#{ IT'S JUST... SOMETHING SHE'S VERY ADAMANT ABOUT. }

[sakurabraches]

it's weird to me when people are so adamant "oh glinda has to face consequences for her actions glinda has to be punished for her actions" not because they're wrong, but because what i find most compelling about glinda's character isn't the tragedy of "i was selfish and i lost everyone i loved" it's how she continually does learn from her mistakes and makes effort to be a better person

the ozdust is her first "oh shit" moment where she comes to term with the cruelty elphaba's faced her whole life and how galinda contributed to that. ariana said of the scene that being looked at and laughed at like that was galinda's worst fear, but in that moment it switches to doing something to put someone in that situation again. her joining the dance isn't just an attempt to fix it, but an acknowledgement of the harm she's done

this same arc plays out in act ii, albeit on a much wider scale. "thank goodness" establishes that glinda, despite claiming otherwise, isn't happy as glinda the good and really isn't proud of the role she's stepped into or the person she's become. and then nessa, fiyero, and the witch-hunting mob all happen in quick succession, and she gets a very rude awakening to just how much violence the wizard's regime (herself included) is capable of enacting

so she rides to kiamo ko ready to give up "glinda the good" to save elphaba, but elphaba insists that it's too late for her and passes her cause on to glinda. its also important to note that this is glinda putting the greater good (helping the Animals) over her personal needs/wants (wanting to save/be with elphaba). and as much as glinda is shoved back into a role she hates, i think she's also left with a clear sense of who she is and the power she does have and how she can do good

as much as glinda has regrets and sorrows and mistakes, she also consistently demonstrates an ability to learn from her mistakes and works to remedy them and ends the musical in a position where she really is glinda the good, even if she hadn't always been that. she's the one who removes the wizard and morrible and ultimately works to turn oz into the place elphie believed it could be. and i personally find this more compelling than her just being a cautionary tale about how selfishness and working for authoritarian dictators are bad

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

Adam held up his hands: Okay that part is all her.

Luicfer's eyes even inverted he was so upset, something that shouldn't be possible with those bracelets on but Sera did say Lucifer was very fucking powerful.

Lucifer sighed, his eyes going back to normal: She could have talked to me! If she wanted to leave..... T-that's fine but she didn't have to leave us guessing.

And that's what he's so upset about, the fact she up and left without warning to the one place he could never go to find her. He had thought she was in danger. Charlie thought that she was the reason she left it was a whole mess.

Adam slowly came over to sit next to him: It's not fine, she fucked off leaving you holding the bag.

She didn't even really tell Adam the reason why she was up there for a long time. He had been very shocked, he couldn't imagine just leaving Abel or any of his kids on purpose.

Lucifer looked down at the hand that had his wedding ring, it felt too tight like it was suddenly cutting off that circulation to that finger.

He wasn't good enough for anyone was he?

Luicfer removed the ring and flung it, he didn't care where it landed he just wanted it off of him. It landed with a little clang.

He felt so used and lied to..... Not to mention cheated. After everything he did for her she just throws it all away.

Lucifer didn't even realize he started crying until Adam pulled him into a hug and he buried his face in his chest.

Adam: I'm sorry....

Lucifer sniffed: ..... What's worse is Charlie won't understand that she just didn't want that life anymore.....

He was more upset for his daughter than himself, he had a feeling their marriage was over a while ago but not like this.

Adam: You have a tough kid, she'll understand eventually. You guys did nothing wrong.

Lucifer sighed as he felt Adam rub his back, it felt so nice. He nuzzled his face in more between Adam's man boobs, the first man trying not to blush. This was supposed to be a tender moment and Lucifer was making it difficult.

But if he needed a face full of first man boob to feel better, Adam let him have it.

Hell's Missing the Devil

@beef-brisket

Lucifer wasn't sure if he had heard Sera correctly but the serious tone and look on her face told him that yes she was in fact serious.

Lucifer: I'm sorry.... What?

Sera sighed, she sounded annoyed: We will put an end to the Exterminations and in exchange you will be up in Heaven as a prisoner.

That..... Didn't sound ideal.

But neither were the Exterminations.

He didn't understand, wasn't the whole point of him falling so that he would never see Heaven again? Didn't that defeat the purpose?

Unless...... There was more to it.

Sera: Think about it. Come back here tomorrow when you've made your choice. Make the right choice for once.

He scowled when she left. What a bitch.

Lucifer did think about it and that's when it dawned on him.

With Lilith gone and now Lucifer, Charlie would have to step up and rule Hell. Which meant that she wouldn't have time to run her hotel.

It was underhanded and sneaky..... It was so Heaven.

But by doing this....... He would be saving his daughter too. He didn't trust them not to go after her one day.

Charlie: Dad you can't.

Lucifer: Sweetie, I..... I know this isn't ideal but it's for a greater good.

Charlie teared up: What am I supposed to do without you!?

