#maximum decadence in this image

[pippindot]

Why does she look like a suffering medieval martyr 😭

[hitlikehammers]

💅That One Time Mommy Harrington Came Home Early and Found Her Son In Bed with A Man and Had To Square With The Reality of Her Baby Boy Growing Into a Man+Building His Own Family (Without Her)

and/or Being a Better Man of the House Than His Father Ever Could Be

🌼OR: 2/5 times Steve/Eddie talk to anyone but each other about their feelings (for each other), +1 (other time they turn around and talk to one another)

She’s slipped her heels off by the time he stands in the entryway to the kitchen.

“Mom.”

Diane Harrington is not the type of woman to be caught back-footed in conversation. And she does suppose that lasting two decades without ever catching her son in flagrante is better than most mothers can hope for. She was admittedly unexpected—their arrival wouldn’t have been until next week if all had gone to plan. Richard’s secretary—not the young woman Diane caught him with last night, shockingly enough—but the secretary always sends Steve certified letters to make sure he’s aware they’re returning to Hawkins.

So she was unexpected. And she’d heard noises, crying out, when she’d cautiously entered after her flights were delayed past nightfall—there’d been a very suspicious and unfamiliar van in her garage where she’d expected Steve’s BMW to be parked, he’d always cared so diligently for that car but it was in the drive, and had shoe-prints on the dashboard she could see through the window. That, added to foreign articles of clothing strewn like evidence of a tussle, a hard-worn leather jacket and a pair of jeans darker than anything she’d ever seen her son so much as glance at, then the baseball bat dropped, perhaps, near the front door when no one in this house had ever played—though Steve had wanted to, as a boy, but swim will get you noticed for college, Steven, Richard had always insisted—it had all sent her chasing the noises up the stairs to Steve’s room, throwing her shoulders back and forgetting that she had no implement for defense as she opened the door and heard—

Well. Heard more clearly the words accompanying the cacophony of noises, paired with the image of her son on top of another man, the two of them very much notcovered by the sheets nearly kicked clear off the mattress.

They’d frozen when they saw her—and she’d frozen in kind upon seeing them, processing in slow-motion how her son was not in fact in mortal peril, or battling an intruder.

Not…even close.

But when the boy below him had looked up and met her eyes, she’d seen absolute terror, and then her legs had remembered how to move, and she’d dashed back to the stairs with a gasp, heels clacking on each step of her mad descent.

She’d checked for wine like an instinct—none in the kitchen, and she didn’t want to go to the cellar in the basement. She honestly didn’t know if her legs would give out on her for the climb, given the way the adrenaline was leaving her swiftly, with just the shock left to drop her into a chair at the kitchen table.

And she’d stared into the middle distance with little anomalies catching her attention through a sort of syrup, through a daze: snacks Steve never gravitated toward before, but even without accounting for shifting tastes, the sheer volume is confusing.

Pizza boxes waiting to be broken down for the garbage—but likewise, far too many—a party, maybe, but then why was the house not still in full swing?

The entire wall behind the countertops snaking about the room: lined with empty bottles of Yoo-hoo of all things, like modern art, some kind of statement.

The unmistakable marks of girls in the house: hair ties and neon scrunchies wrapped at random about the room. Bottles of nail polish by the little basket meant for keys. A young girl’s lunchbox, open in the corner, sitting at an odd angle on its hinge. Like it’s out to be fixed.

The fact that the dining room table is bigger, but farther—and instead this mostly-for-show kitchen table’s been stretched to its maximum length, exceeding both the dining room’s capacity and also the space made for this one, here, with all the long-abandoned leaves added in, and chairs surrounding it from anywhere and everywhere, hardly any matching. Scuffs in the wood mostly buffed but some a lost cause. Like it’s been lived on.

Then the refrigerator, that’s never once had anything hanging on it, practically plastered now in its entirety with…Polaroids. Drawings, some maps, maybe. To-do lists, only a handful for groceries from what can be read. Colorful letter magnets, as if for a toddler. School exams with varying marks but also varying levels of difficulty—different grades, perhaps? A calendar, with so many notes. Like life was busy enough, here, that each and every day was filled to the brim.

It’s not…she doesn’t understand—

It’s in the empty blinking, the confusion, that Steve calls to her. She regrets that that’s exactly the same gaze she turns on him, at first.

It’s nothing to do with him. She just…she’s been absent too much and too long, she knows. But when her child calls for her, her first move is to look.

It always will be.

“We didn’t expect you back yet.”

He doesn’t apologize, for how she found him; what she saw, or who. She’s unexpectedly, but undeniably and expansively proud, in the face of it.

She clears her throat, still a little stuck in the molasses-slow fog of…this. All this.

All this unexpected living.

“You’re…” she swallows, blinks, wills away the clinging fingers of the trance still lingering in her eyes, on her mind; she needs to see her son—

“You’re being safe?”

Steve’s jaw drops a little, and it’s so…defined. He’s…he’s a man now, and he’s staring at her like he doesn’t trust her, not entirely, both of which break her heart a little, one way or the other.

But he looks like he distrusts her, but doesn’t want to. Like she may have hope of salvaging something.

Like he’s found something—more likely someone—that he values deeper, cherishes closer, to be wary of anything that could bring harm to them.

That…that also breaks her heart. That she’s something to be wary of, in service of the people her Steve loves.

“Why is that your first question?”

Steve asks…too blank. She’s mourned that sin of her husband’s, privately above most others—the way he’d slowly and carefully worn Steve down to fit the mold he liked best, not the shape Steve blossomed into all on his own.

The way Steve juts his hips and crosses his arms as he leans against the doorframe—so unlike Richard would have tolerated—and does it well balanced and worn-in; she wants to believe this version of Steve has taken root, has become his honest everyday self. That he’s left that limiting mold behind.

But he’s asked her a question, and is eyeing her—rightly—in anticipation of answer.

Which he deserves. And she’ll give him in honesty—not least because she really was both lucky, to have drawn out having to catch her son in the act this long, and so much more unlucky, that she’s likely been able to cheat the whole affair this long largely because she wasn’t there for the possibility, before now.

“Any questions about whether it’s serious, or how you feel about him, are irrelevant,” she tells him, keeps her tone open and warm but doubles down on both when Steve’s eyes narrow; seek out any hint of insincerity, or likely more often necessary to target, and far worse: of judgement.

“Not just because it’s not my business, so long as you’re happy,” and she means that truly; with her entire heart she means that, even if Steve doesn’t see it, or hasn’t had enough chance to know her heart enough to recognize it—her heart for him, her own boy’s happiness as her most fervent wish—but she makes her voice warmer still, expansively open from there to continue on; “but more because you’ve already more answered them.”

Steve looks at her, still so blank, blank but…somehow not the same as before. How blankness can change is beyond Diane’s ability to put into words but she doesn’t need to, really; she sees something softer, something with more forward possibilities in this blankness.

And Diane Harrington would never, could never be accused of not finding opportunities to encourage the best case scenario.

The result where maybe her son can look at her without suspicion.

“I’ve been down here almost half an hour, Steve,” she makes sure to call him by the name he’d always told his parents he preferred, and to do so without fanfare, without making a point of anything less; she’d always bristled when Richard used his full name as a rule against his wishes.

His eyes still widen, a little, when she says it like it’s a given. She should have fought Richard harder on the little things; the little things that meant everything.

Their son’s sense of himself.

But to the point, which she owes him, and so much more:

“You didn’t come rushing to explain.” It’s the most important thing, because she can read people well, wouldn’t be successful outside her marriage otherwise, just a housewife making dinner—and she thinks her son has the same gift, just maybe aimed differently, and maybe exponentially expanded, if the hints around the house are things she guessing at correctly—and she’s so impressed with how no part of Steve is apologetic. Is even hinting a considering trying to distance himself from what she walked in on. Not even for the sake of defiance—more as a matter of course: and it’s impressive to witness. How tall he stands when she’s still the threat, much as it pains her.

But because she can read people, she sees that he doesn’t see the reasons she sussed out so quick and clear, despite all the other haziness.

“You’re not embarrassed, or ashamed,” and he isn’t, at all, and she hopes she sounds nothing like expecting he should be; prays she sounds half as overjoyed as she is that this is the man he’s grown into—

“So I assume you spent that time taking care of him,” she leans in a little, tips her head forward and tries her damnedest to project that joy, for him, for what she thinks he’s found, for what she sees in his eyes, eyes she doesn’t entirely recognize anymore—her fault, again, her fault—but she can see it in anyone: love.

Her boy is in love.

And even if she couldn’t read it off him—

“And a mother may never want to see her child in such a state,” and Steve shifts, a little uncomfortable even as Diane bites her lip against a smile at how it reminds her of him as a tiny boy; “but I heard you, not just the noises but the words, before,” and she leaves it there, because they’d both know those words well enough, the love you, love you so much, would die for you, again and again, you’re my whole heart and soul, you fit just right, you’re made for me, we’re forever, we are always, I love you—

And certainly, people do say wild things in passion. But…odd as the circumstances? And as badly as she’s fumbled for the task of motherhood over the years?

Call it a mother’s intuition, nonetheless.

“So,” she claps her hands a little, finally, but more on the way to folding them, leaning her chin on the platform they make: “those questions wouldn’t be needed anyway.”

Steve doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t like that. But then, she’s not sure what she’s hoping he would say, what would even suit the moment.

She thinks she just wants to hear him speak some more.

And besides, she’s given him his answer. She…maybe she isn’t entitled, but she would still like to know for her own peace of mind:

“But you are being safe?”

It’s dangerous these days, after all.

“We are,” he answers, quicker than she expects, and it’s more a relief than she expects, too—and she’d expected it like walking back from a cliff’s edge, but still it’s more. He nods, and she accepts that that’s all she’ll get, and she doesn’t truly believe she deserves more but: something.

