"girls, Boys, Neithers, Boths, And In-betweens" Is Actually Rificulously Inclusive And Will Forever Be

⋆ eat your young pt. 1

Felix Catton x gn!reader x Oliver Quick - 18+ mdni

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

They dangle on the leash of their own longing; their need grows teeth

warnings: smutty, nsft/nsfw, Oliver and Felix being creepy, mild somnophilia, non-con participation in masturbation, Felix jerks off, reader gets relentlessly objectified, dark themes, sexual fantasies, mentions of oral sex, mentions of cum, mentions of crying during sex, Oliver and Felix both want to make you their plaything, reader gets ejaculated on lmao, reader is implied to be shorter than Felix, 18+ MDNI

note: whew, baby. I genuinely like this one, and I hope you guys do too :> There'll be a second part involving the much anticipated threesome tee-hee. I'm working on making a male!reader version of this too! Kisses <33 male!reader version here

wc: 3.5k

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Midnight draws closer, the world around the castle long swallowed by complete blackness. As though the only things to remain are its cold walls and the surrounding gardens, guarded by the looming beast at the labyrinth's heart.

Warm light spills through the crack in Felix’s bedroom door, casting an amber glow onto the hallway's floorboards outside. At its edge, with his head resting on the wooden door frame, stands Oliver.

Shrouded by the night's darkness, his eyes fixate on your figures lounging on the bed. A fiery glint within them, like a flame licking at the sight in front of him. Burning him from the inside out.

It nearly scorches the surrounding air, illuminating the corridors in a hellish red—or maybe that’s just Oliver’s mind playing tricks on him.

He rolls his shoulders back, muscles flexing and twitching beneath the thin fabric of his tank top.

You and Felix are both half bare, sprawled out across the bedsheets in underwear due to the merciless summer heat. The two of you are making sure to keep your banter hushed and giggle into the pillows to avoid waking the others.

But Oliver knows you want to be watched; that's why you left the door open after all. To lure him in, like a lone moth begging a bright, shimmering light to swallow it whole.

And it worked; you have his full, undivided attention now. You've sparked a ravenous, horrifying hunger deep within him. A need to belong, to join. To burrow his way in between the cracks and crevices of the castle walls.

He watches you clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter as Felix just leans back, a satisfied grin on his face. It’s a picturesque sight, really, the both of you lazily draped over Felix’s bed.

So effortlessly beautiful and utterly mesmerizing as dim, golden light bathes your bodies.

He should've known that, where Felix resides, he was bound to find more gorgeous people. But he could've never imagined that someone could match Felix's mind-bending ethereality.

Venetia's best friend, so sweet and astoundingly kind, but more than often found at Felix's side instead of hers.

Oliver almost feels bad for her, but he's not certain that it's a conscious decision on your part. Felix has a way of wrapping people around his finger with seductive ease. Perhaps Venetia has less of a say in your visit than everyone lets on.

"Oh, I stay here every summer." You showed him around the premises along with Felix, excited to meet his new friend.

"It's always been like that." He nodded, playfully nudging you. "Part of the family at this point."

Maybe that is what is so inescapably intriguing about you. You've managed to carve your name into the castle's foundation and remain an anomaly among the countless faces that come and go.

There's something about you that has somehow allowed you to stay. 

So, Oliver naturally came to the conclusion that you were one of the missing pieces within his puzzle. The one thing to grant him fulfilment and bridge the gap between him and Felix. So useful and so sweet.

After all, he sees the way Felix looks at you, even if you may not notice. Glances that linger far too long, dopey smiles, and a feverish intensity in Felix’s gaze he’s never seen before. Sorely out of place among those angelic features, almost alien.

"Just make yourself at home." You'd both smiled so sweetly when you said it that Oliver could barely sleep that first night. Your presence quickly clawing its way into his consciousness to join Felix on his throne.

Haunting his dreams hand-in-hand, even during waking hours, it's unbearable—hours upon hours of pitiful fantasizing about you and Felix. He wishes you'd both just give in and accept that intrinsic craving gnawing at your bones.

Just let go and devour each other, as it should be. How delicious it'd be to watch you two press against each other, glistening with sweat and whispering filth, as teeth sink into skin in relentless fervour.

What a spectacle it'd be. He feels dizzy just thinking about it.

Your sweet face stained with hot tears as Felix pounds into you, and Oliver tenderly wipes them away to lick them off his fingers. His thumb in your mouth, your lips wrapping around it as you whimper and whine, looking up at him through your lashes. God, it'd be the death of him. 

He wants—no, he needs—for it to become reality. Otherwise, he'll really go mad in this godforsaken place. Oliver's eyes flutter shut as he palms his painfully hard erection through his flimsy boxers. 

Well, they're actually Felix's, but what does it really mean for something to belong to someone? Surely, Felix wouldn't mind sharing something as miniscule as underwear if he already so graciously took Oliver in for the summer, right?

He won't realize they're gone anyway, so who's to say Oliver can't indulge himself? He's here to enjoy his summer break after all and share with you all.

You wear Felix's clothes all the time, so who can really blame him for following suit? He just wants to fit in, really.

He slinks away from the doorway, silently skittering back to his own bedroom to settle in for what is ultimately bound to be another long night for poor old, lovesick Oliver. 

You two are wrecking him, reducing him to a needy, clingy mess.

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Felix leans against the edge of the open window, revelling in the cool night breeze caressing his skin. A sloppily rolled joint is loosely clasped between his index and middle fingers as he stares into the blackness outside.

He takes a slow, absentminded drag from it, holding the smoke in until it makes his throat itch. He blows it into the wind and lets it get carried away, disappearing into the night. 

Hopefully, the smell doesn't wake you up; he'd hate to disturb you when you look so serene, your chest rising with measured breaths as you cradle his pillow. It's cute—unbearably so.

Felix swallows thickly; shame burns in his chest as he tries to suffocate the thoughts with another deliberate drag. It's all futile, though; he's been trying to will these feelings away for years now, with no hope for success. You're just so sweet and so irritatingly platonic in the way you act towards him.

It drives him up the fucking wall.

Everybody wants him; people bend over backwards and throw themselves head first into self-destruction to get a mere slither of his attention, and you just got him wrapped around your finger since the first time he laid eyes on you as a kid.

You're entirely inescapable. 

Usually, being so used to getting every last one of his needs and desires fulfilled, someone playing hard to get just plain kills his interest. Why should he fight for someone's interest when there are countless hot people practically pouncing on him?

All he has to do is snap his fingers, and he gets some cute guy sucking his dick or multiple chicks littering his neck in love bites. Never once in his life did he have to beg for someone to covet him. 

Except for you. Unattainable in a world in which he gets everything he could ever possibly ask for. The sheer cruelty of it all is enough to strip him of any rationale.

Every person he fucks ultimately reminds him of you. Whether it's the way they look up at him, as if he's holy, or the manner in which they say his name, it all just leads back to you, and he can't fucking break free from the chokehold you got him in. 

He doesn't even remember their faces; they're all blurred by his sheer need to replace them with you. All of them sound like you in his head, crying out his name and begging him to slow down. 

He takes another drag, groaning at the heat pooling in his abdomen.

It doesn't matter how many people he sleeps with or how many people bend to his every will, because none of them are you. And he's slowly growing insatiable, itching and aching to feel you and to taste you.

Adoration grows teeth and claws, boiling over and oozing down over his deprived heart to singe it with obsession. 

You shift in your sleep, sighing blissfully. He watches your shirt ride up—his shirt—to expose more and more of your soft skin.

Is the universe testing him? Could the dear devil himself be tempting him to complete his transformation into the horrible monster he so longs to be right now?

And you're wearing his boxers too, too exhausted to run back to your room to grab your own. So, of course, Felix offered his clothes. Because he's kind, and perhaps because it's truly a precious sight to behold.

He licks his lips, his darkened eyes fixated on the way they hug your hips and thighs. As if they're made for you, not for him.

There's a part of him that never wants to wash them, preserve your smell, and bury his face in them.

He's done it before, but he's still riddled by the guilt he felt after cumming on a pair of tight briefs you'd borrowed from him. It was the hardest he'd ever climaxed, though, and he simply can't get rid of the urge to do it again.

He chews on his lower lip, the joint in his hand now completely forgotten as his shorts grow unbearably tight. A warm, fuzzy feeling crawls down his neck and along the expanse of his shoulders. His judgement being clouded by the weed.

It's almost painful to be so close to you in such a vulnerable state.

What have you done to him?

It's all too much for him—the anguish from restraining himself in such a way is excruciating at this point. Something animalistic lingers beneath his skin, snarling and scratching at his bones to break free. So eager and so monstrous.

He quietly walks over to the bed, careful not to rouse you. Completely silent as he looms over you, tall, larger than life, and shrouded in darkness. If he wanted to, he could so easily overpower you and make you his right here and now. 

But that's not the point.

He wants you to choose him and to crave him like all the others. The only way he'll be satisfied is if you beg and tear yourself apart for him, just as he does for you every night. He wants you to crack your rib cage open to offer him your heart, still beating and oozing blood. 

The mattress dips beneath his weight when he reassumes his position next to you, his large frame easily filling the free space and almost curving around yours. For a few moments, he just lies there, savouring the feeling of casually sharing a bed with you, the proximity, and its near domestic idyll. Tracing your features with his eyes in complete adoration.

Would you wake up if he tried to wrap his arm around your waist? He so desperately wants to hold you close, breathe in your scent, and never let go. Maybe waking up cradled within Felix's arms would finally make you realize how seamlessly you two fit together. 

How perfect he is for you.

You shift in your sleep, dragging the hem of your shirt further upwards in what Felix assumes is an instinctual attempt to keep yourself from overheating.

Oh, you poor thing.

