#this show is just comforting in the way murder she wrote is for me

[maybe-boys-do-love]

PAT GOT SHOT AGAIN!!!

[pathologicalreid]

buried alive | S.R.

in which the BAU races against the clock to rescue you from a killer team

who? spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

category: angsty

content warnings: kidnapping, case stuff (murder yk), suffocation, being buried alive, hospitals, blood, nausea, CPR, funerals, use of pet names, guns, and drugs. i think that's all.

word count: 2.9k

a/n: okay, so i've been reading so much spencer fanfic and i started writing it and yesterday i realized i have 20 fics written and they're doing no one any good just sitting on my computer. i decided to finally try posting one. i wrote fanfic in high school (so like seven years ago) but this is my first time writing for a TV show. i've also never really posted on tumblr so please bear with me while i try to figure out formatting. tysm for checking out my post.

part two part three

You walked into the conference room and dropped the file on the table, allowing it to land on the wood with a satisfying splat. “The unsub’s burying them alive,” you said, letting the rest of the team know the conclusion you had come to with the medical examiner. “The M.E. found metal shavings and satin threads under the nails of our last victim. The most common materials to make up a casket.”

“There’s no way someone could bury someone alive in a casket alone, we’ve got to be dealing with a team, at least three people,” Emily concluded, standing in front of the evidence board.

It was the team’s third day on a case in Nebraska, four women had been discovered dead. Asphyxiation by hypoxia. Carbon dioxide poisoning.

“Approximately 420 people in the United States die from accidental carbon dioxide poisoning every year,” Spencer said, grabbing the file off of the table and flipping through it, taking a few seconds to read through it.

Rossi looked over Reid’s shoulder to look at the file, “but there’s nothing accidental about these deaths. Who would have access to these caskets?”

You shook your head, placing a hand on the back of Spencer’s chair, “A funeral director seems most likely.” You looked around at the Omaha field office, different agents running about in an attempt to solve these very murders. “They’d have the most access, write it off as displays. It could be hard to match the materials since they’re so common.”

Hotch leaned over the table and pressed the conference phone, “What can I do you for?” Garcia’s bright voice rang through the speaker.

“Garcia, I need you to look into funeral homes within the comfort zone. Look for a director who’s ordered more caskets than they’ve had funerals. Find anything, nothing is too small.” He told her.

“Absolutely, I’ll hit you back when I’ve got something,” she said, hanging up the phone.

There ended up being four funeral homes in the unsub’s comfort zone, so the team split up. You went with two locals to a family-owned business, Garcia had sent you all of the files you’d need on the location. “It looks like the Varn family has been in the funeral business since the seventeenth century,” you read aloud to the two agents you were in the car with.

“Does it mean they’re more or less likely to be the killers if they’ve been in business for so long?” One of the agents asked you, a younger man named Harrison.

You pursed your lips as you continued to look over the files, “I’m not seeing any glaringly obvious stressors before the murders started, but over the years I’ve learned that’s no reason to write someone off. Psychopaths can be tipped off by the slightest thing. Things none of us would bat an eye at.”

Harrison nodded in the passenger seat, looking over to his partner Jimmy, “You and your guy sure do make an interesting pair.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment, so thank you.” You and Spencer never explicitly stated to the field office that you were dating, but you walked into the precinct this morning holding hands. The agents must have drawn their own conclusions.

The younger officer cleared his throat, “It is a compliment, ma’am. The two of you are very impressive, your whole team is.”

You smiled, “Thank you, Harrison.”

The funeral home was run by a mother and her two sons, you held up your credentials for the mother when you knocked on the door. “Are you Sheila Varn?” You asked her, raising your eyebrows.

“Yes, what’s this about?” She inquired. She didn’t really look the part of a serial killer, a middle-aged woman who was running her family business.

Pocketing your credentials, you spoke, “We’re investigating the recent murders in the area and we were wondering if you had samples of the materials your caskets are made out of. Might we be able to come in?” You asked, adding a charming smile for effect.

Something flashed across her face before she returned your smile, opening the door and welcoming the three of you inside. “Hold on, let me get my boys up here. They’re so much more versed in the goings on of the town than I am,” she said, opening the door and calling for her sons. Felix and Joss came up the stairs from the basement, now they definitely had the physique to load dead women into caskets and bury them alive.

“Why don’t you two men come with me? I’ll get you those samples,” Sheila said, motioning for the agents you were with to follow her. To your horror, they followed her around the corner. “Felix, Joss, show this young lady what you know,” she instructed.

You took a deep breath before you looked up at the two men.

They were tall, maybe Spencer’s height, but they were built like wrestlers. There was no way you could physically subdue them on your own.

You passed out before you even had the chance to pull your gun.

Hotch was in full Unit Chief mode, Spencer watched from the corner of the room as he separated people into groups and gave them specific instructions. JJ and Morgan walked into the precinct, “What’s going on?” JJ asked looking around the room.

“The Varn Family is the team; two agents were found drugged on the side of the road and when we went to the funeral home Y/N was missing. Her badge, gun, and phone were all there, covered in blood,” Spencer said morosely, watching as Hotch finished giving orders and called the rest of the team over.

Your picture was up on the evidence board with the word “missing” written in bold letters beneath it. All of your belongings had been put into evidence for the time being. “Reid?” Hotch said his name, causing his head to snap up. “Are you okay to keep working?”

Spencer nodded affirmatively, “Yes.”

“Good, I need you to estimate how much time we have, I want a clock on these screens,” he ordered.

Morgan turned to Reid, “What do you think she has, kid?”

“The tidal volume for the average adult is point five at rest. That ends up being about six liters per minute. The average casket is approximately 886 liters in total volume and the average volume of the human body is 66 liters, leaving 820 liters to be filled with air for her to breathe. If she’s been gone for half an hour already, I’d estimate she has less than five hours of breathable air left.” Spencer explained, doing all of the math in his head while Emily put a timer on the screen next to the evidence board.

After a moment, Hotch continued, “Rossi, JJ, go back to the funeral home. Tear it apart, there has to be something there we haven’t found yet. The rest of us will split the list of cemeteries in the comfort zone and search them.”

“That’s a lot of ground to cover, we don’t have anything else to go on?” Morgan asked, looking at the list of burial sites he had been handed.

Hotch looked at Spencer, but Spencer stayed silent. “That’s all we have right now,” Hotch responded, “hopefully we’ll come across leads as we go.”

It smelled like a garden around you. The memory reminded you of spring with your mother, tending to the vegetable garden.

The only difference was that instead of the sun beaming down on you, it was pitch black. The space surrounding you was so dark that you weren’t totally sure your eyes were open.

Your head was throbbing just above your right temple, and you observed your surroundings. Slowly, you lifted your arm until it hit a ceiling.

Not a ceiling. A lid. You were in a casket. You pressed one hand to your chest and tried to slow your breathing. Chances were that the casket was already buried beneath the surface of the earth, trying to open it could be catastrophic. You patted the pockets of your jeans, only to find your phone missing, so the team wouldn’t be able to trace the location.

Even if you had it, there likely wouldn’t be service six feet under.

Your team would find you. They had to find you.

They found Spencer, they found Emily, and they would find you.

Spencer shifted in the passenger seat of the SUV, “You know, carbon dioxide poisoning is a rather peaceful way to die.”

“Reid,” Morgan said, turning the vehicle onto the main road, they had just finished scouring over another cemetery with still no sign of you.

He sighed and stared at his hands, “No, it’s good. We see so many people killed in so many different ways that it’s good that she won’t be in pain when she runs out of air.” He tried to convince himself.

Morgan cleared his throat, “We aren’t out of time yet, kid. We can still find her. Y/N’s smart, I’m sure she found a way to make more air or something.”

But they were running out of time, less than an hour remained on the timer set on all of their phones.

They pulled into the next cemetery, “There’s some fresh dirt over there, what are the names on the graves of people who were actually recently buried?”

Spencer starts to recite the names, and the two of them start to comb through the cemetery.

You had done enough research on this case to understand what was going on. The light-headed feeling had started not long ago, but now you felt like you were spinning, despite the knowledge that you were stuck in place.

It was a high. Not unlike the good kids high. Except instead of trying to chase a feeling, you were dying.

The timer went off when they were still scouring graves, shovels in hand. Derek stopped in his tracks, but Spencer kept going.

“Wait,” Spencer called out, reading the name on the card next to the fresh grave he was standing at, he moved to start digging. “Essie Dunbar was a thirty-year-old woman who was mistakenly buried alive in 1915,” he said, digging. “This has to be it.”

Derek called Hotch, putting the call on speakerphone so he could help Spencer dig. “Hotch, we got her, but she’s buried.”

“We’re on our way, Omaha police have one of the brothers in custody,” Hotch told Emily to have an ambulance dispatched.

What Reid knew that Derek didn’t was that it could take four hours to dig a grave by hand. The soil had been overturned, so maybe call it three. Your odds were still negligible. He didn’t stop, he didn’t stop when a caretaker came running at them, and he didn’t stop when Derek told him to get his digging equipment out here now.

Derek flashed his FBI badge to get what they needed. He had to physically pull Spencer back from the grave so the backhoe could dig, only going until there was less than a foot between them and the casket.

Spencer crudely attached a chain to the casket and the caretaker's vehicle. Carefully, the caretaker dragged the white container out of the earth and up a slant they had dug. It was locked shut, “Reid, move,” Derek ordered.

He leaned back and Derek fired at the lock, taking it off and opening the casket. Spencer gasped, there was blood on the side of your head, dried and raked through your hair. He was vaguely aware of Hotch and Emily arriving as they pulled you out of your satin prison. You had no pulse, but you were still warm. Immediately, Spencer started CPR.

“Reid let me do it,” Derek insisted.

What he was trying to say is that he shouldn’t have to be the one to try to save your life.

Morgan repeated himself and Spencer pulled away, allowing the other agent to immediately take over. There was a siren in the background, an ambulance. More people showed up, Spencer heard their voices, but he just kept watching you. CPR was effective if it was done shortly after your heart stopped, and even then, permanent brain damage was likely.

It had been eight minutes since they pulled you out of the ground. Clinically, you were dead for eight minutes before you gasped.

Spencer smoothed your hair back, away from your face, while you desperately tried to catch your breath. You weren’t moving, and Spencer started running through symptoms of hypoxia. His biggest fear was brain damage, that they had done more harm to you in bringing you back than they would have had you died.

The EMTs came running over to where everyone had gathered, dispersing the crowd, and placing an oxygen mask over your face. As they were loading you on the stretcher, you started trying to talk, reaching your arm out to your side. “Wait, what’s she saying?” JJ asked.

“Sometimes it’s hard to talk after CPR,” the male EMT said as they moved you closer to the ambulance. He listened to what you were saying, “It’s not coherent.”

Spencer didn’t move, all of the adrenaline that had been coursing through his body all day was leaving.

Aphasia. They were saying the lack of oxygen to your brain was causing aphasia. “No,” Emily said, realization dawning on her features as she strained to listen to you. You were whispering, rasping the same word over and over again. “She’s saying ‘Spence.’”

He stood quickly and looked at you, sure enough, you were reaching out your hand and whispering, “Spence, Spence.” Your voice no more than a whisper.

Grabbing your hand, Spencer squeezed it, “I’m here,” he answered. “It’s okay, it’s over,” he told you, moving your hair out of your face. Spencer secured your oxygen mask over your face as you tried to take it off, “You have to keep this on, angel.”

To his relief, you squeezed his hand back.

You had been instructed to get some rest, but you couldn’t close your eyes. You asked Spencer to go back to the hotel and change his clothes because he smelled like dirt, and it made you nauseous. Your head had been bandaged, you’d been run through an MRI, and you did an EEG, so far, the only brain damage that had been incurred seemed temporary.

According to the doctors, the nausea and fatigue should wear off, but they hadn’t been able to fully assess if any permanent damage was done. At this point, the worst of your injuries had been caused by being given CPR, resulting in cracked ribs.

Despite your headache, you kept most of the lights on in your hospital room, not quite ready to be left in the darkness again. “Hey,” a voice called from your doorway, Spencer stood, waiting to be invited in. He was wearing different clothes, a button-up with a green cardigan thrown over it, and clean pants. “How are you feeling?”

A nasal cannula slightly restricted your movement, but you were sat up in the hospital bed, “Better than I was, but not perfect.”

He shook his head, walking in and taking a seat next to you, “No one expects you to be perfect right now.” Gently, he reached out and took your hand, skimming the pad of his thumb over your knuckles. “They found the mother and the other son, and all three of them are going to go away for a long time,” he told you, speaking in the kind of hushed, reverent tones that are reserved for hospitals.

You sighed and tilted your head back, “Good,” you maundered. “That’s uh, good,” your voice was barely audible.

“So why do you look so worried?” He asked, leaning in closer to you.

In an attempt to dismiss his concern, you joked, “I think I owe Morgan some sort of life debt now.”

Spencer offered you a soft smile, “The two of you tend to trade those off, I’m sure you’ll find some way to make it up to him.” He inclined his head towards you as if to silently say, So what is it really?

You swallowed thickly, “I’m scared to close my eyes, Spence.”

His shoulders dropped, “oh, Angel,” he breathed. “Is there anything I can do for you?” He asked, looping a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “Wait, what are you doing?” He asked, watching you as you lifted yourself, so you were on one side of the bed.

Shyly, you patted the new empty half of the bed, inviting him to sit next to you.

He had no choice but to comply, he had the hardest time saying no to you. Leaning the bed back slightly, Spencer kicked off his shoes before he laid down next to you, wrapping an arm around you as you set your cheek on his shoulder.

Your body relaxed into his and you sighed, “Spence?” You murmured.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, “Yes, angel?” He whispered back to you.

“Thanks for coming to save me,” you mumbled, slowly relaxing enough to fall asleep.

Spencer exhaled, “I’m always going to come to save you.”

part two

[andvys]

Dancing with our hands tied | S.H.

Chapter four ⭐︎ Every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness

Warnings: angst, mentions of death, mentions of loss, allusions to depression, fear of loss, hurt/comfort. reader calls her sister 'twinkie', mentions of abuse, mentions of sex

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: As Steve shows up on your doorsteps with an apology, you let him see more of just the you he already knows

Word count: 7.6k+

Author's note: shoutout to my co-writer (shut up, you wrote the dialogues and ideas with me, don't say anything) @hellfire--cult

Series Masterlist ⭐︎ Previous Chapter ⭐︎ Next Chapter

♡

Breathe in. Breathe out.

His heart was pounding, his body was shaking, his eyes wide, blinking rapidly as he stared at the same exact spot. The dried blood on his hands was starting to make him feel sick. It was Eddie’s blood. He hadn’t cleaned it off yet, he was still in shock, still in pain after what they had all gone through. 

Eddie made it, he was going to be okay, his injuries were bad and he was losing blood, a lot of blood, but he would be okay. And yet, Steve had felt anything but it. 

He almost lost a friend, he almost lost Max, he almost lost… you. 

He was sitting down beside you, though he couldn’t bring himself to look up and face you. You looked so… dead. Your skin lost its color, and the bandage around your head was new, yet there was a blood stain already. The machines were beeping beside you, it was the only sound in the room. 

And then the door opened, only then did he lift his head to look up, expecting it to be your parents or maybe your sister but it was only Nancy. A cup of coffee from the machine outside in her hand, a sad look still resting on her features. 

“Hey,” she whispered as she walked towards him, handing him the cup, “here, I didn’t know what you liked so I just got you a regular coffee.”

They’d been together for over a year and she couldn’t even remember what he liked. Should he even be surprised? No. A small thing like this still managed to hurt him. 

“Thanks, Nance,” he mumbled as he tried to give her a smile. He reached for the cup, ignoring the way it felt when his fingers brushed hers, how his heart had fluttered despite her rejection only a few hours back. 

She cleared her throat and looked away, sitting down at the end of the bed, she looked at you. 

He took a sip of the hot coffee as he leaned back in the chair, he avoided looking at you still, instead he kept his focus on her, the way he always did. There was disbelief, anger and sadness flashing in her eyes as she stared at you. 

“I can’t believe that Jason did that to her,” she whispered, “I knew I saw something in his eyes, I just didn’t think that he was this violent.” 

Steve nodded. 

He too was still in disbelief. 

You survived the night in the upside down, you fought off bats, didn’t even bat an eye when one of them got you good, but Jason, you almost didn’t survive him. And Steve felt so much rage as he sat there and thought of the guy that almost murdered you. 

“Yeah, me neither.”

There are monsters in different dimensions, in dark worlds, ones that do not know of a different way of living, they exist to kill because it is in their nature. But sometimes there are worse monsters, ones that hide behind kind eyes, ones that are raised into a world that should be more humane but because of them, it never will be. This world will always be just as dark as all the other ones that exist in secret. Jason was one of the monsters that got to you. 