Something in him, things she doesn’t know and couldn’t begin to see; or else maybe something in how she looks to him, in her face, in whatever her expression gives away—he says more, he gives her little gems of who he’s become:

“He’s my first, like that,” and he lifts his chin, defensive; or no. Not that.

Defending.

And he takes the posture of it like it’s second nature; easy as breathing. She hates that there must be a reason to it, one bigger than just her absence—or Richard’s even limited presence.

She feels a need to know, and yet an equal-opposing need not to press this thing, to reawaken that initial cause. She isn’t a threat.

She needs to listen, for now. Soak up his words.

“And Hawkins is,” his one hand reaches to gesture broadly, in a world-weary way she doesn’t expect until she sees it; that’s so far beyond his years—before he tucks that hand back into the protective cross of both arms over his chest. “He didn’t have the opportunity, before, with here being…here. So.”

The words are clipped. But they’re…they’re words. Firm. Real.

Her boy is nowhere to be found in any of it, save as the foundation for this commanding force, this presence of a man, a shining, radiatingly good man, standing in front of her.

He is nothing like his father. It’s everything that she hoped could come of their absence—despite it.

Because of it.

“Good, that’s good,” she exhales, nodding to herself—her son, safe, grown, protecting himself and his lover, maybe his beloved, from the ills this life might set upon them, this good man—

Then she revisits her words and feels herself blanch a bit.

“Not good that this town is,” she gestures, and realizes: that’s what Steve had done, for the exact same thing, in the exact same way; “but,” she looks to him, beseeching a little, but his lips are quirked the slightest bit, his shoulders that little bit more relaxed against the wood.

“I got it.”

Diane nods, sniffs, and then sighs. It’s not…it’s late. She is exhausted.

And she doesn’t know how to talk to her own son.

“Noticing my absence isn’t his strongest suit,” she jumps at the easiest topic to follow on with because it’s probably obvious, but: she needs to make sure Steve knows that Richard’s not here, and not immediately on his way. Things would have looked very different, had he opened Steve’s door.

“That said, he may or may not be here soon. But in case—” she glances meaningfully to the stairs. They can’t continue to keep the door unlocked, at the very least.

“Of course,” Steve says, solemn while simultaneously appalled that she’d imply he’d even risk it, tone tightening a little. “Tonight was going to be the last time we, here, given I thought you’d be back next week.”

It’s not censure. But it feels like it should be. Or wants to be. Because…

Because Steve is the man of the house now, isn’t he? No matter whose name is on the deed. This is his domain. He’s kept it as to quickly enough be reverted for neither of his parents to notice, if they stuck to their schedules, if Diane hadn’t acted impulsively, too fed up with her husband’s indiscretions—but even if he keeps it hideable, this is Steve’s house.

Diane finds himself wanting to know all about the ways, and the whys for all the changes she sees. And all that she hasn’t, yet.

“You’ve grown so much,” she says, so soft, eyes prickling; “I’m sorry I’ve missed it.”

It’s not enough. The words are so far beyond insufficient.

“Me too,” Steve says and again: not a censure. But it should be.

It wants to be.

But the fact that it’s not maybe means he wants to meet in the middle. Maybe he’ll listen if she shows she means it, if she demonstrates how she cares, even if it hasn’t been enough—it’s never been wholly absent. It’s never been nothing.

“You never pick up the phone.”

She does not actually mean to say that, at all, and certainly not like it tumbles out: juvenile almost. Petulant.

God, but the day’s catching up to her. She’s usually so much more composed than this. More polished.

But then: this? This is her son.

Steve’s as taken aback as he rightly should be, and she knows she’s mistepped when he balks a little, when his tone hardens like he’s…like he’s very well practiced at scolding wayward children.

“Excuse me?”

Very good at scolding wayward children, somehow. She has no idea where the skillset came from but damn it all, she wants to learn. She wants to know if it’s connected to the assignments and drawings on the refrigerator. She wants to know if the scrunchies aren’t from ex-girlfriends but kids he cares about, and how they came to be under his protection, his unwavering care.

His narrowed gaze—more pertinent in the now—as she herself sits more like the wayward child.

But she’s begun the point, and it’s not in her nature to fail finishing what she starts.

“When so many terrible things have happened,” she says, voice low as her mind flickers through the devastating headlines of the past few years; “when I call to check, once I hear what’s happened, and it’s always reported with such a delay, it’s unconscionable,” she’s even called the mayor’s office about that, she shouldn’t have to see her son’s whereabouts in flames weeks later when she checks, because she does check. Because Steve doesn’t tell them, and contrary to some of her missteps: she worries.

She constantly worries because she is a mother, and she will worry until she’s quiet in her grave: she will worry until her dying breath about her son.

The fact that their town seems to court the apocalypse in regular intervals now certainly doesn’t help, but she’d worry either way.

“But I call, to see if you need,” she starts, and is a little surprised by how tight her throat is, how much feeling’s overcoming her.

But only a little surprised, if she’s wholly honest.

She takes a deeper breath, and starts again.

“I call, no one answers. The tape in the machine’s been full for over a year.”

She knows. Because the line just rings, plays the horrible out-of-space message—and Steve’s own line never had a machine. All she gets is endless ringingwhile her heart pounds every time for the fear that it’s not just because the tape’s full.

“I,” Steve starts to say, then clamps his mouth shut, but his eyes dart to the machine, or no: next to it. A…what looks like a carphone, maybe, for the size, but it’s more a metal block, really, with knobs and buttons and lights and—

Maybe whatever it is, is how the people Steve knows would need him can get in contact with him. An overgrown pager she doesn’t have the number to.

She understands it, maybe even deserves it.

That does nothing to dull the sting.

“I have learned to call the police chief,” she says, dropping it conversationally when she hopes the gravity of going that far will convey some of how serious she takes all this, feels all of this; “someone must have a dire grudge against the man, I was told one time that he was murdered!”

She absolutely does not expect the snort that escapes Steve, at that.

“You could say that,” he murmurs, a twisted, almost crazed sort of smile spreading for a few seconds. She’s never seen that look on her son, and it doesn’t last long enough to examine before he turns more serious, takes the conversation in his hands without direct prompting, which Diane will gladly call progress.

“I didn’t know you called Hop.”

Hop?

“And his wife, as necessary,” she huffs a little, set on conveying her determination to at least get some confirmation of life about her first-and-only child. “I didn’t know you were on friendly terms with local law enforcement.”

She’s not sure if that’s a net positive or negative, but the smile—maniacal as it’d leaned—at least suggeststhe former.

“He’s,” Steve’s smile is softer now, more…normal. Genuine. “He’s a lot like family. Joyce too.”

Diane aches to know how it happened to be that way. Hurts to presume part of it was because Steve’s own blood wasn’t in the picture enough. But—

“I knew Joyce Byers, when we first moved back here,” she says softly, her own genuine smile curling her lips; “I remember her as a tough woman. Resolute,” she recalls her pregnant and pushing a stroller, never stopping on her way through for groceries; “but always observant, especially of what others needed. Always kind.”

Steve’s face is unreadable, but what she can make out is the affection in it. Some things must not change in this town, then.

Enough about the past, though.

“Back to your gentleman upstairs,” Diane raises an eyebrow, but makes sure it’s a soft thing. A welcoming thing. “You are serious, yes?”

She doesn’t even have to try to sound soft or welcoming, with the words. Because she hopes very much that her son wouldn’t risk what he is for casual; she hopes even more that she’s right about reading love in him.

“I think,” Steve finally says after a long, thoughtful pause—he always had been careful with his words when they most mattered. “I think if ‘the one’ even exists?” he looks at her then; meets her eyes and oh yes.

She saw true, when she saw love.

“It’s him.” And the way Steve says it, so certain, almost makes her want to cry.

“And if it doesn’t exist,” he adds on with a shrug, like reality is relative, just semantics; “he’s it, anyway.”

She doesn’t fight the tear that drops to run down to her smile as she stands, approaches Steve cautiously—wants to hug him, hold him; isn’t sure if she’s allowed.

He doesn’t come to her. But he doesn’t move away.

“You’ll leave here?” she reaches for his hand and he reaches back. Her heart beats a little extra hard for it.

He nods. Her baby.

“When the kids graduate.”

Which makes no sense, but would explain so many of the bits and pieces she’s already picked out around the kitchen. He’s…he’s made a family.

In the absence of the one he was born in; even just looking at the trailings of it, she can tell it’s a more vibrant one.

She’s failed him, in so many ways, and yet he stillbecame this.

“Do you know where you’ll go?” she asks, her voice only a little choked.

“Not yet,” and his voice goes gentle, tender in response—he was always a softhearted child, and Richard tried to train it from him as a weakness. The man reaching for her other hand, and squeezing both in reassurance—he is anything but weak.

“We have other people to think about staying close to,” he adds, something settled and easy in the way he says it, something Diane doesn’t even think she knows or can claim at her age now, vibrant and unshakeable in her beautiful boy as he rubs his thumbs over her knuckles; “at least close enough,” he tags on, a little joke in it that she doesn’t understand, but relishes anyway to see it at all.

She may not be able to take much credit for the person her son has become, this pillar stood before her, giving simple solace where he scarcely owes her—but she still bore him from her body, she still loves him in the cells of her. She is…

It is not hyperbole to say that she’s a little in awe.

“Before you decide on the right home, the one that fits you perfectly,” she starts, ready to list off the top considerations for house hunting and finding a good neighborhood, open and accepting in all the right ways, to guide her boy as true as she can with all that she knows, but he cuts her off with a laugh, first.

His laugh is different than how she remembers it last. Freer but also somehow hard-earned. Like he was as a child, but bruised from the journey back.

Stronger for it. Worth more, but more than slightly soul-crushing, nonetheless.