He hesitates for a second, reaching out his hand and letting it hover above the bunched-up fabric before gently freeing your entire torso. Merely to help you cool off, of course. He wouldn't want you to feel all sticky and gross in the morning from sweating all night.

Well, it depends on what kind of sweating. Ew, gross, Felix. Don't think about that, he winces.

Nonetheless, he lets his fingers ghost over your stomach, softly tracing the boxers' waistband. Fuck, he just can't keep his mind clean with you looking like this.

He sucks in a quiet breath through his teeth before shakily pressing his warm palm to your crotch and rubbing up against it ever so slightly.

Your breathing falters for just a moment, a weak mewl falling from your lips at the welcome pressure. Felix nearly groans when you unconsciously buck your hips into his hand to chase after the pleasant feeling.

Felix Catton is a weak man, quick to indulge in his compulsions, especially when it comes to you. You're like that one crack in the dam, threatening to split it open and flood the lands of composure in him with pure, shameless debauchery.

He spits onto his other hand, swiftly slipping it underneath his own waistband and wrapping it around his agonizingly hard dick. Fuck, the things he'd do to you if you just let him.

The heat radiating off you crawls up his arm, making his hair stand up and sending waves of white-hot need washing over him. This is so wrong, so utterly wrong in every way, but fuck, it feels so good.

He simply can't find it within him to stop, far too spellbound by the way your brows furrow when he lets his fingers run along over your core.

He laps up every sleepy whimper and gasp he pulls from you, biting his tongue to keep his own moans from spilling out.

Though he can't help but let his mouth hang open when he pictures your plush lips wrapped around his girth, your eyes big and so full of adoration as you look up at him. Tears stream down your face as he fucks your face, hitting the back of your throat and forcing you to swallow every last drop of his cum. 

You'd be so, so good for him. 

Felix lets his head fall back against his headboard, drawing blood from biting down on his lower lip in a desperate attempt to stay silent as he releases all over his fist.

A coppery taste spreads throughout his mouth, but he's too dazed to care. Mindlessly observing the wet spot on his underwear, it grows larger as he catches his breath.

God, he made such a mess. 

He pulls his hand out from beneath, spreading his fingers to watch the cloudy, viscous fluid stretch between them. 

He watches it glisten in the dim light before leaning over and carefully smearing it on your waist, drawing a heart shape as though he's simply doodling in a notebook. His thumb gently digs into your flesh, trying to massage it in.

Ultimately, though, you'll seemingly be waking up feeling a bit sticky after all. Hopefully, you won't question it too much, or he might have to come up with some sort of lie.

Good thing Felix lies with a vexing, graceful ease.

Felix wriggles the soiled boxers off, carelessly tossing them into one of the room's corners, and lifts himself off the bed to grab a fresh pair. He looks over his shoulder, making sure you're still fast asleep as he slips them on.

You haven't even moved an inch.

He smiles, amused and comforted by your ability to sleep through all that. He should be feeling deeply ashamed, ablaze with the flame of gut-wrenching remorse, but he doesn't. 

Instead, his appetite has just grown ever more ferocious. As if someone has released him from the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles. Itching to get more, feel more. He's growing greedy. He's merely had a lick of what could be, savouring its heavenly taste on the back of his tongue.

For tonight, though, he'll let you rest. He wouldn't want to rob you of your beauty sleep. Not yet, at least.

Those nights will come, and he'll make sure of them.

Felix makes sure to keep the window open, crawling back into bed with you to settle in with his chest pressed to your side and his arm languidly slung over you. Your quiet snores softly lull him to sleep with a satisfied grin plastered on his face.

He'll have you caged in between his arms soon enough; just you wait, darling.

Such a beautiful, tranquil summer night, he muses.

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Oliver feels as though the sun has grown even harsher, grilling him alive as he tries to get comfortable on the crickety deck chair. They're not very luxurious—a very noticeable exception among the obscenely extravagant furniture inside the Catton estate.

But, nonetheless, they're still quite cosy; the problem is how tense and jumpy Oliver himself is at the moment.

You're lounging in one of the ponds, skin wet and glistening in the late afternoon sun, as you casually chitchat with Venetia and Farleigh. All three of you stretched out on your apparently designated pool floats.

Farleigh nearly caved Oliver's head in when he tried grabbing his. Lesson learned. So, like the sweetheart you are, you generously offered him yours that day. 

"Don't be afraid to grab it whenever you'd like too. I don't mind at all." You smiled at him, and Oliver swears a halo encircled your head then. "Doesn't really belong to me anyway."

Oh, but it does. Because they all adore you, and he's sure if you merely asked, they'd buy hundreds of those pool floats without batting an eye.

Elspeth cooed over you just this morning, going on and on about how wonderful you look today. And you do, of course, but it's just so curious to see the Cattons so enamoured with some common person. She's totally infatuated with you.

Could it be that, with time, they simply forgot that you're not really one of them? Felix did say you're part of the family at this point, whatever that means to people like him.

Oliver lets his gaze wander the length of your legs. Your feet dipped into the cool water, your head leaning back and your sunglasses sitting on top of your nose, threatening to slip off any second now.

Farleigh, the whole reason he's been feeling so fidgety today, shoots you a mischievous smirk before splashing you with a handful of pond water. You yelp, nearly tipping your float over from the icy shock.

He chuckles at your reaction, which sounds how sandpaper scratching against Oliver's brain would probably feel like. Grating and violence-inducing. 

As soon as you regain your composure, you move to return the favour, but with two handfuls. Farleigh gasps in mock offence, jumping off his float to wade over to you as you laugh and shout at him to fuck off. 

Oliver purses his lips, scowling at the playful scene unfolding in front of him. He looks at Felix, dozing in the chair next to him, with the book he's been pretending to read all summer resting on his belly.

He chews at the inside of his cheek, a malicious idea suddenly popping into his pretty head. 

He nudges Felix, who lifts his head to drowsily raise his brows at him. "'S matter?" He mumbles.

Oliver, as nonchalantly as he can muster, nods his head in your direction before setting his little plan in motion. Big, innocent eyes as he peers at Felix.

"Seems like Farleigh got himself a little crush, eh?"

"What?" Felix's brows knit in confusion before he peeks over the rim of his Ray-Bans to see Farleigh shove you off the pool float and into the pond. 

A huge, goofy smile is on your attacker's face as he watches you resurface. Your face lights up with an unbridled but light-hearted thirst for revenge. Farleigh is quick to play along, pretending to fear his impending doom as he allows you to chase him out of the water and across the chalet gardens.

Both of you are giggling and squealing like children; it's sickening.

Oliver notices Felix's leg begin to bounce up and down impatiently, his jaw tensing when you tackle Farleigh to the ground. You laugh when he pokes your side to escape your clutches.

It's a horribly childish display, really. And entirely unnecessary. 

Felix nearly seethes, his chest rising and falling in tandem with an agitated sigh. Oh, is that jealousy Oliver's smelling?

Putrid and foul as it pollutes the air around the two of them, like toxic fumes rising from their pores. Their skin almost turns green from their relentless loathing, with half a mind to gruffly put a stop to your games.

"You really think so, mate?"

"Sure looks like it, doesn't it?" Oliver mutters, a theatrically naive lilt to his voice.

Felix just hums in response, bitterness and disgust written all over his otherwise flawless features. Plush lips contorted into a vague frown as he silently lights a cigarette.

Oliver turns away, pretending to yawn, in an attempt to conceal the pleased smile on his face. 

He just managed to successfully plant the seed of resentment and faux competition deep within Felix's mind. And he knows Felix can't stand not getting what he wants, much less when it comes to losing to Farleigh out of all people.

There's something about facing defeat when it's at the hands of someone you've deemed trustworthy your entire life.

If he could, Oliver would absolutely pat himself on the shoulder right now. Excellent work, mate. One step closer to achieving his goal.

And you're ever clueless to the web Oliver's silently and meticulously stringing up around you and Felix, wrapping his string around your neck and leaving you both none the wiser.

This might be easier than Oliver expected.

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Part 2 coming soon :> !!

Please consider reblogging this if you enjoyed it! Likes are very much appreciated but sadly don't do much for writers and artists on Tumblr. By reblogging, you're telling us you'd like to see more and help our work reach more people that might be interested! Thank you so much :> ♡

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

11.01.2024

so can we start hunting down white liberals now or what

Haiiiii !! I love the way you write and I wondered if I could request a gnreader x steve if that's okay and if u still have time! Like maybe a scene where Steve visits a music store to get somebody of the group (maybe Robin, Dustin or someone else) a birthday present but he's totally stumped nd doesn't know what to get and by total coincidence the Reader is there and helps! (i hope this isn't too over the top or that i wrote too much??)

You can ignore this bit if it limits your creativity in any way but maybe the Reader's a total airhead who seems to be addicted to the word dude and has kind of an cali valley boy vibe (but also a total metalhead ofc)

Thank you and i wish u a very comfortable day/night and send u lots of virtual hugs!

(ﾉﾞ⌯'⌄'⌯)ﾉﾞ*。⋆💓

gn!reader | thank you for the req!! virtual hugs right back at ya

Not once in his life has Steve been in a record shop.

Similarly, not once has he shopped for Robin and it was far beyond him what she generally liked.

Clothes — what if the stuff he bought didn’t fit her style? Food — did she have some allergies that he didn’t know about?

After much contemplation and a tip from Max, who had so graciously played messenger pigeon for him, he’d decided that it was only appropriate to buy her… something to do with music. He’d seen the bulky record player sitting on the end table by her door, the shelf under bare of actual records and, at this point, collecting dust.

The bell jingles as he steps into Dave’s Records on the far side of town, nose flooded with the scent of something musty and lemony window spray.

The air is cold, lights dim and displays colored orange by the sunset through the large glass windows. He’d figured it was wise to go at the tail end of the shop’s hours — more time for him to spend stalling because, in reality, he had no clue what Robin liked. Other than stuff on the radio, she’d never mentioned her music to him.