This world is a hell just like the ones he and his friends had been dragged into but there’s still kindness left, peace and order. Though, Steve couldn’t help but wonder what this world would have turned into if Vecna had won. 

He would have brought endless war and chaos on this planet and people would have followed, they would have turned against each other so quickly. Everything would have crumbled into pieces. 

Shivers ran down his spine as he thought of what could’ve happened had they not stopped him. You were a part of it all, you helped in stopping him, had you not been at the Creel house, things could’ve gone sideways so easily. 

“Hey,” Steve whispered, clearing his throat. “Thank you… You know, for jumping into the water and saving my ass back there.”

Nancy furrowed her brows, a soft laugh fell from her lips, she looked away from you and turned to face him, shaking her head a little. 

“Everyone did.. And, she did first. She jumped first on the boat and she jumped first into the water, then I followed, then Robin and then Eddie.” 

His eyes widened, flashed with confusion as he tilted his head at her. 

“Huh? Who jumped first?” 

Nancy’s blue eyes were filled with confusion, her bangs fell in front of her eyes as she turned back to you, saying your name. 

You were the first to jump. 

You were the one to go after him first. 

You wanted to save him. 

How could he throw such horrible words at you after what you had done for him? After risking your life to save him? 

He wouldn’t even be able to begin to describe the guilt that kept him up all night. He wanted nothing more than to drive over to your place and apologize, even if he would have to drop to his knees, he would. 

But Max had told him that it was better to wait, to give you the time that you need, so that’s what he did. But he was going crazy, the guilt and the regret were eating at him, making him feel worse and worse with each passing second. 

Going to work that day had been torture as well, he was nervous and restless, he kept bouncing his knee and tapping his pen against the unmarked crossword in front of him. His mind was forcing him to think of you, of the look in your eyes, of the tears and the hurt. He felt so awful, he felt like King Steve again and he is someone he despises, just the way he despises himself, right this second. 

Robin told him to leave before he could even finish his shift, knowing that all he wanted was to set things straight, to make things right with you. 

And here he is now, standing on your porch with a racing heart and sweaty palms. 

He doesn’t know how you will react to seeing him here, but knowing you, he is certain that you will slam the door in his face – he’d deserve it. 

He rang the doorbell once before, but you didn’t open it. He wonders if you saw his car in your driveway already. He rings it again, hoping for you to open, hoping for you to give him a chance so he can… try, try to make it up to you. 

He tugs at his hair, feeling more and more stressed the longer it takes you to open. As he stands there, staring at the wooden door, he realizes that it’s only the second time that he stands here, on your porch, on the doorsteps of a big house, just as big as the one he lives in, if not bigger. The inside of your home is just as much of a mystery to him as you are. 

Steve knows nothing about you, absolutely nothing and he still opened his mouth and threw words at you that you didn’t deserve – even when you pushed him, even when you were being mean to him, you had never sunk so low just to hurt him, not once. 

After he got all this anger off his chest, you were no longer the girl he saw before, you were someone else, someone vulnerable, someone heartbroken and that hurt even more to think about. 

He gets pulled out of his thoughts when you finally open the door. He snaps his head up and his eyes meet yours for the first time that day. 

He had seen you in a bad state before, after your fight with Jason Carver, after the surgery that saved your life, you looked bad. Your skin was marked with bruises and scars, you had that traumatized look in your eyes that no one dared to even mention. You barely ate or talked for the first few days, whether it was because of the surgery or the trauma that Carver had left you with, you were in a bad, bad state. 

But he had never seen you like this before. 

Not even the sadness from last night was this strong as the one in your eyes now. They are glassy, a mix of anger and hurt swirling in them. Your lips are puffy just like your eyes, from all the crying. Your hair is messy, a big hoodie that doesn’t even seem to belong to you hanging loosely on your form. 

Another pang of guilt hits him at the sight of you. 

You stare at each other for a long moment before you try to slam the door shut again, but he jumps forward, pressing his palm against it, “Blondie, please! I just want to talk!” 

He hears your sniffle, like you’re trying not to cry again. You stop pushing against the door but you don’t pull away either, you don’t let him see you. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he hears you say. 

“I-I just want to apologize, I was an asshole to you and you didn’t deserve it. I messed up.. fuck..” He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling desperate to fix this between you two, “I’m sorry, I’m really fucking sorry, Blondie.” 

“Y-You’re forgiven, now please leave..”

The weakness in your voice makes him feel like the worst person alive, knowing that he is the cause of your suffering, right now. 

How did you feel last night? 

“No,” he begs, shaking his head as though you could see him, “please just let me in, I-I want to talk to you, I want to fix it, please let me fix it.” 

You are silent on the other side of the door, you don’t move, you don’t speak. You hesitate. And it feels like forever that he stands here with a pounding heart, willing you to open the door and let him see you, talk to you. 

Without a word, you open the door and you step aside, crossing your arms over your chest. 

He swallows the lump in his throat, blinking as he takes in the sight of you, once again. 

You stare at him with both impatience and annoyance now, wanting to get this over with quickly, while he wants time – time with you. 

He had never felt such desperation before, especially now that he sees you. 

“There’s nothing to fix, it’s okay, you told me what you–”

He says your name, and he says it so desperately that it shuts you up. 

“I won’t leave until I can properly apologize to you.” 

You blink, your upper lip twitches and you take a moment, staring at him for what feels like forever until you nod. 

“Fine..”

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. 

He takes a deep breath before he steps inside the house he has never been in before, he closes the door behind him and he can’t help but look around, taking in the sight of the big hallway, the wide stairs are on the right side, pictures hang on the wall all the way up to the second floor, there is one that is slightly bigger than the others, and even from afar, he recognizes you – you are no older than twelve in that picture, you wore a wide smile on your face, pigtails that were tied with pink bows at the end, you were wearing a dress and you looked happy in a way he had never seen before. Your big sister was next to you, holding your hand as your parents stood behind you both, the smiles were genuine, even on their faces. 

Only as he stares at the picture, does he realize that he has never actually seen your parents before. 

“Are your parents home?” He asks without looking at you, still questioning 

You hesitate. 

“No… I uh, do you want something to drink?” You ask awkwardly, not knowing what else to say or do.

Steve is too busy staring at the picture, trying to remember your parents, wondering why they didn’t come to visit you at the hospital, only your sister came to see you.

When he looks down at you, away from the picture of the girl that once looked so happy, he now sees a broken one, for the first time, he sees past those glares and cold looks. 

He runs his fingers through his hair. 

“I-I’m sorry… I’m really sorry about all the awful shit I said to you last night, I was angry a-and I let it out on you and you did not deserve this, you really didn’t deserve any of the words I threw at you.” 

You blink, and you press your lips together just like you did before, just like you did last night. 

“It’s okay–”

“No, I said things that I had no clue about and I never wanna do that again. I just, I want to understand you.. I want to get to know you because.. fuck, I’m realizing how much I’m hurting you.”

Your eyes soften and you genuinely look surprised at his words, eyeing him as you stay silent. 

You don’t blame him, he’s not at fault, not entirely. He knows nothing about you or your life, so how could he know that those words would cause so much damage? 

You carry guilt, just like he does. 

You both kept throwing knives at each other, hitting one target after the other but you were both blindfolded to the pain you were causing to each other. 

You shift, pulling at the sleeves of the sweater you are wearing, you close your eyes for one second, taking a deep breath, before you open them again and look up at Steve. 

“What do you want to know?” You ask, surprising him with your words. 

He expected you to be more stubborn than this, but you seem willing to let him get to know you, the real you. 

“Anything you want to give me really.. so… I just want to stop hurting you without me realizing it… I don’t… I need to stop hurting you, Blondie.”

You look at him, really look at him, and you notice that he looks just as bad as you do. His hair is messy – a very unusual sight for him. He has dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept all night and his eyes are filled with guilt.

With a sigh, you tilt your head into the direction of the living room, motioning him to follow. You turn on the lamp on the dresser, making the room appear lighter, it’s gloomy outside and the rain has been falling all morning, it only just stopped. 

“Sit,” you mumble, pointing to the couch, “wait here.” 

He nods at you and sits down, he watches you leave the room again and listens to your footsteps as you make your way upstairs. He looks around, there are fewer pictures around here, though still enough for him to get curious about your parents again. There’s a bouquet of fresh flowers on the small table in front of him – Daisies. A throw blanket lays on the other end of the couch, an open book next to it, were you reading when he got here?

It doesn’t take you long to come back into the room. 

Steve’s brows furrow a little when he sees the shoebox in your hand, you place it in front of him and take a deep breath as you look into his eyes, pointing to the box. 

“Here’s everything you need to know about me.”

His lips part at your words. 

“You can look, I’ll tell you anything you want to know and then we can… move past all of this and go back to the way things were before yesterday.” 

He blinks, noticing how your shoulders slumped a little, you don’t want to go back to the way things were, and neither does he. He enjoys the bickering but not when it means that he is hurting you. 

You break eye contact, and turn around, “I’m gonna get us something to drink, feel free to look..” 

And with that, you leave again and Steve, he stares at the box for a while, feeling like he is about to intrude, despite you telling him to open it, to look inside, he still feels like he is intruding. But his curiosity gets the best of him, he removes the lid carefully and puts it down on the table. 

Polaroid Pictures. 

So many of them. The box is filled, all the way up to the top with pictures of friends and family. The first one that catches his eye is the one of you and Max. He reaches for it, bringing it closer. You are both smiling into the camera, Max is wearing her red sunglasses and you are wearing your heart shaped ones, an ice cream cone in her hand and a can of diet pepsi in yours – he can’t help but smile as he stares at it, you looked so happy. 

The date was written under the picture, with a pink sharpie: May 7th 1985. 

He places the picture down, reaching for the next one. 

This one doesn’t have you on it, only your sister, with a black cat on her lap – Luna, the cat’s name was Luna, he overheard you talking about her to Max. And your sister, he doesn’t remember her actual name, only the nickname you called her when she came to see you at the hospital; Twinkie. He almost laughed at that, the first time he heard it.

The next one is one of you and your dad at the beach, he recognizes him from the picture in the hallway. Both of you were holding surfboards. Your eyes shone with happiness, a bright grin on your face, your dad’s arm was wrapped around your shoulder. In this picture, you looked even happier than in the one from last year. – This one was taken in the summer of 1981, you were only fourteen. 

He flinches a little when you place a soda can in front of him, “here, I found some coke in the fridge, figured you’d prefer that.” 

He raises his brows and then looks at the pepsi you’re holding in your hand. 

“Oh, thanks,” he mumbles, trying to smile. 

You nod at him as you sit down beside him, looking at the picture that he’s holding. 

“We spent the summer in California, my parents had a summer house in Monterey.” 

“Had?”

You nod. 

“Yeah,” you whisper as sadness takes over your features, a sadness he hadn’t seen before. It’s not the kind that he had seen last night. It’s one that reminds him of grief, like the one on Max’s face when she mentions Billy. 

Oh no. 

“My sister sold it last year, I asked her not to but.. for some reason that house gave her more painful memories than this one,” you say as you gesture to the room you sit in, you lean forward, placing your drink on the table as you reach for a picture in the box, “that was.. that was two weeks before they uh.. got into an accident.” 

You hand him a picture but he can’t look at it yet, too busy staring at you and at the way you try to hide the tears in your eyes. 

Steve’s heart aches in his chest, the guilt eating at him like never before. 

“I-I’m so sorry, Blondie,” he whispers as he slowly looks down at the picture, at your parents who both smiled into the camera. That one was also taken in the summer of 1981.

Steve started to feel a little sick as the seconds went by, at each picture that he looked at.

“Twinkie and I took the flight back with our grandparents, we wanted to spend one more week with them in Indianapolis before going back to Hawkins, we didn’t know that this would be the last time we’d ever see them.” 

His heart no longer aches at your words, it breaks for you. He didn’t know this, he never knew anything about you. You lost your parents when you were so young, right before your first year in high school. 

Now he understands why you had always looked so.. lost. 

Why you had been so rude and unapproachable. You pushed people away while you were grieving, you didn’t want anyone to see.

He doesn’t know what to say, no words will give you the comfort that you still clearly need. 

“I-I never knew.”

You chuckle as you look at him, still blinking away those tears, “I didn’t want anyone to know, especially not when it just happened.”

“Why not?”

“I’d forever be the girl that lost her parents, and honestly, I’d rather have the whole school hate me than give me pitiful looks.”

“Of course,” he mumbles, shaking his head at you. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” he shrugs, running his fingers through his messy hair after he puts the picture down, “you’re just so… I don’t know, it’s just.. classic you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, not with anger in your voice but with curiosity. 

“Well, you’d rather have the whole world hate you than let them see you vulnerable.” 

You shake your head at him and his eyes meet yours as he turns back. There is that look in your eyes, the one that reminds him that he doesn’t know anything about you. 

“I let some see.” 

Right. Some. 

He nods and looks away. 

He’s surely not one of those that you let see.

When he reaches for the next picture, he freezes, staring at the two little girls with wide eyes. It’s not hard to figure out who the one next to you is. Strawberry blonde hair, the two front teeth way too big for the small face, she was wearing a cheerleader costume – not knowing that she would’ve become cheer captain years later. Chrissy Cunningham. 

The girl next to you was Chrissy, you were hugging each other from the side, giggling. 

He looks at you, you were wearing a fairy costume, green and pink colors on the dress, and your smile was big. You looked happy. 

He shakes his head a little, not understanding what he sees in front of him. 

He had never seen you and Chrissy around each other, not even once. In fact, he rarely ever saw you around anyone for that matter. Sometimes he saw you talking to Jonathan, something that gave him more of a reason to dislike you back then, he’d throw the word ‘freaks’ at the two of you whenever he passed by you. The memories of that fill him with guilt and regret, he always wishes that he could turn back time and change things, change the way he acted. 

But he never ever saw you even talking to Chrissy.

He slowly turns to face you, holding up the polaroid, “y-you and Chrissy knew each other?”

You only glance at the picture before you look down, “yeah, we were childhood best friends, we grew apart but… we still kept in touch. She’d stay over sometimes.” you explain, not meeting his eyes.

You lost your parents. You lost a friend. 

His words from last night echo in his mind and the guilt crashes over him, harder than before. 

No words appear before him, what can he say that will make you feel better in the slightest? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

But the monsters have gotten to her without her knowing about them.

That’s what Max had told him. Now he understands. Even more so, when a different picture catches his eye, one that shocks him even more than the previous one. 

Only this time, he doesn’t just freeze, he feels a shiver running down his spine and his chest feels weird, all of a sudden. Because the guy in the picture isn’t someone he ever expected you around with. 

He takes it, between his thumb and his forefinger, bringing it closer with a shaky hand. He blinks, like he can’t believe what he is seeing, but it’s real, it’s so very real. No amount of blinking will transform the guy into someone else. It’s unmistakably Billy Hargrove in your collection of polaroids, a collection that reminds you of the people you loved. The box of memories that is frozen in time. 

Billy is sitting on the hood of his car, a cigarette held between his fingers as he snickered at the camera. It was taken back in 1984. 

You were friends with Billy Hargrove? 

He can’t even utter a single word, just reaching for the next picture which is just another one of him. 

Billy was lying on the grass, probably in your backyard, his eyes were barely open but he was smiling into the camera, with a thumbs up in the air. It’s clear that he was drunk when you took that picture. 

He feels your eyes on him, he notices you shifting on the couch as you lean back, still looking at him. He doesn’t turn to face you, not yet. Too curious to find more pictures of Billy, he doesn’t expect the next ones to be more intimate than the ones before. 

He stares at the one of you first, it looks as though you have cried, but you are smiling, and the only thing that covered your body was a blanket, while pushing the camera out of your face. 

And for a moment, Steve can’t help but think how beautiful you look in this picture with your hair all messy, your exposed skin looking so soft and glowy beneath dim lights, and a smile so content. 

But the picture of Billy makes him frown. He was sitting on your bed, shirtless and with a cigarette between his lips, his eyes were red but he was smiling just like you were. 

It’s obvious what happened before these pictures were taken and he can’t shake the weird feeling in his gut, the longer he looks at them. 

Were you and Billy dating? 

Is that why you have been so miserable since last summer? Because he was just another name on the list of people you have lost?

As though you can read his mind, you lean closer to him, reaching for the first picture you ever took of him, the one where he sits on the hood of his car. 