“Mom,” and his voice is so warm, she may cry more for it; “he’s my home. He’s the right, perfect fit,” and he’s so earnest, so settled in that truth that she feels buoyed for it just the same by proximity. “All the rest is just,” he huffs, rolls his eyes and flicks his hand: dismissive.

Everything else is window dressing, or less than.

And she lets go of his hands then to reach for him, takes the chance and fears she was foolish when he hesitates for a second but then he gives, he hugs her back.

This man in her arms is so much more than she could have raised, even if she’d been here every moment. It’s humbling.

But it’s also beautiful.

She doesn’t want to let him go, now that she has him, but she’s reminded starkly in that moment that she couldn’t have raised him—and Richard would have crushed him by force, even if he didn’t recognize it. Her husband isn’t a wholesalely bad man, but he is a horrifyingly careless one. Wasn’t always, but has certainly gotten worse with age.

She needs to act before he gets here; in case he gets here.

Just in case.

She kisses the side of Strve’s cheek—without her heels she’s not a small woman, but she’s smaller than him—and goes to where she dropped her purse on the counter, suitcases still near the door. Her checkbook is always at the bottom, so she pulls it out, flips it open, glances at the balance ledger and confirms she can write this immediately without issue.

In the note section she writes, after pulling it free form the carbon copy:

for the perfect fit

“Then you, and your perfect fit,” she says with a smile, rounding back to where she left Steve standing, watching; “you deserve the most amazing setting for your story to unfold upon,” she hands him the check and kisses his forehead this time, now in reach as he looks down to read what he holds: “and nothing less.”

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as his jaw drops:

“Mom, this is way too,” he tries to protest, and looks honest about it—he never was so concerned with the money. Not like his father.

But they have it, whether he shares the obsession. They have it. Which means Diane can share it with him regardless.

“It’s the most I can give just now, with it drawing from the account that’s only mine,” she explains, a little apologetic, because while Steve seems to think the number extravagant, it’s less than a drop in the bucket. “I know it’s not much, but if you plan to stay here, at least for awhile, I will get you the rest as quickly as I can,” she promises him, she promises; “your trust, the money from your grandfather,” she pauses, worries her lip.

“I can’t guarantee your father won’t write you out of the will if he finds out,” she doesn’t have to say whathe’d need to find out, for that; “but as long as I’mhere, I will do what I can.”

And she means that, with all her heart. And she doesn’t mean only money. They’ve traded primarily in dollars for so long, it’s the quickest way to act, the easiest form of support but…she may be out of practice.

But she doesn’t just mean money.

“You don’t have to,” Steve starts again, sounds resigned but she doesn’t want him to even land there in accepting what’s rightfully his, and beyond that, something on,y just close to what he’s due and deserves.

“Very little of what I’ve done in life was what I had to,” she draws him close again, now, wraps arms around him; “and too much of what I’ve done was less than what I had to,” and she holds to him fiercely even before his own arms return the embrace.

“I did not do right by you, my petite étoile,” she murmurs; she always called him that. She doesn’t speak French, doesn’t even know if she pronounces it right, but she’s fairly certain he was conceived on her honeymoon, in Paris. It was her own treasured little name for him as he grew in her, as she felt him and spoke to him in her womb, as close to her heart then as he’s always stayed.

“Let me do this,” she hisses a little too desperate; or maybe not even close to desperate enough; “I’m sorry it’s so late.”

She hears Steve’s throat click around how he swallows, how he nods, doesn’t say anything.

She finds another wild and vibrant emotion to associate with her son for it: respect. Such…suchrespect.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says as if it can even scratch the surface of what feels like meeting a whole new person, in some ways, and then the boy who curled up against her when he was sick, who was soft before he was formed into doubting all that he was at his heart. “I barely know you, and it breaks my heart, but it’s my own doing,” and it is. It is her own doing.

She’s the reason she’s only just meeting Steve, a man now, with his whole heart on display like a challenge, like a warning—brazen and full enough to stand formidable. Magnificent.

“Yet I can see you’re not my little étoile anymore,” she kisses his cheek again once, twice, shaking a little with so much feeling she knew she’d buried inside for a very long time but didn’t…didn’t think it was this much.

“You,” she pulls back only enough to look him in the eyes, frame his cheeks in her palms as she declares with all that shaking feeling in her:

“You’re a full-grown sun, soleil courageux,” and she doesn’t speak French. Not a lick. Probably says it wrong.

But that cannot matter more than meaning it wholly, and then some.

“And if you find it in you to give me the chance,” she heaves a shuddery breath; “to have the privilege to truly know my brave, brave son,” she strokes back and forth over his cheekbones, cherishing him; “and where he’s put his lion’s heart?”

Because whether he grants her this or not: she needs him to know. She needs him to know that she understands that to learn her son is to learn is love. To meet Steve is to meet the man waiting in his bed.

And she wants to know both, more than anything in the world.

“And either way, wherever you land,” because she needs him to know this part too—she is not his father. Her love and her commitment is not conditional. “You’ll know where to find me,” she kisses the side of his head one more time and whispers fierce there:

“I’ll come however far I need.”

She will. She’ll trek the globe on foot if she has to. She’s wasted so much time already, she’s—

“I love you, mom.”

And with those words, those heart-swelling words, she’s pulling him back to her chest and he lets her, falls into her for the first time in so long after saying those words for the first time in so very long—

“Oh darling,” she breathes, nothing short of tearful; “I may not have shown it as I should have, or even as I wanted to in my heart of hearts,” and her heart of hearts is beating riotous in her chest, and all she can do is clutch her little star, her courageous sun all the closer to it so he knows.

“But I hope you never doubted that I loved you more than life,” and life has given her many more blessings than trials, but none among them could ever compare to her baby boy, could not even hope to try; “that allmy love in this world is fixed on you,” and it’s true—her family is mostly gone now, none close left on her side, and her husband, well.

Even if they’d all been there, with her marriage in its fullest bloom: as soon as she found she was pregnant, it was all peripheral. There was love as she knew it, and then the moment when love split into two things: her child, and then all the rest.

The rest landing kind of…kind of like window dressing.

“If you were ever unsure,” she says, hesitant because she fears the answer, the truth; steadfast because this is an opportunity to make it right, or at the least to start to: “please know now, the best I can still manage,” she tips her head to Steve’s shoulder, breathes him in like she used to—he doesn’t smell the same as a baby in her arms, of course, but there’s…there’s something there she would recognize anywhere.

“You were the love that pulled me through some very dark times, my brilliant star,” she whispers, getting teary again, lord, she hasn’t shed this many tears in years. “I love you.”

“Stevie?”

They both turn, though Steve’s slow, calmer. Diane recognizes the hair on the boy in the archway first from just the moments she’d caught them—and then the eyes.

Only slightly less terrified than before, here and now.

“Sorry, to interrupt,” the man pulls a thick bunch of hair across his mouth; “I just didn’t want you to be…”

And his eyes land on Steve, and Diane recognizes that kind of look: protective. Assessing. Making sure Steve’s okay.

Maybe her son wasn’t the only one on the lookout for threats to his love.

“Ah,” she says, looking at the boy—she doesn’t even know his name yet, but she already feels a fondness in him as she cups Steve’s cheeks again, but still looks the other, fearful boy square-on even as she speaks to Steve knowingly, but loud enough the whole room can hear:

“You found a courageous heart to match your own, hmm?”

And Steve huffs, a smile stretching his lips like he can’t help it and wouldn’t dream of wanting to, and when he reaches for the boy, that boy answers exactly the same. For love.

The perfect fit.

She offers an open arm herself, should he want to take it, suddenly overcome with a maternal instinct she hasn’t felt so strong before, for the doubling of its targets.

But before he can accept it or reject, before he’s close enough yet to decide either way, or even close enough to take the outstretched hand Steve’s beckoning him with; before any of that she whispers into Steve’s ear:

“Please tell me you’re teaching him to condition that hair. Those curls could be devastating with the proper routine.”

And when Steve catches his beloved hand, it's on a crest of laughter.

Diane has the clear feeling now that it’s not the first time this house has seen such unbridled joy, such unsheltered care in the way two hands slide into one another—has a feeling this is more routine than otherwise, but Diane hasn’t seen it. Not in a…a very long time.

It’s wondrous. It’s…

Steve’s done an incredible job with the place. He’s built an incredible life.

“Mom?” Steve shakes her back to the moment; he’s watching her, careful again but this time also hopeful. It’s a potent mix. He glances to the boy now tucked against his side, now melting into his space—she never had that with Richard.

Real love. That’s all she could have hoped for, for a boy who was born with the biggest heart for the world that she’d ever known.

One that’s only appeared to get bigger, once it was free to, and safe to, if the way her son locks eyes and gently guides his perfect fit to turn into a hand on his cheek; to let him hold, and soothe, to reassure and promise: safety.

And forever.

“This is Eddie,” Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie as he says it, and those eyes say all anyone could ever need to know: love.

Love, love, and more love to bursting.

“Eddie,” Diane says soft but with a glowing kind of joy, gratitude that Steve could have found someone who moves to make clear the way they’re suited to the genes in them.

“I’m sorry I barged into your home,” she says, because she knows what she’s seen and she meant what she felt: this is Steve’s house. And Eddie and Steve belong to each other. “But it’s an absolute privilege to meet you.”

It’s the right thing to say, if the dimples hiding behind the fear mean what she’d suspect, and then the skepticism softens into unmitigated trust in Eddie’s expression at Steve’s side: it’s the way those dimples pop in the end as Eddie looks at her and takes her hand, too, that makes it clear as day.

Granted: she always was good at reading people.

1: Gareth // 2: Mrs. Harrington // 3: Wayne // 4: Chrissy // 5: ??? // +1: ???

💐

✨also on ao3

💫for @penny00dreadful—happiest of happy birthdays, my lovely 🖤

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @disrespectedgoatman @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @eternal-sunflowers @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and here

[mariacallous]

This is a gift article.

