If you want to unfollow me go ahead. I will not be swayed by Zionist Propaganda that this is all in "defense" of Jewish Nationhood, and how the only way to "defend" Jewish Nationhood is to invade other countries and murder other people who look different from them because they are the "Chosen People".

We've heard it all before, when the Europeans said they were bringing "civilization" to Africa and the Americas by enslaving our people and stealing our land and resources. When America had its "Manifest Destiny" which led to the genocide of countless Native Americans and the stealing of their land and resources. To Nazi Germany and the "Superior Ayan Race" which killed millions and invaded other nations killing millions of more.

You might be familiar with that last one, the Holocaust. Where millions of Jews were brutally and systematically murdered. But not only Jews but Black Europeans, Romanian Immigrants and LGBTQ Europeans.

But it seems like Israel has forgotten history because it does not treat African Jews equally to its European Jews and is actively Hostile to Refugees from African countries. While committing Genocide against the Palestinians as I type this out.

So if you're reading this I implore you to donate if you can or spread awareness of what's happening in Gaza

https://buildpalestine.com/2021/05/15/trusted-organizations-to-donate-to-palestine/

And your daily clicks

https://arab.org/click-to-help/

Do not allow Zionist to call you antisemitic for calling them out on their lies.

Palestine will be Free, From the River to the Sea

[justforbooks]

Haruki Murakami

The acclaimed Japanese author’s deceptively simple writing combines fantasy and reality in stories of everything from missing cats to dystopian histories via fantasy thrillers and meditations on love.

Japan’s bestselling living novelist Haruki Murakami started writing aged 30 and became a literary sensation in 1987 when his fifth novel Norwegian Wood was published. His mixture of realistic and dreamlike narratives has earned him a dedicated fanbase, and his name is often floated as a contender for the Nobel prize in literature. If you’re new to him, or want to re-read his greatest hits, here are some places to start.

The entry point

Murakami’s novels can be crudely separated into two categories: the fantastic and the realist – although many fall somewhere in between. Published in 1987, Norwegian Wood lacks the otherworldly strangeness that has come to characterise much of Murakami’s most popular work. Instead the novel is a deceptively simple reminiscence of young love. Landing on a German runway, narrator Toru Watanabe hears the titular Beatles song and is transported back to his college days and turbulent love affairs with two different women. Nostalgic and sweet, Norwegian Wood is Murakami’s most accessible novel, and the book that transformed the author into a literary superstar in Japan.

If you only read one

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is peak Murakami, and features many of the things the author is known for (Mysterious women! Vanished cats! Phone sex! Spaghetti!). Unemployed thirtysomething Toru Okada is looking for his missing cat and missing wife when he sleepwalks into a wild goose-chase of increasingly bizarre events. “The best way to think about reality,” he declares, is “to get as far away from it as possible.” Part detective story, part nightmarish Alice in Wonderland, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle becomes a story about Japanese history, bizarre mysteries and red herrings. Abstract, infuriating and very funny, it is Murakami at his most beguiling.

If you’re in a rush

If you want to make a critically acclaimed film, adapt a Murakami short story. The South Korean thriller Burning took Murakami’s story Barn Burning as its foundations, while, more recently, Ryūsuke Hamaguchi won an Academy Award for his adaptation of Drive My Car. Some of Murakami’s finest storytelling can be found in his microcosmic worlds. Sleep, published in the New Yorker in 1992 and included in the short story collection The Elephant Vanishes, was the first time Murakami wrote from the perspective of a woman and the result is stunning. The story offers a character study of a devoted wife who is suffering from a sleeplessness that is not quite insomnia. Murakami frequently – and justifiably – receives criticism for how he writes female characters, but Sleep is a brilliant story that uses the liminality of the night to evoke the unease of being a woman in a patriarchal society.

The memoir

Murakami’s biography could be the backstory for one of his protagonists. The author was running a jazz club, turned 30, and quit to become a novelist. The rest is bestseller history. Murakami’s slim memoir, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, offers an insight into his diligent creative practice. “Most of what I know about writing I’ve learned through running every day,” he explains. Only seriously taking to running in his 30s, Murakami reflects on the comparisons between marathon-running and writing , and demystifies the author’s practice as regimented routine, endurance training and occasionally injury inducing.

It’s worth persevering with

Across three volumes and over a thousand pages, 1Q84 is Murakami’s most ambitious novel to date, encompassing cults, assassins, parallel realities, two moons and creatures that emerge from the mouth of a dead goat. Following twin story threads of fated lovers, Murakami’s epic is set in a version of 1984 that slips between the familiar and unfamiliar. While 1Q84 is certainly sprawling, it’s structured like a maze with the occasional trick mirror and trap door. It was bemoaned by some critics as a disappointment when first published in 2011 and its length may be intimidating to the casual Murakami reader, but descend into 1Q84’s world and you’ll be treated to a page-turning thriller, a tender love story, a pulpy mystery and a meditation on the metaphysical mysteries of a world not dissimilar to our own.

The one that deserves more attention

After its publication in English in 2001, Sputnik Sweetheart left the orbit of Murakami’s more popular works. It’s a shame because the novel offers a refreshing variation of the author’s most predictable trope: women vanishing. Narrated through the eyes of a typical Murakami narrator (male, pining, passive), at the heart of Sputnik Sweetheart is a lesbian romance between Sumire, a wannabe Jack Kerouac, and Miu, an older, refined wine importer. Lusting after Miu, Sumire begins to shed her bohemian exterior, transforming herself to become Miu’s chic personal assistant. The unequal romance soon develops into self-obliteration as Sumire seems fated to be forever Miu’s sputnik – orbiting her from the isolation of space – before she disappears. Sputnik Sweetheart’s yearning romanticism is as tender as it is uncomfortable.

The masterpiece

Departing from his typical thirtysomething, whisky-drinking, jazz-listening protagonists, Kafka on the Shore is narrated by 15-year-old runaway Kafka Tamura. Fleeing his violent, dead father after receiving an Oedipal prophecy, Kafka finds refuge working in a small coastal town’s library. Alternating with Kafka’s tale is Satoru Nakata’s, an older man who lost his childhood memories at the end of the second world war, but instead gained the ability to converse with cats. Nakata is forced on the run after he crosses paths with a sinister cat-catcher who goes by the name Johnnie Walker. Both characters embark on vision quests, with one foot in everyday Japan and the other in a magical undercurrent that delivers the characters to each other. Murakami has said that the urgency behind his stories is “missing and searching and finding”. Kafka on the Shore eludes genre pigeonholing, and instead exemplifies its author’s ability to map a dreamscape labyrinth, one with its own strange poetic justice.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[oblivionbladetd]

As much as I enjoy reading everyone's 50 Villains lists (they're basically rec lists! complex villains are fun!) I have to rattle the bar cages for a moment to emphasize that the actual challenge has always been dumb as hell because Lily is, once again, over-generalizing a specific strain of criticism, explaining it poorly, and being embarrassingly smug about her own failure to communicate.

In an attempt to keep this brief, I'll just point at the discourse around Daisy Fitzroy from Bioshock Infinite, which is extensive and covers all the fundamental points: A (black!) character with a righteous cause was abruptly tarred by the brush of unforgivable extremism, making her a 'villain'. It was done very poorly and received a lot of understandable backlash, and spurred wider discussion around the trend of revolutionary characters in particular having their political grievances cheaply undercut because oh no they killed kids and kicked puppies, instead of the narrative fairly engaging with their arguments.

THIS IS THE DISCOURSE LILY IS ULTIMATELY GETTING AT. It's recognizable if you're the kind of big old nerd who's sat around in relevant corners of Tumblr and TV Tropes long enough to spot its echoes at 30 paces.

Alas, Lily being Lily, she dumbed it down Lily's Writing Tips style to "it's impossible to write a villain with a point and do it well (because if they have a point, why are they the villain)", didn't really explain the context when people were clearly confused, didn't explain the specifics of the generalized terms she was using, and thus set up a 'challenge' that was impossible to actually 'beat', because of course she's not interested in creating a fair and fun competition for people to thoughtfully engage with, she's interested in setting up people to dunk on for the crime of not being telepathic.

Anyway. I hope people continue to make lists. I just hope they're also aware Lily's challenge was a dead end from the start.

Absolutely. A huge part of my personal beef with her is she is a fucking master of glancing off of, but never actually hitting the point. It's fuckin all over her work too.

Her two "is garbage " videos very conveniently leave out the mismanagement at the levels higher than executive producer that hurt the shows far more than anything anyone on the ground did.

Her talk of Mary Sue's have some merit as more than a few dudebro's will just slap it on a female character being any level of competent, but does end up divorcing it from it's original use as a signifier that a protagonist isn’t very compelling by way of authorial bias.

G is an absolute fountain of potential to say so much about the pokemon and real worlds, but alas, in Lily's hands, that fountain remains bone dry.

As you said with the list of 50, she's glancing the very real discourse of villainizing victims of oppression only to land on every villain should be some guy that huffed bad vibes out of a sandwich bag and has been the worst ever since... A villain that doesn't have any semblance of a point is just a flat character, fine if that's all you need, but sorely lacking as the complexity of the story increases.

[jo-harrington]

As Above, So Below - Chapter 5: Via Domus

Previous Chapter: Chapter 4 - Malum Malus

Summary: You wake to find yourself in the Upside Down and discover a world-altering revelation.