A sharp voice cuts suddenly through the Queen plays softly over the speakers hidden in the ceiling, shouting something unintelligible from the back of the store.

Steve peeks around the corner, seeing you in a heated argument with the shop’s owner.

“Twenty dollars for this is absurd, dude,” you borderline yell, hand slamming in a fist to the glass countertop. “Don’t be crazy, come on!”

The shopkeeper merely shakes his head. “Twenty. Take it or leave it.”

To his better judgement, Steve turns to the shelves to continue browsing in favor of interjecting. The selection is overwhelming — bands he’d never heard of, popular stuff that was an equivalent of working two weeks on minimum wage.

There’s a loud groan and a clattering sound, then angry footsteps approaching him.

“Twenty!” you exclaim softly from beside Steve, hands deftly flipping through the different cardboard jackets of red, purple, black, blue. “Twenty is absurd, don’t you think?”

“I dunno,” he says, staring intently at his sneakers looking pristine white next to your beat-up Converse, your laces tuned gray and rubber toes smeared with dirt and grime. Sharpie doodles litter the edges — sloppily-done stars, stick figures, other stuff he couldn’t make out long faded by the sun.

The white tips of your shoes turn to face his.

“Huh?”

“Like, I mean I don’t really know what’s a reasonable price,” Steve says quickly, pretending to be pointedly interested in whatever Overkill was. “I never shop here.”

“Oh.” You turn back to the display, lips set into a tight line.

The music fades out, leaving the air still and silent and stifling save for the whirring of a fan somewhere in the back.

There’s the scuffing of the carpet as you toe at a fraying line of loose thread, hands falling to your sides. “Didn’t take you for someone who likes metal,” you comment offhandedly in a way he suspects is only to fill the silence.

“What?” Steve glances up, then back to the display in front of him to realize he was, in fact, looking through the metal stuff that Robin definitely had no interest in. “Oh. I’m, uh, shopping for a friend.”

“Cool,” you say, hugging your choice of record to your chest. “Okay. Bye, then.”

You turn on your heel, halfway disappeared around the stand towards the counter to browse elsewhere, business finished in the metal section.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, deliberating for a moment, before reaching out to tap your shoulder before you can get too far.

“Could you help me really quick?”

He can see you considering it, cogs clicking in your brain before you offer a slight grimace.

“Sure, if it’s fast,” you say with palpable hesitance, “I have a… thing.”

“So, my friend Robin-”

“Robin Buckley?”

Steve gapes. “Huh? How’d you know?”

You start off towards the front of the store, weaving in between displays and stacks upon stacks of records.

“Who else in this town is named Robin?” you ask, stopping in front of a bunch of stuff Steve’d never taken the time to listen to. The Smiths, Depeche Mode, INXS. “And I know her from school. You shopping for her birthday?”

Steve reaches up, the fabric of his windbreaker crinkling as he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, actually. I know she has a record player and she likes music, so-”

There’s the switch lightbulb over your head, eyes lighting up as you adjust your cap. “Oh, sure. We talk about music all the time,” you say, turning back to the stand.

Your fingers brush against the tops of numerous records before settling on what Steve can’t make out beyond a pinky-reddish blob with black around the edges.

“Man, she loves The Cure,” you state matter-of-factly, holding out your choice to him. “She never stops talking about ‘em. And I know she doesn’t have this one ‘cause she’s been talking about saving up for it. So I’m sure she’ll like it.”

Steve takes it with hesitance, staring at the cover. Pornography. Nice.

“Thanks,” he says, still squinting and trying to make out the faces on in middle. He looks back up. “Really. Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” you say back, shooting him a quick, tight-lipped smile. “I’d better go. Nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, bye…” He watches your retreating finger as you disappear into the sunny parking lot, eventually making his way up to the counter on his own.

He slides the record across the counter, mildly disturbed by the guy with a cigarette between his lips.

“Twenty dollars,” he says.

CIGARETTES & DIOR 𝙸

with some editing here and beta reading by @raelwrites the loml, my biggest motivator, there, we have a first part to the series!;

enemies steve harrington and reader, follows along with 'weirdo on maple street'

[if anyone wants to be tagged let me know]

 objectively, you suppose you could call steve a nice-looking guy. attractive, perhaps. maybe even dateable. subjectively, you know, deep in the very marrow of your bones, steve harrington is probably the worst person you have ever had the displeasure of knowing.

 sure, tommy hagan was a douche and carol perkins was a stuck-up bitch but steve- oh, but king steve ‘the hair’ harrington was so so much worse. and there wasn’t really anything that made you feel this way—not anything you could sensibly give as reasoning anyway. yet the way he strutted about, flocked by his little gang of bullies, like some overgrown peacock just made your blood boil and skin flush with anger.

 which is why, when nancy wheeler strode up to you with barbara in tow, you were not only worried but mentally figuring out where steve would be that during lunch to give him a good bollocking because nancy looked frazzled.

 “nance-” you slammed your locker shut. “lovely to see you.” it wasn’t. you were still half convinced this whole dating steve thing was a ploy to get you two acting civil with each other. never going to happen, sorry nance.

 she started with your name, “-listen,” this should be good. “we were invited to a party...” oh god. “would you be willing to come with us?”

 fuck.

 “how much choice do I have, exactly?” your hunch said not much.

 “please?” called it. “we would really like it if you could come.” damn nancy and your fondness for your friends all to hell.

 you shift, throwing an arm around the ginger beside you, “yeah, alright.” you sigh, “but I’m only going for barb and free booze.” which was only partly a lie, so you didn’t even feel that bad saying it.

 barbara giggles, exclaiming your name with a light shove to your shoulder. “It’s tonight by the way, we’ll pick you up.”

 tonight? “but It’s a tuesday.” who hosts a party on a fucking tuesday? “guys?” you go ignored as the bell rings immediately after, getting drowned out by the noise of scurrying bodies of passing students. nancy and barbara quickly bid their goodbyes and you solemnly schlump your way to next period, walking slower to prepare for an hour of sitting in the same room as steve.

 fucking tuesdays, man.

 the more you thought about it, the more you paced around your room. who’s hosting the party? neither nancy nor barbara would answer you when you asked repeatedly during class, which... definitely suspicious.

no matter, whoever it was and whoever was there, you would be the best dressed in attendance. what’s the point of going out if you can’t look hot whilst doing so?

you quickly spritzed some perfume when someone honked their horn outside your house, the girls had at least told you enough to know that it would be late evening when they came to grab you. you had slipped on your shoes and were prepared to leave before calling out to anyone still in the house.

 it was a cold night, though what november night isn’t. glad for the jacket you grabbed before leaving—even the short jog to the car had managed to leave a slight chill in your bones.

“well don’t you look like a million bucks-” and a call of your name greeted you as you situated yourself in the middle seat, flashing a grin at barbara as you tugged the seatbelt across.

 “why thank you, m’lady. and you both look dazzling, as always.” flattery will get you everywhere. currently, you were hoping that the flattery would get you at least the address for the party, or how many people might be there.

 “you smell like a million bucks too, jesus, just how rich are your parents?” nancy remarked, having turned to face you from the passenger seat.

 “enough that dior is my regular perfume, now-” you clap your hands together and lean forwards over the centre console. “don’t try to distract me, nance, where are we going?” if you were going to get any answers before arrival, you knew the only way was to just pester them enough that you got a reply out of annoyance. “c’moooon! just an itty-bitty name?” resting your elbows on your knees, you clasp your hands together in mock prayer.

 “you’ll find out when we get there.” you get a light shove to your face from nancy and huff a little in your seat. you couldn’t even fiddle with the music, a rule you three had declared at the start of your friendship.

“passenger seat passengers have control of music.” you had declared promptly and firmly when nancy had tried to reach from behind you to change the mix tape.

 “you’re just saying that because you don’t want to listen to madonna.” barbara chimed in from beside you, glancing at you before concentrating back on the road.

 “I’ll listen to madonna plenty if you’ll stop trying to change it to her while I’m enjoying kiss- hey!” you slapped away a giggling nancy’s hand from the radio in time to prevent the song from being changed.

 “you say that-” nancy began, still giggling through your name, “but I know you listen to abba, I’ve seen the tapes!”

 “you’ve seen shit, nance! ignore her, must’ve hit her head on the door.” you remarked, thwarting yet another attempt by the girl at reaching the radio.

 barbara merely laughed at you two, resolved to stay out of the radio debacle.

 though, on the way to the café after school you kept your promise, and the car was filled with four voices singing physical attraction.

 “barbara, pull over.” nancy suddenly exclaimed. to your knowledge, parties were usually held at a house, not in middle of a road. while the girls were busy talking you looked around the neighbourhood, surely something had to be familiar enough to pinpoint a location.

 “he just wants to get in your pants.” barbara scoffed from her seat. wait what?

 “woah-ho, hey… who wants to get in who’s pants?” you unbuckled your seatbelt quickly to shuffle forward, shoulder buckling with the back of nancy’s seat slightly.

 “steve-” barbara began, and suddenly the secrecy made sense.

 you recoil at his name, shouting out a protest, “what? nance, love, we’re going to steve’s?”

 “he invited nance to his house, his parents aren’t home…” barbara began listing, but you had gotten the message loud and clear at the first mention of his name.

 “come on, you are not this stupid.” barbara continued, and you knew now why this street was unfamiliar, if steve had to live somewhere here then you would have found every means possible to avoid even walking on the same pavement as him.

 “tommy h and carol are gonna be there.” nancy rebukes, though it’s kind of a shit reply. those two have been having sex since like seventh grade.