The truth is, it’s getting harder to describe the extent to which a meaningful percentage of Americans have dissociated from reality. As Hurricane Milton churned across the Gulf of Mexico last night, I saw an onslaught of outright conspiracy theorizing and utter nonsense racking up millions of views across the internet. The posts would be laughable if they weren’t taken by many people as gospel. Among them: Infowars’ Alex Jones, who claimed that Hurricanes Milton and Helene were “weather weapons” unleashed on the East Coast by the U.S. government, and “truth seeker” accounts on X that posted photos of condensation trails in the sky to baselessly allege that the government was “spraying Florida ahead of Hurricane Milton” in order to ensure maximum rainfall, “just like they did over Asheville!”

As Milton made landfall, causing a series of tornados, a verified account on X reposted a TikTok video of a massive funnel cloud with the caption “WHAT IS HAPPENING TO FLORIDA?!” The clip, which was eventually removed but had been viewed 662,000 times as of yesterday evening, turned out to be from a video of a CGI tornado that was originally published months ago. Scrolling through these platforms, watching them fill with false information, harebrained theories, and doctored images—all while panicked residents boarded up their houses, struggled to evacuate, and prayed that their worldly possessions wouldn’t be obliterated overnight—offered a portrait of American discourse almost too bleak to reckon with head-on.

Even in a decade marred by online grifters, shameless politicians, and an alternative right-wing-media complex pushing anti-science fringe theories, the events of the past few weeks stand out for their depravity and nihilism. As two catastrophic storms upended American cities, a patchwork network of influencers and fake-news peddlers have done their best to sow distrust, stoke resentment, and interfere with relief efforts. But this is more than just a misinformation crisis. To watch as real information is overwhelmed by crank theories and public servants battle death threats is to confront two alarming facts: first, that a durable ecosystem exists to ensconce citizens in an alternate reality, and second, that the people consuming and amplifying those lies are not helpless dupes but willing participants.

Some of the lies and obfuscation are politically motivated, such as the claim that FEMA is offering only $750 in total to hurricane victims who have lost their home. (In reality, FEMA offers $750 as immediate “Serious Needs Assistance” to help people get basic supplies such as food and water.) Donald Trump, J. D. Vance, and Fox News have all repeated that lie. Trump also posted (and later deleted) on Truth Social that FEMA money was given to undocumented migrants, which is untrue. Elon Musk, who owns X, claimed—without evidence—that FEMA was “actively blocking shipments and seizing goods and services locally and locking them away to state they are their own. It’s very real and scary how much they have taken control to stop people helping.” That post has been viewed more than 40 million times. Other influencers, such as the Trump sycophant Laura Loomer, have urged their followers to disrupt the disaster agency’s efforts to help hurricane victims. “Do not comply with FEMA,” she posted on X. “This is a matter of survival.”

The result of this fearmongering is what you might expect. Angry, embittered citizens have been harassing government officials in North Carolina, as well as FEMA employees. According to an analysis by the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, an extremism-research group, “Falsehoods around hurricane response have spawned credible threats and incitement to violence directed at the federal government,” including “calls to send militias to face down FEMA.” The study also found that 30 percent of the X posts analyzed by ISD “contained overt antisemitic hate, including abuse directed at public officials such as the Mayor of Asheville, North Carolina; the FEMA Director of Public Affairs; and the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security.” The posts received a collective 17.1 million views as of October 7.

Online, first responders are pleading with residents, asking for their help to combat the flood of lies and conspiracy theories. FEMA Administrator Deanne Criswell said that the volume of misinformation could hamper relief efforts. “If it creates so much fear that my staff doesn’t want to go out in the field, then we’re not going to be in a position where we can help people,” she said in a news conference on Tuesday. In Pensacola, North Carolina, Assistant Fire Chief Bradley Boone vented his frustrations on Facebook: “I’m trying to rescue my community,” he said in a livestream. “I ain’t got time. I ain’t got time to chase down every Facebook rumor … We’ve been through enough.”

It is difficult to capture the nihilism of the current moment. The pandemic saw Americans, distrustful of authority, trying to discredit effective vaccines, spreading conspiracy theories, and attacking public-health officials. But what feels novel in the aftermath of this month’s hurricanes is how the people doing the lying aren’t even trying to hide the provenance of their bullshit. Similarly, those sharing the lies are happy to admit that they do not care whether what they’re pushing is real or not. Such was the case last week, when Republican politicians shared an AI-generated viral image of a little girl holding a puppy while supposedly fleeing Helene. Though the image was clearly fake and quickly debunked, some politicians remained defiant. “Y’all, I don’t know where this photo came from and honestly, it doesn’t matter,” Amy Kremer, who represents Georgia on the Republican National Committee, wrote after sharing the fake image. “I’m leaving it because it is emblematic of the trauma and pain people are living through right now.”

Kremer wasn’t alone. The journalist Parker Molloy compiled screenshots of people “acknowledging that this image is AI but still insisting that it’s real on some deeper level”—proof, Molloy noted, that we’re “living in the post-reality.” The technology writer Jason Koebler argued that we’ve entered the “‘Fuck It’ Era” of AI slop and political messaging, with AI-generated images being used to convey whatever partisan message suits the moment, regardless of truth.

This has all been building for more than a decade. On The Colbert Report, back in 2005, Stephen Colbert coined the word truthiness, which he defined as “the belief in what you feel to be true rather than what the facts will support.” This reality-fracturing is the result of an information ecosystem that is dominated by platforms that offer financial and attentional incentives to lie and enrage, and to turn every tragedy and large event into a shameless content-creation opportunity. This collides with a swath of people who would rather live in an alternate reality built on distrust and grievance than change their fundamental beliefs about the world. But the misinformation crisis is not always what we think it is.

So much of the conversation around misinformation suggests that its primary job is to persuade. But as Michael Caulfield, an information researcher at the University of Washington, has argued, “The primary use of ‘misinformation’ is not to change the beliefs of other people at all. Instead, the vast majority of misinformation is offered as a service for people to maintain their beliefs in face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.” This distinction is important, in part because it assigns agency to those who consume and share obviously fake information. What is clear from comments such as Kremer’s is that she is not a dupe; although she may come off as deeply incurious and shameless, she is publicly admitting to being an active participant in the far right’s world-building project, where feel is always greater than real.

What we’re witnessing online during and in the aftermath of these hurricanes is a group of people desperate to protect the dark, fictitious world they’ve built. Rather than deal with the realities of a warming planet hurling once-in-a-generation storms at them every few weeks, they’d rather malign and threaten meteorologists, who, in their minds, are “nothing but a trained subversive liar programmed to spew stupid shit to support the global warming bullshit,” as one X user put it. It is a strategy designed to silence voices of reason, because those voices threaten to expose the cracks in their current worldview. But their efforts are doomed, futile. As one dispirited meteorologist wrote on X this week, “Murdering meteorologists won’t stop hurricanes.” She followed with: “I can’t believe I just had to type that.”

What is clear is that a new framework is needed to describe this fracturing. Misinformation is too technical, too freighted, and, after almost a decade of Trump, too political. Nor does it explain what is really happening, which is nothing less than a cultural assault on any person or institution that operates in reality. If you are a weatherperson, you’re a target. The same goes for journalists, election workers, scientists, doctors, and first responders. These jobs are different, but the thing they share is that they all must attend to and describe the world as it is. This makes them dangerous to people who cannot abide by the agonizing constraints of reality, as well as those who have financial and political interests in keeping up the charade.

In one sense, these attacks—and their increased desperation—make sense. The world feels dark; for many people, it’s tempting to meet that with a retreat into the delusion that they’ve got everything figured out, that the powers that be have conspired against them directly. But in turning away, they exacerbate a crisis that has characterized the Trump era, one that will reverberate to Election Day and beyond. Americans are divided not just by political beliefs but by whether they believe in a shared reality—or desire one at all.

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Chondrichthyes - Heterodontiformes

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

While several extinct genera of Heterodontiformes are known from the Jurassic, today only one genus, Heterodontus, the “Bullhead Sharks” remains. Ten living species of bullhead shark have been described.

Bullhead sharks are relatively small, with the largest species reaching just 1.65 metres (5.5 ft) in maximum length. They have tapered bodies, with blunt, proportionally large heads, relatively small mouths, pig-like snouts, and pronounced ridges above their eyes. They have two large dorsal fins, the first larger than the second, and an anal fin. Both dorsal fins have a rigid spine at the front of each fin which is used for defense. Bullhead Sharks are bottom feeders in tropical and subtropical waters. They have cusped grasping teeth at the front of the mouth, and flattened teeth at the back of the mouth. They use the flattened teeth at the back of their mouth to crush hard-shelled prey like bivalves, crustaceans, and sea urchins, and the grasping teeth on soft-bodied prey like worms, anemones, and octopuses. They hunt at night by "walking" along the sea floor with alternating motions of their pectoral and pelvic fins.

Bullhead shark egg cases are shaped like an auger, with two spiral flanges. This allows the egg cases to become wedged in the crevices of rocky sea floors, where the eggs are protected from predators; however, some bullhead sharks deposit their eggs on sponges or seaweed. Due to their spiral shape, each egg case requires several hours to rotate out of the mother shark's cloaca (Oof). She usually lays two at a time. The eggs typically hatch after 7 to 12 months, depending on the species. The pups will usually reach over 14 cm in length by the time they leave the egg case.

The Heterodontiforms appear in the fossil record in the Early Jurassic, with modern forms appearing in the Late Jurassic. Despite the very ancient origins of the genus, phylogenetic evidence indicates that all living species in the genus arose from a single common ancestor that survived the K-Pg extinction.

Propaganda under the cut:

Female Japanese Bullhead Sharks (Heterodontus japonicus) are known to deposit their eggs in communal nests, with as many as 15 eggs left in the same nest.