Word Count: 13.8k

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!Original Character (Written in 2nd Person POV - You/Your - No Use of Names of Physical Descriptors)

Warnings/Themes: Van Helsing Inspired, Kas!Eddie, Religious Themes, Criticism of Religion/Catholicism, Fate vs. Free Will, Death and Injury, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Mentions of Major Character Deaths, Grief, Mourning, Yearning, Discussion of the Upside Down, Supernatural Encounters, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Unprotected PinV Sex (he's undead it doesn't matter), Oral Sex (F Receiving), Bloodletting, Biblical and Other Literary/Media References

Note: Sorry this is a little late but this snow storm had my internet down right as I went to post. There isn't much to say but...this moment has been one 10 months in the making and I might not have edited it...but I don't care, I'm literally the proudest I can be. I'm sure there's people to tag and thank for their support. I'm so ready to sit back and reread this. I didn't write it; it just came through me like a prophecy. And that isn't condescending, it's the truth.

This series will not be for the faint of heart, nor is it something that was written with a general audience in mind. Please check the above warnings and ask yourself if you are in the correct headspace to proceed. I am happy to answer any questions via PM or Ask.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

“The devil doesn't come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you've ever wished for.” - Tucker Max, Assholes Finish First

November 6, 1983 October 15, 1987

Everything was wrong.

From a dreamless sleep, consciousness hit you like a freight train and drug you to the land of the living under its wheels, one painful mile at a time.

You were aware of every nerve, every bump and bruise, every cut.

Every bite.

Because surely there were more than just the ones on your throat now.

And when you finally opened your eyes, you burned.

Not just your body; the very essence of you sizzled and popped like hot oil in a pan.

It was overwhelming, overstimulating.

There was both an absence of feeling--of being--and an abundance of it.

Images flashed through your mind. Memories. And not just yours.

Leaving Hawkins the first time.

Kas, the brides, and their seduction and subsequent attack of you.

Billy--a different one than the one you knew now--screaming and clawing his way up a rickety wooden staircase while a creature lurked just out of sight below.

A man in tattered and bloodied white clothes, his skin burned and mottled. Blind in one eye. And a creature that met him and allowed him to--

The smell was next as you finally remembered to breathe. You swallowed great gulps of air then choked as they burned your lungs and tasted like a mix of wet, cloying mold and dry, putrid battery acid.

Finally, a high pitched ringing as your spirit finally settled back into yourself. You clenched and unclenched your hands--stretched your fingers and toes--to regain some kind of recognizable feeling back into them.

As you tried to recognize who you were now, in this body.

In this world.

Everything was wrong.

No...when you woke up, everything was different.

The first coherent thought through your head was that you were dead and this was surely hell. Proven not only by the pain and the affliction of your body and mind, but because the skies overhead flashed and burned bright red with infernal lightning.

The brides had drained you dry and this was your eternal punishment. It was the only explanation.

If you steeled yourself and turned your head, would you see your father's face--frozen in an eternal scream--staring at you?

You wrenched your eyes closed for a moment, steeled yourself to test the theory, and you winced as the bites on your neck pulled and stretched.

When you opened them again, you screamed. It was a weak, strangled sound, and echoed as you shuffled away as much as your sore body would allow.

It was not your father's face that you found beside you, but it was a face nonetheless.

Petrified.

Screaming.

Flesh half-rotting off a skull, petrified golden hair layered with soot and muck. There was a neck and torso too--arms--and the further you dragged your eyes down the body, the more decayed and damaged the bones became. The skin and flesh sloughed off.

Until they all tapered off--melted off--into bone, then into nothingness, where the ribs ended abruptly in a half-jagged, half-charred state.

It was where the ground ended too, the body teetering on the precipice.

"Mother...fuck..." you hissed and swallowed thickly.

You weakly melted into the ground again; your eyes slid shut so you could take stock of yourself once more.

Sluggishly, you returned to your senses. Head, torso, limbs all accounted for, even if they were a little worse for wear. You'd survive. You'd heal eventually...hopefully.

Before long, your abilities jumpstarted from cold at the proximity of a dead body. Great. Though you supposed you'd almost considered yourself grateful that they were returning, if not for the phantom fingers that scratched at the back of your mind; the lingering spirit that belonged to this body wanted to communicate but didn't quite know how.

You didn't have the patience to ferry the remnant of someone's soul closer towards consciousness right now.

But it was a reminder.

There were no bodies in Hell. No death in Hell.

For all intents and purposes, the damned would be considered alive.

So no, this wasn't Hell.

This was--

You forced your eyes back open and stared at the gaping, mangled maw of jagged walls that stretched and reached into the roiling, starless sky.

--an attic.

There were visible slats and support beams, boxes and furniture covered in sheets, and burnt, decayed vines clinging to the walls and along the floor. Most notable was the fact that the structure--this house--was simply broken. Shattered. Not only was the roof broken, as though a giant had torn into it--peeled the slats and shingles open and left them rent and tattered beneath their hands--to curiously peer inside, but the whole structure was as well.

The side of the floor you and the body were on tilted at an awkward angle; not unnavigable but still odd as you found the strength to hoist yourself to your feet and stumbled at the unevenness. Once you were upright, you could see the other side; across a strange valley that revealed broken beams and wide structural mouths that promised rooms below, there was a set of stairs that led downwards.

Uneasy with the minimal strength you currently possessed, you used your power to send some sort of signal down through the jagged, rotten foundation to ask the earth for help. And not just help, you asked for a sign of where you were and what happened to you. However, you were immediately turned away. A hiss at the back of your mind, that settled adjacent to that incessant scratching, warning you from trying again.

This earth was not like the earth you connected with regularly. It was incompatible with you, but only just so.

There was a blink of a thought in your head that you could make it bend to your will if you really wanted. If you were tempted enough.

But temptation was what got you here, wasn't it? Your jeans were still unbuttoned and you felt some kind of internal, medieval shame as you fixed them and fastened them back up. Shame, not only because the brides had fucked you if you could call it that, but because they'd gotten the better of you. They'd used your weaknesses against you--used Eddie against you--and now they'd stolen you away to the Upside Down.

That's what this place was right?

And it wasn't a stretch to guess the why's here either.

Kas had used them to bring you here so he could finally be rid of you.

Well, you weren't going to sit here and wait for your death like a lamb to the slaughter. If Kas wanted to kill you, you were gonna put up a fight.

The fires of wrath were stoked inside you and you let them restore your strength and fuel your journey onwards. You readied yourself to make the jump across the broken floor.

Suddenly, the scratching at the back of your mind got horribly loud. A voice, a young man's voice, strained and croaked inside of you.

"Help me. God, please help me."

The broken remnants of the being you'd woken beside finally found its voice.

You scowled as resentment decided to mingle with your wrath.

"No one's going to help you," you grunted and shuffled your foot into the side of its rib cage. You kicked the body into the gulch below and as you took your leap, you delighted in the sounds of the bones shattering as it impacted the ground below. "God is dead."

The descent was precarious.

Despite the strength you had gathered, your body ached and your movements were clumsy. It was like you left a part of yourself behind and struggled to continue without it. Additionally, as you progressed along the path, you found that the house itself was broken in ways that defied logic.

Hallways switched back upon themselves or dropped down into a deep burning abyss, floors tilted upwards and then stopped abruptly, doors opened to brick walls, and then, your favorite, a ticking grandfather clock seemingly floated in the air on its own.

Did physics exist in the Upside Down? Gravity? Or was it like Superman, where differences developed without the interference of a certain color sun?

Eventually you made it to what you believed to be the ground floor, and although there was a looming sense of dread that only got worse the further along you walked, your footsteps felt sure and stable. It felt better, safer.

There was a crack in one of the walls you passed where you spotted the shadow of tree limbs, and just up ahead you could see the sky over a half-demolished wall.

Once you rounded this corner and that to reach your supposed freedom, you found yourself faced with what could only be described as an altar. Some site of a wicked ceremony. The walls of the house split open and revealed the expansive red and grey waste of the outdoors, but instead of finding dead grass and trees like you thought, there were structures made of stone and vines and twisted tentacles, just like you remembered from the tunnels.

Towers.

Stalagmites.

Pillars.

Something rustled behind you and you turned on your heel to find the source of the noise, only to find the dank hall you'd just exited empty. It rustled behind you again and you spun back to face the pillars, but you were still alone.

You were being taunted now, teased. Surely that was it, wasn't it? This was a game; you survived the pitfalls and traps of this nightmarish house and now the hunt was truly on?

"I know you like to play with your food motherfucker," you hissed aloud. "Let's play."

You progressed confidently, unwilling to let yourself falter as the ground underfoot transitioned from wooden floorboards to decorative checker tile to uneven earth and the air became heavy with ominous anticipation.

Despite that, you took a moment to inspect the pillars as you passed them, only to be met with an even stranger sight.

Chrissy. Fred. Patrick.

They were eerily still, petrified even; faces serene, as though they were sleeping. The pillars seemed to encapsulate them; a wing melted into the stone here, claws elongated into branches there.

There were four pillars...but three Brides.

You vaguely recalled a flash of Max's memories, of her running through a red landscape almost exactly like this; you took the chance and reached out to touch the empty pillar, only for your suspicions to be confirmed. It was meant for her. The pillars were the final resting places for all four of the victim's of Vecna's curse.