 “tommy and carol have been having sex since, like, seventh grade.” this is why you liked barbara. she even agrees with your thoughts.

 you decided to splay across the back seat while the pair continued talking, knowing whatever they talk about would involve steve, and that’s not a conversation you want to ever willingly partake in. plus, it’s not like you wanted to walk home at night in the cold when you were in a perfectly comfy and warm car.

 “woah woah woah, why is nance stripping?” you sat up, watching in confusion as the girl removed her jumper.

 “is that a new bra?” barbara questioned, face slack in disbelief. despite nancy’s negative reply, it probably was. you had raided both of their closets on multiple occasions for fun enough to recognise that you did not recognise the bra nancy was wearing.

 “jesus, girl. if you wanted to fuck, we could’ve found someone for you, didn’t have to go start dating steve fucking harrington for some mediocre dick.” when your comment went ignored save for a stifled giggle from barb, you left the car to follow the other two with a sigh.

 goddamn steve.

“all I’m saying is, you need to consult your friends when making these sorts of big decisions.” you were gesticulating wildly, needing to find some way to get rid of the slurry of emotions churning inside of you. “and you don’t get to blame this on my totally reasonable dislike of steve either. barb totally agrees with me, right?” you slung your arm over her shoulders, pulling her lightly into your side to stop the full body shaking.

 “barb, chill.” nancy chimed in from your other side, ignoring your comments.

 barbara leaned into you a little more, “I’m chill,” she replied.

 before you could make any further comment on the situation, the double doors in front of you three opened to reveal none other than the king himself.

 steve spares a fleeting confused glance at you before speaking, “hello ladies.” god he looked like an idiot. one hand on the door and the other on his hip, steve grimaced at you, “hello-” he grits your name out. there was a half-formed hope in you that it would shatter his teeth as he said it.

 you take a bow, “your highness,” you mock. if you’re stuck here, might as well have some fun, ey? “so, dweeb, what’s on the agenda for tonight? swapping books?” you push past steve, knocking shoulders as you go.

 “sacrificing virgins to the old gods, should be right up your alley, freak.” steve taunts back, moving out of the way to let nancy and barbara in.

 you twirl around to face steve, tugging your jacket off, “you flatter me, harrington. if anyone here needs to be scared of a virgin sacrifice it’s you.” you toss your jacket over the banister. the closer your stuff is to the door the faster you can high-tail out of steve’s house.

 you followed the others to the back porch of the house, throwing comments out about the décor to barbara. though it might’ve been a nice house, you would never admit that while steve was within earshot. the smug bastard would hold it over you for the next century.

 when the shrieking began from carol, you had immediately thrown out your disdain for the pool, “if anyone so much as attempts to throw me in I’ll cut your hair off while you sleep.” you wouldn’t actually do that… probably. but the others at the party didn’t need to know that.

grabbing a deck chair, you dragged it closer to barb. nancy was completely enamoured by the beast that is harrington and wouldn’t be good company so you sat as close to barbara as you could.

 “that’s not even remotely attractive.” you sneer, watching as steve shotguns one of the beers in the cooler. “how did that even happen? nancy and steve, god.” you weren’t really sure what barbara thought about the couple, having not been able to talk to her without nancy around but you were comforted by the displeased face she held. “if steve hurts a single hair on her head I’m gonna rip his out.” barbara giggled at that, so you smiled. barbara’s laugh could probably cure cancer.

 “yeah, she’s smart you douche!” tommy let out, which gained your attention because tommy being right was a once in a blue moon occurrence. he followed that statement up by crushing a can against his head and chucking it to the ground. like you said, once in a blue moon occurrence.

  “oh, come on nance you’re not seriously gonna shotgun that are you?” you exclaim, waving the hand that wasn’t across barb’s shoulders in the group’s general direction.

 you were ignored in favour of steve starting a chant as nancy pulled open the tab. tommy and carol joined in, speeding up and then hollering when nancy threw the can on the ground, empty. who knew all it took to get nancy wheeler to let loose was the grating voice of steve harrington?

 “barb, you wanna try?” nancy asked, already moving towards the cooler.

 “what? no.” and though you weren’t asked, you shook your head along with barbara. “no, I don’t want to. thanks”

 nancy picked up a can while steve chimed in with his own, unwanted, goading. “it’s fun! just give it a-” nancy was cut off, though, by yet another soft protest from barbara.

 “nance, she said no. cut it out.” you moved to sit up, preparing to stand if necessary.

 “just- just give it a shot.” and with that barb stood up, having taken the can nancy gave her. you watched, tense, from your seated position just behind her as she moved the small blade to puncture the can. even before the motion was made, you were beginning to stand up and when barb suddenly dropped the can and blade all together you huddled up to her, cradling her bleeding hand.

 “fuckin’ told you shitheads…” you grumble, inspecting the cut as best as you could in the low light.

 “where’s your bathroom?” barb asked, voice shaky. to which steve, useful for once, quickly pointed out the directions for both you and barb. past the kitchen and to the left. easy enough to remember.

 “he better have a fucking first aid kit in there-” you quickly opened the door for barb before stepping in after her. “how’s the hand? does it feel swollen? heating up?” you moved to rummage through the cupboards as you question, hoping to find at least a bandage.

 “heating up? is that meant to happen to cuts?” barb sat down on the closed toilet seat, smiling faintly at the sight of you rushing around as much as you could in the enclosed space. “I’m ok, really. it looks worse that it is, I promise.”

 you make a positive noise from inside the cupboard, having found both a disinfectant for cuts and some bandages. “I’ll only believe you if you let me help take care of it-” you start, moving to crouch next to the girl and taking her injured hand in yours. “it’ll sting, probably.” you warn before slowly dragging the cloth dipped in disinfectant across the cut, stopping every so often as barb flinches.

“et voila! one bandaged hand to go.” it took barely 10 minutes to complete, but any spare moment with barb you would take. “let’s go find nance before she gets eaten by harrington.”

 the both of you exit the bathroom laughing, though it dies the second you notice nancy on the stairs, following behind steve and wrapped in a towel.

 “nance,” you called out.

 “nancy,” barbara joins, “where are you going?” she asks once nancy turns to look at you.

 “nowhere… just, upstairs. to change.” because that doesn’t sound suspicious. and sure, she looks like a wet puppy, but you’re reminded instantly of the conversation had in the car. “I… fell in the pool. why don’t you go ahead and go home, I’ll just… I’ll get a ride or something.”

 “what the fuck?” you whisper, yeah super fun party nancy, thanks for the invite. you can’t help but scowl at her.

 “nance…” nancy repeats your names back at you. “this isn’t you.”

 “I’m fine.” that sure sounded like a goodbye. “just… go ahead and go home, okay?” well, how nice.

 nancy turned and walked up the remained stairs, and you scoff at the interaction that just occurred.

goddamn steve.

 “we can head back to mine, I can make us some food and we can marathon some tapes left from last week,” you suggest, moving to grab your jacket you knew you had hung on the banister. it wasn’t there. “fuckers moved my jacket, hold on.” you took the stairs two at a time to quickly get to the second floor when barb called out.

 “I’ll wait outside.”

 making a noise of agreement, you knocked on every door as loud as you could, knowing only the party guests were in the household. “hey shitheads! where’s my jacket?” you bang on a few more doors before stumbling across your jacket on the floor in front of you.

 at this point, you really wanted to leave. so, with a scoop of your jacket and a cursory pat down the pockets to check everything is where it should be, you hop down the stairs giddy at the thought of spending more time with barb.

 “got my jacket!” you called out. you glance around the living room before moving to the back porch only to still not see barbara anywhere. “barb?” you call out again, confused at the sudden vanishing of her presence. did she not want to hang out with you? isn’t that a kick in the heart, huh.

“could’ve fucking said something, at least.” you scoff. that’s another friend to abandon you in one night, not even an hour apart.

you shrug your jacket on while looking around despite there not being a trace of barbara anywhere. with a grimace you turn around to head out, ignoring the rustles of the bushes in front of you, no point in standing around when you had a nice warm bed calling out your name back at home to nap and wallow in.

this broken design, ch14

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts.

Your experience in criminal profiling means that you've met a wide variety of people from all different walks of life. You've stared down hardened criminals and fought for your life against people hellbent on killing you. Even so, something about the FBI's new target, the Chesapeake Ripper, seems to elude you.

Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.

Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

Your stay at the hospital is hellish, as you’re constantly accompanied by a mind numbing boredom that refuses to leave. You understand that you have to give your body time to heal—you’re suffering from a gunshot wound, after all. However, you have absolutely nothing resembling entertainment to occupy your time with. Instead, you’re left to slowly decay under thin sheets and the nurse’s observant gaze. Your side still burns, but with each passing hour, it gets a little better. 

Before you can die of boredom, however, you get a visitor. You glance at the clock, only to find that you’ve been deceived. It’s only been a few hours since Jack’s visit. The thought troubles you. Time is taunting you. 

The door to your room slides open suspensefully, before revealing a familiar face. Beverly stands in the doorway, an inappropriately devilish grin on her face. It only takes a few seconds for you to see through the happiness in her smile, straight to the tightness behind the gesture and the stiffness of her posture. She’s been worried for you. The thought makes you feel extremely guilty. Truly, you’ve been a rather horrible friend as of late. Sure, you’ve had a lot of other things going on. Still, Beverly has always made time for you. Why weren’t you able to do the same for her?

“Hey,” Beverly says. Her gaze flits about your form with disinterest and you’re once again reminded of your gratitude for Beverly’s honesty. She’s one of the only people who never looked at you strangely—with fear, apprehension, disgust, pity. “Missed ya.” 

“Missed you too, Bev,” you respond, sending her a smile that probably looks more tired than relieved. She seems to appreciate the thought nonetheless. Beverly looks around the room for a moment, before settling in the same chair that Hannibal was sitting in only moments ago. Somehow, she seems to add a sort of brightness to the rather unremarkable space. You tap your fingers against the sheets restlessly. “You just missed all the fun—Jack tore me a new one.” You sigh. 