Horn Sharks (Heterodontus francisci) (image 2) have relatively small territories they hunt in at night, returning to the same “house” during the day. They may remain faithful to the same territory for over a decade. Now that’s a homebody.

Horn Sharks are queued by light rather than by an internal clock. In laboratory settings, they will become active as soon as lights are turned off. If they are in the middle of something when the lights are turned on, they may stop swimming and sink to the bottom. In one experiment where the sharks were kept in darkness, they remained continuously active for 11 days before slowing from fatigue. (☹️)

The Horn Shark generates the highest known bite force relative to its size of any shark, which it uses to crack into mollusks, echinoderms, and crustaceans. One study found the average bite force for this species in the wild to be 95 N with a maximum of 135 N, while under experimental conditions sharks could be induced to bite with over 200 N of force.

Female Horn Sharks in the wild pick up their egg cases in their mouths and wedge them into crevices to keep them safe.

In July 2018, three people were arrested after stealing a juvenile Horn Shark from the San Antonio Aquarium. The shark was scooped out of its tank and smuggled out of the aquarium in a stroller, wrapped in a wet blanket. It was thankfully returned unharmed two days later.

The Crested Bullhead Shark (Heterodontus galeatus) (image 4) produces spiral-shaped egg capsules that are secured to seaweed or sponges with long tendrils.

The Crested Bullhead Shark is a major predator of the eggs of the Port Jackson Shark! Individual sharks have been observed taking the egg capsules in their mouths and chewing on the tough casing, rupturing it and allowing the yolk to be sucked out, or simply swallowing the capsules whole.

The Port Jackson Shark (Heterodontus portusjacksoni) (image 1) is a migratory species, traveling south in the summer and returning north to breed in the winter. Males tend to arrive to the breeding grounds first with the females arriving later and staying later, perhaps as a means to reduce egg predation upon their newly laid eggs.

While juvenile Port Jackson Sharks are not particularly social, adults are often seen resting in caves in groups, and prefer to associate with specific sharks based on sex and size. In lab settings, these sharks were shown to have unique personality traits and preferences, can be trained, can count, and can learn by watching other sharks.

[na-bird-of-the-day]

BOTD: Titanis

Image: Sergey Krasovskiy

"For decades, terror birds have been reconstructed as predators that swiftly ran down their prey and used their heavy beaks to slice through skin and muscle. This is apparent on the basis of their anatomy alone, but how fast could they run? Ernesto Blanco and Washington Jones approached this question six years ago by estimating the strength of the tibiotarsus – the lower leg bone between the femur and ankle – in three terror birds of varying size. By determining how strong this bone was, the maximum running speed of the birds could be calculated. Both a large, unnamed bird and the mid-sized Patagornis were estimated to reach speeds up to 30 miles per hour, while the smaller Mesembriornis was projected to reach the astonishing speed of 60 miles per hour – as fast as a cheetah. In the case of Mesembriornis, specifically, its legs seem to be overbuilt, and the scientists suggest that this bird likely had a powerful kick to kill prey and perhaps crack bones to get at the marrow inside."

- National Geographic (or, if you don't want to enter your email, I put the article in a google doc)

[snek-panini]

Today's completed book is a bind of Glimmer, by @tawnyontumblr (hi, it's me, the person who asked to bind your story way back in April). This story is a Good Omens human au about sex workers in the Regency era, and it's gorgeous and lush and fantastic. Sexy and vulnerable and all the good adjectives. Go read it if you haven't yet, it's wonderful.

This is another legal-size quarto, my second (of 4; more are on the way). It really is an addictive size, and perfect for fics this length. The cover is done in this really pretty red damask lokta paper that highlights different parts of the image depending on the angle of the light. I was toying with the idea of binding this fic, and when I found this paper I immediately bumped it up the list because it's so perfect. The spine is dark gray lineco book cloth that I simply cannot resist putting on spines. I realize this is a pattern and I do not care. It's softer visually than black and it coordinates with everything and I will not stop.

More photos under the cut!

What did I tell you, it coordinates with everything. I used silver foil HTV for the title, and I elected to put it just on the spine so as not to cover up any of the floral patterns on the cover. Honestly, I thought about it but just couldn't bring myself to cover it up. The interior of this one has some very fancy fonts and I wanted one for the spine but they were all too spindly. But this one's a good compromise, I think. Delicate but straightforward.

Top view. I really wanted to do custom end bands for this one, for maximum luxury, but it was too thin, so it has pre-made black ones. They sort of disappear in the photos but make a nice contrast in person. I am totally in love with the starry endpapers even though they are only scrapbook paper from Joann's. It was surprisingly difficult to find something that looked good with the red cover, because plain solid colors looked too lackluster and most prints were too bold with the floral, not to mention a lot of colors clashed with the red. But I love these gray-on-gray stars. They're perfect. And a lot of the fic takes place under cover of darkness, and stars are a symbol of hope, and this fic's about wanting to escape your current circumstances, so it's kind of thematically appropriate. I'm going to say it is, anyway XD

So I think the title page is my favorite part of the bind again. I found this vintage valentine graphic on rawpixel for free and it's probably the most opulent thing in the whole typeset. The sort of uneven ink distribution is on purpose and adds to the vintage feel. I remember thinking about a year ago that my title pages were too plain and I needed to level them up somehow, and with the batch of binds I've been posting for the last week or two I think I've done it. The fonts here are called Annabel (the one with the trailing ends) and Victorian Decade (the swirly one that my bindery name is in). Both are available for free from DaFont. I did have to get a little tricky with the line spacing to get them to print correctly, but it was worth it. I wanted opulence for this one.

And that's that! I hope I did the fic justice, because I couldn't be more pleased with the outcome.

[th3-0bjectivist]

My visit to the NASCAR Hall of Fame (Charlotte, NC - JUN 29 2024)

Every year for a few years now, I try to do an Independence Day post where I walk around a few cemeteries and snap some cool photos. But this is an election year, and I'm concerned that I'm going to have to soft-block some political zealot high on their own farts that will leave intellectual gems in the comments like 'Drumpf IZ Hitler!' or 'down with left-cucks in 24!'. So instead, I'm going to share some pictures that I took at the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte, and you can leave all the unrelated jabbering political frivolity that you'd like in the comments section.

For the record, I'm not into NASCAR at all. I haven't watched a full single race in my lifetime, and I tend to associate it with rednecks driving in circles. Which, to my chagrin, I was dead wrong in my interpretation on. Well, except for the redneck part. There's a hell of a lot more to these beautiful cars than I thought. My visit to this specialized museum was a delicate mix of history, art and science lessons!

The first thing I learned is that although these cars look fully assembled from the outside, they have nearly all the standard parts taken out (the radio, the average driver wheel, the headlights, etc.) and the bodies are composed of a flat sheet of durable metal. These days the car panels, which are composite materials like plastic coated with fibreglass, are then painted over to make a colorful, and often very corporate piece of art that is ready to drive at breakneck speeds. This all makes the modified car as light and agile as possible on the speedway.

In the U.S. south, where I reside these days, stock car racing's roots took hold from prohibition. Stock car racing wasn't just about competition; it was about taking your very fast car and running moonshine and illegally imported booze to different regions around Appalachia. Getting away from highway patrol meant stripping your car of excessive weight and parts, allowing for maximum maneuverability around hairpin turns and extreme acceleration up and down steep hills… all while a 1000-pound barrel of booze was strapped down in the back seat.

This is a picture I snapped inside the Hall of Honor, and that man is Richard 'the King' Petty. As a non-NASCAR fan, his face is the face I most associate with NASCAR, as his signature moustache, glasses and hat stand out to me as a truly memorable and iconic driver. But it’s not just the driver that participates. In NASCAR, your team is composed of a chief, who spots opportunities from television monitors and signals the driver through radio to execute specific moves to win the race, all while managing the rest of the team.

The pit crew consists of mechanics, a jackman (runs around the car with a heavy jack to raise the automobile during a maintenance pit stop), a cut-off valve attendant for refuelling, and a driver attendant who helps the driver get in and out of the car. It doesn't just take an individual driver, but a full team to assist the driver in winning the race. Drivers have suffered concussions, bone fractures, severe burns, whiplash, traumatic bodily injuries and death. Talk about bleeding for your craft!

And now for some art! Pictured above is a full-scale clay model of a Next Gen Ford Mustang. These days, clay models of racing cars are developed from digital designs and used to capture approvals from companies to lay down a final design for a race-worthy automobile. Once you pack a V-8 engine into one of these babies and recreate it out of a steel tube frame, you've got a vehicle that can reach speeds above 200 miles per hour.

Here's my pops, Dave, who I took to this museum as a birthday present. He's a NASCAR freak, and this little excursion to the Hall of Fame actually made him cry for a beat as he recalled decades worth of memories of racers, historic moments, and images of historic back-to-back victories for drivers and their teams.

Every car has the potential to be a race car. It just takes some weight-loss surgery or a good initial design, some driver safety features, and a colorful skin to make the whole thing faster, more agile, and more appealing to the eye. I have to say I never expected to absorb so much from the NASCAR HoF. I was grateful for my visit and wanted to share a portion of what I learned to Tumblr as a fun little sidebar.

I hope you enjoyed this post. And rest assured, you will never see another NASCAR post on my page ever again… y'know, unless it’s a meme or something!

Happy 4th,

th3-0bjectivist (Luke)

[ADDENDUM (07/05/2024): Tumblr ryanthedemiboy pointed out to me in the comments that the third paragraph in this post probably needed some modifications regarding the actual description of the panels, which I originally and ignorantly described as an ‘outer metal hull’. While this might have been the case with older NASCAR vehicles, in modern times the panels are at best ‘metal-skinned’, if that, and manufactured from carbon fibre. Also, older NASCAR vehicles were painted and repainted, but ever since the early 2000’s these vehicles are simply wrapped in a vinyl skin. Thank you for your insight ryanthedemiboy, I will ‘stay in my lane’ so to speak in the future and give these topics, that are alien to me, the research they deserve before I post!]