“I ran into Billy at Big Buy’s, well, behind the building. He was smoking a cigarette and he was crying. I hadn’t seen him before, it was the weekend before school started again. I approached him and he obviously tried to scare me off, but… fucker didn’t know who he was talking to,” you chuckle. “He was being rude, like really rude, calling me names and trying to get me to leave, I stepped on his foot and he yelped, literally yelped. I left after that but uh, after that, we just started pestering each other at school and then one day, he showed up here, with a bleeding nose and a busted lip, he didn’t know where else to go.”

Steve watches you, the way your eyes are filled with sadness as you look at the pictures in front of you. 

“It took him a while but eventually, he opened up to me, about his dad and everything.”

He knows about Billy’s dad, about the abuse, the emotional and physical abuse. Max told him all about it. 

“So uh, then that happened,” you murmur, awkwardly, not meeting his eyes as you point to the pictures of the two of you only covered by the sheets. 

“Were you two dating?” He asks, and somehow he feels a knot in his stomach at that question. 

You scrunch your face up at his words, almost in a way that makes him laugh. You shake your head at him. 

“Fuck no. We weren’t even attracted to each other. I just, at that point we were close and I trusted him so uh.. I just wanted to do it with someone that I felt comfortable with and uh, the beer helped too, I guess,” you say with a small smile on your lips.

Steve turns away from you, biting the insides of his cheeks, the knot slowly undoing itself in his belly.

“We never mentioned it again after this, it wasn’t awkward or anything, we were just.. best friends.” 

There is no bitterness in your voice, he notices. You had no feelings for Billy, and that for some reason makes his shoulders relax.

He looks back at you when he feels your eyes on him, your smile has fallen.

“He came to my house… you know.. after he beat you up and he was drugged by Max.”

He raises his eyebrows, pursing his lips. 

“What?”

“I told him that it was wrong, what he did, that you did the right thing, that I told him time and time to lay off Max. Damn, I even slapped him across his head when he broke her skateboard.”

His eyes soften, and his lip twitches. 

“I-I was doing the right thing?”

“You protected Lucas. When I found out how he was treating him I got so mad at him, we got into a fight and I didn’t talk to him for days. I just hated what he did to him and to Max,” you mumble, breaking eye contact when the look in his eyes gets a little too intense for you. You also didn’t like what Billy did to Steve, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Billy he was.. driven by his father’s words and actions. The abuse turned him into that. He was vulnerable with me, but– the anger was still inside of him… bright red.”

As Steve looks back at the pictures, he realizes that he had never seen Billy like this, happy, smiling. He almost looks like a different person. Regret floods through him, he can’t help but wish that he would’ve gotten to know this side of Billy, the one that you knew, maybe things would’ve gone differently if he did, maybe Max wouldn’t have lost her brother. 

“I never saw Hargrove like this.”

“No one did,” you shrug, “only me, sometimes Max. I-I tried to change him and his dumb views but Billy was just.. stubborn and angry.” You shake your head, blinking away the tears that welled up in your eyes, you close them and tilt your head down. “A-And then he pushed me away when he.. when he was possessed.” 

Steve notices the way your voice got so much more shaky than before, how you seem to be on the verge of tears. 

“Max,” he whispers, now understanding why or who the reason was for your friendship. 

“Yeah… Max. We received letters, well, notes from Billy,” you mumble. 

He watches how you bring your hand up to your face, wiping away the tears with the sleeves before you reach for something in the box, a folded piece of paper that you hand to him. 

“He told me to stay away in mine, all messy, but he said that he didn’t hate me, that he could never..”

Steve doesn’t open the note, your words are enough, he doesn’t want to intrude more than he already did, he understands this enough. Billy pushed you away to keep you safe, and he did it with cruel words to keep you away, because he knew that that would work with you. 

Steve is at a loss for words.

“And Max, he called her his sister in hers. She didn’t read the note until a few weeks later though.”

Steve’s eyes widen, and it all clicks in his head. 

Why Max had been suffering as much as she did in those months after Billy’s death, why she seemed more depressed than ever when the summer was over. 

“Is that why you are so close with her? … For Billy?” 

“Yeah,” you whisper, nodding. “She’s like a sister to me, I’d do anything for her.”

And you did. You did and you almost gave your life protecting her. 

“And I almost lost her too.”

Just like everyone else you loved and cared about. 

Steve’s words did more damage than he thought they did, and they echo in his mind, over and over again. 

Don’t you ever ask yourself why you don’t have anyone? Why no one bothers to stick around because I’d be really surprised if someone did. 

The nausea that fills him almost overwhelms him, it almost knocks the breath out of him. He swallows harshly, and he starts to put the polaroids back into the box, blinking as he looks at each and every one of them again. 

His eyes linger on the one of you smiling, the one from the year before. When you found your happiness again when a new friend had stepped into your life. 

Steve couldn’t stand Billy Hargrove, he really couldn’t stand him, but his death was cruel and even he didn’t deserve what happened to him and you didn’t deserve to lose another person you cared about. 

You lost. You lost people, you lost family, you lost friends and you lost your spark, your happiness. And now he understands why you are the way that you are. Why you keep pushing everyone away, you’re scared to lose again, scared to get too close to someone only to watch them being taken away from you. 

As he stares at your smile, he can’t help but frown at the picture in his hand because he will never get to see this. He will never see you like this with him and in this moment, he can’t help but envy those who will. 

“You are right.” His voice sounds small, filled with regret, filled with sadness and hurt.

“Huh?”

“I don’t know what loss is. I– shit. I don’t know if I could have handled it like you did.”

You feel your eyes burning at his words and before you can even try to blink your tears away, one falls from your eye. 

Steve’s eyes soften when he hears your sniffle, he watches the tear roll down your cheek. He moves without thinking, raising his hand up to your face, he catches the tear with his thumb.  

You freeze and your lips part in surprise, his touch giving you butterflies despite what happened yesterday. 

His touch feels so foreign on your skin, yet comforting and warm, like something that you have been craving and longing for since always. You slowly turn to face him and only then, does he realize what he did. 

His cheeks flush red and his eyes fill with embarrassment, he clears his throat and pulls his hand away from your face, not knowing that this makes you feel empty again. 

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper, apologizing to him, for the first time. “Knowing that they’re alive yet still deciding to leave you behind.. that’s not easy either.”

He appreciates your words and his lip twitches, he shrugs, trying to play it off – The pain he always endured by himself and never voiced out, and he won’t start doing it now. It’s done with.

“I have the kids and Robin.”

“Right,” you whisper as you push yourself up, unable to sit here with him any longer, you reach for the box, ignoring the confused look that he gives you, “they take care of you.” 

He noticed the sarcastic tone at that last phrase, but he nodded either way. 

“Okay uh, time to go, Lego head. I need a shower.”

This time, he can’t help but smile at the nickname. 

“Okay, Blondie.”

You lead him back out into the hallway, avoiding the hazel eyes that fill your heart with nothing but sadness and longing. 

You feel your heart pounding, your eyes still burning as you feel yourself nearing the edge of yet another breakdown this day. 

“Hey,” Steve whispers, taking a hold of your arm he pulls you back so he can see your face again. 

“Yeah?” 

Your eyes show him so much and now he can’t help but wonder if these emotions have always been there and he was just too blind to see them or if you only showed them now. 

“I’m really sorry about everything,” he whispers. 

Your lips twitch, though not into a smile. 

“Me too, Steve.”

He keeps holding your arm, ignoring the wish to hold you instead. 

“Are we.. good?” 

His question makes you laugh and you squint your eyes. 

“When have we ever been good?”

He rolls his eyes, though he can’t help but smile. He brings his left hand up, running his fingers through his messy hair.

There is that look in his eyes, the one that shows you that he is thinking about something, deeply. 

“Do I still call you Blondie…?” He asks as he realizes that he had always called you by a name that must have taken you back to a time where you had felt the saddest, the loneliest. You were fifteen when you had bleached your hair and tried out new styles, all the time. He never knew that it was something that you needed to do, to distract yourself from the grief. You had no friends, no one to talk to, no one to be with. You only had that – box dye, makeup and new clothes every week. 

Oh. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, digging your nails into your palm. He knows. 

“I would be mad if you didn’t. It’s weird when you say my name, Harrington.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head a little.

“Yeah yeah, Blondie, keep acting like you don’t like it.”

You smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes and he can see it.”

“I guess we’re still Lego head and Blondie then, huh?” He asks, snorting. 

“Always.”

He licks his lips, nodding. 

“Always,” he chuckles as he lets go of you and walks towards the door, he opens it, but he doesn’t step out, right away. He looks back at you, one more time, “you know, I didn’t mean a single thing that I said to you, last night. And I’ll do anything for you to believe me. B-But, I think that you’re amazing and the people that had the chance to get to know you… the real you were really fucking lucky.” 

He leaves you with those words, closes the door and walks away from you. 

And you stare at the front door for what feels like forever before you finally break into tears. You were pushing away your pain and your sadness but the fight from last night, his presence and his words have made it all so much worse again. 

You bury your face in your hands as you sit down on the stairs, letting tears fall that you haven’t felt in ages but instead of relief, you feel frustration running through you. You didn’t miss this, you didn’t miss this for a single second. 

There is a knock on the front door and it fills you with annoyance when you expect it to be Steve again. 

Wiping your tears with anger, you rip open the door, expecting to see him again but instead it’s Max on your doorstep. Max and Eddie. 

You blink, looking between them, back and forth. 

Max’s blue eyes fill with worry as she looks into your glassy eyes. 

Eddie smiles at you, despite matching the look in her eyes. 

“Hey, you didn’t let me come in yesterday so I assumed that if I brought Red here you would let us in,” he says, still smiling cheekily. “We brought movies and got your favorite snacks,” he points to Max’s backpack.

You don’t know what comes over you, but the kind smile on his face, of the guy that has been trying desperately to be your friend, makes you want to continue crying. You don’t know how, but you keep your tears at bay.

You know that they can see that you were crying, but it brings you comfort to know that neither of them will push you to talk about anything. 

“Hey guys,” you try to put on your best smile as you greet them, you step aside without another word.

Eddie’s smile widens, he bumps his shoulder into Max. 

“Hey,” she smiles, still eying you worriedly, “are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod, placing your hand on her shoulder, “I’m okay.” 

She doesn’t look convinced but she doesn’t push you to talk, she doesn’t ask any more questions either. She just walks straight into the living room. 

“She feels at home, huh?” Eddie chuckles. 

“It’s basically her second home so yeah,” you laugh. 

His brown eyes take you in, his lips twitch but his smile doesn’t fall. He looks like he wants to say something but he doesn’t speak up. 

You both follow Max into the living room, expecting her to be unpacking the snacks but instead she stands there frozen in place as she stares at the box of polaroids.

Your eyes widen and in panic, you rush over to the coffee table, wanting to close the box. 

“S-Shit, I’m sorry–”

“No!” She grabs your hand before you reach for the lid. “I-It’s okay, I’m okay. A-Are you though?” She asks as she looks away from the pictures of Billy. 

Eddie looks between you two, furrowing his brows as he takes a step closer. He looks into the box and his eyes widen instantly. 

“Holy shit, is that–”

“Eddie don’t,” Max warns him.

You shake your head, “no.. no, it’s okay, Max.”

Eddie doesn’t even look at Max or you, he is staring at the picture of her brother, in shock. 

“I-I promise, it’s okay,” you mumble, pinching the bridge of your nose as you feel your heart starting to pound again, “I just.. I need some fresh air, I’ll be right back.” 

You leave the room, rushing out of the house. You sit down on the porch steps, taking a deep breath. The earthy smell that lingers after the rain comforts you a little. 

You knew you wouldn’t get more than a minute to yourself, because only moments later, the door opens. You know that it’s Eddie, you hear the flick of his lighter, and seconds later, the smell of smoke fills the air, mixing with the smell of the after rain. 

You hear his footsteps and then he sits down next to you. Without a word, he offers you the cigarette. You take it, placing it between your lips, you take a drag and blow out the smoke. 

Eddie doesn’t talk, he just wants you to know that he is here because he wants to be, he wants to be your friend but you don’t want to lose him too. 

“I lost a lot of people I cared about, Eddie.. Every single one of them, my parents, Chrissy, Billy.. I almost lost Max and you too,” You trail off, taking another drag before you hand him back the cigarette. “And I can’t lose any more people, Eds.”

He stares at you with his big sad eyes that you can’t bring yourself to look into for longer than two seconds. 

“I feel like I’m fucking cursed or something. Everything that I touch immediately rots. That’s why I just.. I keep pushing you away because I already lost a best friend.. so just please.” 

He sees the way you’re blinking, the way your hands are shaking just like your voice is. He knows what you’re asking of him and he only shakes his head in response, moving closer to you as he feels his own eyes burning. 

You’re his friend, a friend that he doesn’t want to lose either. 

“Nah.. It will take a whole swarm of demobats to rip me away from you. And even then, hey, I will still survive, already did once,” he tries to crack a joke but only makes you tear up even more. 

You finally turn to face him, looking into the kind eyes of your friend before your eyes move down to his neck, to the bandaid that covers his scar. 

“But–”

“No buts. You are not cursed. You are not responsible for anything that happened to those people. It’s okay to feel sad, it’s okay to hurt, it’s okay to love, Darling. Let yourself do it,” he says, smiling as he throws his cigarette on the pavement before he wraps his arms around you, bringing you closer, “and stop pushing me away, please.”

Your bottom lip trembles and the tears flow like a waterfall, you stop fighting it, you stop fighting him and you let him pull you into his arms, closing your eyes as you lay your head on his chest, letting yourself fall into the hug that you so desperately need. 

“Let it out, sweets.”

The soothing tone in his voice makes you cry even harder, your tears seep through his shirt but he doesn’t mind, he rubs your back and holds you. Your heart is crying, your brain is banging, your breaths are cut short thanks to your sobs, but it’s something you needed. And even through all of that, you are feeling so relieved, so light at each sob that rips out of your throat. 

And when you feel Max’s hand in yours, her head on your shoulder as Eddie still holds you, you know that everything will be okay, that you will be okay. You might not need anything else for now… these two people right here are making you feel fuller than you ever felt in the past year.

You won’t lose them. 

You won’t have to live without them. 

They will be more than just a short time. 

♡

tagging friends and mutuals:

@prettyboyeddiemunson @taintedcigs @mysticmunson @wroteclassicaly @sherrylyn628 @livosssblog

[convolutings]

Look don’t get me wrong I love the PJO TV show. The cast is perfect and some moments that were added I absolutely loved. But… there are some things I felt were so well done in the book there was no need to change it and I’m a little disappointed by the adaptation’s version.

Some of these takes I saw from other people and it put into words what I was feeling so I’m just expanding on what they said.

1. Gabe could’ve been worse. We are supposed to get mean Smelly Gabe vibes and Sally isn’t supposed to feel comfortable standing up to him. I understand “girl boss” and disneys restrictions but it still wasn’t great. I’m hoping they add something towards the end so his murder feels deserved.

Edit: upon a rewatch I take this back and believe Gabe was still abusive, if not physically as in the book, but as manipulative and demanding which is still abuse so I actually appreciate the changes they made now.

2. Sally felt off. Like they read her plot points but didn’t understand her character. She is wholesome and kind and devoted to Percy. The Sally we know never would’ve put that much pressure on Grover, plus him putting the pressure on himself is vital to his character. They also made her seemingly pine for Poseidon. They shouldn’t have changed the way she described her relationship with him and the choices she made to keep Percy safe. (I will say though that the Jesus joke was perfect and hilarious)

Edit: upon rewatch I still believe the wholesomeness was lost a little but I have come to like her character more and think these changes allow for greater depth into Sally’s story which I’m excited for.

3. We should’ve gotten Percy remembering the warm glow of Poseidon. I thought it was important that Poseidon broke the rules and came to see Percy when he was a baby and had that memory.

4. Percy thinking that Annabeth looked like a goddess when he first saw her was so cute and said a lot about how he viewed her. I think they should’ve kept it.

5. I think Luke being the one to guide Percy around the camp was a great choice, but Annabeth should’ve been part of welcoming scenes. And Grover should’ve been the one to tell the story of Thalia.

Edit: Episode 3’s reveal of Grover’s story was genius I take this back!

6. The claiming in the book was perfect! There was no reason to change the dialogue or have the trident not be the way it’s originally described. And seeing the campers reactions/having them bow down was important. I was underwhelmed tbh.

7. Percy is SMART! He was the one to put together that Sally was alive and agree to the quest in order to get her back. There was no reason for Grover to be the one to do it.

Otherwise it was wonderful. I still love it immensely and the care into the heart of the show I feel is still there. I can’t wait for next week!

And yes, I know Rick wrote the episodes and was a part of every single choice that was made so if he wants to leave something out obviously he knows his story the best this is just my opinion.