A place for their bodies to be displayed like trophies, signifying his triumph.

It was a sickening thought, but brought about further revelation that this place didn't belong to Kas, but the Lich himself.

The Creel House.

"I was right," you huffed a small laugh of victory. Your hunt for Kas had led here; if only fate hadn't tempted you off the path to the cemetery, you would have been that much closer to defeating Kas now.

Fresh off a small win and with your body primed for psychometry, you moved and touched each pillar curiously. You witnessed each Bride's transition from the husk of a body to the monstrous beings they were now. They hadn't meant to be the puppets of an atrocious master when they were resurrected; it had all been done in an act of defiance. Their forms had been carefully crafted by his clawed hands, and life breathed back into them by a hopeful heart.

That heart was broken here too; those same clawed hands were formed on the very floor behind you...

"No," you tried to shake the thought off you. You didn't want that; didn't need that. Didn't need to empathize with Kas...right?

Still...the intrusion continued.

You wanted to connect to this earth didn't you? So you must gain all manner of information, whether you want it or not.

More images flashed against your will; you didn't need to touch the silt and soil beneath your feet for it to reach out and touch you. The blood that soaked this ground leeched up from the depths to provide you hair-raising clarity of the brutality committed a mere few feet from where you stood. No care had been taken when a body on the brink of death was implanted with bones and teeth and claws. You watched the flashes in unblinking horror until screams suddenly echoed in your ears, terrible and ear-splitting; you were witnessing a transformation--a metamorphosis--from something to nothing then back to something again.

"No!" you shouted and your voice echoed, into the eerie night. Wings flapped and a creature roared in the distance. The images fled along with them, and you heaved several labored breaths as you settled back into yourself.

There was a rustle behind you again, and you froze; you were so lost by the intrusion of the birth of a monster in your mind that you didn't notice said monster approach you.

This was it.

You'd faced monsters before, countless times. Of course, you'd always been armed with weapons, your powers. Now you'd been stripped bare; the brides had rid you of your weapons, and this dastardly dimension had denied you access to many of your abilities as you recovered from your weakened state.

Unless they were useful to the Upside Down itself, so it seemed.

Still, your eyes honed in on a glint of silver beside you. Brilliant amongst the squalor of the Upside Down and folded neatly in Chrissy's claws that rested across her chest:

Your crucifix.

Your hand shot towards the cross of its own volition, but as your fingers caressed the carved hyacinths, you suddenly doubted yourself.

Was Chrissy's grasp on it truly that strong or was it just a trick of the mind? If you couldn't even resist her and Patrick...how could you possibly fight Kas?

Except, you'd already fought Kas hadn't you? Already got the one-up on him. That's why he'd relied on so many cheap shots to get to you. You would make it through this, with your teeth gnashing, your bare hands, and your raw faith. Or you would die trying.

"Lord, I am not worthy to receive you," you whispered as you pried the relic out of the harpy's hands. "But only say the word and my soul shall be healed."

Footsteps slunk closer to you, audibly clearer now, and you readied yourself, focused on all the holy light within the sludge of your corruptible human body. When they finally stopped just inches behind you, you could feel cold breath cascade over you, and you knew it was time.

You pivoted on your heel, sneakers crunching the ground beneath them into dust, and you raised your hand to brandish your cross at your assailant. His hand clashed against its other side and stopped it dead between both of your faces; your eyes went wide as he gripped it tight and it burst into flames in front of your eyes.

You wrenched your hand away and backed into Chrissy's body as Kas let out a mighty, wretched wail.

You were so singularly focused--horrified--as you watched the symbol of your family's legacy burn and melt in his hands, so expectant of his form being consumed by holy flames as he crumpled and bent at the waist and screamed in agony, that you didn't really look at him until it was too late.

The fire extinguished suddenly and Kas flung the remnants of your crucifix to the side, and as he stood, you could feel all the blood rush to your head. There was a buzzing in your ears and you swore the dark circles that crowded your vision were only to spare you from the sight.

Whatever vision you had in your head of Kas was gone...and in its place was suddenly something both old and new at the same time.

There was a smirk carved into his face, so smug and triumphant, and made only more pronounced by the deep scars that went from the corners of his mouth and back along his jaw towards his ears. Still, his enticing lips twitched, failing to bely a smile. His deep eyes were locked with yours, abyss-like, but warm and welcoming in this otherwise unforgiving world as he stared at you with a fondness that you couldn't fathom.

He was tall--taller than you remembered--and even taller still as your legs failed you and you collapsed to your knees before him; he took two rapid steps forward, hands stretched out as though he would try to catch you before you hit the ground. All you could focus on were the sharpened, blood-stained points of his fingers though, and when you flinched as they got too close for comfort, he stopped in his tracks.

Your breathing got heavy and your shoulders and chest heaved the longer you witnessed him. Because it truly was the witnessing of something beautiful and terrible, wasn't it? Something you'd wished for over and over again until you simply couldn't take it anymore.

"No, no, no," you couldn't stop your mouth from its fumbling repetition. "Nononono. No. N-no, no, no!" Over again the word erupted from you until you were shouting. Until you were sobbing.

You covered your eyes with one hand to stop yourself from seeing, and your mouth with the other to keep what remained of your soul from spilling out.

You shook with grief--three years worth of grief that only became more surmountable with each day that passed--then anger.

How dare he, how dare Kas use this final thing against you, how dare you let him?

But that was just an excuse wasn't it? Some kind of excuse so you wouldn't have to face the reality that was just on the other side of your hands. One that you would cling onto to help your poor heart survive.

You would deny it, until you couldn't any longer.

"Sweetheart." You shook your head at the decadent rasp of his voice; your ears strained to catch more but you couldn't handle it. Tears began to leak from your eyes and collect in the creases of your fingers as you pressed them harder into your face. "Angel, please."

The urge to roll your eyes at the ironic nickname battled against the need to bask in it.

You could feel him get closer, feel his massive form invade your space. Your aura buzzed excitedly as it brushed against his with the proximity and your heart beat in your ears; your body knew what your mind refused to accept. It made you feel lightheaded.

Don't fucking pass out.

The claws worked their way beneath your fingers and you resisted as much as you could until you simply couldn't hold on any longer.

And once they were away, there was nothing that you could have done to stop yourself from responding to him.

The you that you had been just seconds earlier no longer existed. That being, forged by resentment and pain and grief and the will to succeed beyond all hope, was torn apart by those claws--gently peeled apart bit by bit--and as your eyes opened, you were suddenly the you that you were before. Or maybe, more accurately, the you that you were beside everything.

Despite everything.

The being that only existed with him.

You.

You were here with him.

Eddie.

And he was here with you.

Alone together and together alone.

No one else existed but the two of you as you opened your eyes and your gaze washed over him once again.

Lightning flashed overhead as you absorbed the sight before you.

Hands. Eddie's hands. Calloused from hours of guitar playing and scarred from that one time he got too eager pulling a stouffer's lasagna out of the oven and forgot the gloves. Only now they were scarred further, with lines along his phalanges and razor-sharp talons at the tips of them.

Hair. Eddie's hair. Soft and curled just so and sometimes shiny, but oftentimes just a frizzy mess from head banging so hard. It would get in his mouth, leaving him spitting and sputtering as he got some idea mid-headbang. Only now it was held up and out of his face by a fluffy green scrunchie, and only his bangs and a few loose pieces framed his features.

Face. Eddie's face. One that looked at you with so much relief and gentle love. Your memories couldn't hold a candle to having him here. Your eyes went blurry with tears again at the fact that he was actually here just inches from you. His eyes and lashes and his round nose and his kissable lips. Lips you needed to kiss like you needed air. Only those lips started to move to form words again and as they did, you spotted the sharp tips of fangs.

He looked the same, exactly the same...but simultaneously different in every way that counted.

Time stopped.

You thought about being in the trailer with Chrissy and Patrick, all the words that you had excused in the moment, as you allowed yourself to be tempted by Kas.

In actuality...had it really been Eddie? Words that had been borderline insidious suddenly took on a much more intimate connotation.

"You're not real." You breathed shakily, one last attempt at pulling back the veil at some trick of the mind. "I can't...I can't..."

On the other hand, you remembered the graveyard, the way Eddie had been there in a way...beyond your sight, refusing to be seen by you. Refusing to be known by you. And again countless other times. Including the day he'd...

"I can't look at you," you said weakly. "I'm not supposed to look at you."

What had he said to you then? That he'd never really left? That he would wait...as long as it took...and here he was now. That hadn't been Eddie; how could this suddenly be him? He was...

"And why not?" he chuckled gently. "I think we both deserved to see one another; I've crossed the oceans of time just to see you again."

"That's..." you stared at him in disbelief. Tremors wracked your body and his gaze went from fond to worried again.

Your mind went a mile a minute trying to come up with something, some way to deny all of this. Rapid fire, you thought. About Vecna and the Upside Down and the earthquakes. You thought about Wayne and Dustin and Max. Over and over, ideas flashed as all the pieces finally clicked together. Vampires that weren't vampires, and the Brides; the trailer and the visions and the grave and...and...and...

He was alive.

"That's..." You began to laugh, the small shakes of a giggle turning into big, bright guffaws that shook you. You grabbed his face with your hands and squished his cheeks together, gleefully watching as it smooshed and shifted in the way only his play-doh-like features could. "That's not the quote, you big dumb idiot."