“Hardly,” Beverly huffs in amusement. Her gaze flits from the wall to meet your eyes with an uncharacteristic sincerity. “Jack was worried about you, you know. He’s had a rather short fuse for the past few days; it was driving everyone crazy at the Institute.” 

“The past few days?” You manage to ask. You’re hoping you misinterpreted that statement. Surely you haven’t missed several days. Surely you weren’t knocked out for that long. 

Beverly’s expression is sympathetic and you feel any confidence you had promptly fade from existence. “You were unconscious for three days,” she says. You don’t know what to say, so you opt for pinching the bridge of your nose and pretending not to notice the pain in your side or the fatigue clinging to your form. “We were all worried, of course,” Beverly continues, as if trying to keep you distracted from the admission.  “Me, Jack, Price, Alana-”

“Alana?” You interrupt. 

“Well, of course,” your friend says with furrowed brows. Somehow, Beverly’s remark reminds you of your friendship with Alana—the friendship that you had been purposefully avoiding for so long. Ever since she kissed you, you’ve been avoiding her. That’s surely a justifiable course of action, but hearing about Alana’s concern for you makes you think of all the memories you have with her.

After all, Alana was your first friend at the Institute. She stuck up for you in front of Jack, when you were a nameless rookie and he was the intimidating superior officer that you were afraid of speaking out to. Alana was your psychiatrist for a while, too. Dr. Bloom is different from the majority of the medical professionals you’ve worked with. She doesn’t treat you like an endangered animal in a zoo exhibit. She never once tried to poke or prod at you—manipulate you in the way so many others do. Alana was really a breath of fresh air during your time of need. 

“I need to talk to her later,” you murmur. You intend for the remark to be a note to yourself, but your companion hears it anyway. 

“Sure,” Beverly answers unobtrusively. “Hey, tell me about it?”

It doesn’t take you long to understand what she’s getting at. “Gideon?” you ask, unable to keep a bit of suspicion from your voice, “Why?”

“I’ve heard bits and pieces, rumors, but I want to hear it from you,” Beverly admits. “You don’t have to tell me right this instant. Just…” She breaks off, evidently unable to find the words. 

“It’s fine, I’ll tell you,” you respond. You think you owe Beverly this explanation, if only for how neglectful of a friend you’ve been the past few weeks. You tell her as much and she waves the remark off, which only incites more guilt within you. You’ve been entirely negligent and neglectful—something you seek to repair in the coming time. 

Somehow, reliving the kidnapping is actually helpful. By recounting what happened, you can start to come to terms with the events that unfolded. Looking back on it now, you realize that you had no choice but to kill Gideon. Indeed, just as Jack said, he would have killed you first. After killing Chilton and Lounds, there’s no telling what he would have done next—except, you realize with mounting dread, go after Alana. 

“That’s… very shitty,” Beverly admits once you’ve explained everything, seemingly lost for the right words. You relate to the sentiment. Truly, the entire situation is beyond words. 

“I know,” you say, acknowledging the remark before choosing to push the conversation onto lighter topics. You glance around the room with irritation. “Now I’m just stuck in this fucking room. I’m dying of boredom.” Beverly laughs, her eyes gleaming. 

“You’re going to love me for this,” she smirks, a mischievous gesture that reminds you of how cunning she can be. You send her a quizzical look and she makes a show of rolling her eyes. “I brought clothes. Just change into these and they’ll never notice you leaving.” She glances at the door behind her before looking back to you, waiting to see what you’ll say. 

“You’re my savior,” you remark sincerely. Beverly smiles triumphantly, before offering you a hand. You take the proffered assistance and she steadies you as you leave the mattress. To your surprise, you’re able to walk on your own—albeit with less speed and composure than usual. You step into the bathroom and close the door behind you, before finally taking off your damned hospital gown. The thing is horrid and you take immense pleasure in shoving it into the absurdly small trash can in the corner of the room. Thankfully, you took a shower this morning, so you won’t have to put clean clothes on over dirtied skin. The clothes Beverly brought don’t fit super well, but they’re leagues better than that drab hospital gown. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a few seconds, unsurprised by what you see.

You look different. Haunted, hallowed. Your face almost looks more gaunt, your eyes more dull. You didn’t emerge from captivity unscathed, that’s for damn sure. The wound ripping the skin at your side is proof of that. There’s also a jagged scar cutting diagonally down your face, reaching from the edge of your temple and falling dangerously close to your left eye. You bring a hand up to the cut, wincing at the brief pain the motion incites. 

A harsh knock on the door rips you out of your self-inflicted torturous reverie. You take a deep breath and regard your reflection one more time before leaving the bathroom. You stand in front of Beverly and she looks you up and down. 

“Not bad,” Beverly says. 

“Jack is going to kill me if he finds out,” you realize aloud. 

“Which is why he won’t,” Beverly responds confidently. Her eyebrows furrow at your statement, as if the very suggestion of failure is laughable. “Find out, that is.” You click your tongue and grin at her; she then grins back. Once the elevator doors open, the two of you walk through the long hall and towards the exit. Your departure is painfully slow, but within a few minutes, the two of you are standing outside of the hospital building. The afternoon sun is bright today and the sunshine warms your skin. You feel a relieved smile growing on your face. Beverly says she’ll pull the car up to the driveway and walks off towards her car. Moments later, you’re successfully seated in the passenger seat of your friend’s van. 

The car ride is quicker than you expect. It’s been a while since you’ve gotten the chance to catch up with Beverly, so you’re happy to hear her amusing anecdotes and exciting stories. Truly, it feels as if only a few minutes pass before she’s pulling into your driveway. Your friend puts the car in park and turns to regard you, a conflicted expression on her face. You feel rather the same in that regard. You haven’t been home in several days now and, somehow, it almost feels as if you’re intruding on someone else’s life. You’re preoccupied with the past, as you listen to the cicadas humming in the trees nearby. What if you hadn’t gone after Alana? Would Gideon have killed her? He very well could have. Despite your near certainty that you did the right thing, you can’t rid yourself of the guilt and regret. You should’ve done things differently. You should’ve-

“Hey,” Beverly interjects, her voice cutting through the rushing static in your ears. Her concerned eyes meet yours. “Don’t beat yourself up about it—any of it.  You did the best you could.” As always, Beverly knows exactly what to say. She knows not to tell you that you made the right choice. She knows not to remind you of Gideon’s criminality. Her hand reaches out to clasp yours and you lean over the median to embrace her. Beverly hugs you back and, for a moment, it feels like everything will be okay.

Even despite Beverly’s reassurances, there is blood on your hands as you wave goodbye to her and step into your home. The scar on your face burns with recognition, remorse. Crimson pools color the ground at your feet and your victims follow your every step, taunting you from the shadows. You are haunted by the events that transpired and the choices you made. You had spent so long in a false state of overconfidence, thinking yourself immune from it all. As you walk into your bedroom, a blaring sound greets your ears. You walk over to your alarm clock and disable the alarm, both satisfied and unsettled by the silence that follows. How long did you spend ignoring the shrieking alarms in the recesses of your mind? 

Darkness draws the curtains over the day. Sleep comes easily because, despite it all, you’re exhausted. Unfortunately, your slumber doesn’t feel much longer than the blink of an eye, and you wake to find your skin soaked with sweat. Your stomach growls and you resign to eating a small breakfast before tackling your hygiene. Once you’ve eaten, you choose to take a shower. The hot stream of water tickles your skin and you have to be careful not to let the water fall directly on your wound. The last thing you need is a burn on top of a gunshot wound—that would add insult to injury (literally). Your shower takes a bit longer than normal, mainly because your left arm is restricted in movement. By the time you’re turning the knob to stop the water, your left side is burning from the exertion. You grit your teeth and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel with your right hand. What follows is a rather awkward toweling-off, as you struggle to dry off without aggravating your injuries. You take several minutes to carefully rebandage your wound, before turning to the pile of fresh clothes on the counter near the sink. 

The act of changing into clean clothes proves to be more difficult than you initially expect. The most minute of movements can further irritate your injury. Even the attire you chose—a simple shirt and your most comfortable sweatpants—seems to cling to your form. It feels as if your skin is stretched far too tight over your bones. Despite your expectations, you only feel worse after the shower. 

You’re not out of the bathroom for more than two minutes before you hear the doorbell ring. Dread coils in your chest and you walk to the door, opening it before you think of the potential consequences. The door swings to the side to reveal Hannibal standing on your doorstep. A drop of water slides down your temple. You bat at it with your hand, before regarding Hannibal. 

“Hello,” you manage to say, trying your best to suppress the several different emotions threatening to surface. Your heart is pounding uncomfortably within the confines of your ribcage. You feel your nails digging into your palms as you come to terms with the situation Hannibal has just forced you into. You can’t exactly turn him away at the door—especially knowing that he loathes rudeness and could easily kill you for the offense. Although, in reality, he could kill you regardless. Why are you still allowing this to happen? Why are you still complicit? 

"May I come in?" You bite the inside of your cheek. He is only asking to maintain the pretense that you have control over the situation.

"Sure," you acquiesce guardedly. The wound at your side stings in remembrance. Trepidation makes a home in your chest. Seeing Hannibal once more forces your mind to conjure images of him in surgical attire, slicing through your sutures and putting them back when finished. A not insignificant part of you wonders why it took you so long to come to terms with the danger that Hannibal wields with ease. How many times have you invited him into your home? You've been a fool. 