[toysrguts]

sally face hc's!!!!

been putting off posting this for god knows what reason sally face fandom plz 🙏🙏🙏

sal:

•cuts his own hair with safety scissors

•his fav food is dino nuggets idc sue me

•runs his own lowkey piercing business. he even pierced larrys ears and ashleys nostril. he wants to make it a career in the future

•somehow so good at comforting everyone but himself

•always knows what to say when someone's having a hard time, probably cuz hes been through a lot and can easily put himself in others shoes

•always really reserved and shy until him and larry go to a concert together

•cares more about price than looks so most of his stuff doesnt match at all

•most, if not all of his clothes are from thrift stores

•most inconsistent sleep schedule ever. sometimes he goes to bed early and sleeps like a baby, other nights hes restlessly playing his gearboy until the sun comes up

•regular cigarette smoker, but will only smoke weed if larrys with him

•so fucking awkward but always has good intentions. bro just cannot communicate for shit

•when he meets new people he likes to freak them out with his glass eye when they least expect it

•definitely a big industrial fan (NIN, skinny puppy, KMFDM, etc) but his favorite band is korn

•also loves music from the late 70s-early 80s that he grew up hearing on the radio cuz it reminds him of the good memories he had with his mom

•his earth shattered when kurt cobain died

•started watching so much mtv after meeting larry cuz he wanted to be more educated on his kind of music

•his shoes are covered in doodles and signatures from the group

•theyre also hanging on by a thread cuz theyre old as shit and hes had them since grade 6 💀

•has a small collection of custom prosthetic eyes with different colors and cool shapes in them and stuff

•when he meets new people he likes to freak them out with his glass eye when they least expect it

•takes halloween VERY seriously

•writes songs for ppl he cares about and plays them on his guitar

•he wrote a song for ash once and she still asks him to play it for her every now and then

•typa fella to never cuff his pants so theyre all faded and torn and gross at the bottom

•collects random animal (or human) bones he finds around the woods of nockfell

•baggy clothes cuz body dysmorphia

•seems really calm and collected all the time but lets it all out behind closed doors

larry:

•sal’s tripsitter

•REEKS of axe body spray to cover the weed stank

•has literally witnessed murder but is DEATHLY afraid of most bugs

•pulls a lot of evil pranks and sal just goes along with it

•lisa taught him how to cook from a really early age

•whenever the gang is hanging out they force him to cook them food but he usually just goes the lazy route and microwaves some mac n cheese

•only really shows his emotions around sal because he knows he understands

•so attractive but carries himself like hes not

•uses humor to cope and often jokes about being fatherless

•has a guilty pleasure for pop music

•a grade above the rest of the group

•frequent guyliner wearer

•his paranoid ass carries a switchblade everywhere he goes for self defense

•actually carries so much random shit in his pockets

•has a framed photo on his nightstand of him and sal at a meet & greet with the members of sanity’s fall

•his band shirts are so ancient most of them have massive holes in them

•the group calls him “larr bear” to piss him off in a loving way

•the look on his face when lisa calls him that in front of people is priceless

ashley:

•hair is so damaged from constantly messing with it

•loves doing other ppls hair too, especially sals (they do matching hairstyles sometimes :3)

•brings her camera literally everywhere and has a scrapbook of a bunch of memories of the gang throughout highschool

•also just takes random pictures sometimes cuz shes really into photography

•carries bandaids everywhere she goes just in case

•has to decorate literally everything she owns and make it look cute

•does not hold back on adding stickers (sal lets her stick them all over his mask sometimes)

•usually dozes off before she takes her makeup off and then just fixes it up in the morning and rolls with it

•collects everyones baby teeth to make necklaces and jewelry with

•likes to practice nail art on everyone

•has the best sense of style out of the whole group. the amount of clothes and accessories in her closet is impressive and she always puts together the most fire fits

•has a huge shoe collection from adidas, to docs, to combat boots

•so sweet and friendly to literally everyone but will actually kill someone if they fuck with her

•has a really hectic home life so she basically trained herself to sleep like a rock through anything

•literally the mom of the group, shes always looking out for everyone especially cuz she has her own little brother she takes care of

•master of diy she can make something out of literally anything and make it look amazing

todd:

•when times get desperate he sells bud from his dad’s garden

•never even came out to his parents, he didnt feel a need to they just accepted it and never questioned him

•has so many plants around the house and has names for every single one

•he doesnt allow sal to bring gizmo to his apartment cuz he once tried to eat bob

•everyones always asking to touch his hair cuz he takes care of it so well its so soft and curly

•spends the most amount of time on the internet than the rest of the group

•probably why his eyesight is dogshit 😹😹😹

•his brain is like its own encyclopedia, he’ll just randomly drop the most insane fun facts on everyone for no reason but its always a good conversation starter

•his parents randomly tell him these crazy stories from when they were young hippies

•they almost named him some hippie shit like “star”

•talks to himself a lot, like actual conversations with himself. sometimes he just narrates what hes doing without even realizing it until his mom walks in and is like “who tf are u talking to”

•on the spectrum and is deadpan majority of the time so whenever hes being sarcastic its so hard to tell

•so full of wisdom literally everyone goes to him for advice, even his own parents sometimes

•thats a left handed mf if ive ever seen one

•not photogenic at all and always has to be suade into being in group pictures

other random things:

•when theres no mysteries to be investigated, the gang likes to have sleepovers at larrys place where they smoke and watch movies and play video games and stuff

•sal and larry take “whats mine is yours” to another level. theyre always together and they share pretty much everything, from clothes to literal toothbrushes (they are disgusting)

•sal brings gizmo to chug’s place sometimes so soda has someone to play with (she likes to style his fur and he steals her stickers)

•a lot of the songs from the ost were songs that sal, larry, and sometimes rob recorded together for fun

•rob also taught them both how to skate

•chug is a massive weeb

•ashley and todd are basically sal and larrys ubers cuz sal has horrible vision and larry got his license revoked

[bisexual-horror-fan]

"The Best Gift He Can Give." Mickey Altieri X AFAB! Reader.

Okay, so the amazing and fantastic @mrsaltieri-real had a birthday a while ago, and I wrote this as a gift. I edited it to make it reader insert friendly and now I am sharing it with all of you! I hope you all enjoy it.

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 5.4K. Mickey Altieri X AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Your Boyfriend David Fucking Sucks. Your Boyfriend Cheats On You. Apologies To Dudes Named David Who Don't Suck. Stalking. Breaking And Entering. Murder. Blood. Gore. Violence. Making Out. Grinding. Vaginal Fingering. Eating Out. Eating Ass. Hair Pulling. Spanking. Praise. Degredation. Rimming. Vaginal Sex. Cream Pie. Confessions Of Feelings.

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There are people in this world who do not deserve anything. They don’t deserve kindness, or understanding, they don’t deserve friends, they don’t even deserve to breathe. One such asshole was your boyfriend, David. You don’t even know why he is your boyfriend, honestly you’ve had friends ask, and you are never sure much what to say. He treats you terribly, he is mean to you, rude, constantly picks fights, and it isn’t like you can say, “Well at least the sex is good-”

Because it is very much not. You’d been together for four years, and it had never been good.

Mickey didn’t know about that, though. All he knew to start is that you were cute, and he liked how you looked, the rest started to become revealed to him through watching you over time. He remembers the first afternoon he started to pick up on that very clearly. He was in the library, one table over, trying to do some actual work, sure he wasn’t paying for his degree, but he couldn’t exactly flunk out either, and he overheard an interaction, “Do you have to turn your pages so loud?”

Your head snaps up, looking over to him, Mickey’s own eyes flick up, but his head doesn’t raise, brows furrow in question mirroring yours as you ask, “Excuse me?”

“You are turning the pages of your book really loudly-” He drew out your name, focused on it, and that made your expression turn from somewhat annoyed confusion to outright disgust, a roll of your eyes. “Fuck off David.” 

His tone made Mickey’s skin crawl, “Sooo mature, this is a library, can’t you keep it down and show some class?” 

Mickey had to fight to keep his jaw from dropping, who the fuck was this guy, and why was he so comfortable talking to you like that? He thought boyfriends were supposed to be fucking nice to their girlfriends, and here he was treating you like he hated you, as if you were shit on the bottom of his shoe.

That was not the only time he saw you being treated so shamefully by David, either. Seems whenever he overheard, walked by, you were being talked down to by him or already mid-fight. 

Worse still he would complain about what you wore deriding any skin you wanted to show, and what you were into, he’d overheard him belittling your love of movies too. “How the fuck can you do that shit?”

“Do what shit, David?” You sighed, and he asked, “What the same fucking movies over and over, don’t you ever get bored?”

Your reply comes out almost bored, edging on annoyed, “Those same movies over and over are definitely more interesting than talking to you so-” 

“Woooow, is that any way to talk to me?” He’d ask, and Mickey would think to himself that you should treat him a Hell of a lot worse for how he acts.

You and Mickey had been friends in secret for a while, it had been a very quiet affair, mostly because David would be threatened and jealous, something that bugged Mickey, but he was just glad for the time spent with you and to get to know you. Small moments carved out whenever that prick wasn’t around became absurdly meaningful. 

One day he found you alone on a park bench on campus and seemingly very upset, he couldn’t leave you like that, your boyfriend isn’t around and so he comes forward until he is close enough to ask, “Hey uh, you good?”

Head raises, and you sniff, hands rushing to wipe at your nose and mouth, you nod shakily, mouth dry as you say, “Yeah, totally, so, so good.” 

He lets himself smile this kind of sad smile as he sits down beside you, humming out, “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Leave it alone.” You sigh, and he presses, “No way, there has to be a reason you’re this upset and I wanna know.” 

You slump back further into the bench, averting your gaze as you confess, “You caught me, M’ not good at all. I just found out that my boyfriend fucking cheated on me.” 

Immediate anger flares as does genuine concern for you, both emotions taking hold makes his eyebrows raise and his hand reach out to touch your elbow, your attention snaps back to him. Your eyes meet, and he says, “You can talk to me.”

“What is there to talk about?” It’s said very quietly, and his grip on you tightens by a fraction as he encourages, “Plenty. It isn’t healthy to keep this shit bottled up, what he did was fucked, talk to me about it.” 

You haven’t opened up in such a long time but right now, something in his eyes beckons you and the urge overtakes, you feel safe and think, maybe you should open up. Your stomach is churning, and you think, what harm could it do? You start to tell him, a verbal torrent that once it began it was impossible to stop, as you vent about David and the series of horrible things he had put you through in your relationship. He listens, and only when you stop for breath does he say, “You don’t deserve to be treated like this, you could do so much better than an asshole like him.”

A small shrug as you brush him off, “It’s easier to stay in this relationship because it’s all I’ve ever known. Even if I broke things off with him, he’d never really let me go.”

“What do you mean he wouldn’t let you go?” His question isn’t entirely unexpected, but you still struggle for a moment to respond, “I dunno, I just…I know he would put up a massive fight, and I couldn’t ever just make a clean break. He wouldn’t let that happen.” 

He licks his lips tentatively, an almost nervous action, “He…He doesn’t own you. Hon, you know that, right?”

You looked over at Mickey and said quietly, unconvincingly, “I know that.” 

He wasn’t sold. He hated the look in your eyes right now. Not only that, but he tried to break the tension and asked, “Is the sex that good or-?”

You laughed, head tipping back, genuine smile crossing your face, you shake your head as you catch your breath and tell him, “God no, it’s terrible! So vanilla, nothing but missionary, he never even eats me out.” You exhale and expound further, “He expects me to blow him too.” 

“Fuck off no way.” His reaction pulled another laugh out of you, and he insists, “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” You sighed. He speaks with conviction, anger but not at you, never at you, more frustration at your situation and how you seemingly have just accepted it. “Why the fuck do you put up with this asshole? Seems like you are doing all the giving with no take.” 

A shrug as you tell him, refusing to look at him any longer, “I’ve grown used to it, it’s been just so long of the same thing, you know?” 

That was fucking bullshit. Sunk cost fallacy much? Clearly you were never going to get out from under this jerk’s thumb on your own, so he was going to do something about this. It would take some work, but you were more than worth it. He started to stalk him, determined to get real dirt on him, he learns his routine and becomes far too acquainted with even the most basic and mundane things about your boyfriend. 

It doesn’t take him long, around a month in is when Mickey catches David in the act of cheating, he was fucking some girl from his film class. 

It was infuriating! Here he has you, a total fucking catch, and he doesn’t appreciate you, mistreats you, and cheats on you on top of all that. What a complete piece of fucking trash. 

He has every intention of telling you when he has the adequate proof-

Wait.

What if he tells you and you still stay? You seemed so downtrodden, what if not even this is enough to convince you to leave? Fuck, that would be terrible, but he couldn’t let that hold him back. 

He just needed to stay on task, stay focused, and this could work out. He clung closer, tried to be around you more and provide more support, but that, as it turns out, only made it harder. Having to be confronted so frequently with the damage he was doing to you, how sad you were, it made him hurt in kind. He really fucking cared about you.

On top of all of this, his presence is apparently putting more pressure on your relationship. He comes across you and David having a loud and public altercation a few days later, as he gets closer he realizes it is about him. 

“You can’t tell me what to do!” You insist, and David bites back, “Oh, can’t I?”

“No! You can’t! What is the problem anyway?” You try to implore, and he isn’t having it, “I don’t like him! No, scratch that, I fucking hate him. You shouldn’t be talking to any guy, I don’t want you to even look in his direction-”

“You are so ridiculous-” 

He can’t stay. He can’t listen to this. Furthermore, he can’t stand idly by any longer. He is going to do something about this. 

Breaking into David’s place was easy, taking his time is what was difficult. He eases into his bedroom, costume on, knife already in his hand, and comes up to the bed. You were back at your own place, far away and hopefully peacefully sleeping, blissfully unaware of just what he was about to do for you, of the devotion he has and was about to display. 

He wanted to spit in the fucker’s face for what he did to you, more than that he wanted to main and mutilate him, wanted to inflict as much physical pain onto him as he inflicted mental pain onto you. He reached down, he ripped the blanket back, and with one smooth motion he stabbed the sharp blade into David’s stomach. 

The reaction was immediate, his eyes snapping open, mouth open in a soundless scream as it seems all the air leaves him, hands flying to his stomach trying to clutch at the blade but stopping short, afraid to touch the intrusion. He ripped the knife out and then stabbed it back in, immediately. He twists, David inhaled as much as he could but then breathed out, hiccuping on the air, it becomes a complete bloodbath. Mickey cuts, he stabs, he hurts him as he can’t hold back, and David chokes out, “Why?”

Mickey laughs, this cold and calculating kind of laugh before he takes the mask off, and then he starts to talk, “You are a pathetic excuse for a man, a worthless piece of trash-” 

The knife is ripped out and brought back down harder than before, the steel scrapes bone, and he sobs, “-you don’t deserve someone like her, you know that, right? You’ve been mistreating her for way too long.”

The metal wrenched free and then drove deeply inward again, the next sound of pain is a short gasp, Mickey tells him further, “That is why I am doing this, I am going to step in and take over.” 

David looked so pitiful, tears down his cheek, bloodstained and movements slowing, weakening. Mickey leaned down and told him lowly,“I’m going to make her feel so, SO much better than you ever did.” 

He is unrecognizable. Organs are laying all around him, cuts on his face making it, so his identity is basically gone, partially skinned in places. He wished he could have taken the time to skin him alive, fillet him like a fucking fish, but even that would be too good for him. He is sure that he has drained him of about half of his blood, the mattress is soaked, heavy and thick, there is a squelching sound when Mickey gets off the bed. The blood has soaked through the robe, it is staining his shirt and jeans he is positive of it, the handle of the knife is slick, he can feel coagulated blood that has gathered between his fingers, the clots are slippery and almost black.

There is one place he wants to be and it’s with you.

He goes to your place. 

It is obscenely late when you open the door, you are in your pyjamas, you look fucking gorgeous to him. 

“Mickey?” You rub over your eyes, suppressing a yawn, you ask, “What are you doing here?”

He pushes past you, comes inside as he starts to talk, “I had to come see you, I just did something amazing tonight-”

You close the door, he is talking quickly, a mile a minute, excited, manic. “I was thinking about what told me about David and I just got so fucking inspired, you know? So I decided I just had to do it, so I did but, darling, you need to tell me, what else didn’t he do for you?”

“What he didn’t do?” You repeat, softer, confused, and he nods, brows raised and eyes alight, mischievous, “Yes, tell me all the things he doesn’t do for you.”

It is then that you take him in awake enough to register, and notice what he is wearing. A black robe, almost plastered to his body, your eyes flit downwards, and you see that it’s shiny in a particular way that tattles on it being wet, but wet with what? Eyes catch red droplets on the ground coming off of the frayed edged of the black fabric, your gaze shoots back up. You smell the iron, and you see the small flecks of red on his face, and so the question tumbles out, “What is with the robe and is that fucking blood?”