[hotvintagepoll]

just wanted to say thank you for doing the prelims! i was wondering how hotvintageladies was going to work with how many submissions you got. it’s also really interesting to see who got submitted sans propaganda across the decades, too

Crucial things to know before Round 1 hits on Saturday:

There will be 512 hot women in Round 1. Yes. I know.

540 women were submitted who fit the criteria. For context, the Hot & Vintage Men Tournament started at ~320 men. To be honest, it could get a bit overwhelming—I'm going to stagger the polls and hopefully it won't get too annoying, but if you need a break, block the tag #ladies 1.

For the early rounds, I'm not including all the propaganda I received. This tournament received so many submissions (2500+ photos for 540 women) I cannot post it all without breaking Tumblr—or me. For Round 1, I'm including 5 photos maximum for each hot lady. I know this is a bummer, and I'm sorry if I don't include a photo you sent in, but this is the only way I can do it. If you submitted a pic you really wanted in the post, you can still reblog the poll and add it there.

If you can't believe I didn't use a photo you sent in, sometimes I couldn't open the photo or had trouble downloading the image. I'm sorry if this happened. Same guidelines as above—add it in a reblog and I'll boost what I can.

The views expressed in the text propaganda are not my own. You all should know this by now, but since there are new followers here, I feel like it needs to be explicitly stated. I don't submit my own propaganda text, and I don't alter what's submitted beyond fixing spelling mistakes. If you hate a poll bio or a pic, let me know and send me something I can use instead.

Read my FAQs. Wonder why I'm including a woman who morally sucked? Read the FAQs! Want to send in nasty propaganda? No you don't! Read the FAQs! They're in my pinned post and they're a good time; I'll be updating them tonight, but they mostly remain consistent bracket to bracket.

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

Hera asteroid mission surveys Mars’s Deimos moon

While performing yesterday’s flyby of Mars, ESA’s Hera mission for planetary defence made the first use of its payload for scientific purposes beyond the Earth and Moon. Activating a trio of instruments, Hera imaged the surface of the red planet as well as the face of Deimos, the smaller and more mysterious of Mars’s two moons.

Launched on 7 October 2024, Hera is on its way to visit the first asteroid to have had its orbit altered by human action. By gathering close-up data about the Dimorphos asteroid, which was impacted by NASA’s DART spacecraft in 2022, Hera will help turn asteroid deflection into a well understood and potentially repeatable technique.

Hera’s 12 March flyby of Mars was an integral part of its cruise phase through deep space, carefully designed by ESA’s Flight Dynamics team. By coming as close as 5000 km away from Mars, the planet’s gravity shifted the spacecraft’s trajectory towards its final destination, the Didymos binary asteroid. This manoeuvre shortened its journey time by many months and saved a substantial amount of fuel.

Moving at 9 km/s relative to Mars, Hera was able to image Deimos from as close as 1000 km away, surveying the less-seen opposite side of the tidally locked moon from Mars. Measuring 12.4 km across, dust-covered Deimos might actually be a leftover of a giant impact on Mars or else a captured asteroid.

“Our Mission Analysis and Flight Dynamics team at ESOC in Germany did a great job of planning the gravity assist,” comments ESA’s Hera Spacecraft Operations Manager Caglavan Guerbuez. “Especially as they were asked to fine-tune the manoeuvre to take Hera close to Deimos – which created quite some extra work for them!”

Three Hera instruments were used during the flyby:

- Hera’s black and white 1020x1020 Asteroid Framing Camera used for both navigation and scientific investigation acquires images in visible light.

- Hera’s Hyperscout H hyperspectral imager observes in a range of colours beyond the limits of the human eye, in 25 visible and near-infrared spectral bands, to help characterise mineral makeup.

- Hera’s Thermal Infrared Imager, supplied by the Japan Aerospace Exploration Agency (JAXA) images at the mid-infrared wavelengths to chart surface temperature, in the process revealing physical properties such as roughness, particle size distribution and porosity.

ESA’s Hera mission scientist Michael Kueppers explains: “These instruments have been tried out before, during Hera’s departure from Earth, but this is the first time that we have employed them on a small distant moon for which we still lack knowledge, with possibly interesting results.”

Hera Principal Investigator Patrick Michel, Director of Research at CNRS / Observatoire de la Côte d'Azur, adds: “Other Hera instruments we will utilise once we reach the Deimos and Dimorphos asteroids were not activated either because they are not usable at such long range and rapid speed from a target – such as our PALT laser altimeter, possessing a maximum range of 20 km – or because they are aboard Hera’s pair of CubeSats which will only be deployed at the asteroids.”

Hera also performed some joint observations of Deimos with ESA’s own Mars Express, which has been in orbit around the red planet for more than two decades.

Results from the Deimos close encounter should help guide operational planning the next year’s Martian Moons eXploration Mission, MMX, being led by the Japanese Aerospace Exploration Agency (JAXA) in collaboration with NASA, the French space agency CNES, the German Aerospace Center (DLR), and ESA. MMX will not only collect detailed measurements of both martian moons but also land on Phobos to collect a sample and return it to Earth for analysis.

With Didymos being 780 m across and Dimorphos just 151 m across, Hera’s twin destinations are many times smaller than the city-sized Deimos moon, but Hera is headed on course towards them. A series of ‘impulsive rendezvous’ thruster firings starting in October 2026 will fine-tune its heading to reach the Didymos system that December.

ESA Hera mission manager Ian Carnelli comments: “This has been the Hera team’s first exciting experience of exploration, but not our last. In 21 months the spacecraft will reach our target asteroids, and start our crash site investigation of the only object in our Solar System to have had its orbit measurably altered by human action.”

[frozen10fanzine]

Elsa has discovered new memories in Ahtohallan

Release: July 1, 2024 ❄️

But for some reason, she can’t access them.

She's tried everything! Her own magic, the assistance of the spirits, even Northuldra wisdom! Nothing works!

But Elsa has a feeling.

It’s the same feeling that told her to trust the voice that brought her north to Ahtohallan. It’s the same feeling that told her the spirits of the Enchanted Forest are good. Now, that feeling is telling Elsa to talk to her sister.

Anna, the Queen of Arendelle.

The sisters don’t quite know it yet, but those memories they are about to find are yours.

Introducing...

A fanzine, for fans, by fans! Created and shared for 6 months!

Elsa and Anna will descend into the depths of Ahtohallan to find our memories of Frozen. You see, Elsa and Anna together are the Fifth Spirit. To see these memories they need to work together to part the ice. As they do, they will find more and more memories through each year, through a whole decade! They will find everything—the movies, the books, the spin-offs—and our memories too!

Those memories are your creativity!

Submissions are closed ❄️✌🏻

We are calling YOU, the fans of Frozen, to share your creativity! Art, poems, photography, non-fiction, short fiction! Frozen has touched so many hearts… what does your heart have to say about it? What year means the most to you? What are your memories?

Let’s show Anna and Elsa together!

If you are so inclined, you can find more information below:

Water Has Memory: A Frozen Decade is a fan project in the form of a fanzine created and shared over 6 months - starting with the 10th Anniversary, November 27, 2023 to April 27, 2024 the End of May 2024.

The fanzine will be in chronological order over the ten years that Frozen has been with us (2013-2023). Each memory that is submitted will be placed in the appropriate year of the contributor's choosing.

At the end of this 6-month journey, the fanzine will be brought together as one PDF.

The submissions period is OPEN. We are accepting submissions for EVERY YEAR. Submissions WILL CLOSE April 12, 2024. Submissions for each year will be open until we reach the maximum submissions for that year.

There will be a maximum of 10 SUBMISSIONS accepted per year.

We are accepting submissions in the form of: Art, photography, short fiction, non-fiction, poetry - Art – All art accepted EXCEPT FOR animatics and longform comics - Photography – All photography accepted except for 18+ content - Short fiction – Fanfiction is welcome! Word count: 1000 words max, 500 words min - Non-fiction – Word count: 700 words max, 400 words min - Poetry – 20 lines max, No shorter than a Haiku

The means of submissions can be found in two places. On THIS TUMBLR and through our email, frozen10fans@gmail.com. When you submit your piece, please include what name/handle you would like to sign your work with, what year (2013-2023) you would like your piece to be placed under, if you so choose your bio of no more than 100 words (to be used when the full fanzine is brought together at the end), and if you so choose an image/character/picture to be used alongside your bio (to be used when the full fanzine is brought together at the end).

Please DO NOT submit a piece unless you are certain you can commit the time and energy needed for the project (i.e. communication, meeting the appropriate standards, punctuality, adaptation to change, etc.)

Please understand that this is a project for fans OF ALL AGES. We are PG-13 here at most. There is no hate for 18+ content, this is just not the place for it. That said: OFFENSIVE CONTENT WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED. This includes: - Hate speech - Gore - Bullying/Gatekeeping/Shaming THIS IS NOT AN 18+ PROJECT - No NSFW content - Keep the language appropriate

If you have any more questions, please reach out on our tumblr or at frozen10fans@gmail.com

We look forward to seeing your memories ❄️

[timeclonemike]

Before the spread of the World Wide Web, the closest analogue in cultural terms was the collection of Computer Bulletin Board Systems or BBS services. Individual computers would connect directly to other computers via phone line in order to exchange information. These systems were limited by the technology of their era; client and service computers often had limited space, dial up modems had bandwidth so low as to be laughable by modern standards, and portable storage was limited primarily to magnetic floppy disks that could not even hold 2 MB of data. There were also issues of competing file formats and a lack of standardization, with ASCII being the lowest-common-denominator choice. Images were usually limited to ASCII art representations, as a lot of the file compression algorithms that turned large bitmap files into more nimble JPEGs, GIFs, and PNGs were just a gleam in some programmers eye.