Hannibal is unaware of your thought process. He's regarding you with mild interest, as if he'd like to dissect your thoughts. You have no intentions of actually speaking on those thoughts, so he'll just have to keep wondering, you think wryly. His voice cuts through the air. "Your departure from the hospital yesterday-"

“What about it?” You interject, stepping past him to close the door before returning to your original position. If Hannibal is annoyed by the interruption, he doesn’t show it. You’re skating on extremely thin ice here. The most minute of gestures could send you into the icy depths of his anger. Sure, you’ve grown accustomed to feeling like that in Hannibal’s presence. That sentiment seems to be amplified today, though. You’re inexplicably taken back to your days at the Academy. You were a wide-eyed recruit, once—filled with the optimism and naïveté of someone who hadn’t seen the field. Instructors taught you everything you needed to know about criminals: how to apprehend them, how their minds worked. 

None of it could have prepared you for what followed. Your first mission left you with a nasty bruise on your jaw and blood-spattered clothes. You hadn’t spoken for days after, and remained shut up in your house until Jack Crawford forced himself inside and sat next to you. At the time, you hadn’t known the man at all. You expected him to chew you out, to start yelling at you for your uselessness. Crawford did nothing of the sort. Instead, he simply… spoke to you. He recalled his training days, his first mission when he stared down a murderer of seventeen innocents. You found solace in knowing that you weren’t overreacting, that the Head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit himself expressed similar feelings once upon a time. 

“This job isn’t for the faint of heart,” Crawford had remarked “You have to come to terms with the fact that some people are past saving.” The thought troubled you. (It still troubles you.) 

“Even if we can save them?” You choked out, your voice raspy from neglect. If the man was surprised by you breaking your silence, he never commented on it. 

“Even then,” Crawford sighed. At that moment, he looked wizened beyond his years: a man who had seen his fair share of violence and maleficence. Crawford turned back to you, a determined look in his eyes. “We deal with monsters here, who are infinitely more cruel than you thought possible. They will come in different shapes, sizes, personalities. But there’s one thing that every single one of these people has in common… They’re all dangerous.” 

“But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Crawford asked. “I know you’re talented—I keep an eye on all the recruits. You could be a member of the Behavioral Analysis Unit within a few years. You have a good eye, a good feel for how this works. Excellent shot.” The praise barely registered to you in your tortured state. Now, it brings a ghost of a smile to your face. “But this work… it changes you.” Spoken from experience, judging by the resigned look on Crawford’s face. 

“You can leave this behind,” Crawford continued, his lips set in a thin line. “Get another job. Have a normal life.” He pushed himself up to stand over you. You still remember the look on his face in that moment: how his eyes gleamed with firm resolve. “Or you can walk out of this door with me, back to headquarters.” It hadn’t taken you long to come to a decision. After a few seconds, you got to your feet and followed after him. 

Now, as you stand across from a killer in your entryway, you wonder if that answer was a mistake. Where would you be, if you weren’t here? The thought is pointless to consider. It’s far too late for contemplation. 

Hannibal says your name and you’re snapped out of your trance. He’s staring at you expectantly, but you haven’t the faintest idea what he is looking for. “You were assigned to bedrest for three more days,” Hannibal eventually says. 

“And?” You ask, moving past him to walk into the living room. Hannibal follows behind you, a silent shadow at your back. A shiver rolls down your spine as you walk the short distance with your back to him, almost entirely vulnerable. You move to sit on your sofa and Hannibal takes a seat at the armchair across from it. The positioning reminds you of your sessions with him. You grit your teeth. 

“Does Jack know that you’ve returned home?” Hannibal asks, raising his eyebrows slightly. His gaze pins you to the sofa. 

He’s playing dirty with that remark and he knows it. “What do you think?” You ask, unable to keep a slight hint of sardonicism from leaking into your voice. Hannibal only raises his eyebrows. You sigh and lean back against your sofa. “Of course Jack doesn’t know. He would murder me, to put it lightly.” The thought prompts some guilt to rise in you. You forget the feeling when Hannibal inexplicably rises to his feet and rounds the coffee table, standing over you. 

“Your wound needs consistent medical attention.” He demands. 

“It’s fine,” you argue, “It doesn’t even hurt.” That is a complete lie. Hannibal seems to know that, if the skeptical pinch to his lips is anything to go by. He was a surgeon, after all. You had forgotten— tried to forget , your brain supplies. The air between the two of you is silent. The way Hannibal looms over you now makes you nervous. You don’t know what to say to break through this seemingly insurmountable tension. 

“Allow me?” It’s phrased like a question, yet you feel as if you can’t say no. You nod, not trusting the words that could fall from your lips. Hannibal takes an impossible step closer and you push yourself up, maneuvering so that you lie across the couch. You pull up your shirt, feeling strangely self-conscious. Still, Hannibal is—was—a medical professional. This isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before. 

Hannibal hums and looks down at the bandage covering the wound. You’re sure he will get a good idea of the wound’s progress without lifting the entire thing off. His fingertips glide across the skin near the bandage and your skin prickles. For what seems like an eternity, his hand lingers. Just as you’re about to let out a sarcastic quip, he lightly tugs at the edge of the bandage and lifts it up. 

“See?” You say, feeling the need to break the silence settling in the space. Hannibal’s gaze is focused on your wound with intense precision and you have to wonder just what he’s looking for. You’ve seen your fair share of bullet wounds, but you’re not usually this involved in the healing process. You can't remember the last time you got shot in the field. It must’ve been a few years ago, at least. 

Hannibal is staring at you now. His eyes shine crimson in the light. He clearly doesn’t believe you. You sigh. “Fine,” you acquiesce, “It still hurts. But you have to understand, I was going crazy in that hospital room.” You meet his eyes to further emphasize your point. 

“And the truth comes out,” Hannibal murmurs. He’s staring down at his hand, which you’re still holding for some reason. You’re quick to release your grip. “As it is wont to do.” That latter remark is murmured under his breath and it is clearly meant as a note to himself. You hear it anyway. The statement is foreboding, and you almost have to wonder if it’s an omen. “Do you have fresh bandages for tomorrow? You should change them daily.” 

“Yes, I do,” you respond detachedly, smoothing down the bandage he had pulled up to investigate the wound. You hastily pull your shirt back down, feeling strangely exposed. “And I changed the bandage this morning.” You had to shower, after all. 

For a fraction of a moment, you swear Hannibal looks disappointed. You’re quick to dismiss the notion. There is nothing he would get from bandaging your wound in such a manner. It’s not like he can steal your kidney again, you think. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the dark humor you seem to be using to cope. 

“I will see you tonight for your appointment,” Hannibal announces, smoothly exiting the room before you can so much as raise an objection. As you walk towards the front door, you begin to recognize the remark for what it is: a demand. You have no choice in the matter. Arguably, the luxury of choice was ripped from your hands when you embraced complicity. You have no one but yourself to blame, you think begrudgingly.

The rest of the day passes without incident, thankfully. You spend most of the time resting off and on. Your wound still hurts, but it’s a marked improvement from how it felt when you first woke up. You desperately want to make yourself busy by cleaning your house, but your side protests any activity more strenuous than walking. You eventually settle for watching something on television, allowing your mind to drift as the bright colors assault your vision. 

Before long, it’s time for you to leave for your appointment with Hannibal. You contemplate changing into more formal clothes, before remembering how laborious the process of dressing was this morning. Besides, Hannibal already saw you earlier. There’s no point in trying to pretend that you’re well-collected and composed, you huff. Mind made up, you grab your car keys and leave the house. 

Since you’re dreading the session, the drive passes particularly quickly. You’re so preoccupied with your thoughts this evening that you don’t realize Hannibal has been waiting for you to enter his office until he says your name. You get up from your seat in the waiting room and follow him through the doorway, your heart in your throat. For some reason, you get the feeling that you won’t be making it out of here alive. Your eyes flit about the office and you see the space in a new light. Anything and everything sharp can be a weapon. The only exit to the room is the door you just entered through. 

There’s a hand on your shoulder and you’re briefly jarred back to reality. Hannibal motions to the chairs and you follow his direction. Unsurprisingly, the chairs feel impossibly close today. If you were to really sprawl, you would likely hit Hannibal. You cross one leg over the other and try to subtly shrink into the back of the chair. Hannibal’s speech greets your ears, but your thoughts reduce his voice to a frantic rhythm. There’s a distant screeching sound reverberating in your skull and your skin feels as if it’s buzzing. You let your hands rest on your thighs, intimately aware of the fact that you are entirely unarmed. That thought makes you pause. Why should you be armed? The tension in the space is stifling and Hannibal’s gaze is intense, but there’s no need for a pistol. 

“What would you like to talk about?” Hannibal asks. You frown internally. You’re not sure what to talk about. You almost don’t want to talk at all. Hannibal must recognize that, because he falls silent, too. 

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you instead retreat to your mind palace. The gilded white pillars are tinted with crimson. There are muddied footsteps tracking through the foyer. A clock ticks hauntingly, creating a loud rhythm in your ears. You walk down the hall, only to find Abel Gideon’s corpse. You’re thrown back to captivity, to a gunshot ringing in your ears and the horrible thump of a corpse hitting the ground. Your neck aches in remembrance. Abel Gideon’s body looks the same as you left it: a bullet carving a hole through his temple, a shallow cut near the back of his neck. The flooring is red and Gideon’s blood almost seeps into it, creating a murky crimson that is nearly indistinguishable from what it was before.

Abel Gideon was but one man. One criminal, one villain, one monster. There are dozens, hundreds, thousands more. You contemplate the thought as you continue down the hallowed hall of your mind palace. Garret Jacob Hobbs, Franklyn Froideveaux, Abel Gideon… They were only the first tumultuous waves on a pitch black ocean, swirling madly about. You can feel the beginnings of a harsh wind whipping at your skin, rustling your clothes. The skies are dark. The storm is yet to come. 