This half smile on his face and a cock of his head as he tells you as if it couldn’t be more obvious, “I just killed David. For you sweetheart.”

You don’t feel angry or upset, to your complete surprise, you feel an insane and immense sense of relief that David is gone. You no longer have to put up with him. 

A sharp inhale as the feeling sinks in, you let it wash over you, not fighting it, letting it soak into your bones. Another question spills out as you ask, “What did you do to him?”

His grin is so wide you worry it hurts his face. 

“I snuck into his apartment, broke in with no issue, I crept into his bedroom and I stabbed a knife-” He brought one foot up, boot rested on the chair at your desk, hauling up the robe, careful not to get blood on more than he had already his hand grasps the hand of the knife. He unsheathes it from the holster that was strapped to his leg, his foot comes back down, he is holding the knife up, you can see the dried blood all over the blade and his hand, he continues to expound, “-this knife, into his stomach.”

He mimics the motion, smile still pulling his features tight, “He gasped and struggled, it was pathetic. I ran him through over and over, the sound was wet, the blood gushed.” 

A sigh crosses his lips, he is looking down at the blade, turning it over in his hands. You, too, are fixated on the glinting metal as it moves from one hand to the next. He keeps talking. “You’d think sound would be a concern. That he’d be screaming his fucking head off, right?”

You look up, he is staring at your face, expectant, you respond to the question, a shaky nod. He continues on, a point of his knife, “Wrong. When you stab someone right, it sucks all the air out of their lungs.” The images his is giving fills your head, of David lying there, bleeding and as Mickey put it, pathetic. He is still expounding. “I was relentless, kept stabbing him, he had no chance to catch his breath. You can’t scream if you can’t breathe.”

You listen enthralled as he describes how he cut flesh from bone, how chunks fell away, digging fingers into open wounds, manually separating cartilage and skin and muscle apart just because he could. He speaks of how much blood he drained and by the end of it you were breathing much harder as was he. Almost no space between the pair of you.

He is looking in your eyes, and he speaks, “I ask again, what did he never do for you?” 

You can’t help it, inquiring, “Why do you want to know so bad?” 

“Because sweetheart-” He sets the knife down on your desk, his hand reaches out to take yours, tacky with partially dried crimson, and he says, “-baby, darling, I want to make you feel all the things you’ve missed out on the past few years.” 

You are as explicit in describing what you’d been missing as he was when describing the violence he did to David. 

“He never made me cum with his mouth, his dick, not even his fingers. I haven’t felt a hot tongue on my clit in fucking years.” You start, a deep inhale before you force it out, speak in hushed tones, “He only ever fucked me in missionary, he never put a hand on my throat and choked me, never pulled my hair, he never praised me, fuck, Mick, he never even degraded me.”

You sigh now, “Never spanked me, never ate my ass, God do I want someone to eat my ass and above all else, he never overstimulated me-”

He cut you off. His mouth crashing into yours after far too long, he kisses you deeply, and you fall into it, into him. A moan into his mouth, hands reach out, fingers tangle in the sleeves, they feel damp, you flex your fingers, you squeeze, beads of blood squeeze through your fingers. Your tongue runs over his bottom lip, and you revel in the taste of him. Christ it was never like this with David, a simple kiss with Mickey was serving to do you in, the graze of his lips against yours, of his tongue brushing yours was sending sparks throughout you. 

Feet stumble back, you pull him with you, keep him near, unwilling to break the connection you’ve made and yet you do, a quiet mumbling of, “Get this fucking robe off-”, pulling on his sleeves for further emphasis. The contact is broken for him to listen and obey, he pulls the robe off and drops it onto the floor, the blood has soaked through to his t-shirt he was wearing, and again you are confronted with what he did. He killed David for you, the evidence of his care for you, of his total devotion is splattered all over him, plastering his shirt to him, soaked into thin fabric. 

This time, you are pulling him back to you, greedy and needy as you do so. Mouths meet again as you are moving backward, the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress, and you let yourself fall, tugging him down with you. 

His leg slots between yours as his lips descend on yours again, you sink further into the mattress as he, in turn, sinks into you, melting into the contact, his leg presses closer, knee is tighter to you and that makes you inhale sharply. That sets something off in him. 

One of his hands moves, threads in your hair, and he tugs, it forcefully breaks the kiss and pulls a moan from you at the delicious rush of pain. His mouth moves, presses over your jaw, down your throat, and he makes your hips move on their own, grinding against him, desperate for more already. A squirm of your hips as you drag your clothed slit against his solid thigh, and the wash of pleasure makes you have to suppress a shudder, a whining moan held back as well as you bite your bottom lip. 

He notices immediately, pulling back from your neck, another tug of your hair, and he makes you look at him, “None of that shit, I don’t fucking care how late it is, I don’t care if every son of a bitch on this entire floor files a noise complaint, I want to hear you, no holding back.”

You are stunned, speechless, your hips shift, and you are drenched, underwear plastered to you and one of his hands locks onto your throat, he squeezes and says, “I’m not hearing you say yes.” 

You just cannot believe everything you’ve ever wanted has fallen into your lap, you choke out, “Yes, yes, please, fucking yes-”

He shuts you up with another kiss and that is how things seriously escalate, both of you rushing to undress each other. You hadn’t been wearing much to sleep, the tank top and shorts were removed, his shirt and shoes are off now, and he stops. You are looking up at him, admiring him the same way he is you, even with almost all his clothing removed there is still the mark of the crime he committed, blood left on his torso after leaking through his shirt, splatters on his arms, the small flecks on his face. He is looking at you like you are a full meal with nothing more in his way than damp lace, “Fucking Christ-”

He sighs, his fingers trace the curve of your breast before he fully takes it in his hand, he looks helpless in regard to what he wants to do, he follows the impulse, he leans down, and his mouth latches onto one of your nipples. His tongue circles and you sigh, arching up into him. 

His teeth graze as one of his hands slips between your thighs, he only gets one pass of his fingers over the wet material before he decides that isn’t good enough. Fingers hook in the thin garment, and he pulls, he hopes you didn’t give a shit about them because he cannot be bothered to remove them properly, he pulls until it rips and throws it aside. No chance of you complaining because his fingers are on you, strong digits press to you bare for the first time. 

Your eyes roll back with a soft, “Oh my fucking God-” which Mickey absolutely eats up as he starts to move, fingers trace slowly, dipping low, catching some mess and dragging it up, using it as lube to rub your clit. 

The increase in pleasure was immediate, your body slowly starts to tense as the feeling digs into your bones, you fully give in to what he is doing to you. 

“Do you know how much I’ve poured over this?” He asks, and you say quietly, “No.” 

“So many nights.” He confesses, his fingers pick up the pace, tight circles rubbed, and he tells you more, “I’d think about this, about having you under me, about doing-” Two fingers ease inside of you, and he moans like it’s his pleasure, breathing out, “-this.” 

“You feel better than I ever thought you could, so fucking wet, so soft.” He groans, and you arch closer, his palm presses nearer, he moves and works with you, fingers curling into that sweet spot and hand grinding over your clit. You listen, and you feel, minutes later, very quickly between his hushed words and expert touch you are shivering and telling him, “M’ close Mickey-” 

“Fuck yes, do it.” The firm command makes it impossible to stop, you tip over and cum. It feels phenomenal, it’s been ages since anyone has done this, showed this level of care and investment in your enjoyment. He doesn’t relent, keeps his pace steady and consistent, and draws out every bit of feeling he can from your high. 

He doesn’t let you rest, your body sinks back into the mattress, you are panting, and he slides his fingers out of you and right into his mouth. Not only that, but he tastes you for the first time and moans from the salt and tang of you coating his tongue. 

“You taste better than anything I’ve ever put in my mouth.” He slips down your body, drags of his lips lighting further fire in you until he settles between your thighs, his mouth latches onto your still very sensitive clit and your thighs clamp around his head immediately. Your hand shoots down, fingers in his stupidly attractive hair, and you moan loudly, just as he wants you to. 

He was ravenously hungry but still taking his time with this, he forces himself to slow down just a touch, he knows you haven’t had this in years thanks to that douchebag of an ex-boyfriend. He laps at your leaking slit, from hole all the way up to your throbbing clit, he swirls his tongue around the boarders once, twice, three times before passing over it again, making you gasp out his name. 

Mickey luxuriates in the act and does his best to ensure that you do as well, sucks with purpose and is quickly rocketing you to another orgasm, you can barely string together a sentence to warn him of that, but he knows, fingers twist further in his hair, and you pull with a cry of his name, in another two short minutes you are cumming again, it’s stronger than the first, you are louder than you were last time, but he continues. He doesn’t stop on your come down, he just slows, goes lighter, his licks are running up the length of you, between your lips and on top of your twitching bud, over and over, methodical, and you can’t stop shaking. 

Somehow through the haze of pleasure you manage to speak, calling out to him, “Mi-Mickey, oh my fucking God-”

He lifts his mouth, you expect him to give you a breather or to give some pithy response that will turn you on further and make you leak more, but instead his hands are on your hips, he tilts them up and his tongue dives lower. His tongue circles over your asshole, and you actually sob, shocked and broken from the sudden stab of ecstasy that hits your gut, your hand leaving his hair, instead gripping at the sheets. You can’t stop from squirming, which makes his job harder, you hear something that sounds akin to a mildly annoyed growl. 

One of his hands lifts off your hip, and he lands a firm smack on your ass as he grits out, “Stop squirming so much babe, let me make you feel good.” 

He gets back to it and your head is thrown back against the pillows, you try, you really do, but his tongue flicks just so and your body bucks. He instead flips you over onto your stomach roughly manhandling you, one hand pulling your hips up, and he dives back in tongue first. He eats your ass with passionate fervour, whenever you buck too much he reminds you to behave with another hit to your ass cheek. His hand that wasn’t on your hip slides under, and he circles your clit with fast and clever fingers. 

The sharp slaps of pain and combined with him being tongue deep in your ass and rubbing your clit makes you cum embarrassingly fast yet again and harder still, legs trembling so much you almost fall on your face, with an ample gush onto his chin while sobbing his name into the pillow.  

When you stopped shaking he came up, another smack to your ass, his chest to your back as he leans down and praises right in your ear, “Oh good fucking girl.”

You start to babble out into the damp pillowcase, “Mi-Mickey, ‘lease, fuck me, need you-”

He hums, and you hear his belt open, finally getting his pants open, he inhales sharply in relief, the pressure easing from him opening his pants. The rest of his clothes are discarded, and he pauses. His hand on your sore ass, right on the spot he kept hitting over and over, his thumb traces down, spreading your lips, over your hole, and he sighs, “I have been dying to get inside this cunt.”

He lines up, he pushes his hips forward and sinks deep inside you, in one swift and smooth motion. The moan you share is like music, beautiful, melodic, passionate collaboration. His hand goes into your hair, he fucks you like that, face down ass up, he starts a quick pace initially, rough, needy and you love it. His body is covering yours as he breathes into your ear, “You feel incredible, oh my God-” His head tips back with a loud moan, he drives into you over and over, “-fucking stunning too, you are so gorgeous.” 

It has been entirely too long since you’ve been fucked in any position other than missionary. The sensation, his weight on your back, the sound of skin on skin, his breath in your ear, it’s fucking perfection. You rock back with him, meet him in the middle, you were giving back, showing just how desperately you want him in kind makes Mickey let out this sound, caught between a groan and something more possessive, not explicitly words, but it hits you low in your gut. 

He starts to slow down, takes a little more time, and you are moaning louder and louder, you are so worked up, so sensitive, you feel alive and electric. On one level it feels like you can feel every ridge and vein of him and on another like you can’t determine up from down, completely drunk on feeling. 

You completely lose track of how many times you get off that night, the pace will switch on a whim, from hard pounding and him calling you every name in the book to more easy and sensual, a writhing joint movement instead of an aggressive pounding. 

You ride him, grind one out on top of him while he cradles your breasts, thumbs passing over your nipples as he calls you a beautiful fucked out angel. 

He fucks you spooning, hand around you and between your thighs, strumming your clit with one hand, the other locked on your throat as he is fucking in and out.

The only thing that seems to make it stop is you literally sobbing for it to. Your cheeks are wet, you are babbling his name and the word stop, you have one leg over his shoulder and the other is pinned down near your knee by him. His stamina was impressive, he’d already cum once when you were riding him, had filled you up, but instead of that stopping it, he just flipped you over, still hard, and kept fucking going, his own cum providing even more lube.

That was a while ago, you could tell that he was near again, sweat down the side of his face, movements of his hips sloppy, panting your name over and over. You know you can’t again, you are too fried, too overstimulated and finally, just as the soreness is starting to teeter on the other side of being more unpleasant and painful than pleasurable he holds deep and cums again. 

You feel totally boneless, your arms feel heavy as you wrap them around him loosely, his head dips down and rests on your shoulder, you are just trying to catch your breath.

He gets his back faster than you. 

He is still inside of you when he comes back up, fingers push some of your hair aside as he looks down into your eyes. Your chest is still rising and falling rapidly as he confesses, for what must be the third time tonight, telling you, “I fucking care about you.”

A strong belief that is nothing but the truth hits, “You deserve way better than him, I wish I could have met you sooner so you could have had those years back of someone who actually gives a shit about you instead of that asshole.” 

You want this, want him, damned what that says about you or your morals, you don’t care as you tell him, “Fuck that selfish cunt, forget about him, let’s just make up for lost time.” 

He has every intention of doing just that.

[joannechocolat]

On why women’s rage is a superpower

My mother hates my new book. I gave her a proof just a few days ago, and although she’s still only halfway through, she can’t wait to tell me all the ways in which she hates my novel.

“Is this science fiction?” she says. (She detests science fiction.) “Were you ill when you wrote this?” (I was.) And repeatedly, she says: “Why are the women so angry?”

I get it. She’s out of her comfort zone. At 83, with no internet, no interest in pop culture and a deep-rooted hatred of anything close to horror or the supernatural, she wasn’t my target audience. And yet it’s never easy to hear such criticism from a loved one. But in some ways, she isn’t wrong. Broken Light is an angry book. It came from a time of lockdown, when social media was my only window onto the world. It came from a place of trauma, when I was fighting cancer. It came from a place of corrupt hierarchies, self-serving politicians, anti-vaxxers, Covid deniers, victim-blamers, and those eager to blame all their woes on minorities. And of course, it arose against the background of the #MeToo campaign and the Sarah Everard murder – a murder that shocked the nation, not least because the murderer turned out to be a serving police officer with a reputation for sexual misconduct - which unleashed a collective howl of protest, as well as an ugly, misogynistic backlash. Even so, my story came as something of a surprise to me: the story of a woman’s rage, and, on reaching the age at which women often feel least valued, her coming into her power.

It surprised me, most of all because I wasn’t an angry person. At least, I didn’t think I was. Those who know me describe me as someone who tends to flee conflict, who generally tries to find common ground, who gets upset when people fight. And yet, writing this story, I found myself saying and feeling certain things on behalf of my heroine, Bernie Moon; things I might not have said for myself, but which felt right and urgent, and true, and strangely liberating.

Anger has a bad press. A woman’s anger, especially. While men are encouraged to express feelings of justified anger, women are often criticized when they try to do the same. Angry women are often portrayed as “harpies,” “banshees,” “Furies.” It suggests that a man’s rage is righteous, but that a woman’s is unnatural, making her into a monster. Male anger is powerful. The God of the Bible is one of wrath. Seldom is he ever portrayed as expressing any other emotion. In the same way, men and boys are often led to believe that expressing emotion is weak - except for anger, which is seen as acceptably masculine.

In comparison, women are often criticized when they show aggression. Angry women are hysterical, shrill, out of control, unreliable, unattractive, unfeminine. A perceived lack of “femininity” makes a woman less valuable, less worthy of respect and of protection. The Press coverage of women victims of violence is a case in point. A victim of violence needs to be attractive, white, gender conforming and virtuous in every way if she is not to be overlooked, or worse, portrayed as somehow having contributed to her misfortune. When trans teenager Brianna Ghey was stabbed, the Press were very quick to state that her murder was not thought to be a hate crime, whilst at the same time obsessing over – and questioning - her gender. When Nicola Bulley disappeared, police felt obliged to divulge details of her struggle with the menopause, as well as her alcohol issues, even though this was privileged information and of no public relevance. When Emma Pattison, the Head of Epsom College, was murdered alongside her daughter, the Press immediately assumed that her husband George must have felt “overshadowed” and “driven to distraction” by his wife’s prestigious job. In all three cases, the victim falls under the hostile scrutiny of the Press, while the perpetrator is given an excuse. In all three cases, the victim – one trans, one hormonal, one better-paid than her husband - is effectively portrayed as “unnatural”. Subtext: Unnatural women do not deserve the protection of the patriarchy. Unnatural women come to bad ends.    