Home had been an abstract concept for you for some time.

For most of your life, when you thought of home, you thought of your Nonna's house. Her flat, just downstairs from yours; you spent most nights there anyway, your father's childhood bedroom repurposed for you. You had a home in the dinners you'd cooked together and late nights where you'd watch Johnny Carson until it was time to hold hands and pray together before bed. Home meant turning the key in the lock of her door and her giving you big cheek kisses.

Tesoro di Nonna.

Her treasure. She was your treasure too, your best friend, but she, herself, was not your home. At least not anymore.

You found that when you came to Hawkins. When you met Eddie. From the moment you met him, he had been that warm place of comfort and love. When you left, and even when you believed him to be dead, going home meant returning to Hawkins.

Returning to him.

So when you both overcame the euphoria which accompanied the realization that you had found each other once again, and he said "let's go home," you knew that there wasn't far to go.

You were already there.

There was something about returning home after a long time away, though. Things changed and it didn't take very long for you to notice the changes in Eddie.

He held your hand as you walked through the barren waste of the Upside Down, and it was actually quite a long walk. Practically across the entirety of Hawkins, and you were truly in awe that it actually was Hawkins. You walked down familiar streets, through the town center that was fully intact unlike its decimated state in the real world, and Eddie even pointed out the windows of your old apartment over the deli, as if you forgot.

Very few words were shared between you at first, aside from short and fond little tidbits to reminisce old times spend together--something that you'd constantly been doing since your return; your heart ached to think that your ghost had followed him around, both in Hawkins and here, reminding him that you'd left him to this fate.

There was not much more conversation than that though, and while you basked in the sweet memories, especially being reunited, you couldn't help but wonder why he was so...uncharacteristically quiet. The Eddie you knew was never at a loss for words; why was he holding back asking you questions? Telling you how much he missed you?

You held back your own thoughts, questions, and admissions too if you were being honest. Something about being so open in this dimension, something about the strange din of silence due to the lack of life made you feel...strange.

You wondered if he felt the same way?

If you could feel the creatures that shuffled just out of your line of sight, given what you knew about the hive mind that existed between them, you knew Eddie could as well.

But if that was the case, he didn't show it. You supposed Kas he was the master of this realm; he didn't need to be afraid of it.

In fact, the more you observed him, the more you noticed how at ease he was here. He'd always been confident walking around Hawkins, shoulders straight and head held high despite the suspicious stares and whispers that seemed to follow him just because his last name was Munson. But now Hawkins--the Upside Down--seemed to bend to him the further you walked, proving his mastery over it.

Down one street, the tentacle vines slithered and shifted as Eddie led you ahead, and when you dared to look back they returned to their original places. Shadows at the corners of your eyes shifted as he pointed something out to you with a fond smile and a laugh. Finally, when you reached the woods, gnarled and dark as they were, his presence seemed to cause a group of bats that had been resting there to stir.

Instinctually, you flinched, divine sense tingling in response to their unnatural energy as they began to fly overhead; Eddie even squeezed your hand to calm you down, but your defenses were up now. You readied yourself for an attack as they circled and swooped down a little too close for comfort.

You watched, dumbstruck, as Eddie tsked and then reached up with his free hand; one of the bats got lower and its many flailing tails brushed against his fingertips before it screeched and then soared away. You felt that there was something more to it, though; there was something else there as his fingers twitched against them.

A yearning, maybe; a desire to...what? Join them?

"It's alright," he reassured you softly, an undertone of happiness in his voice. "See, they're harmless."

"Harmless?" you scoffed in disbelief, having witnessed their devastation first hand. He looked back towards you and lowered his arm, brow furrowed in confusion at your tone; you felt a strange rumble, an undercurrent, just beneath the surface of his skin as he flexed his hand around yours again. "I..."

"Sweetheart. Just trust me. What are you--"

Like that, the illusion was broken.

It hadn't taken that long. A couple of hours, mostly spent in silence and the overwhelming awe of being in one another's presence again, but suddenly you realized he was different.

Of course, you were different too.

You never really fathomed a moment like this; you'd always thought--hoped--you'd be reunited in Heaven. That everything would work itself out there. All wounds healed, all sins forgiven.

But this was not Heaven, and you'd never imagined your reunion like this.

You looked at him again, really looked at him this time. Tried to look past your Eddie, to see what had become of him here in the Upside Down. You started with his hands, the long scars you noticed just a short while ago, and you traced a finger along them. It was almost cathartic as you felt a phantom ache in your own hand, as you began to truly digest and understand what had happened to him.

Dustin had refused to tell you...and with good reason.

The ache burned through you the further you went. His arm was covered with the sleeve of his leather jacket, but still your fingers traveled, touch penetrating the worn leather; he looked and felt...bulkier somehow. Even his skin looked too tight on him. Gone was your noodley, human boyfriend and in his place...something else. Broader shoulders, a thicker torso, and a slightly elongated neck that proudly bore scars as well.

Just like your own bites, you thought, as Eddie's aches were momentarily replaced by your own. You both displayed the healed remnants of shredded, devoured flesh.

The memory of the pain they once brought him practically sang through his skin the further you went and you couldn't help but listen and absorb it. Unlike your scars, even the most recent ones from the Brides, that had been the product of your will to survive, Eddie's were the evidence of something dastardly that sought to destroy and consume. In fact, they had succeeded; you felt the burn of a thousand mouths filled with sharp little teeth ripping through flesh. Ripping through his flesh.

The longer you held on, the more you felt and understood. Mouths led to claws, consumption turned to torture, and eventually he was ripped further--pulled apart--until he was left broken, raw, and screaming.

Just like you'd seen back at the Creel House.

Vecna cut him open and emptied everything that made him him, and filled him with darkness and malice and--

You wrenched your hands away from his and rubbed them together as they tingled, suddenly numb. All of the echoes of his pain vanished and instead you just felt...conflict.

"What's wrong?" Eddie stepped closer, worry etched deeper creases into his face now. "What did you do?"

"I--" you flinched away from him and he paused.

This wasn't just Eddie anymore, your Eddie who survived a few scrapes and bruises and came out of any conflict--large or small--with a few choice words for his assailant and a story to tell.

This was Kas, forged through the burning flames of Hell to fight. To destroy.

And if not by name, then by acts.

Acts done with Vecna's influence, at first, and now atrocities in their own right.

Eddie always knew when your mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts; he'd say that you were thinking too loud. Time hadn't changed that, it seemed. He still knew exactly how to read you.

"Listen," he started carefully, treating you like a spooked animal because that's exactly what you were. "I know you have questions. We just need to get home first."

Unfortunately, you were also a stubborn piece of shit.

"Where is home?" you questioned. "What...Eddie...how?"

"I'll tell you everything," he promised. "But you're hurt...and I'm sure you're hungry. Thirsty? I could only bring you so far before--"

"Before?" you urged.

"The hungrier I get," he began. "The harder it is to control everything. Control myself. I couldn't be around you like that. But now you're awake...and I have to get you home. We need...to get home..."

You wanted him to explain it all to you; you'd seen the fangs, witnessed the Brides and other vampires feeding, it wasn't a secret that he must hunger for blood too. You just needed more. But he needed something too. There was a singular, desperate focus that edged his words--the need to get you home, get you safe--and you knew you weren't going to get answers unless you obliged his request.

If he could be patient...so could you.

You gestured ahead and the two of you continued your journey.

However, you made sure to keep your hands to yourself this time, unwilling to inadvertantly see more of his becoming, and Eddie clearly noticed.

"My hand is pretty cold," he said after a short stretch of silence. His eyes slid over to you and he wiggled his fingers. "Sure is a shame that there's nothing to warm it up."

You scoffed and your heart ached; this was how he got you to hold his hand in your coat pocket during the winter as you'd venture out and about. It was his thing, refusing to wear his gloves so he wouldn't fumble with them when he wanted to smoke, while also taking the opportunity to feel your hand against his.

It was one of your favorite bits of attention that he gave you; he was still your Eddie. You knew that, and deep down inside you only wanted to know that.

But things were different.

"Ed--"

"What? You don't love me anymore or something?" he teased; however, when he glanced over at you, there was a real worry in his eyes. "Don't want to hold my hand? Hmm? That it?"

"Come on," you scoffed. "Don't. You just said we'd talk once we got home, wherever home is. We've been walking forever."

"Well we're not there yet," he bristled and laughed; it was a bitter, condescending chuckle. One you'd never heard come out of him before; not to you, at least.

"Can't you just tell me where we're going? To...Rick's or..."

"It isn't in Hawkins."

"You can't expect us to walk to Muncie," you attempted a joke.

There was a tense pause and he turned his head downward and quickened his pace.

"Don't worry," he said, tone stiff. "We're almost there."

The confidence you'd noticed earlier was suddenly gone, and as he walked, he seemed to make himself smaller.

You really fucked this up.

You tried to reach out for him, abandoning your resolve of keeping him at arms length, but he failed to notice.

He just kept walking.

Before long, the town seemed to melt away.

Everything did.

Gone were the buildings, the trees, even the roads. Until there was a vast grey nothingness, accentuated by floating particles and a swirling, cursed sky. If you thought the Upside Down was a wasteland before, this only solidified that thought.