This meant that, leaving aside variations in style and formatting, these files had to condense a considerable amount of information into a very small package, both in computer terms and human terms; it might take a while to download a particularly large file from a bulletin board, which might not prove to be useful or informative or entertaining compared to multiple smaller files that could be accessed in the same time frame. In a way it presaged the push towards small-form video content in the present day, but motivated purely by cost-benefit analysis on the part of writers, readers, and hosts rather than advertising engagement; it was naturally organic, not algorithmically enforced. To a lesser extent this also impacted the specific content of the files; according to the Wadsworth Constant, the first 30% of every YouTube video can be skipped while not losing any information content, something only possible because our computing and telecommunications technology has undergone multiple revolutions in the past three decades, while our precursors didn't have the luxury of "filler" content.

While I personally believe we have gained more than we have lost through the adoption of the World Wide Web and its various protocols, and indeed I cannot see the BBS era through rose-colored glasses because I did not experience it personally, only read about it after the fact through historical and personal accounts, the topic of condensing the maximum information into the smallest possible footprint is definitely on my mind a lot these days.

[mariacallous]

Eleven years ago, I went on my first reporting trip to Guantánamo. It was 2014, and I was  covering a military commissions hearing for the five men accused of planning the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks. The case was then, as it still is today, stuck in pretrial proceedings, mired in litigation over how to fairly prosecute people who were extensively tortured by the U.S. government. 

This was several years after the administration of President Barack Obama declared that no one from the previous administration of George W. Bush would be prosecuted for their role in the torture program. The Obama administration also promised to close the Guantánamo facility for good, a promise that was never fulfilled. The inability to bring about anything resembling justice in the 9/11 case is an enduring reminder that, despite Obama’s efforts, the country cannot simply “move forward as opposed to looking backwards” on its post-9/11 detention practices. 

Indeed, Obama’s and then President Joe Biden’s failure to close the prison at Guantánamo has rippled through to 2025 in a whole new way. 

Weeks after taking office a second time, President Donald Trump was able to ship hundreds of migrants, many of whom have never been charged with a crime, to the notorious offshore prison. The administration has claimed, without evidence, that it is targeting members of a Venezuelan gang called Tren de Aragua. But the point of sending migrants to Guantánamo was to evade judicial review of the government’s claims and to evoke the harrowing images of the so-called war on terror. 

“If you go back to the early days of the war on terror, Guantánamo was supposed to be the legal equivalent of outer space, where no law applied. It’s that threat that you saw the Trump administration invoking in order to terrorize immigrants,” J. Wells Dixon, a senior staff attorney at the Center for Constitutional Rights, told HuffPost. The civil liberties nonprofit has played a major role in challenging war on terror detentions at Guantánamo and is now challenging the Trump administration’s migrant detentions. 

But thanks to legal challenges brought by war on terror detainees, with help from attorneys like Dixon, Guantánamo is no longer the legal black hole the Bush administration envisioned it to be. The Supreme Court has held that although Guantánamo Bay is outside of U.S. sovereignty, people detained there have habeas rights, or the right to challenge the legality of their detention. 

In recent weeks, the Trump administration has pivoted, emptying Guantánamo of nearly all migrant detainees and invoking a wartime authority called the Alien Enemies Act to remove people it claims are tied to Tren de Aragua from the U.S. Last month, the administration flew hundreds of Venezuelans and Salvadorans to an infamous maximum security prison in El Salvador called the Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo (CECOT). The White House has said it paid El Salvador about $6 million to imprison the detainees, who were removed from the U.S. against a judge’s orders. No one imprisoned at CECOT has ever left, and Trump administration officials have been clear that this is their hope for the people sent there from the U.S. 

Various legal challenges are now making their way through the courts, and there are some hopeful developments. But it is far from clear how much relief migrants targeted by the Trump administration will find in court — and how long the process will take. 

If Guantánamo is any indication of how this will go, the outcome is not encouraging. Even after the Supreme Court upheld prisoners’ right to challenge their detention, many spent more than another decade there. Nine people died. Fifteen are still there, including several individuals who have been cleared for release. 

And unlike Bush administration officials, the Trump administration isn’t trying to hide what it’s doing. Instead, officials are bragging about it, releasing glossily produced videos of detainees being manhandled or posing for photo-ops while wearing a $50,000 watch in front of a cell in CECOT packed full of prisoners with shaved heads. 

Why would they feel the need to hide what they’re doing? It’s not like their predecessors faced any consequences. 

[celestialtrolls-moved]

Aelynn is ready for the ball! The result of blood, sweat and tears (both mine and hers), and now I'm gonna go let my hand collapse and potentially fall off my body!

But that's not all, because I put my whole brain into this design, so click the read more to see ME EXPLAIN NEARLY EVERY SINGLE DESIGN DECISION I MADE AND WIPS

themes that were kept in mind

CARNEVALE CONFECTIONS: A BLOODSTAINED MASQUERADE

Sogno Dell’Arlecchino + Blood & Candy

inspiration focuses were chocolates, vampires (blood and gothic), carnevale (harlequins), decadence and detail, and Italy. just. in general.

DRAFT 1, sketch

writing, from top left to bottom right

makeup is carnevale inspired, maybe jade for vampire/rainbow drinker

ribbon-like chocolate gift decoration (in hair)

drips - blood? chocolate? (necklace)

wavy hair to invoke pouring chocolate

cream filling or icing (around the hem of bust)

rhinestones in hair and in tulle for decadence

tulle (bustle) -> make it lace, more common in carnevale costumes

caramel drizzle, small jewels as 'salt' (decorating the gloves)

corset VERY IMPORTANT for vampiresque vibe

subtle pattern (on the corset)

like little maltesers (on the bustle)

alternating black and white (skirt panels)

the dress shape itself was inspired by several looks from 'salon du chocolat' fashion shows, however this was abandoned

DRAFT 2, lines (attempt 1)

switched to a long skirt for a more classic silhouette, skirt drafts

based on various cake decoration methods, asked in servers which i should go with and then tried to merge the chocolate chips and the icing for maximum decadence, however

chocolate chips were abandoned due to looking somewhat messy

some rhinestones were placed to replace them much later

LINEWORK, attempt 2 (i redrew the entire thing with a thinner lineweight)

as well as the things written here, i switched out the hairpiece from chocolate squares to unturned fangs and roses

i also included the rest of the moodboard i was using in this image so you can see the other things i was inspired by

COLOUR DRAFTS

tried roughly placing colour in this phase, wanted to have a bright lilac main colour to balance out the dark details and hair, since carnevale costumes tend to be extremely bright and eye-catching, tried to avoid using completely desaturated colours

decided to put the gradient at the bottom of the dress because putting it at the top made it look like it wasn't one piece with the bust, wasn't really happen with the contrast between the leg ribbons and the lilac however

part way through colouring i decided i hated the lilac, tried to darken it a little, still didn't like it, turned it black

decided to hand-draw a tonne of embroidery for the corset because most carnevale dresses have heavy detail in texture and lace pattern

the front two panels are paisley/plant-inspired and then the panels on the back which is then echoed for the translucent torso piece are geometric patterns based off of commedia dell'arte costumes for the character trope 'harlequin'

the torso piece also has small unique embroidered flowers in each of the larger empty spaces because seriously these carnevale outfits go so heavy on patterns

more italian gothic architecture, this hatched pattern has a multiply layer depicting the Duomo of Siena onto the fan, which is a fascinating piece of architecture that spanned centuries to finish

[jadeseadragon]

"The SUN Taken [04/23/2025] in High Resolution @astr.max and @aj.smadi photographed the Sun in detail [04/23/2025] evening using a Lunt 100mm telescope at the @uofwa. This telescope images in hydrogen alpha, a specific wavelength that reveals prominences, flares and filaments on the Sun’s surface. Our star is currently at solar maximum, meaning this is the most active it will be for over a decade. This can be seen in the images, which show a large prominence and many filaments and sunspots."

[feartoxinjelloshot]

honestly i am not a fan of how this drawing turned out BUT i did invest some time into it so i would be amiss not to post it for posterity if nothing else.

context:

so, i spent a long time ruminating on what to do with the league of assassins in my au. obviously, a lot of the canon material concerning it is staggeringly racist, not to mention just kind of stupid overall, so i knew that i wanted most of it to go out the window off the bat. at the same time there were certain aspects of it that i knew i wanted to retain - the immortality, the lazarus pits, talia's original antihero stuff, damian being a weird little knife child, etc - so eventually i decided that the "league of assassins" as it were doesn't really exist; ra's has simply operated im plain view for long enough that people who were paying enough attention went "hey, what the hell, he has a guy lined up for everything, surely he's running some kind of secret evil shadow organization?" he's not. he's really not. he's just been alive long enough that he has a lot of personal favors owed to him at this point. his actual "organization" is like, at maximum three people who owe him life debts at any given time. he's also not really evil per say. he's just really weird.

what ra's is actually doing (amidst some good old garden variety ecoterrorism - if ivy can do it so can he, and it was a core aspect of his motivation for several decades) is acting upon the pathological obsession he has with the lazarus pits. the lazarus pits in my au are a mix of the birth of the demon and BTAS lore surrounding them: they are natural deposits that must be manually dug out from underground wellsprings to be used, but they are also deeply connected to earthly magnetism and can be located via complex leylines and other ambiguously supernatural means. ra's, from his first discovery of them, has been dedicated to obsessively cataloguing and "deciphering" what he perceives to be the grand mystery of the natural world we live in, and that once he "solves" it, he can show the truth to others and the planet will be transformed into a paradise. (you may note this is not dissimilar to the riddler's pathos concerning patterns - more on that point later probably). this also has ties to his mortal occupation as a physician. he has a strong lingering investment in finding new ways to cure ills, and sees death as the ultimate ill, and therefore he wants to find a way to universally cure death.

now, a lot of this is directly informed by his backstory from birth of the demon, which happens to also contain the sole appearance of the other character in this image, Huwe (we aren't given another name for him to my memory, so i'm forced to assume that's his only one). huwe was an enemy-turned-ally of ra's who eventually became immortal alongside him up until the mid 1800(???)s, where they had a fight that ended in ra's killing huwe by stabbing him with a fire poker. i thought the dynamic between them was really interesting and underutilized in that comic so i decided to bring it back - it goes pretty differently in my au but i have not worked out the specifics to any degree of clarity yet so i will leave that for another post.

there is also more going on with talia and damian in this au, but this is getting long and they aren't even in this post so ill give the cliffnotes version: talia was raised to be more or less a 'warden' of the lazarus pits and she is immortal like ra's, albeit much younger chronologically. she has a vested desire to lead a "normal" life and live and die as a mortal. after having damian, who is ostensibly supposed to be her successor, she sends him away to live with bruce as a form of achieving her dream vicariously through him - as long as he remains mortal and lives as he wishes to, away from the inherited responsibility of the pits, she can bear the weight of it knowing he's out there somewhere. ra's's side of this is a whole other thing about immortal loneliness and his family being the only ones who he can relate to at all after all that he's done and a weird amount of parallels to the joker of all people but this is getting WAY TOO LONG.