Once you start to acknowledge it, rage grows at a surprising rate. Over the past three years, I have found myself growing increasingly angry. Angry at the injustices committed by our Government; t the greed of corporations; angry at the prejudice extended to those who are different.

Connecting with others on social media has made me more aware of the lives and experiences of those from different backgrounds to mine, and with different levels of privilege. For a long time I’d been resistant to calling myself a feminist. Feminists are angry, I thought. What right have you to be angry?

Growing older, I realize that this was my mother speaking. A woman of a certain generation, who although she was aware of the challenges of living in a patriarchy, still had a level of privilege that many women do not share. White, professional, cishet women can sometimes have the luxury of choosing not to be angry. White, professional, cishet women can sometimes have the illusion of equality. But feminism isn’t only for just one kind of woman. A feminist must look beyond the limits of their own experience. And that’s where the anger really starts: anger at injustice; anger at corruption and lies. Most of all, anger at the prejudice against certain people for just being themselves; for being transgender, or Black, or old, or simply not conforming to what a white, patriarchal society expects and values. And once you start seeing injustice, you start to see it everywhere. It’s like an eye, which, once opened, cannot unsee inequality.

My anger flourished in lockdown. A time of growing divisions. Masks are invaluable in a pandemic, and yet they inhibit connection. They serve as a kind of reminder of who can speak, and who is to be silenced. While Boris Johnson was urging the public to trust the police, a vigil for Sarah Everard was broken up, with violence, by officers citing lockdown laws. While elderly people were dying alone; while I drove for four hours just to go for a half-hour walk in the park with my son; while I sat alone in my chemo chair, politicians were partying. Billionaires were enriching themselves. Behind the mask, the eye opened wide. I caught myself making faces behind my disguise at strangers. There was something weirdly liberating about this; as if, behind the piece of cloth, I could express myself at last. Not unlike writing a book, in fact. On screen, the eye opened wider. Bernie Moon, my heroine, was unlike like me in many ways, and yet anger connected us. The anger that comes from helplessness; from seeing others mistreated. Anger at a society that propagates inequality. And the anger that comes from hormones – those mood-altering chemicals that everyone produces, and yet which allegedly make women erratic; unreliable; hormonal.

In his novel, Carrie, Stephen King tells the story of a girl, whose telekinetic powers are unleashed by her teenage hormones. Carrie is unpopular, bullied, isolated. Her rage finds an outlet in her power. Driven to breaking-point by the bullies, she becomes a monster. Of course she does: after all, the author of this tale is a man, writing from the perspective of a couple of thousand years’ worth of patriarchal inheritance. In literature, a woman’s anger is unnatural; monstrous. It leads to terrible, unnatural things: makes murderers and infanticides of Clytemnestra and Medea; monsters of Medusa and Scylla. Unnatural, monstrous women are always punished in literature, even while acknowledging that they are often the victims of men. And unnatural women are often seen as physically repulsive – a reminder that, to be valued and loved, women must be young, and pure, and conform to the standards of beauty set out by their society. In literature, just as in life, those women who do not conform tend to be less valued, less seen, and when they do appear, do so as wicked witches, evil stepmothers, ugly crones and hideous travesties of womanhood.

But what would happen if a woman took control of the narrative? In recent years, we have observed a number of retellings of Greek myths from the point of view of the monster. Stone Blind, by Nathalie Haynes; Medusa, by Jessie Burton; Circe, by Madeline Miller. In both cases, the monstrous woman is seen from a different perspective; her rage absorbed and justified; her narrative reclaimed from a patriarchy that seeks to tame and subdue a woman’s rage, even at the cost of her life.

My new novel, Broken Light, comes from the same process of reclamation. It owes a debt to Carrie, but I have avoided the explicitly paranormal theme of the original, as well as the girl-on-girl bullying and the psychopathic mother. In my version, Carrie lives; marries her childhood sweetheart; internalizes all her rage and suffocates her power. Until the menopause – a topic which until recently has been largely misunderstood and taboo – at which point her power returns, and with it, a new kind of freedom. Freedom from the male gaze; from the responsibilities of motherhood; from the largely impossible expectations of society. Unlike puberty, menopause is triggered by a lack of certain hormones; and yet the symptoms can be just as dramatic and isolating. Loss of libido, exhaustion, depression, emotional outbursts as well as unpredictable and alarming hot flashes – my version of Carrie’s pyrokinesis. Whether my heroine’s powers stem from any kind of paranormal source is very much up to the reader to decide – after all, paranormal is only a step away from unnatural. And what counts as unnatural is in the eye of the reader – an eye that has been opened, I hope, to a series of new possibilities.

One is that rage is natural. Living in a patriarchy, women have a right to their rage. In fact, it seems more unnatural to me when women are not angry, given how much misogyny remains in our society. And growing old is natural. Being hormonal is natural. Differences are natural; so are disabilities. All women matter; whatever their age, or colour, or sexual orientation, or marital or reproductive status. The value of a woman’s life should not be defined by her popularity, or her age, or her looks, or her kids, or her value to the patriarchy. And no-one else gets to decide what a woman ought to be. A woman is not what, but who - a person, not an object; an active participant in her world. Women have lived too long behind the mask. They deserve their own stories. Stories in which they are allowed the full range of human possibility. So, to answer my mother’s question: Why are the women so angry?

Because it’s a superpower.

[1dcommunityficrecs]

Exes To Lovers Rec List!

It is no longer Gonna Be May, it in fact is May, and with it another community-recommended theme list. We have, for your perusal and pleasure, 11 exes-to-lovers fics. We've got short and sweet, we've got long and complicated, we've got angsty working through their problems and we've got comfortably rediscovering the new versions each other years later.

I am so excited to dig into these, and I hope you are too! As always, show your love to these awesome authors by dropping a kudos, leaving a comment, and reblogging the fic posts. I'll be announcing the next category as soon as I decide what it is!

Empty Skies by Green_feelings (134048, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

Harry and Louis fell in love as teenagers. Then Louis left and became a pop star...

Reccer says: Greenfeelings has a golden pen. She knows how to handle pining and emotions... And she always comes up with sublime stories...

And What If I Were You by jacaranda_bloom (109959, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

For Louis, will losing his sight give him the clarity to realise what is right in front of him? For Harry, will losing the love of his life give him the strength to finally open his heart?

Reccer says: This fic had moments of such devastation that I cried, and moments of humor that had me laughing. So much emotion packed into this fic! An all time favorite and a must read!

Bitter Ends Turn Sweet by allwaswell16 (30000, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

It had been four years since Harry first heard the song his ex wrote about him and far longer since they broke up. He forgave Louis long ago, and now his life was focused on his career, his family, and especially his son, Max. But Louis was back in Chicago, after all this time, and he’s not an easy man to ignore.

Reccer says: Every time I hear the song Chicago I think of this fic. They are inextricably linked forever for me. The fic is that memorable.

Pathema Proteleia by persephoneflouwers (53399, Mature, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post Warnings: Graphic Despictions of Violence

A few years ago, Omega Prince Harry left his husband and mate Alpha Louis without any apparent reason. When enemies of the Royalty make an attempt on his life and threaten to hurt Omegas, Louis has to ask the Prince for help.

Reccer says: I love the author's writing, their rather baroque style, the way they set the scene for their story and build their characters.

Halfway Home by Itsmotivatingcara (100000, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) Warnings: Blood, murder, violence, animal death, violence

Harry and Louis were childhood friends.They used to hang out at Louis' grandpa's ranch in South Dakota every summer. As they got older, their friendship turned into something more. But life happened, and they went their separate ways. Fast forward ten years, Louis now runs a wildlife refuge, and Harry comes back since louis’ grand dad included him in his will. ButThere's a mysterious hunter lurking around, making things way more intense than just old flames reigniting.

Reccer says: Not only it is basically enemies to friends to exes to lovers while it has mystery, thriller and crime theme as well. Literally everything a good fic should have

Mine Would Be You by crinkle-eyed-boo (KimmieRocks) (114698, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

Louis returns to New York City 5 years after leaving the love of his life behind.

Reccer says: The flashback scenes showing how their relationship originally dissolved are absolutely gut-wrenching. Beautiful writing, made me cry like twice?? There’s also art in each chapter!

i was yours (i wish you were mine) by staybeautiful (56000, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post Warnings: alcohol/recreational drug use, implied/referenced underage sex

Ten years ago Harry dropped his best friend and high school boyfriend off at the train station and never saw him again. A chance meeting outside a bar has them tumbling head first into a summer of music, milkshakes, and maybe each other.

Reccer says: It’s precious, so well written!!! Heartbreaking, heartwarming, heart-mending. I loved how easily they fall back into love, their past closeness is so potent upon running into each other again. it’s so clear how well they knew each other.

I Still Think About You All the Time by NoLogicOnlyStyles (47000, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson ) – fic post

Eight months after their devastating breakup, a series of unfortunate events force Harry and Louis back into each other's orbit again. But can you be just friends with someone you've never not loved?

I Can Build Your Heart A Home by LiveLaughLoveLarry (10252, Teen, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

Two years after (kinda) breaking up, Harry and Louis are both back in town for Christmas. Niall meddles a little, there's some awkwardness and a lot of Christmas fluff.

Reccer says: I loved the dynamic between Harry and Louis and how the context of their past relationship was explained. Also I love a good Exes to Lovers fic and a good Christmas fic and this was both combined.

Finally, You and I (Collide) by lululawrence (14455, Not Rated, Zayn Malik/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

Funny how Louis could sum up everything he’d had with Zayn so easily. Ex. Or the five times Louis was accidentally wooed by cookies and the one time he was purposefully wooed by brownies.

Reccer says: It is completely self indulgent as Sus wrote it for me, but it's perfectly angsty and gooey at the same time because of all the cookie recipes

The Falling Series by we_are_the_same (4053, Teen, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

Louis and Harry divide their belongings after their breakup

Reccer says: It's very angsty but hopeful at the same time

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

Midsommar vs SPOP: Cults and Religious Trauma

i watched Midsommar recently and was struck by how subtle and nuanced the Hårga were, in comparison to the Intergalactic Horde. of course, i don’t expect SPOP to show the kind of brutal gore that Midsommar did, but what i’m talking about is the way these cults indoctrinated members.

Horde Prime just mind controlled everyone to follow his orders and praise him, and it just felt so immature, especially compared to the way SPOP handled some of the other deeper topics. you’re telling me they wrote an actually good manipulator in the form of Shadow Weaver, but couldn’t do the same for Horde Prime? cult leaders are supposed to be manipulative. they don’t just force you to join their cults because it’s so much easier to break out of it. no, what they do is they convince you that this is for your own good. they promise you support, community, happiness, peace. they especially target emotionally vulnerable individuals, because they are a lot likely to accept help from a large community who is seemingly just looking out for them and trying to help them out.

and this is what happens in Midsommar. Dani recently lost her entire family to a murder-suicide, and her boyfriend had fallen out of love with her at this point and he often manipulates and guilt-trips her whenever she points out his mistakes. she was overall extremely lonely and depressed, trying hard to repress her emotions for everyone else’s sake. this is the kind of person the Hårga were looking for. a lot of the audience didn’t even realize that Dani was being indoctrinated into a cult or that joining said cult was going to be very unhealthy for her. that’s how convincing the Hårga were.

Pelle especially seems like the warm, comforting figure that Dani needed, letting her open up about her feelings and listening to her, in contrast to Christian, Dani’s boyfriend, who was often preoccupied with other things, and didn’t even bother to remember Dani’s birthday. you almost root for Pelle and Dani to end up together, until you realize that he is also part of the cult and all of his empathy and compassion is just a clever way to manipulate Dani into trusting the Hårga.

the scariest thing about the Hårga is that they weren’t large, imposing figures with a god complex. they didn’t have a leader who ruled them with an iron fist. they were just a seemingly normal community with seemingly normal people who had fun rituals and celebrations, and seemingly supported and cared for one another. even after seeing two people die brutally, Dani was still manipulated into joining the Hårga because they took advantage of her trauma and her loneliness. she desperately needed actual support and a shoulder to lean on, something her boyfriend didn’t provide. so when the Hårga offered her that support, it was easy for her to believe that this community was exactly what she needed.

and i think SPOP could have pulled something like this off, especially with Catra. if they really wanted us to believe that Catra felt guilty about her actions, they could have gone a more interesting route. i mentioned this in a previous post but instead of Horde Prime chipping Catra, they could have shown him manipulate her and promise her that she can be absolved of all her sins if she joined him. instead of being all like “teehee i know you have a crush on adora, you gay kitty”, they could have shown him feed on her insecurities and loneliness, and promise her a happier future of she joined him, playing on her need for validation and affection.

and in a moment of desperation, Catra believes him. she has lost everyone at this point, so she accepts what little comfort is offered to her. and then it’s the writers’ choice whether to redeem Catra by having her come to the realization that worshipping a genocidal tyrant with a god complex is actually not going to help her become a better person, and that she was just repressing her guilt and convincing herself that this is the best option; or to have her stay and face a tragic ending of sorts. either way, i think it would have been better than what we got.

i know that Nate apparently struggled with religious trauma and guilt (according to a few posts i saw, at least) and i’m not trying to say that i know his experience better than he does. i just think the execution with Horde Prime was really off, and he was almost like a funny caricature of a cult leader, rather than a representation of an actual cult leader.

[444moonbae]

Huntress & Black Canary: DC’s forgotten dynamic duo

long (but worth it) post alert

i’ve always found helena’s relationship to dinah so INTERESTING!!! how helena seemingly idolizes dinah and holds her on a pedestal, because dinah may truly be the only person in the crime fighting biz that doesn't immediately judge her—that she doesn't need to fight for the approval of (*cough* batfam *cough*). i choose to read it as an attachment. one that is similar to her dynamic with batman (in that she searches for approval and comfort), but different because while bruce rejects helena time and time again, dinah does not.

what makes their dynamic even more fascinating is that dinah doesn’t purposely make a home for helena. it’s just who she is or how it happens. the energy isn’t reciprocated in the sense that dinah does not then idolize or pedestal helena in return. it’s sort of a one way street that likely results from the void of helena’s lonely past that causes her to “imprint” on the first person that shows her acceptance. but, because dinah is present and rarely offers rejection, helena thus views her as an object of habitual trust, perhaps even someone that she needs. 

i could be overstating it, but undoubtedly there is a bond between the two worth analyzing, and specifically through the eyes of the Huntress. helena emotionally attaches to dinah because dinah does not turn her away in the way that others that come before her have (due to how she works/goes about business). for once, someone seems to actually care enough to give her the light of day, to give her a CHANCE. and that is a huge change from the unacceptance she is so used to feeling and the lonely she is so used to being. as a child, helena seldom received any validation from important figures (for obvious reasons… i.e. her entire family being murdered), so she sometimes searches for this validation in other people. through this friendship, dinah helps helena realize that she does not have to linger in her own corner of brooding and that she can be apart of a team.

it’s kind of genius, really. and who knows if Gail Simone purposely wrote in all these layers but nevertheless it’s there and it makes sense: girl who continuously gets rejected in her search for approval finally finds someone who doesn’t and in turn, idolizes her. this dynamic only gets more interesting for me when thinking about it from dinah’s perspective; while dinah does really care about helena, she doesn’t necessarily go out of her way to give her that “chance”—she simply does not have preconceived notions about who helena bertinelli is. dinah inadvertently breaks the cycle that helena is caught in. all of this is in terms of the start of their relationship, and to simplify: dinah never goes to helena and says “oh my god you have such a horrible past let me help you!” rather, it is helena who comes across dinah and thinks “wait a sec…? she doesn’t care that i’ve done some bad things? or that batman (AND babs… which is huge bc barbara IS the birds of prey) doesn’t really like me?” it doesn’t mean as much to her as it does to helena. this can be detected in dinah’s own dialogue to her, as seen in the previous panels. however, as their bond strengthens, we do then see dinah going out of her way to directly support and defend helena, even confronting batman herself on several occasions :

i wish this dynamic was explored more, however. it doesn’t help that DC has seemingly thrown helena on the back burner, away from the team that was once so important to her character development. what i’m trying to say is, helena NEEDS to be in the current Birds of Prey run for many reasons, her attachment to dinah and dinah's support of her being one of them. and i hope Kelly Thompson will recognize the importance this has not just for fans like me, but for the character herself. if you know anything about Huntress as a character, she is kind of a "lone wolf" type. by choice, by circumstance, not just cuz of her personality, but because of her origin, too. her joining the Birds of Prey, becoming a prominent figure on a cohesive TEAM, was a huge arc in her development. take it from helena herself, after literally sacrificing her life for dinah :

I would really like to see these two team up again, being that they work pretty well together, visually and literally, but also because it means a lot to helena internally. if we strip huntress away from the birds of prey, who does she really have? where really is she? the answer is no one and no where, a reflection of her current status in the dc universe. helena does not have to be, and should not be, inextricably tied to a team (as some characters unfortunately grow to be) but a balance between co-operation and independence can easily be navigated. in other words, helena works well alone but the birds of prey should remain a comfort zone for her, and a part of her overall purpose. ultimately, having characters and spaces that she is connected to can only be a good thing (i.e. dinah, babs, zinda, the birds of prey). yet, somehow, she is missing in action even while her team is active.

it’s a shame for me to see them operate without her. so, part of my reasoning for her inclusion is Black Canary, as dinah became that important figure in helena’s life— something her character so deeply craves both emotionally and contextually; helena bertinelli needs someone she can rely on and Huntress, as a character, needs to have solid connections within the space of DC’s universe... or else she is at risk of slowly falling into a forgotten pit of oblivion. But when thinking of the birds of prey, i personally do picture a trio— heldinahbabs. of course, the team has always been subject to change, and there is nothing wrong with that (in fact, in volume one, helena only joined in issue #57, while dinah even left in issue #100), but this post is a very long winded way of me wanting to see them together again, even just for a moment. afterall, helena joined for dinah and stayed for barbara. and as someone who is a huge huntress fan, seeing her dynamics explored more with others is a must. but, am i blinded by nostalgia? you tell me. either way, i know helena misses dinah. 