After some time, even looking back didn't seem to help things; there were no milestones that you could ascertain. Just flat terrain, the sky, and the horizon.

And Eddie.

You tried to stave away the hateful thoughts that this was a trap, that there really was a Kas out there and he was manipulating you again. Or, even worse, that Eddie was the one manipulating you.

What good did those thoughts do? Except negate the elation that still bubbled hopefully within you, elation you were also trying to hold back.

You were here now; he could kill you any time if he wanted. You weren't dead. Yet.

Lost in thought, you failed to notice that he stopped, and you walked right into his back. You shook yourself off and stepped around him, only to find a decrepit-looking ranch-style house. The attached carport's roof was partially collapsed, the siding a little cockeyed, and the mailbox was broken; it looked unremarkable, and still...

"We're here," he pressed his lips together and gestured towards the house. "Home sweet home."

"I don't recognize this place," you remarked as he led you forward.

"You wouldn't," he shook his head. "I never brought you here; it doesn't exist anymore, actually. They tore it down to build some fancy condos in...what...80? 81? Only place you're gonna find it now is up here."

He tapped against the side of his head and then waved his hand around.

"This is what it looked like the last time I saw it. Broken, a little sad. Right before it came down.”

"Why is it here then?" you asked.

He sighed and looked around.

"Let's just get inside."

The interior of the house was worlds different.

Well...comparatively.

It was bigger on the inside, the walls somehow taller than they had been just moments before you stepped through the threshold. You entered into an open concept living room that was attached to the kitchen, not unlike the trailer. Both rooms were wood paneled and there was a carpet that was split-pea green, making the already drab atmosphere darker.

Eddie brushed past you to get to the kitchen and you moved ahead to the sofa, weariness of the day finally catching up to you. You collapsed onto the brown faux-suede loveseat and laid your head against the granny-square blanket that was draped over the back; beneath the musty, mildewy smell of the Upside Down, you could faintly detect something lighter and sweeter.

Your mom wore orange blossom perfume just like this. Aqua Manda. Your father brought a bottle home for her on her birthday one year.

You cleared your throat and chalked it up to a trick of the mind; you were tired and hurt, of course little things like that would escape your psyche.

Eddie shuffled around in the kitchen for a few minutes and when returned, his hands were filled with packaged snack cakes, a six-pack of grape crush, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a roll of cloth bandages. He fell onto the loveseat beside you and dropped his plunder between you.

"Wayne," he stated simply and gestured to everything, as though that explained it. Maybe it did, to him; on your walk you figured that everyone knew that Eddie was here and alive, Wayne included. It didn't make you as angry as you expected yourself to be. Not as angry as you'd been when you read about Kas in the Dungeon Master's Guide.

What use was it to get angry, when you just wanted answers?

You stared at Eddie expectantly, hoping that he would start talking, but instead, he moved to pick a package of Raspberry Zingers from between you. You watched, in slight awe, as he flicked his thumb against the plastic and the sharpness of his claw sliced through it quicker than any knife. He did the same with one of the pop cans, puncturing the aluminum instead of using the tab.

You, knowing these were some of his favorites and having seen him inhale more of the sweet treats than you dared count, expected him to tuck in. Instead he placed the open package and can in your hands with a longing look, careful not to touch your skin, before he went on to unwrap the bandages.

You said his name gently and he ignored you.

"Eddie," you dropped the zingers and grabbed his hand to stop him. He was the one to flinch now, but regardless, he looked you in the eye. "I need you...to tell me where we are, and tell me what's going on. Everything. We're here now...you promised."

His eyes darted between yours rapidly; if he felt that your thoughts were loud before, his were blaring right now. Broadcasting panic and worry; confusion as to what to say and where to begin.

He opened his mouth and inhaled, but his sharp fangs glinted in the low light of the room and your gaze, naturally, was drawn to them. He planted a hand over his mouth and after a second, rubbed over the scars that stretched over his cheeks.

Finally his hand dropped to his lap and he shifted in his seat; he leant back against the cushions and got comfortable.

"Before I lived with Wayne," he started, "before mom died, we lived here. It wasn't big; big enough for the two of us, a little less when my dad was still out. Everything looks a little bigger, but I guess everything does when you're younger. This...this is just how I remember it.

"That's what this place runs on. Memories. Feelings. It...generates them but also cannibalizes them. Nancy Wheeler said something...before...about it actually being 1983 here. Really, it can be any place and time you want. Henry...Vecna...showed me that. So when I started needing space...away from him, I came as far as I could past the outer limits of Hawkins and I made this place. Where he would have a harder time finding me. Where I could be alone.

"With you."

"Me?" you questioned.

"I can't explain it," he shook his head. "I can't explain any of it. It's...fuzzy. Who I am now...and who I was before...I'm not the same person.

"I was hurt so badly when you left...I thought I hated you for a while. But then...you were there, in everything I did. I had hope because you gave me hope Sweetheart. Every day I thought about getting in that van and...finding a way to find you. Some way. But I had patience and I could wait for you to come back. On the toughest days, though, you were there. You were there when the blankets on the bed felt especially warm. Or the frozen lasagna I put in the oven tasted especially cheesy. Or when I'd have a bad dream and go to get cookies out of the cupboard. You were there, and it was ok. I could hold on until you made it back to me.

"You were even out there at Skull Rock with me," he smiled. "The night...after Patrick died. I was wet and cold and so god damn traumatized and when I closed my eyes, I swore I could feel you there. I heard you tell me it would all be alright. You're the reason I didn't give up."

You knew that feeling well; more than you could really put to words.

He went on and gave you his account, his perspective and feelings, about what happened last year. Told you about witnessing Chrissy and Patrick's deaths, about running and hiding, about being hunted. He stopped to make a joke about how brave “the kids” were, braver than he was. And then his tone turned fearful and distant when he explained how he decided to be brave for them in return, brave for Dustin.

You of course knew some, but hearing all of it, especially the role he played in it all, was devastating. The what-if's returned; what if you hadn't left, what if you could have been here to save him--save all of them--what if he hadn't died. Of course the last one was void now. Still, as he closed his eyes in pain and you felt it choke you up as his emotions projected outwards again—voluntarily this time, instead of you plucking pieces off of him—you thought:

What if you could have spared him this suffering?

"He took everything," Eddie whispered. "I thought the bats were bad enough. The pain. They were just hungry but the pain. The others were supposed to kill him, to chop his head off or something, and the bats fell and the pain stopped. It was supposed to be over.

"But then he found me."

"Vecna."

"I thought I was a goner," he bared his teeth painfully, somewhere between a grimace and a smile really. "Death took forever, sweetheart. I do not recommend it. Not a bit. I don't even think I died. One minute Henderson was crying over me and the next, Vecna was tearing through my head. I always thought...well, you know when Obi-Wan tells the storm trooper these are not the droids you're looking for? I thought that I could resist that. Turns out, I was just as weak-minded as the rest of them."

He recounted his torture, the mental and the physical, and you felt it again. More acutely this time. His memories projected onto you felt fuzzy and strange, though, as if he hadn't even been there for it all himself. You recognized, through the echoes of agony, that was only so much the human mind could take, and Eddie toed the line of survival through sheer luck. He had gone through Hell, and came out alive in the end; how had he done it?

"It's because I had you," he explained. He leant in closer, voice hushed like he had a secret; he made the edges of your being feel tingly with his proximity. "Just like I told you. You were there; I know it. I held on because of you."

"Please, Eddie," you whispered. Please...what? You didn't know.

Please don't try to lessen the guilt.

Please don't try to make you feel better that you left him to this fate.

"It's true," he continued. "Vecna could take everything away. Made me hate everything, everyone. Made me kill for him. He made me his monster, his beast, his weapon..."

You swallowed painfully. How karmically poetic; a weapon of good and a weapon of evil...in love.

Fate was cruel.

"...But he could never take you away from me."

You saw it then, a flash. Some recollection of his, some coping mechanism that he'd used to survive. You saw through Eddie's eyes, felt his body; there was something quite...off about him. Shoulders broader, arms longer, fingers wet with blood.

Wings? You could feel them jutting from his shoulder blades. But he didn't have wings...

And in front of him, instead of some poor innocent soul...there you were. Strange, once again, seeing a version of you that you didn't recognize. She looked...younger...more lively than the one you saw in Billy's mind. She was smiling, eyes bright.

Speaking of eyes, you could see his reflection in your own eyes; you strained to decipher it, because it simply did not look like Eddie.

Not the Eddie of your memory. Not the Eddie who sat before you now.

You gasped and it was gone, and you were back in the living room with Eddie again. You stared at him, really took stock of him, trying to reconcile the different images of him that floated in your mind to truly accept who he was in front of you.

Broken but seemingly still whole. Alive.

Human...but not.

And that's what made you hesitate.

"Eddie," you licked your lips nervously. "Dustin said...that you couldn't leave." His brow twitched.

"I can't," he answered through gritted teeth, entire demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. He clenched and unclenched his hands, grasping at something that was beyond the fabric of reality. "I'm stuck here."

"Do you know why?"

"No. It's driving me crazy; I just want...to leave. Vecna couldn't leave either. He needed Max."

He noticed the way you stiffened at his words and his eyes went wide with fear. All of the tension that had built up within him was released again and he held his hands out to prove he was harmless.