TL;DR ra's (long hair) is a strange immortal doctor and the other guy is huwe, his totally-not-gay-and-also-immortal friend.

[cleverhottubmiracle]

The epitome of red carpet elegance, awards season, may have come and gone, but its influence lingers, shaping our fashion vocabulary for the year. In 2025, A-list celebrities took a striking approach, embracing vintage charm like never before. Traditionally, the red carpet is a showcase for fresh-off-the-runway looks—stunning but often impractical for wear. However, a refreshing trend has emerged, blending nostalgia with high fashion: the rise of retro fashion on the red carpet. Yes, you read that right—stars are diving into the archives, reviving some of the most iconic looks from past decades and proving that great style doesn’t always have to be brand new. As we move further into the year in fashion, let’s talk about how retro fashion has made a dazzling comeback. Celebrities have been turning red carpets into full-on nostalgia trips—only with more diamonds and far less angst. Whether it’s a striking designer piece from the ’90s or an even older archival gem, these stars are proving one thing: when done right, vintage never goes out of style. Why the recent obsession with retro fashion? Photo: Getty Images Vintage fashion has made a striking comeback on the 2025 red carpets, with more celebrities embracing iconic looks from past decades. Kendall Jenner, at the Vanity Fair Oscar Party, perfectly embodied this trend, donning a sheer lace gown from Mugler’s Spring/Summer 1992 collection. Paired with dangling red earrings and sleek black heels, Jenner’s look not only paid homage to vintage glamour but also showcased how timeless fashion can feel fresh and modern. This resurgence of retro styles is becoming a defining moment in this year’s awards season, with celebrities increasingly turning to fashion archives for red carpet inspiration. See our favorite retro fashion looks spotted on the red carpet during awards season… #1. Keke Palmer: Chanel in 1985, Because Why Not? Photo: Getty Images At the 2025 SAG Awards, Keke Palmer had everyone doing a double-take with her breathtaking vintage Chanel gown. The luxurious black dress, adorned with gold trim on the bodice, was originally worn by Jamie Lee Curtis back in 1985. Yet somehow, Palmer made it feel completely fresh and modern. It was the perfect fusion of old Hollywood glamour and contemporary cool, and she absolutely nailed it. Let’s be honest, though—Keke Palmer could make a garbage bag look runway-ready. But in this Chanel number? She looked like the lead in a high-stakes period drama about a chic French spy (who definitely has a fleet of well-trained dogs). #2. Ariana Grande: The Couture Queen with a Vintage Twist Photo: Getty Images Ariana Grande, a true connoisseur of vintage fashion, turned heads at the 2025 Golden Globes in a stunning 1966 Givenchy couture gown. With its delicate beadwork and buttery yellow hue, the dress was a flawless nod to the swinging 60s—elegant, timeless, and undeniably chic. But the best part? Ariana has fully embraced vintage this awards season, and we’re absolutely here for it. From Chanel to Dior, she’s been serving up archival perfection with every red carpet appearance. #3. Olivia Rodrigo: Bringing Back Y2K Coolness Photo: Getty Images If anyone can transport us straight to the golden era of Y2K fashion, it’s Olivia Rodrigo. At the 2025 Grammys, the pop star delivered a masterclass in early 2000s glamour, stepping out in a sleek black Versace cutout gown from the Spring 2000 collection. Minimal effort, maximum impact—it was everything we loved about the era wrapped up in one striking look. Channeling the best of turn-of-the-millennium style, Rodrigo gave us Paris Hilton-level confidence with a dash of pre-meat-dress Lady Gaga edge. But she didn’t stop there. Vintage has become a staple in her awards season wardrobe, and she’s been leaning all the way into the Y2K aesthetic, proving time and again that retro can feel refreshingly modern.  #4. Kylie Jenner: A Chainmail Dream in Versace Photo: @kyliejenner/Instagram Kylie Jenner is no stranger to jaw-dropping vintage, but at the 2025 Golden Globes, she outdid herself. The reality star turned business mogul stunned in a show-stopping Versace chainmail gown from the Spring 1999 collection. Now, chainmail has been creeping back into fashion, but let’s be real—most of us would end up looking like we wandered into a renaissance fair. Kylie, on the other hand, looked like she was ruling over a futuristic fashion empire. Originally worn by Elizabeth Hurley, this vintage masterpiece got a fresh, modern revival thanks to Kylie’s signature confidence and impeccable styling. If chainmail ever needed a queen to bring it into 2025, Kylie just claimed the throne. #5. Mikey Madison: A ’90s Dream in Armani Photo: @redcarpetspace/Instagram Mikey Madison, the breakout star of the 2025 awards season, made a statement at the Critics’ Choice Awards in a vintage black-and-white Armani gown from the Fall 1992 collection. The look was effortlessly chic—understated, yet dripping with that “I just threw this on and still look flawless” energy. A perfect nod to 90s minimalism, the gown was sleek, refined, and undeniably elegant. It had that rare quality of being both low-key and high-fashion, striking the perfect balance between nonchalant coolness and red carpet glam. It’s the kind of dress that whispers, “I’m effortlessly stylish,” while subtly screaming, “Put me on the cover of a magazine with a martini in hand.” #6. Chappell Roan: Jean Paul Gaultier Couture That’s Anything But Boring Photo: @mypublicist/Instagram Chappell Roan brought pure drama to the 2025 Grammys in a Jean Paul Gaultier Couture gown from the Spring 2003 collection, and it was nothing short of spectacular. The intricate craftsmanship, the bold silhouette, the sheer theatricality—it was avant-garde fashion at its absolute finest. Roan has never been one to play it safe, but this look proved she’s in a league of her own. If there’s one takeaway from her red carpet moment, it’s that vintage isn’t just about nostalgia—it can be daring, boundary-pushing, and completely futuristic. Roan, consider your crown officially secured as the reigning queen of making archival fashion feel ahead of its time. #7. Cynthia Erivo: A 90s McQueen Masterpiece Photo: Getty Images Let’s wrap things up with the incomparable Cynthia Erivo, who shut down the 2025 SAG Awards in a breathtaking archival Givenchy gown from the Fall 1997 collection, designed by none other than Alexander McQueen. The printed masterpiece was the perfect blend of glamour and drama, making Erivo look like she had just stepped out of a high-fashion 90s music video, ready to command the spotlight. Radiant and effortlessly regal, she proved once again that vintage fashion isn’t just a nostalgic throwback—it’s a timeless statement that can still turn heads decades later. Conclusion: Vintage Fashion Never Goes Out of Style In conclusion, the 2025 awards season has made one thing clear—retro fashion isn’t just a relic of the past; it’s a full-fledged red carpet revolution. From Olivia Rodrigo’s sleek Y2K throwbacks to Kylie Jenner’s chainmail moment, celebrities have proven that the most unforgettable looks don’t always come straight off the runway. And let’s be real—if we had access to these fashion archives, we’d all be rocking vintage, too. The takeaway? Style isn’t about chasing the newest trends; it’s about recognizing timeless elegance. So, maybe it’s time to raid our grandparents’ closets—you never know, your next show-stopping outfit might just be waiting for a second life. For the latest in fashion, lifestyle, and culture, follow us on Instagram @StyleRave —Read also Ranti Ishola An enchanting wordsmith and style virtuoso. My collection of vintage scarves reflects my love for stories, beauty and style. Each scarf whispers its tale of inspiration. At Style Rave, we aim to inspire our readers by providing engaging content to not just entertain but to inform and empower you as you ASPIRE to become more stylish, live smarter and be healthier. Follow us on Instagram @StyleRave_ ♥ !function(f,b,e,v,n,t,s) if(f.fbq)return;n=f.fbq=function()n.callMethod? n.callMethod.apply(n,arguments):n.queue.push(arguments); if(!f._fbq)f._fbq=n;n.push=n;n.loaded=!0;n.version='2.0'; n.queue=[];t=b.createElement(e);t.async=!0; t.src=v;s=b.getElementsByTagName(e)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(t,s)(window, document,'script', ' fbq('init', '496558104568102'); fbq('track', 'PageView'); !function(f,b,e,v,n,t,s)if(f.fbq)return;n=f.fbq=function()n.callMethod? n.callMethod.apply(n,arguments):n.queue.push(arguments);if(!f._fbq)f._fbq=n; n.push=n;n.loaded=!0;n.version='2.0';n.queue=[];t=b.createElement(e);t.async=!0; t.src=v;s=b.getElementsByTagName(e)[0];s.parentNode.insertBefore(t,s)(window, document,'script',' fbq('init', '1453079628754066'); fbq('track', "PageView"); Source link