---

bonus: helena lowkey fangirling over the sight of both dinah and bruce fighting together

[alessiathepirate]

Scream

TOUCH STARVED: Ethan Landry x fem!reader

Summary: Do you ever wonder what the source of the hunger for love is?

Notes: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistake I made while I wrote this short story.

I was inspired by literally half a sentence from the movie, but still... we love our little murder boy.

Warnings: SPOILERS! (for Scream 6, but there are only some references), swearing, mentioned/referenced violence, hurt/comfort

•••

Ethan Landry was most definitely touch starved.

She noticed that pretty quickly after they started dating. The way an adorable, silly smile formed on his face as she kissed his cheek or played with his hair was too cute to miss. When she gently touched his face or put her arms around his neck or on his shoulders while they were kissing, the way he ran after her touch and presence was a heartwarming sight to see. Not to mention the slight blush what was still present everytime she gave him a small compliment, especially in front of others.

And God, she loved that when they were alone they were basically attached at the hip, hands or thighs always touching.

But even though she loved him and his presence more than anything, she couldn't help but wonder where that touch starvation came from. She knew that it's not always a pretty thing, especially not the source of it. Someone so hungry for love and peace - it comes from somewhere deep within.

She got the answer to that after the murders started to happen again, after another Ghostface showed up. And just like she thought, the source wasn't a pretty thing at all.

She woke up one night, legs tangled in the sheets, hands burried under the pillow to the feeling that someone sat down on the bed. She immediately opened her eyes in panic as she sat up, eyes trying to get used to the darkness. The phone calls and murders made her jumpy and paranoid, and with that more protective - both the first and last thing she did everyday was calling her friends, making sure they are fine.

The panic disappeared after she realized there was nothing to be scared of, the only other person in the room was Ethan, her lover and with that the rightful owner of the bedroom she was sleeping in.

"Ethan?" she called out to her boyfriend as she wiped the sleep out of her eyes. " 'Everything all right?"

It took a few seconds for him to answer. At first she thought he was starteled, that she scared him with her sudden movements, but his shoulders didn't move and nor did his arms.

"Everything's all right, sweetheart, you can go back to sleep."

Her tiredness disappeared as she looked at him, her back straightening like a hunter's dog sensing something in the dark. Her heartbeat quickened as she looked at him, at his back because he didn't turn around.

She had never seen him hurt before. She's seen him happy, sad and tired... but hurt? That was a new thing and she didn't like it. She didn't like the way his voice became lower or how pained it sounded.

She climbed closer to him in bed, sat down on her calves behind him as she gently hugged him, one of her hands running through his hair, playing with his curles.

His body reacted like it always did, at first he froze then got used to the feeling of being touched, trying to unknowingly get closer to her to try and get lost in her presence.

"You can talk to me, E. You know that, right? I'm here for you."

She kissed his neck, then one of his shoulderblades through the material of his t-shirt, doing her best to try and make the tension from his body disappear.

He took a hold of her hand, the one that was resting on his shoulder and kissed it, ran his fingers along the back of it.

"I just had a phone call with my dad."

The sentence was sudden, but the honesty didn't make her anxious. Instead she kept on playing with his curles.

He never talked about his family. At least not to her. This was a sign of trust and it made her dizzy.

"Did something happen?"

"No, it's... I don't know." his uncertainty was painful to hear. "Nothing has to happen sometimes, you know."

He never talked like this and it scared her.

"You do love me, right?"

She didn't know whart hurt more: the way he said it or that he felt like he has to ask to make sure she does.

"What are you talking about, E?" she gently tried to make him look at her and when their eyes met she continued: "Of course I do! 'Wouldn't leave for the world, 'you understand? You're my pretty boy" she said, calling him what their friends teased them with "and I love you more than anything."

There it was - the slight blush after a compliment, his cheeks became pink and she noticed that like a sixth sense even in the dark.

"What made you say that?"

"It's just... everything is always about my brother and sometimes he forgets that I'm also his son."

She didn't ask questions. She just leaned closer to his face, despite their weird position, and kissed him, slow and gentle as her hands softly explored his body and hugged him, making him feel damn well that to her he is precious. And he kissed back, but so hungrily that her heart hurt. She felt him shiver and sensed that his heart is full of love and adoration. She didn't understand - she never will, how no one appreciates him as much as she does when he has so much love to give.

She broke the kiss after a while and smiled at him.

"Well I can tell you that you are my boyfriend and I love you more than anything. And I'll for sure kick your dad and brother in the balls if I have to."

In that moment she understood. She understood why he reacted to her touch the way he did, she understood where that starvation for love came from. That night she felt her heart grow, it became full of the need to protect and love and prove.

As they lied back down and pulled the covers up, Ethan hugged her tightly, not wanting to let go. And while she made sure to remind him how loved he is, she forgot to realize that Ethan never mentioned that he has a brother before.

[noodles-doodles01]

I know I used to defend this, and I blame it on the fact that the writers banked on season 2 taking 2 years to make and I just FORGOT a lot of s1 points.

Aemond betraying Aegon is stupid. And that being the turning point for him to becoming a villain is even more stupid.

S1 shows he defends his family above all, despite his anger towards Aegon. And that works with how book!Daemon acts (since they are supposed to be warped reflections of one another).

Now I haven’t read FnB in a while, so correct me if this deviates from the book too much:

Aemond uses how he perceives Daemon as a way to cover up his guilt, and this guilt drives him toward becoming more violent as the series progresses.

I always thought Aemond’s guilt would be his driving motivation this season. A scene with his admission to murdering Luke and acting that it was on purpose, having to deal with the closest person in his family almost dropping him for an enemy (Alicent raised him this way, but she’s still a religious woman, and knows this has them nosediving into war). I didn’t hate the brothel scenes since Aemond does struggle with relations in general and does add to his character on that front (it would also give a decent parallel, seeing that Daemon used brothels as a station for power, whilst Aemond seeks comfort from the same place).

Blood and Cheese would be the point where Aemond starts to lose it. He fully blames himself for the death of Jahaerys, being the one who killed Luke and the one who was the initial target (ideally that’s just what he thinks). He begins to hold this heavy burden of having to carry his family’s well being on his own being the rider of Vhagar, and it starts to chip at him.

He becomes more irritable, and starts plotting for war in his spare time. This gets taken as him doing things behind the king’s back, and it doesn’t help that Aemond getting pissed over Aegons pettiness proves that point further. But he DOESNT betray him, the anger and frustration is simply from his overwhelming fear that his stupidity will eradicate his family. This would be so interesting since Aemond is closest with Alicent, giving them decent parallels in which they begin to realize their ambition came at a cost (and I’m talking book Alicent here not the schmuck that Condal wrote).

Then Rook’s Rest. In FnB the way that it’s written him betraying Aegon and it being a stupid tactical mistake are both viable reasons (he dove Vhagar down atop Meleys and Sunfyre) and I’m ok with both, but it being a stupid mistake where Aemond is overconfident serves this concept more. Again he acts as though it’s nothing.

Now this guilt journey doesn’t erase other aspects of his character: Aemond still believes he’s better fit to be king, he believes he is superior to team black, and that translates still, there should never be any doubt in those points. The guilt should come from the fear that he may not be able to protect his family, with Alicents words gnawing at him. So he never removes the conquerors crown bc it gives a sense of comfort, he is king, he holds all power. He never betrays his family, because despite everything they are better off than the league of Bastards.

But the key difference between him and Daemon, is that Daemon is experienced. He knows how to bait the younger version of himself, and that’s what gives him the upper hand.

When Aemond goes to Harrenhall and realizes he’s been tricked, he burns at the river lands. It’s a terrible reaction to the guilt he feels and that’s where the villainy comes from: he finds comfort in this false sense of tyranny when he’s overwhelmed.

Now imagine the amount of fun Alys has when she realizes this bundle of guilt waddled into her playground. The girl will give him visions for weeks depicting all the wrongs he’s done and ramping up what he’s been feeling, telling him the only way to get past this is to destroy Daemon (I HC that Alys just wants to get rid of both of them). She also uses the fact that he’s alone to manipulate him further, and he believes that she loves him and cares for him.

It makes his character more interesting and more consistent with what we’ve seen in s1, and it gives a nuance that wouldn’t be recorded in FnB.

And best of all:

EWAN MITCHELL WOULD KILL IT

[blooming-violets]

just finished five minutes. what other angsty goodness do you have to offer?!

Something Unforgivable

Peter cheats on his depressed, grieving girlfriend and feels like shit about it (as he should!!) and then part three randomly turns into a sex trafficking ring and murder fest story to spice things up.

Dancing On My Own (and the sequel)

People literally despise the fuck out of Peter in this fic. I seemed to have managed to make a typically beloved babyboy the most hated character. Then I tried to redeem him a bit but only made it worse and made people hate him more...but it's angsty af. And I personally think the ending fits their characters perfectly and makes total sense based on how I wrote them/their trauma/backstory buuuut it doesn't make people happy! ANGST

Nicest Thing

Honestly, this fic was written way before Dancing On My Own but they sort of have very similar vibes and I used a lot of inspo from this one to write DOMO. Like they could be the same Reader character person just in a slightly alternate universe. Peter's bff who's in love with him but he loves Gwen and then she dies and he's depressed and his friend tries to help him but it's hard to help grieving angry people.

Pinky Promise

there's children trying to jump off buildings and terrible fathers and attacks on nyc and two sad people just trying to find love in the midst of it all

Imminent

you see the future and that future shows Peter Parker's death. This is one of my favorite things I've done and I don't even think it's written that well but I think it's a unique concept and therefore it's my fav

Creature Like Me

This is my pride and joy. It's my baby. This is the most "I'm writing for me and only me" story I've ever done. It's just me pumping out chapters and like three people reading and cheering me on. And I have genuinely loved every single second. I. Fucking. Love. This. Story. So. Damn. Much.

Don't

This is short. Peter's an asshole during a fight. I like it because Reader stands up for herself and draws some boundaries. Don't let men treat you like shit. That's the message.

Are You Real?

Someone asked to me write fluff but I didn't see that so I defaulted to angst instead. A touch starved reader in a long distance relationship with Peter.

Touch Starved

Another touched starved but it's Peter who's in need of love.

From my Hurt/Comfort Bingo (that I should get back to completing some day): Caring for Reader's Wounds After Fight (home break in), Look At Me (stuck in an armed robbery), Car Accident (title speaks for itself, ended up as a 3 part mini series), Bring Your Kids to Work Day (reader is stuck in a fire with two kids and no way out)

Smut with Angst elements:

Cheating With Peter

Your marriage sucks, you're in love with Peter, all he seems to want is sex from you though and nothing more so you give it to him bc at least it means you'll be his in some sad pathetic way

In The Dark

Depressed reader needs Peter's help to find her way out of the darkness of her mind (through anal sex, apparently)

Ok that should be more than enough to keep you satisfied.

[thefringespod]

Hello wanderers it's time for a very late #AudioDramaSunday post! Starting off with @hinaypod which i am continuing my listen through and I just love the way Filipino culture is weaved into every inch of the show- it makes me think of my godfather and the things he would tell me about the Philippines and even in its horror it still feels like a comforting hug from my Nino (and then the horror hits again but ya know sometimes you gotta hug the horrors its fine)

@woebegonepod pls leave my boy Emdubya alone I'm so worried for what else is coming this season especially for him. Also worried about Tex I don't trust that he's Tex. Dylan is making me too suspicious of all of my cowboys and how suspicious and unlike themselves they're acting

Super Suits came back last week!! I didn't get to listen until this week but gods did i miss this show it's so silly and so wonderful also Noah Belachew is such a fantastic voice actor I can't wait to hear more from his character

@allatseapod continues to be a perfect bite-sized bit of horror that is voiced so wonderfully by Noah Bell who i adore everyone should listen to all at sea go do it right now

@kingmakerpod also had its triumphant return this week! Loml Ariadne Culver continues to be up to her usual tricks and i love her for it also my beloved trio of criminals are still on the run from the law but it's fine they'll be fine. Colette and Telesphore's conversation RUINED ME I love them and their friendship just like I love Eisen and Colette's friendship these three hold my whole heart and I'm so glad The Kingmaker Histories is back

@thecellarletters continues to grab me with its mysteries and with Nathan Lunsford's performance as Nate's dad. I wanna know what's happening and what's the truth of what happened to Nate's dad because every time the tape changes i get a little more intrigued and a lot more concerned

This week on the @doyoucopypod we had the release of @souloperatorpod 's Inkwell Haven piece which i also happen to be in! Tot let me scream and cry and experience the horrors! She wrote a fantastic piece and yall should check it out

Also in personal news, I can officially share that I'm taking part in @/exiledrhapsody! @kit-n-kboodl has written a wonderful and super trans/neurodivergent Frankenstein and my gods yall my episode makes me weep in nonbinary yall are gonna love what kits doing he's amazing

Here on the Fringes we released episode 28 for the public and 29 for patrons over at patreon.com/pinetreepods! Episode 28 is one of my personal favorites because it marks the return of my wonderful moss friend voiced by the even more wonderful Paul Warren go check it out!

And over on @forgedbondspod I'm so close to releasing the official trailer with the actual release date in it i just need to figure out one last thing with the Fringes timeline so I can decide when in December Forged Bonds will start. This cast is doing amazing things yall!

That's all for this week! Work has been busy but I'm starting to draft out some of the ideas I have for my next show, currently called my Untitled Murder Husbands project but it will be titled eventually I promise

[drkmgs]

It had my heartbroken.

Wednesday Addams x Reader

Warning: mild Angst

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

"They weren't mine but when I lost them it had my heart broken."

Wednesday wrote that as her ending sentence in her old chapter. She carefully took out the paper and added to her neatly packed pages. She sighed. The room felt bigger than before, she could definitely feel your absence. She never thought she would be fond of your shenanigans or you in flesh.

She hate to admit but she misses you. awfully. She misses how you would annoy her while she's writing, your cringe phrases that could lead her to murder, your infuriating laugh and your dreadful back hugs whenever you see her in the halls. She misses you so much that she started to hallucinate, she would see you in every classroom, hallways, at the Weathervane, and even in her room, but she knew it was just an image of you in her mind, she didn't make an effort to talk to you. Though sometimes you would talk to her like you usually do.

Now is the perfect example. You were on her bed, on the phone, scrolling through social media, humming in satisfaction. Then you remembered you weren't alone.

Y/N: Oh, sorry I was humming. I didn't realize it.

Wednesday: T-there's nothing to apologize for. You can continue humming if you want too.

Her voice cracked, it broke her heart. She needed that comfort from you but she knew you were merely an image in her head. She tried to shake the image away in her mind but it only makes it worse.

You were now standing in front of her. Looking down at her, whilst she is sitting on her stool. You gently crease her cheeks, she leans into your touch. Feeling the warmth of your hand against her very own cold skin.

When will she realize you're not just a hallucination, that you're real, that you were on the edge of death but cheated in some way? When will she realize, how much love and affection she showed, whilst thinking you were dead.