"I don't...I'm not...I don't think that's what it is for me. The Upside Down doesn't want me to leave; I'm just not strong enough somehow. Not ready. I feel like...if I can figure out what I need, it'll let me go. I just don't know what that is.

"I did enough to save lil Red, though, twice," he ran a finger over his heart in a cross, in promise. "Not gonna just throw that all away and kill her."

"She's afraid that you are."

"Well, you'll just tell her I'm not."

"You've killed other people though," you rebuffed, almost too quickly.

It was at the forefront of your mind. Your dumb boyfriend who fed stray cats and raccoons around the trailer park...ordering an army of dark creatures to kill; it didn't make sense.

"You've killed too," he scoffed, a challenge in his eyes. "Don't act like I haven't watched you out there, angel. I've seen everything; this whole time."

"I thought you were a vicious monster," you argued.

"Who says I'm not?" That threw you for a loop. "I've told you my story, it's your turn now."

"No, we're not done with you," you reached across and jabbed a finger into his chest. "You send the bats...the Brides--nice name by the way--" You sneered sarcastically.

"Thanks," he grinned widely. "Got it all from Sven."

"--into Hawkins every day to feed. To kill."

That made him falter.

"No," he denied. "Not every day."

"Every day."

"Every three days, every week. Not every day."

"Tell me how that's possible," you narrowed your eyes. "When your friends back in Hawkins have gone out every day since I've been back for their clean up brigade, and they've been attacked every time. I've heard about it and I've seen it."

Eddie got quiet; he blinked once and his eyes became unfocused. He stared through you for what felt like ages and at some point you contemplated waving a hand in front of his face to get him to come back to you. You were about to raise your hand to do just that when a thin, opaque membrane slid sideways across his eyes, and then retracted back into the corners of them.

You thought it was a trick of the low light for a moment, then it happened again. A blink, just like a bird did with their third eyelid.

"What the fu--"

"They haven't," he interrupted you, consciousness casually sliding back into his body like he hadn't just vacated it. "They've only been leaving through the gates when I tell them to. It's been three days."

He shifted and shook the sleeve of his jacket further up his arm to reveal his wrist, then carefully unfastened the watch that sat there.

"They need to feed," he explained as he fiddled with the buttons. "I need...I need to feed again too. Otherwise I don't have control. And I need to be able to control them. They take their fill, and whatever they can spare, they bring to me. Since I can't leave. What uh...what day is it?"

"The fifteenth," you answered stiffly.

"Of?"

"...October."

"Hmmm..."

"What?"

"Guess I hadn't...nevermind." He cleared his throat. His hand shot out and grasped your wrist, then he carefully fastened the watch on your arm. "There. They're supposed to go out tonight and then you can see for yourself. Three days. Wayne will be by then too; I'll ask him to bring you your things. I know you left them behind."

"Because you...because your Brides cornered me...they...Fred...Chrissy...ugh..." You wrenched your hand from his grasp and scrubbed them over your face. "I...Eddie...I need to know why...why you---"

"I think I've told you enough," he interjected with an air of finality. "I've been trying to get to you, trying to find you, ever since I saw you back in Hawkins through their eyes. And now you're here with me where you belong, and it's time I got some answers too, sweetheart. It's been long enough. I deserve to know the truth."

So you told him.

Eddie was right, he deserved to know the truth, and you'd been itching to tell him since the moment he kissed you after your very first date.

Now was the chance to get it all off your chest.

You told him everything, and not just the condensed version that you told Mary Victoria. You bared your cursed soul to, probably, the only person on earth that had ever seen you. Really and truly seen you.

Despite all that time apart, he still saw you as though no time had passed at all.

He had no qualms interjecting when you told him about your family history and about the curse. He questioned everything and you had no doubt that if it wasn't for the conditions you were in now--if life had not been as cruel to the two of you as it had been--he would have had his Hellfire notebook open and been furiously writing ideas for his next campaign.

Better yet, he would be the one figuring out the way to break it. He would have every fantasy book from the Hawkins Library checked out and spread across the floor, just to save you.

When you got to the more contemporary parts of your story, when you filled in all the gaps in your life that you left when he first got to know you, he was pensive and empathetically quiet. He still made his little jokes here and there, tried to make you laugh at the parts where all you wanted to do was cry, and he didn't hesitate to bridge the gap and hold your hand when you needed to find the strength to keep going.

And keep going was all you did.

For hours.

You told him about every monster you faced, every demise you escaped, every person who used you as a tool and held your salvation over your head to get you to act on their behalf.

Your story couldn't hold a candle to his when it came to personal agony, but he made you feel like everything you'd endured was just as soul-splitting.

Maybe it was.

But this...getting everything out in the open...it was so freeing.

Gone were the shadowy secrets that lurked in the corners of your mind, gone was all the doubt you felt in yourself.

You cracked your chest open, pried out every rusting nail you had driven into you to keep it shut, and let Eddie see all of you--see your heart--and still he stared at you with awe and resplendent devotion in his eyes.

Just like he always had.

"Not gonna lie sweetheart," he started once you'd reached a lull in the story. "That was all, uh...pretty fucking metal."

"Fuck you," you slapped the back of your hand against his chest.

"All this time you let me go on about demons and the devil and Hellfire," his tone was teasing and a smile threatened the corners of his mouth; he couldn't fight it for long and neither could you. "And really you were out here studying the Lesser Key of Solomon and the Necronomicon for fun?"

"Not for fun. For survival" He grabbed your hand and held it against his chest, used his leverage to tug you closer. He stared at you in awe.

"My girlfriend! A real life paladin!"

"God damn it Eddie!" You giggled.

"Protecting the masses, no wonder you wanted to play as a rogue, you would have been bored as a paladin. Can you smite people?"

"I swear to--yes, I guess so."

"So many secrets! And then you told me all of your little stories and lessons--"

"Eddie I swear.”

"--let me believe you fucked the Mothman?"

"Excuse me," you erupted into a cackle. "You came to that conclusion all on your own."

He stared at you with hooded eyes and a fond gaze, humming his doubt.

You shifted the hand that he held, moved your palm across his chest from over his jacket to the thin, threadbare t-shirt he wore underneath. At first, you felt for his heartbeat, to reassure you one last time that it was really him...that he was really alive.

It was a flutter, but it was there. A soft thum pum, thum pum that transferred from his chilled skin, through the shirt, and into yours. His hand enclosed your wrist and squeezed tightly, and you wondered if he was doing the same. Feeling your pulse, making sure you were really there too.

He huffed a breath as you shifted closer; your fingers brushed against something hard that was just under the collar of the shirt as you had made your little search, and upon closer inspection, you discovered a cross on a silver chain.

Your necklace.

"You kept it?" you asked.

"Mmhmm." You shook his hand off your wrist and you ran your thumb over the tiny metal flowers; your crucifix might have been gone but this was still here. "The day you left...I was so upset I threw it. Threw it in some random corner of the trailer. When I realized that it was one of the last things I had left of you I went to try and find it, only to realize it was gone. I kicked myself, cried to Wayne...I was so fucking stupid.

"Then after everything, after Vecna was gone and I healed Max back up...I found it. Here in the Upside Down of all places. Must have fallen through when the gate opened up...but it made its way back to me. Just like you."

"You're a sap," you whispered.

"Guess what? So are you."

"I am," you laughed. You felt yourself choke up then, happiness turning to sorrow in an instant. Well, maybe it was still happiness…just the sad kind. "Hmmm."

"What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing," you cleared your throat to try and let it go, but it got the better of you and tears began to prickle at the corners of your eyes.

You couldn’t help yourself, you touched him again. You’d denied yourself for too long; you needed to be as close to him as you could for as long as you could. You touched his face. Beneath his bangs, over the crest of his eyes, ran a finger over his lips, even shoved your fingers over his fangs to inspect them, to see how dangerous they were, much to his displeasure.

“Don’t,” he hissed. “I have to feed, I could hurt you.”

”I don’t care.” The words burst from you. “I don’t.”

“Sweetheart,” he said in a warning tone but you ignored him.

“I spent all this time thinking you were dead and now here you are, right in front of me. Something I never thought I would have ever again. So excuse me if I don’t care that you might bite me. Hurt me. Nothing could compare with the hurt I felt when I lost you.”

“I get it.”

“I burnt down a building.”

“That’s—”

“Pretty metal, I know.”

“I was gonna say it sounds a little crazy,” you snorted. “Cmon? You burned down a building for little old me? With a lighter and gasoline?”

“With that smiting power you were so interested in earlier,” you explained.

“Ok well…shit. That’s pretty hot.”

“Fuck. Off.” You laughed wetly.

“You keep telling me to fuck off, I’ll leave you here.”

You could tell he was trying to make another joke but you didn’t have the patience for it.

“I’m trying to kiss you right now, Ed,” you told him matter-of-factly.

He was shocked, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, like the thought of actually kissing you, actually being with you, hadn't crossed his mind either. As though he hadn’t just used the brides to bring you to completion through the mental bond they shared. To be close to you, to share in pleasure and proximity, together again.

You were about to back down, about to say it was ok, especially if his hunger--fuck, you were gonna have to keep that in mind now, weren’t you--made him nervous. Instead, he surged forward, lips mashing into yours.

It was clumsy and a little painful at first. Both of you were out of practice, it was obvious, and there were, of course, extra teeth to be mindful of. Still, once you crossed the divide and settled yourself in his lap for easy access, you found your rhythm again.