Before long, you realize you have to leave. There is only so long you can stare off into space before Haninbal will grow suspicious. You close your eyes for a few seconds, before opening them again to find yourself back in Hannibal’s office. You’re restless. The chair threatens to swallow you in its embrace. Your fingers are tapping against the arms of the chair, your foot tapping against the ground. You need to move. You need to escape. You need to- 

It is a twisted irony, you think as a single word slips from your lips. You’ve spent so long pretending, feigning ignorance. You think back to that fateful moment all those months ago, when Hannibal took you to his residence. You saw the antlers, remembered the fanciful food at the dinner parties. It had felt as if fiery flames were stitching your every nerve together, igniting one horrid realization within you.  Ironic, how one word will send your world aflame once more.

“See?” The remark crawls from your tongue, wrenching your lips open and sinking into the still air. You inhale sharply as you notice Hannibal’s eyes flash crimson. His posture is still and he almost appears frozen in place, save for the measured breaths entering his nose and exiting his lips. His unblinking, unflinching stare assaults you with horrible, cloying fear. The feeling paralyzes you, leaving your legs locked and your hands clenched in fists. Your heart is humming in your ears. You can’t hear what he says next, but it doesn’t matter. There is no mistaking the expression on his face, the wrath hidden behind that thin-pressed smile:

Hannibal knows.

note: one chapter left for Act One! woop woop!

hannibal taglist: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer

Your Best Nightmare

Eddie Munson x Harrington!Reader

Note: harrington!reader, can be biological or adopted, no reference to appearance. Also gender neutral, only characterization is that Steve is a protective older brother

request by @kazeddie85 : Harrington!reader x Eddie? They were dating before they went into the Upside Down and her brother has to force her to leave his body there. For days she’s depressed, won’t eat or go to school, even to graduation. She can’t sleep because of the nightmares of Eddie being ripped apart and hearing his screams. Until one night she sees him in her room. She thinks she’s dreaming but it turns out that it’s real- it’s vampire!Eddie.

wc: 3k

warnings: canon s4 event/character death, grief, depressive symptoms related to grief, nightmares, vampire!eddie

*****

“No! No!” Your shrill voice echoed through the quiet house. “No! Please!” Rapid footsteps thundered down the hallway and stopped abruptly at your doorway.

A darkness weighed heavily over the town of Hawkins, but the darkness in your own life was suffocating. You tossed and turned, sweat seeping through your bedsheets as your sleep-ridden brain conjured the worst of images.

Steve hesitated a moment at the threshold to your room, but soon his feet carried him to your bedside, a heartbreaking routine. He climbed onto your bed and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest. With the shuffling movement, you awoke and tears stained your cheeks as you hid them in your brother's nightshirt. Your cries were muffled but the shuddering of your body was unmistakable pain.

“Shhh, I’m here.” Steve whispered into the top of your head as he rubbed his hands over your shoulder in soothing circles. Words were futile but it was all he could do. Nothing could take away the pain of the prior few days.

“Y/n, just go!” Dustin shouted to you, piercing the haze of worry set deeply into your face. Ignoring the voice in your head telling you that you shouldn’t leave Dustin behind, you listened to the boy for once and turned tail to run out into the open expanse of the Upside Down in search of your boyfriend.

“Eddie!” You screamed into the void, looking all around you until your eyes settled on the swirling cloud of demobats in the distance. With a gut-wrenching realization, your breathing picked up and you took off in a sprint toward that nightmarish cloud in the distance. “Eddie! Hold on, I’m coming!” You puffed out with difficulty while you ran. But he couldn’t hear you. Through the blurry barrage of tears trickling down your face while you ran, you could just make out Eddie’s form, valiantly slaying the small-but-mighty beasts as they took turns dive-bombing toward him. A pride knocked in your chest at his performance, the brave way he fought despite the stupidity of leaving you behind in his trailer.

But pride was soon replaced with despair when Eddie’s body was yanked to the ground and your breath caught in your throat just as your feet froze and your body halted in shock. Recovering quickly, you continued running, cursing the ground for how far away you still were. With a quick glance behind you, you spotted Dustin limping away from the trailer, following after you slowly. But you kept running.

“Eddie!” Your shouts were growing more frantic with each passing second. As you neared enough for the scene to unfold clearer, you choked back a fresh round of tears. He was struggling. His body writhed on the ground and the black shadowy forms of the bats surrounded him, diving in and out with a rhythmic thrum.

It was when Eddie stopped fighting back that your heart dropped into your stomach and you ran with a renewed desperation to save the man who was so set on saving you.

“Was it the same one again?” Steve asked you once your body relaxed and you sank exhausted into his side. Steve swung his legs up fully onto your bed and you curled into his side, feeling once again like a little kid afraid of the monsters in your closet. But this time the monsters were real.

Nodding your answer to his question, Steve tightened his grip on you. He settled in for the long run, letting his eyes drift shut while you battled to dismiss your terrorizing thoughts in order to get at least a few hours of rest.

The truth was, Steve understood all too well. Your nightmares were relentless and they were like clockwork. But Steve wrestled daily with his own memories of that night, although nothing could compare to the misery he knew you faced. At first, Steve had been resistant to the idea of you dating Eddie Munson, resident freak of Hawkins High. But seeing the way your smile stretched wider than ever before when you were with him, and the way Eddie looked after you like you were his greatest treasure - Steve couldn’t deny that there was something special there, no matter how confused he was by the pairing.

But that made this reality all the more worse. School was now impossible for you, everything reminded you of Eddie. Eddie had escorted you through every hallway to each of your classes, sacrificing his own class time to be with you - something you knew he wasn’t too heartbroken to do. Every sight and every smell would bring back the emptiness in your chest. So you refused to go.

Graduation was nearing and you were barely keeping your head above water. But if Eddie couldn’t graduate, why should you? You’d be lucky to make it through the rest of the year anyway, because even the teachers had to pretend like the whole town wasn’t falling to pieces and the apocalyptic end of the world wasn’t just around the corner.

Steve checked in on you on his breaks from work, but most times you would hide under the covers and let the phone ring with no desire to respond.

And then there were your parents - they were completely unsympathetic to your condition, insisting that a “selfish, murdering psychopath like that Munson boy doesn’t deserve the grieving you are giving him.” They never liked him, or more like they never cared enough to try, and you hadn’t the energy to put up a fight.

It was endless.

You weren’t sure how your body hadn’t shriveled up from all the tears you expended each day. And you simply couldn’t comprehend how life could go on with any semblance of normalcy knowing what had happened in the Upside Down that fateful night.

“No, no no no.” Your head shook back and forth in denial as your eyes swept over the chewed up form of your boyfriend. “Eddie,” it came out more as a whimper, as you knelt beside him, immediately taking his hand into your own and cradling his head in your lap. His eyes fluttered open but his usually bright and piercing brown eyes were now a deep muddy color, like the light was being pulled from him with every passing second.

Your tears began to fall freely and without restraint, dropping down over Eddie’s body, your tears mixing with his blood. And there was so much blood.

“Edds, I’m here.” You choked it out, horrified at the croak of your voice. His gaze met yours and despite the severity of his injuries, he smiled at you.

You could have melted right there, his smile alone sending a wave of welcome warmth over you. But this wasn’t fair. This shouldn’t be happening.

His smile faded when a fresh jolt of pain seized his body, his muddled brain only half processing the state of his body.

When Dustin finally arrived, the weight of the moment intensified, seeing the agony behind the younger boy’s eyes was difficult to bear on top of your own emotions spilling over. You looked at each other with a knowing failure.

Eddie’s body shuddered in your arms and you fought back the urge to scream out into the vast expanse of this nightmarish world.

With nothing around to stop the bleeding or dull the pain, you were helpless. As you watched the life drain from his eyes, his dying words to you and Dustin would be tattooed in your mind for the rest of your life, you were sure. You begged for the fates to bring him back to you. What had you done to deserve this?

After what felt like an eternity, you heard shouts in the distance. You knew that voice. And it was panicked.

Steve, Robin, and Nancy crested the horizon and ran in your direction. At the same time, you felt the ground beneath you rumble and the sky erupted in fluorescent lightning. Dustin looked up at them as they neared, but you kept your eyes glued to the still and cold face of Eddie beneath you, afraid he would disappear if you looked away. You ignored your racing heartbeat responding to whatever was happening to the very ground on which you sat.

Once the others had approached close enough to know it was too late for their friend, Robin and Nancy dropped down behind Dustin and offered what little comfort they could. Steve, however, was at your side in an instant and he would never forget the racking sobs shaking your body as he held you and wished he could make it all go away.

But there was no time to waste. With your head curled up under Steve’s chin, he whispered to you frantically. “Y/n, I’m so sorry. But we have to go. We have to get out of here.”

You were awash with every possible emotion all at once. You shook your head fervently. No, you couldn’t leave.

“Yes, we have to go, come on.” Steve moved to stand and he tried to pull you up with him. But you threw your body back down over Eddie’s in a last ditch effort to remain behind, despite knowing that Steve would never allow you to stay here when you could already feel the world crumbling around you.

Steve’s hands gripped your shoulders and pulled you away, but you didn’t go easily. “No, I won’t leave him!” You fought against his hold but you were no match for Steve as a bone-deep fatigue sank in over the overwhelming heartache. “I can’t- I won’t- Steve please.” You begged through your tears.

Another rumble sounded and all heads turned toward the sound. Not a hundred yards away, the ground was opening up and an eerie red glow emanated from within.

Nancy pulled Dustin to his feet and yelled over the din of destruction, “Steve, we need to leave NOW!” She was already pulling Robin and Dustin behind her, heading toward the Munson trailer to return to Hawkins before the Upside Down imploded on itself.

Steve hauled you along behind him, refusing to let you have your way and remain behind with Eddie. “Eddie!” You cried out repeatedly, an unwavering flow of tears barreling across your cheeks.