You had to play along with this idea. Preventing her to do something else. You were glad to see her doing just fine, but when loneliness strikes her, you couldn't just watch from afar. You soothe her by appearing every time she needed you. You would play your memories with her, to remind her about the happiness that she has given you.

She wrapped her arms around your waist to feel more warmth of you. Inhaling your scent, wood sage, and sea salt. Your scent is therapeutic to her, it did calm her down. You had your hands on her head slightly pressing it against your body and gently stroking her hair.

It was time for you to go before anyone else's sees you. You gently guided her to her bed and made her lay on it. She's holding your hand, not wanting you to leave. You whispered little things to her, it was soothing her to sleep. Soon enough she slipped into slumberland and you kissed her on the forehead to say goodbye.

You slowly pulled your hand away and made your way to the door. When you opened it, you were greeted by a tall woman with silver blond hair.

Principal Weems: I have been looking for you. How is she?

You took one last glance behind you and closed the door. You cleared your throat to compose yourself.

Y/N: She's doing fine while I'm beside her, but she's completely lost when she's all alone, she'll slip into something worse. Moth- I mean Principal Weems, let me tell her the truth. I can't keep roaming around the school like a ghost.

Principal Weems: We have talked about this, Y/N. How would you even tell her you aren't dead? How would you tell her you cheated death? She saw you get stabbed with Nightshade poison. You died in front of her, we held a funeral for you. Even I, your mother. I am in shock to see you come back from the dead. Don't get me wrong, I am truly happy you're back but we still don't have answers to what questions they may have. Staying low and hidden will be the safest thing to do right now.

Y/N: But I can't keep watching, how she suffers alone, not even knowing her partner is alive and kicking. Mom, I love her. I want to be with her so badly.

You couldn't hold on to your tears anymore. You are already sobbing when your mother pulled you into a hug and rubbed your back to calm you down.

Principal Weems: I know, darling. I'm sorry.

[babybluebex]

italy calling: part one | joseph quinn x fem!reader

summary: part one of three! after much convincing on your friend's part, you end up in italy and, on your first night, you meet a handsome stranger. pairing: joseph quinn x fem!reader (rpf - don't like, don't read) tags: drinking, probably bad financial decisions word count: 3.1k author's note: again, big thanks to @icallhimjoey and @wordscomehither for your help on this fic!! let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this fic!

You suppose, the whole thing wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for the no good, terrible job you had. 

Overall, you liked your job. Well, that was an exaggeration. You liked your job well enough that you showed up every day and did your work, entering data into spreadsheets for an organization that you honestly weren’t entirely sure of what it was. There were quotas that you had to record, quantities and whatnot that you supposed people were chastised for for not meeting. But past that, you didn’t really know. The important thing was that it was mind-numbing work, just punching away at your computer day after day, getting lunch breaks and fifteens and really whatever else you needed. Decent sick leave hours, and a bit of a process to request time off, but you didn’t mind your job, no matter how tedious it could be. Your cubicle was small and you hated the professional “office attire” that you had to wear, but you made do, coming home each evening to a TV dinner and reruns of Murder, She Wrote. 

Your friend, however, was convinced that you were miserable and needed something more. “Babes,” Lily said one night over margs and tacos. She had sort of dragged you out of the comfort of your flat and forced you to do a “girl’s night”, and you poked at your margarita with your straw. “You need a vacay. Like, desperately.” 

“No, I don’t,” you told her. “Where would I go? What would I do?” 

“Go to Italy or something!” Lily said. “Just for a week, just long enough to destress from work! Your shoulders are all tense, you look sad.” 

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Go to some expensive resort for a week and blow my savings for what? To ‘destress’, only for me to come back home to work and get all stressed out again? No thanks, Lil, I’ll stick with London.” 

“I mean…” Lily started. “My family has a house in Livorno. I’m sure my parents would let you stay for way less than if you went to some resort.” 

“Okay, I’d still have to get a plane ticket and pack and everything,” you said. “And ask for time off, which isn’t guaranteed. It’s just— Lil, I love you and I appreciate you thinking about me, but it’s just not doable.” 

“What if I went with you?” Lily asked. “Then, you’d get the house for free, because I’d be there with you! I won’t, like, harsh your mellow or anything either, I can chill at the house while you explore and everything. C’mon, some sunshine will do you good.” 

You frowned. You loved Lily, you had known her since your school days, but she had a sort of intense personality that could get old quickly, especially if you had to spend more than about three days together. She was definitely all beautiful and bubbly, could make friends with anyone no matter where she was or who she was with, and you just didn’t consider yourself her social equal. You definitely couldn’t see yourself traveling to Italy with her, but you also knew that she would keep on the topic like a dog on a bone. “I mean…” you started. “I guess it would be nice to get away from London for the week. And I do like Italian food.” 

“Yes!” Lily smiled. “Go to Italy!” 

You sighed. “Alright,” you said. “Give me a few days to check if I can get time off and see what my money situation is, and I’ll get back to you.” 

“Oh!” Lily squealed, and she grabbed your arm. “I’m so excited for you! You’re going to Italy!” 

“Maybe,” you said quickly. “I might be.” 

“What if you meet a guy?” Lily gasped. “Some tall, dark Italian guy?” 

“Now you’re just talking shit,” you laughed. “I’m not gonna meet some guy in Italy, that’s added stress that I don’t need. That’s ridiculous.” 

“Maybe not a relationship,” Lily said. “Maybe just a little… Tryst. A fling. Just for the week.” 

Just for the week. A fling. Oh, Lily, you optimistic creature, you. You were lucky to pull a guy in London, there was no hope for you in Italy. “Right, right,” you mumbled. “When pigs fly.” 

“Don’t get so down on yourself,” Lily said. “You could! You could meet the most wonderful guy and keep up with him after the vacation!” 

“Ew, long distance?” you said, wrinkling your nose. “I might go to Italy, but you can forget about a man.” 

You didn’t forget about that, though. You thought about the idea of it for the next week, as you worked and relaxed. You sorted through your finances and found that, if you stayed at a midline hotel, you could stay in Livorno pretty comfortably for roughly a week. You appreciated Lily’s offer of staying at her family’s house, but you wanted time to yourself, and you couldn’t see Lily giving that. Staying at a hotel would wipe out your savings, though, so you hoped that you didn’t have any sort of emergency before or after the vacation. You sent in your time off request, and you were elated when it came back the next day as approved. 

It seemed as if you were going to Italy. 

Finally, after waiting for what felt like years, the time came. You packed the day before, putting in swimsuits and jackets and everything that you could imagine— you had looked at the weather forecast and it said that it would be hot, but you knew that the nights could go cold, so you packed at all ends of the spectrum. Your flight took off at ten in the morning, giving you very little time in the morning to get ready, and you shot Lily a text when you left your flat. Italy, here I come! 

You felt like you were holding your breath the entire time you passed through security and boarding the flight. The flight was pretty decent, all things considered, and your heart caught in your throat when you finally saw the bright blue Italian water as you made your descent. You held your breath again as you made your way through customs, and in the taxi, and you finally, finally sighed when you made your way into the hotel room. It was small, just a king-size bed with a serviceable bathroom (with a tub, what a win), but the real showstopper was the balcony. It was tiny, hardly big enough for you to stand out on, but it overlooked the city, giving a beautiful view of Livorno and all she had to offer. You flopped down onto the bed, the balcony doors wide open, and you sighed again. Finally. A vacation. 

As per the vacation rules that you yourself had set, you took a nap, then got ready to go out. You didn’t usually fancy yourself a “going-out” type of girlie, but Italian nightclubs always looked so fun in movies and on TV. You had to experience it, before your better sense told you not to. In fact, your lesser sense told you that, even exhausted from the flight, going out would be good for you. You put on your favorite outfit, still smelling like your flat in London, and you hoped that it was chic enough for Livorno before you skipped out of the hotel room, making sure you had your key with you. 

The sun was just starting to set as you found a nightclub, close to your hotel but far enough to be unfamiliar. Once in, you adjusted to the low lights and pulsing music, and you wondered for a second if this was a bad idea. Not just the club, but the trip as a whole. You had considered your Italian to be pretty good, enough to survive in the country for a week, but the chattering around you was overwhelming. You couldn’t make out a single word, and you ground your back teeth as you steadied yourself on a barstool. Just order a drink, you told yourself. And fucking relax. 

Luckily, you didn’t have to take your chances on ordering something and wondering what the Italian name for it was. Before you could even grab the bartender’s attention, he set a glass down in front of you, a martini glass, filled with a clear drink with an olive. The bartender said something to you, something you could scarcely make out as “Something something, gentleman at the end of the bar, something something”, then turned back to his work. 

You expected to turn and see the type of guy Lily had mentioned, tanned and Italian and overall gorgeous, and, yes, the guy you locked eyes was gorgeous, but he was not tanned and Italian. He looked a little pale under the blue and purple lights, scruffy curls at the nape of his neck, a round nose, a crooked smile on his pink lips. He wore a buttoned shirt, the top two buttons undone, two thin chains around his freckled (and sunburnt?) neck, baggy jeans and white sneakers— an odd outfit, to be sure, but his handsome face and enigmatic energy made you smile at him and pull your head towards yourself, inviting him over. 

The first thing he said was “Hi there”. Thank God. English. And British, maybe? Something like that. You focused on the English. 

“Hi,” you said. “Thanks for the drink.” 

“Of course,” the guy said with a nod. “I hope you like martinis.” 

“Can I be honest?” you cringed, and you cast a glance at the drink before adding, “They’re not my favorite.” 

“Aw, shit,” he said with an abashed smile, shaking his head. “Well, what is your favorite? I’ll buy that for you.” 

“Oh, no, you don’t have to,” you said quickly. “I, umm, thanks for the offer, though.” 

The guy looked downtrodden, seeing your rejection, and he started to say, “Alright, then, umm, have a good night—“ but you stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“No, no, that’s not—“ you started. “That’s just me saying that you don’t have to buy me a drink. Don’t go.” You don’t know why you said that to him, especially sounding so desperate, but he seemed into it, the cheeky smile returning to his face. 

“I won’t,” he said. “I’ll stay right here.” 

“What’s your name?” you asked, sliding the martini towards him, and he took it by the stem of the glass, looking at it contemplatively for a moment, as if considering what name to give you. 

“Joe.” 

“Joe?” you repeated. “Is that your final answer?” 

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “My name is Joe.” 

“I feel like you’re giving me a fake name,” you told him teasingly, tipping your head towards him. 

He rolled his eyes as he grinned, and he said, “My full name is Joseph, if that helps my credibility. But everyone calls me Joe.” 

“Alright, that makes me feel a little better,” you admitted. “Is there a surname?” 

“Mmm,” Joe hummed. “See, I don’t want to give you my surname.” 

“Why not?” you asked. 

“I want to maintain the mysterious stranger image that I’ve got going on,” Joe told you. “A handsome stranger sends you a drink and only shares certain information about himself; aren’t you curious to know more?” 

“Right,” you said. “That only makes you sound creepy. But also correct. Now, I wanna know everything about you.” 

“Maybe you will,” Joe shrugged. “Maybe you won’t.” 

“So, Mysterious Joe,” you started slowly, eyeing him up and down. He looked comfortable, leaned up against the bar, tapping his toe to the beat of the song, but his eyes were looking all around, over your shoulder and to the person next to you, before finally settling on your face as you spoke. It almost seemed as if he were looking for something— or someone. “What do you do?” 

“I’m an actor,” Joe answered easily, too easily. “I’m really famous, too, been in stuff that you’ve seen. You’ve seen my face before, I guarantee it.” 

That made you laugh. Joe smiled at you as you laughed at his words, and he said, “What, don’t you believe me?” 

“Not at all!” you said. 

“Good!” Joe said. “You shouldn’t!” 

“So, you’re not an actor,” you said, your laughter dying down with tiny giggles, and Joe’s cheeks turned a shade of pink under the lights. “Can I guess what you are?” 

“You can try,” Joe said. “But you’ll never guess it right.” 

“Maybe,” you started. “If you buy me an actual drink, you might convince me to drop the whole thing.” 

“Done, darling,” Joe said. “What do you want?” 

The night went mainly that way, laughing and joking with Joe, and he bought you your drinks all night. You complained every time he told the bartender to add your G&T to his tab, but Joe shook his head and insisted. The more you talked to him, the more you liked him; he was funny and very down to earth, always telling stories about his friends and family. You asked him what he was doing in Italy, and he said something about a vacation between big work events, although he didn’t elaborate what events they were. In fact, when it came to his work, he was very tight-lipped. Twice during the night, his phone went off, and he scowled at it before he declined a call from someone named “Alex”. When you asked— “Alex must really need to talk to you, surely?”— Joe shook his head. “Alex can wait,” he said. 

You weren’t sure at what point you decided that you wanted to sleep with him, but you eventually came to the realization that Joe also wanted that. He had stepped closer and closer until his hips nudged your knee as you sat on the barstool, and he carefully let his hand touch your thigh. You got the impression that he would have tugged his hand away had you expressed discomfort, and you just generally felt safe with him. He was an easy, laid-back sort of guy, and you liked that; those sorts of fellas were hard to find anywhere nowadays. Joe’s eyes canvased your body as you spoke, regaling a story from your uni days, and his gaze stopped at your lips, all of your lipstick having worn off onto the edge of your glass. 

Finally, Joe made his move. “Why don’t we go someplace more… I don’t know, quiet?” he asked, leaning forward and speaking into your ear to be heard over the music, and you nodded quickly, polishing off your drink with haste. “I’ll meet you out front, let me pay the tab.”

The night air outside was warm, and you checked your phone as you waited for Joe. It was just past one in the morning, no new calls or texts, just work emails that you promptly dismissed before you sighed. “Tired?” you heard Joe ask from behind you, and you shook your head. 

“Just… Work,” you said. “You know how it is.” 

“I do,” Joe nodded. Without the hustle and bustle of the club and the colored lights, you could finally see him properly, and you saw a subtle golden glow on his skin, faint freckles splashing his nose and cheeks, his rounded cheeks tinted pink. And his eyes. Jesus. You had seen that they were dark in the club, but outside, in the streetlight, you could finally see that they weren’t just brown. They were deep brown, dark brown, chocolate brown— neverending, hypnotizing. You felt your legs grow a little weak and, in your state of maybe one too many G&Ts, you blurted out, “You have nice eyes.”

“So do you,” Joe told you, putting a hand on your back, maybe to steady you or maybe to pull you closer. No matter why he did it, your hands went to his chest, and he drew you into him, his arms around your waist. “You’re beautiful.” 

“You should kiss me,” you told him, and Joe chuckled, brushing your hair out of your face.

“I think someone’s a little drunk,” Joe said fondly. “Where are you staying? I’ll walk you back.” 

“Umm,” you started. You couldn’t recall the name of the hotel you were at, and you went into your bag, searching for the room key that you knew had the name of the hotel on it. “This one. Here, I can’t pronounce it, I’d absolutely butcher it.” 

Joe took the key card in-between his fingers and looked at it, reading what was written, and he mumbled, “Oh, that’s close to here. C’mon, darling.” 

“How long are you in Livorno for?” you asked, carefully taking Joe’s hand in yours as you started your short walk. He instantly laced his fingers with yours, his hand big and warm and soft, and you felt yourself going warm at the thought of his hands all over you. 

“Just until Friday,” Joe told you. “Only a few more days. You?”

“Tonight’s actually my first night,” you told him. “I got in earlier today.”

“Oh, nice,” Joe said. “Well, I’m glad I got to meet you during the small window we have together.” 

“Likewise,” you told him. 

You kept small talk as you walked to your hotel, not going too deep into conversation like you had at the club, and Joe stopped himself as you approached your hotel. “Aren’t you coming up?” you asked, and Joe grimaced. 

“Not tonight, love,” he told you gently. “You’re drunk. It’s not right.” 

Although you were disappointed and pouted, you felt relieved that he had the good sense to recognize that and not try to take advantage of you in any way. “Fine,” you said. “Can I at least, like, get your phone number or something?”

Joe smiled softly. “Sure,” he said, and he told you an England-based number. You had glommed onto the fact that he was British, what with the accent and certain stories he told, but he had never told you where he lived. Now, you were narrowing in on him. You saved it in your phone as Italy Joe, and you grinned at him. 

“Can I get a goodbye kiss too?” you asked, and Joe chuckled. 

“You’re incorrigible, aren’t you?” he said. 

“Yeah, well, it’s my best quality,” you giggled. “Please?”

Joe locked eyes with you, and you shivered under his intense gaze. Carefully, he tugged you close to him again, and he gave your cheek a firm kiss before he drifted away. “Since you asked so nicely,” he whispered. “Good night, darling.”

“G’night,” you told him, and you went back into your hotel, dreams of the mysterious Joe already swimming around your head. You definitely were going to call him tomorrow.