It was as though you hadn’t been apart for a single minute, let alone three years.

Kissing him was nice, it always had been; tender sweetness, even in the throes of pleasure. You always used to joke that if Eddie could find a way to meld the two of you together with his mouth alone, he would; now was no different, as the plush pillows of his lips caressed and pecked at yours.

It didn't take long for the spark that was ignited between you to grow into an inferno and you couldn't really tell who was the needier of the two of you as breathing got heavier and tongue and teeth began to explore. All you knew was him. A sensory experience, being surrounded by each other again, and it was one that you had to learn all over again because it was different. Gone was the smell and taste of cigarette smoke and cheap laundry detergent and soda or bazooka bubblegum he enjoyed, and in its place something more visceral.

The bite of arctic air and nature and musk and dirt and blood.

Aside from the few times you'd bitten your tongue or split your lip, you'd never experienced the taste of blood before, and certainly not blood other than your own. Tangy, but not unpleasant. You could get used to it blooming along your tastebuds if it meant you never had to leave Eddie again.

He departed your lips then, as though he could sense the thought and didn't want you to endure it any longer than you had to. He left one, two, three pecks to the corner of your mouth before he descended down your cheek and along your jaw. He tsked as he reached your neck.

"What did they do to you huh?" he muttered and pecked and laved over the tender, ravaged flesh. He vacated one side of your throat for the other, inspecting the damage there; it was the side that Barb had bitten too, and you knew that it was surely worse. His tongue slithered out and he growled as it slowly ran along the ridges of each wound; the sound transferred from his body to yours, a rattling chittering vibration that sent chills up your spine.

"I didn't tell them to do this. When I realized..." he began an apology, but you stopped him.

"It's ok," you huffed a weak smile. "I'll heal. I always do."

"Hmmm."

He nudged his nose against yours, a soft rub of its bulbous tip, before diving back into your mouth.

From soft touches against faces and shoulders, hands suddenly moved to grip hips and thread into hair. The scrunchie was quick to go and his curls cascaded over his shoulders; you immediately buried your fingers in their depths, steering you where you wanted him to go, on the off chance he didn't already know.

His hands moved then to settle on your thighs, and gravity shifted as he hoisted you into his arms and stood. You broke away and stared at him in question. Where had this unexpected strength come from; was it more the result of this transformation in the Upside Down? You'd found unbelievable strength as your abilities developed over the years too.

Moreover, where had he found the idea or desire to carry you anyway?

You could spend as much time here on the loveseat as you wanted; it's not like you hadn't fucked on a sofa before.

"Where are we going?" you asked as he took his first steps.

"Bedroom."

"My legs work."

"They won't before long," he grinned and you rolled your eyes. Vampire or undead or whatever amalgam of an upside down creature as he was, Eddie was still your boyfriend who would quote bad porn just to annoy you.

He brought you down the short hallway to a bedroom; it was unremarkable and had a look and feel about it that was similar to his room in the trailer in some ways...but still not at all.

There was a poster on the wall, and Sweetheart sitting on an amp in the corner--had he been the one to play Sympathy for the Devil that you'd heard on the radio; you hadn't been going crazy--a stack of t-shirts and clothes sat on a broken dresser, and a dented old thermos rested on the windowsill.

He laid you down on a mattress that had been placed on the floor and was laden with pillows and blankets. He started to rid you of your shoes and your jeans, taking as extra care as he had been not to rip into them with his claws; as needy as you were, you were also curious, and you took that moment to inspect this bed of his further.

One of the pillows was stained with blood, some of the blankets shredded to ribbons, and, buried amongst a soft comforter...two long bones that were sharpened to points.

Eddie faltered in his movements as you lifted them closer to your face to inspect and he immediately pulled his hands away from you; his arms crossed over his torso and he shrugged.

"Guess I'm a little messy," he explained sheepishly. "There, uh...might be some more in here...somewhere. Be careful."

There were a million thoughts racing through your mind; where did these bones come from, what did they belong to, had he...eaten some creature? Once again, you needed to internalize all of it quickly. This was just going to come with the territory of having Eddie back, wasn't it?

"It's...ok," you swallowed thickly and turned your eyes back to him. "I can just use it to stab you in the heart if worse comes to worse."

He snorted and licked his lips to stop himself from smiling; in the end, you both failed. You were giggling and you let out a honk of laughter that you hated but Eddie adored; he'd told you so many times. You covered your face with your hands to hide from him, but he was quick to kneel down in the cradle of your thighs to pull them away.

"I want to see you," he whispered. "I need to see you."

He kissed your hands, one, then the other, and then pulled you to sit upright; you helped him remove your jacket--he recalled it had been Mickey's...and then noted that Mickey had died by his hand as he thumbed the rips in the shoulders from Chrissy's attempted-abduction of you in the square--then your t-shirt. He was extra cocky as he used those talons to slice through your bra.

"You're an asshole," you muttered as he ducked to capture your lips again.

"Remember," he pressed a kiss and then backed off to grin, "when I kept fumbling with the hooks."

There wasn't much talking after that, as you began your true reunion, your worship of one another.

He knew where to lick, where to kiss, to get the sweetest and most desperate noises out of you. Of course, he also had his favorite little places to put his hands and his mouth.

He was careful of your throat, but that didn't mean he couldn't suck a hickey to your jaw, or your collarbone, or the side of one of your breasts. He sniffed your skin and sighed dreamily every now and again, pressed his face into the softness of your chest and your belly and just rested there for a moment, before continuing his descent.

He didn't leave an inch of you untouched when it came to these new discoveries and devotions.

He paid special attention to each prominent scar he found. Whispered words of apology, of understanding, as he bore witness to all the ways you sacrificed yourself for a God who'd essentially abandoned you. Abandoned both of you.

Every nerve in your body was alight; not because he kept pulling pleasure to the surface, but simply because of the proximity. You luxuriated in having him there, in carding your fingers through his hair, in hearing the timber of his voice and feeling it as it hummed along your skin. Even when he got too carried away and his claws scratched you or punctured your skin, as blood began to pool to the surface, you found some sense of joy. The little zings of pain only added to the pleasure.

For Eddie, though, they simply seemed to test the strength of his willpower to tame the beast within.

He finally reached the crux of you, and instead of touching or kissing as you expected him to, bringing you pleasure that way--something he'd always enjoyed before--he got to his knees and began working the belt off his jeans.

"What are you doing?" you demanded breathlessly, desperately. "You were..."

"I just...I'll..." he fumbled over his words, head still ducked as his hands worked. His voice sounded muffled and he refused to look at you. "We...we'll just finish up here and then I need to go."

"Go!?"

"I want to make you feel good, baby, I just...I can't stay. I'm already hanging on by a thread as it is."

You thought that he just meant that he needed to find his own release, which was understandable, but to need to leave? He flung his belt off to the side, and as he did, you saw. Really saw.

His eyes seemed more sunken in, surrounded by shadowy-bruises, scleras bright red. His fangs, which had just been two lone points in his mouth, seemed to have multiplied; four sharp teeth, now elongated, on his upper jaw, and two on the lower.

You called his name once, then again more forcibly, to get him to stop as he shed his jacket. He froze, and then stared at you, practically ashamed.

"They'll be back soon and I'm hungry," he explained. He let the jacket drop to the ground and then stared hungrily at his hands, at the fresh blood at the points of his nails. "I'm so...hungry."

He had mentioned that, that he'd been hungry, before. Which was why he couldn't be there when you were brought to the Upside Down.

But he said that he'd fed days ago; how long had you been here?

Was it just the drawing of your blood that had him hungry again? Needing to be sustained.

You spoke instinctually.

"Feed on me."

His eyes widened in shock.

"Sweetheart--" he tried to warn you, but you stopped him.

"Chrissy and Patrick already did," you rationalized. "Barb did. You're not going to do anything that they didn’t; just...try to be gentle and don't kill me."

"I'm trying not to kill you."

"I know," you encouraged. "I trust you. Drink my blood. Feed on me."

You held your hand out and nodded to your wrist; your neck was already bitten and healing. You both would probably have a better...uh...experience if he fed from there instead.

Eddie released a long breath and rolled his head backwards, hands coming up to his eyes as though it was the most difficult decision in the world. The only decision that mattered.

But, faster than your eyes could see, he was on you, lips and tongue caressing your wrist, lavishing over your pulse. You closed your eyes for a second...until it felt like his tongue elongated and wrapped around your wrist entirely...and they shot open again.

He was too quick though. Another blur of movement, and your underwear had simply vanished and Eddie was nuzzling the softness of your thigh with his nose, smelling the path your arteries, smelling the musk of your sex. You strained your neck to watch him--settled on his stomach, half off the mattress, with one of your legs thrown over his shoulder--but you couldn't hold it for long as he caressed your slit. As he stroked his fingers through your wetness and found your clit, slowly and torturously, as his nose followed the path upwards.

A delicate caress was all it took for the pleasure to invade your senses, ready as you were from all of the foreplay. Your body was primed for more after being starved for so long and only given a taste of salvation from him and his puppets previously. He rolled his fingers over and over, bringing you higher; he was mindful of his claws with each touch and caress, still you felt the cold huff of his breath chuckling when you bore down on nothingness as he rasped the sharp edges over the softness of you just so.