“We have to leave him, Y/n. I’m sorry, there’s just no time.” Steve tried to remain calm and gentle but he was worried they had already wasted too much time. “We can come back for him later.” He knew this was a lie, there was no coming back here, not after all of this.

And so Steve dragged your emotionally drained body away from Eddie’s. It was the hardest thing you’d ever had to do, leaving Eddie behind in the place that had quite literally destroyed everything you loved. And the image of his body laying alone in that horrid place would haunt you for days to come.

It had been two months since that night that scarred your heart and mind irreparably. Two months of crying into your pillow and trying desperately to mend the broken pieces of your life. Two months of tossing and turning to the tune of nightmarish images of Eddie and the bats and the sorry state they left him in. Two months of Steve and the others fretting over you and your inability to move on, yet understanding the difficulty of it all.

Tonight, the routine would start all over again. You knew exactly what would happen. You would lay in bed, pushing away the images that would plague your waking mind, trying in vain to forget everything long enough to fall asleep. But then the sleep demons would slink through your thoughts and memories and pull the images back, bringing those memories to life and forcing you to relive those horrific moments. The final moments of Eddie’s life.

So you laid yourself down, forced away those painful thoughts and after a fit of discomfort, you finally drifted to sleep.

Your dream tonight was different, however. In your dream, you imagined leaving Eddie’s body behind and the toll if had on you as Steve dragged your body away, kicking and screaming. But this time, you awoke from the nightmare much faster than usual. Because as soon as the image of Eddie’s lone body solidified and your dream self stood over his prone form, he opened his eyes and his red irises stared back at you. This image jolted you awake. You sat up abruptly in bed, panting heavily from the confusion and the barrage of feelings threatening to explode from within yourself.

Your eyes searched the darkness around you, ensuring that you were still in your bed at home, where you had been just a few hours ago.

But what your eyes found was even more alarming than you could have expected. Standing just a few feet from the foot of your bed was a tall, lean figure with a head of curly, shoulder-length hair. The familiarity struck you to the core.

Your breathing picked up more, matching the escalated beating of your heart. You could have sworn you had woken up from your dream, but blinking away the image before you was proven impossible. This was real.

“Eddie?” You whispered into the darkness, your voice quiet and hesitant.

He took a step toward you and you pulled the blankets tighter around you. This couldn’t be real, right?

The figure raised his hands in a defensive stance, and he stepped into the dim light of the moon cast through your open window - that window had remained closed for the past two months, a reminder of all the times your Eddie had snuck in after hours.

But when the figure was illuminated in that faint moonlight, your breath hitched. The chestnut-colored eyes you adored so much were staring back at you, but the blood-red irises were startlingly new. It was Eddie. And yet it wasn’t.

“Eddie, is- is that you?”

Hope sparked, but you refused to hold too tight for fear of utter disappointment.

In the blink of an eye, he was at your bedside, knelt beside you. His unmistakably gentle gaze was trained on you and you alone. His hand was cold as his fingers laced in yours, you could feel the heat from your own hands transfer to him.

It was as if time stood still in that moment. It was him. It was your Eddie. And yet he was different.

“I thought you were dead. You- your body was- you stopped breathing.” You tried to reason it out. Your hand untangled from his and you let your fingers dance over his shoulders, his cheeks, feeling flesh and only barely allowing yourself to hold onto the crumb of joy at believing this was really him.

Your hands cupped his cheeks and you knew without a doubt. Eddie closed his eyes at your touch, a pained expression of lost time swept over him.

Into the silence broken only by the slight sniffles brought on by the tears you hadn’t realized were falling, Eddie spoke to you, hearing his voice for the first time in two months. “It’s me, but I’m- I’m not the same. I've… changed. I’m different.”

You laughed at his choice of words. “You’ve always been different. That’s why I’ve always loved you so much.” You pressed your forehead against his, relishing in the closeness you had missed with your whole heart.

Eddie pulled his head back and took your hands in his, lowering them into your lap. He was serious, more serious than you had ever seen him before. “It’s much more than that now. I can’t- you just have to trust me for right now. But I needed you to know that I’m here, and I’m- not exactly alive but I’m here. And this will all be over soon.” He looked around and paused, listening into the silence at the muted squeaks of the floorboards in the hall. “I have to go. I have to get back before-“ he stopped himself. Then continued. “I love you and I’ll be back. Just trust me.” Before you could protest, Eddie moved and within the blur of a fraction of a second, he was at the window, hands braced against the frame. He hesitated, waiting.

Then you heard it. Footsteps padding down the hall, just outside your room. The door swung open slowly and Steve stood stock still, his eyes sweeping the room, first finding you sitting up in bed, then following your gaze toward the window, he spotted Eddie. A sight he thought he would never see again. How many times had Steve caught Eddie in this exact position, poised for escape through your second floor window.

While Steve remained frozen in place, processing the scene before him, Eddie nodded his head toward his friend before jumping from the windowsill toward the ground below.

Alarmed by the sudden movement, Steve ran toward the window, looking down toward the ground below, but seeing no sign of the Munson boy who had been there not two seconds before.

He turned toward you for answers. And what he saw almost melted him right then and there. It was subtle, but for the first time in two months, you were smiling. You had a dreamy look of slight disbelief, but then again, what you had just witnessed was something out of your dreams.

When you met Steve’s questioning gaze, you told him the most beautiful truth. “He’s back. I don’t know how and I don’t care. But he’s back. Eddie’s back.”

*****

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Is there anything I can do to help Palestinians besides call my representatives and beg them to stop killing people?

This is a great question. There are a few things you can do—just off the top of my head:

BDS (Boycott, Divest, Sanction) https://bdsmovement.net/

Direct Action https://www.palestineaction.org/

Urge your University/School/Organization to put out a statement denouncing Israel

Organize a Protest/Participate in a local one

You might already be doing this but while calling your reps, tell them that as a voter, you're unwilling to support them in the upcoming election unless they urge the White House to take a stand against Israel and stop funding them

Share art/writing/films around Palestinian culture

If you're part of a union, ask them what they're doing to urge their industry leaders to take a stand against Israel + pressure the White House OR urge them to start a strike/walkout/etc if they're not doing anything already

Talk with your friends IRL about Palestine, whether in an activist capacity or watching a movie or literally anything

Reach out to a mosque to see if you can help them with anything

See if your city/state council has put out a statement in support of Gazans. If not, try to push them to do so.

Donate to Palestine Legal or Direct Action if you have some money to spare

KEEP TALKING ON SOCIAL MEDIA!!!!!!!! PLEASE!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know some of these don't feel like they have as big of an impact on helping Palestinians, but we do need to make an effort not to forget their humanity in the face of continued erasure and the media's sensationalist rhetoric.

Talking on social media and posting—while not seeming like a lot—does SO much. I know in USAmerica, it's like yelling into a void, but political analysts are saying that most of the "Global South" has completely lost any amount of goodwill it may have had the past few years. Hopefully, countries will start to put sanctions and embargoes en masse on the US and Israel soon.

Our goals here are BOTH short-term and long-term. We hope for the life and liberation of the Palestinian people, so anything that you can think of might help at some point in the future is encouraged to at least try.

If anyone else has any more ideas, feel free to reblog and add on. Thank you for asking, and here is to a liberated Palestine where Palestinians can live and thrive without fear.

don't use "ftm" it's outdated and offensive. it implies that the trans person was their agab, which we never were. i was always a boy, never a girl who became a boy.

i'm 35 years old. i've been IDing as trans or something similar to trans for nearly 20 years. i was probably calling myself FTM while you were playing tag during recess, anon.

i WAS a girl. i IDed as a girl early in my life. i recognized myself as a girl, called myself a girl, lived as a girl, and was a girl. who then IDed as a man. hence, F t M.

spend more time worrying about yourself instead of strangers on the internet, anon.

sorry not sorry if this comes off as needlessly hostile, but i've been getting a lot of shit from a lot of teenage trans kids about the language i use to describe my own goddamn experience, and i'm growing real fuckin weary of it.

i have elder trans friends who call themselves transsexuals and transvestites and trannies. are you going to seriously go to a 60-year-old trans person who survived the reagan years and tell her she's not allowed to use certain language to describe herself because it might offend the delicate sensibilities of some teenager on the internet?

do yourself a favor and log off, find some real-life trans people who are over the age of 20 or 25, and spend time talking to them instead of getting all holier-than-thou at random strangers on tumblr.

the poison drips through | Roman Roy x Reader

Summary: grief is a natural instigator of reflection; Logan’s funeral forces you to look back on your own grief, and your relationship with Roman.

Word count: 7.3k

Warnings/tags: death of a parent (Logan Roy, reader’s mother), discussions of abuse (physical, emotional), grief and breakdown, mentions of addiction, depression and associated mental health struggles in a parent and in reader, implications of suicide, toxic and/or abusive familial relationships.

a/n: roman roy has a special place in my my heart. he’s awful, he’s product of his environment, I can’t justify his actions, I love him, it’s confusing, I don’t know. I binge watched all of succession in seven (7) days.

masterlist!

You’re not sure how old you were when you first met the Roys, but you find it strange to think of time pre-Roman, pre-Roy, when you were free of proxy-politics, hidden slights and subtle digs. You must have been a preteen, maybe twelve. It would make sense—the second summer after your father moved to New York, when he bought the house in the Hamptons. Your mother had stayed in London that summer, leaving you and your siblings to battle the sweltering Long Island heat alone with your father, who worked most of the summer anyway. Had it been the Sailing Club or the Golf Club where you’d first met Siobhan Roy? You aren’t sure, but you remember the bathroom where you’d run into her, and how a five minute conversation had turned into five weeks of friendship. It had gone beyond that five weeks—even when you got back to the UK, you’d found ways to keep in touch, and spent holidays together when you were in the same place; you’d grown accustomed to Kendall’s strange attempts at seeming “hip” and cool, and Roman’s whining and jokes.

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