It had always been a game with you, pushing each other further to see who could hold out longer and who would break first--a delicious give and take--but it seemed he was focused on one thing now: a delicious prize for the both of you.

And needed to get there as quickly as possible.

You whined as your body tingled; your pleasure climbed and he hummed, his ministrations getting quicker. Sensing you were close to the edge, he pushed a finger into your heat, then a second, and your hips bucked. If the rasp of his claws outside had created a mix of pleasure and pain, inside it made you question everything. And as he pistoned his fingers once...twice...and pressed on your clit, you found euphoria.

You found Heaven.

And so did he.

You barely registered him biting into you at first, such pleasure raced through your body, but the sting of the first mouthful of blood being pulled from you brought you back to reality.

You rapidly came down from your high, so pleasantly numb, to the sounds of his lewd slurping and gulping of one mouthful then the next. If you had the capability of higher thought, you might wonder if you'd built some sort of tolerance to being feasted on like this, but your focus was on the remnants of your pleasure...and on him.

Eddie let out a delicious groan with a particularly painful pull, and you winced. He mouth released from your thigh with a satisfying pop, and, like a predator, he turned his gaze to meet yours.

Half hidden by the slopes of your body, you could still see the way his nose and lips were stained red. He bared his teeth at you--in a smile or a warning, you couldn't tell for sure--then set his sights back on your center.

Blood made an interesting addition to your own slickness, as he lowered his mouth onto your pussy; you twitched as he licked your essence away, one hunger sated and replaced by another. Gone were his fingers, as he moved your leg off his shoulder and spread you open to feast once more. You bucked against him as he stoked the fires within you again, tried to fight him so you could grind against his mouth, but he didn't let up.

"E-Eddie," you whined and he moaned, tongue thrumming against your clit and then sliding to your entrance to collect the ambrosia that you blessed him with.

You didn't want to beg, especially when you would gladly take every ounce of attention he bestowed upon you, but you wanted him. Wanted all of him. Wanted to see him.

Wanted to be with him, as one.

And the fucker hadn't even taken his clothes off yet.

"E-eddie, please," you cried, unable to convey exactly what you wanted. "I need you."

He clearly took that to mean more and more is exactly what he gave you, enough that should have made you surrender, made you melt for him.

He rolled his tongue against your sensitive nub, let his fangs rasp over you, before he began to suckle your clit and you had to grab his head and tug to try and get him to stop.

This was everything you wanted. But maybe not everything you wanted right now. The denial would be delicious.

Your nails scraped his scalp and pulled at the long strands of his hair until he finally finally released his focus from your quivering cunt.

Both of you heaved and gasped heavily.

He cuffed a hand against his chin to try and wipe off the mix of your blood and slick and you groaned; he didn't have to look so enticing doing something like that.

"So bossy," he grinned naughtily.

He didn't have to look so enticing saying something like that either.

"I am," you told him. "Because I need you--"

"And I was about to let you come right there, sweetheart."

"I need you...I need to feel you," you told him.

"Hmmm, tempting," he inched his way up your body, pressing bloody kisses to your mound, then your stomach. He stopped and rested his chin there.

There was some spike of unidentified emotion inside of you. Wrath, maybe. Annoyance, definitely.

"Don't tell me," you hissed at him. "That you're not looking for your own release."

"I am," he nodded and kissed up. Further and further. Your ribs, your breasts, laying his head there now. You couldn't help but caress his forehead, push his bangs out of his eyes as he stared up at you like you hung the stars.

You could feel him shift, feel the hardness of him straining against his jeans as he squirmed against you.

"Don't tell me that you don't want to fuck me," you whispered. "Don't tell me that you aren't just itching to come inside of me Eddie."

He kissed once against your clavicle, once on the hickey he left on your jaw and then hovered over your lips...

"Please," he whispered. "Let me fuck you."

You grabbed him and pulled him to you, lips crashing and hungry as you took what you craved from him.

Frantic movement on shaky limbs as you both knelt on the mattress and stripped him of his clothes between the clashing of your mouths in desperation.

It wasn't until you needed to part so you could pull his shirt over his head that you paused.

Tension.

It was sudden and suffocating as you finally saw all of him. Your hungry eyes found his cock first, lengthy and hard and fisted in his hand as he rolled his head back on his shoulders with relief for the first time all night. Which was funny because he was not shy about humping a bed once upon a time; had he learned some kind of virtuous patience in the years you'd been away? It was almost impossible to fathom.

But then, your eyes were drawn to the rest of his body.

Your hand went to your mouth in horror as you finally witnessed all of him. Witnessed what came out of the other side after he'd been chewed up and spit out by Vecna and his minions. By the Upside Down.

It was the bite scars that caught your eyes first. Maybe because you had felt the ephemeral echo of the assault for yourself, maybe because they were wide swaths of mangled flesh. Layers and layers and wrinkles and valleys. A piece of his torso practically gouged out on one side, his pectoral muscle shredded on the other, nipple missing.

When he had been attacked, he had been Eddie; when the attack was over he was just...meat. And this was the evidence of that. Some parts had healed to silver or pink, both others were left angry and red. If you didn't know better, you might think he was still hurt; that they were still bleeding.

He had kissed your scars and apologized; he was truly the one who deserved the apology.

The seams were next. Down his limbs, at each of his joints; like he'd been ripped apart and put back together again. Strange lines that carved into him like a dissection. Vivisection, if the screams that you'd heard through his memories were true. There were two prominent ones along his ribs that looked...particularly vulnerable. Then again, it could have been because he bulged strangely there.

He didn't look like your Eddie anymore. Maybe it was because he wasn't.

Well, he was...all of him was. All of him...belonged to your heart. Or, more accurately, your heart belonged to all of him. Been through Hell, and survived.

You'd always thought--and you'd told him once and he'd laughed in your face--that he looked like one of the statues that you loved at your favorite cemetery back home. Carefully carved through time and patience, flaws intentional, but made to be witnessed and celebrated and have people kneel before them.

Yes he made a cocksucking joke.

Now though...he was like stained glass in the chapel. Overall whole, one beautiful piece of art that was made to let the resplendent light shine through. But so obviously complex, evidenced by the thousands of little pieces that made it up. Each one so important to the greater whole.

Different, but still beautiful.

Eddie finally noticed the state of you and he paused; you could feel the waves of doubt come off him as he looked down at himself in shame.

"I'm sorry, I should have wa--"

"No," you closed the distance between you. "Stop. It's...I just...I..."

"It's horrible," he told you. "And there's so much more that you...that you don't know."

"It isn't horrible," you replied. "We have plenty of time; all the time in the world. I'll find out the rest eventually, Eddie. But no matter what...I love you."

His eyes shifted between yours, that unsettling red tinge still there but made less intense by his feast; you knew he was looking to see if you were lying to him.

You hoped he knew that you could never lie to him. Especially about something like that.

If there was something that didn't change about Eddie, it was his smile. Sure his teeth might have been comprised of fangs, and his cheeks stretched in a slightly tense way...but the way his eyes crinkled, the way--even in the darkness--he seemed to light up from the inside. That would always stay the same.

You pulled him to you and kissed him again, soft and full of intense devotion. His hands found you and he guided you back down to the mattress, sweeping away the extra blankets and pillows and remnants of previous carnage, and he settled onto you.

Into you.

He guided himself to your center and with one last glance to make sure you wanted this--you always would, always--he slid into you, and found himself where he truly belonged.

Home. With you.

One hand held him above you and the other roamed, caressing over the slopes and curves of your body, running over your cheek and over your heart for a moment, until it settled at the crux where your bodies met. Your hands searched him as well, determined to commit all of his scars to memory--if not tonight, then one day--when they finally landed on a set of scars along his shoulder blades. Thick and deep, he closed his eyes and you could feel his body twitch with pleasure as you lavished them with attention, your delicate touch dancing over the raised skin.

His pace quickened and he grit his teeth; his fingers danced over your clit to carry you to the peaks of pleasure, caressing your cunt worshipfully as you caressed him within.

As you accepted him--all of him--over and over.

It was a marathon that tested your stamina and willpower but neither of you would let up or stop; you needed this. You both needed this, together; finally with each other.

You could feel it rising within you, your limbs tingled and you began to see stars. You refused to close your eyes, even as Eddie got desperate and ducked his head into your shoulder, hips stuttering as they chased his release, fingers relentless as they chased yours.

You couldn't blame him when he bit your throat, when his fangs slid through the already-abused flesh as you inevitably came. You couldn't be too sure that you didn't pull him into you yourself. The bite, the sting, and the pull of your blood took your rapture to an intensity you'd never experienced before.

You saw the strings of fate, floating around him in that moment, connecting him to you; sparkling lines that shifted and tangled over his skin and onto yours. It was blinding and brilliant, and it made you finally close your eyes to bask in it all.

There was some old story, that humans used to have 4 arms, 4 legs and two heads. And some God thought them too powerful, so They demanded them split for the rest of eternity; those humans spent the rest of their days searching...searching for their other half until they could be one again.

And as Eddie's hips stuttered into yours, as he lost his stamina and finally spilled his release inside of you, as he finally made you his--fully and completely for the first time in what felt like an eternity--that search was finally complete.

“I love you. Even if the Fates unraveled our destiny, I would find a way back to you.”  - Scarlett St. Clair, A Touch of Ruin

Next Chapter: Revelation