It was different when he was just holed up in the manor, at least she knew he was safe at home.

But in Heaven? Lucifer was considered a traitor. Who knows what they would do to him.

Lucifer hugged his baby girl tight: Y-you'll be okay...... I love you.

Charlie: ...... I love you too.

She didn't want to let him go. There had to be a way to bring him home.

The next day, Lucifer went to the embassy where Sera was waiting.

Sera: So?

Lucifer sighed, this felt like a mistake but he didn't know what else to do to keep Charlie and their people safe.

Lucifer: Alright.......

Sera: Good.

She snapped her fingers and a pair of silver bracelets appeared on his wrists and Lucifer suddenly felt very drained. They must be blocking his powers.

With another snap, handcuffs with a chain appeared as well, Lucifer walked with his head down through the portal with Sera.

He would have laughed when he heard Peter freaking out. But any amusement left him when Sera said who he would be staying with.

Sera: You'll be under Adam's watch.

It felt ironic in a way.

Lucifer felt like he had been handed a death sentence as Sera handed his chain over to the first man.

[literary-illuminati]

2025 Book Review #28 – Someone You Can Build A Nest In by John Wiswell

This is the latest in my attempt to read every nominee for Best Novel and Novella in time to actual give an informed vote at the Hugos this year, and the first that I can be really pretty positive I would never have read otherwise. In this case, for good reason – I aspire to dip my toes a bit into romance as a genre sometime this year, but suffice to say that temperamentally it is just Not My Thing All the more so because the overall incredibly positive buzz about this book has been the kind (cozy, affirming, heart-warming, relatable main characters, etc) that’s honestly more of a red flag than anything to me. But I made an arbitrary commitment and have said I want to expand my horizons so – I really have no one to blame here but myself.

The story follows Shesheshen, the much-reviled and feared shape-changing ‘wyrm’ whose occasional man-eating predations have long troubled the inhabitants of the isthmus she calls home. After being awoken from her winter hibernation by a trio of monster hunters (properly: two monsters and an aristocratic blowhard who hired and is ‘leading’ them) and very nearly killed, she falls off the side of a cliff and very luckily happens to still look semi-human when her body is found by the travelling scholar Homily and nursed back to health. Shesheshen, have little (read: literally no) experience with being cared for and shown unconditional kindness, falls head over heels in love with her and very quickly begins dreaming of making a family together – which, for her species, means implanting her eggs deep within Homily’s body so their children will grow healthy and strong on her flesh as they hatch. Some issues of communication and cultural differences quickly present themselves.

For all that the romance is the centre of the book’s marketing (and, clearly, appeal), this is actually really quite a plotty story. Romance (and the romanticization of predatory or sacrificial relationships) are major themes, of course, but honestly it feels like the better part of the page count – and certainly most of the action and big set pieces – are instead dedicated to dealing with monster hunters, abusive family, and the overlap between the two. Theoretically, the book’s preoccupied with themes I am intensely interested in (romance aside) and would be very easy to sell on. In practice, everything came out so painfully heavy-handed and focused on making sure the audience both knew and knew the author knew the correct reactions to have that it became kind of insufferable.

I have, it must be said, something of a long-standing grudge against books that market themselves as and play with the aesthetics and genre trappings of ‘horror’ but are actually just life-affirming tales and acceptance and found family which happen to have some fangs and pseudopods scattered across the main cast. Which, to my great displeasure, was more or less exactly what this turned out to be. This is not a book that really asks you to sympathize with monsters – Shesheshen has theoretically been eating people for years and years as the mood and appetite took her, but the book is quite conscientious about making sure she does basically nothing actually unsympathetic while we know her. There is functionally never a point in this book where there is any sort of actual moral ambiguity or tension – it is clear within a page of meeting them how much you should like a character, with signifiers and symbolism applied so thickly it’s be impossible to miss, and the book absolutely never challenges or makes you go back and reconsider those judgments. There are a few somewhat engaging or slightly tense action scenes, but horror? It deserves the label less than the Adams Family.

While I might consider this false advertising, it’s really just more of a genre mismatch – this is a romance with some light horror aesthetics, not a romantic horror story (this is a meaningful distinction I will fight to defend the honour of). I am significantly less qualified to judge the book as a romance, save that it didn’t really work for e. Which is fairly unsurprising – there are definitely stories whose romances are as or more prominent and fundamental to the story than this one which I loved, but none of them were really genre romances like this one was. So like yeah, if you go in expecting The Locked Tomb (or even This Is How You Lose The Time War) this is a 0/10. But also why would you do that.

Though even for a romance where genre constraints preordained a happy ending for the main couple, there really was a tragic lack of real interest or conflict in that driving relationship. The actual drama and tension of the story was more or less exclusively between Shesheshen and Homily against their families and the world – internal to the relationship, there is a lot of Shesheshen angsting about how to admit the whole ‘shapeshifting man-eating monster who has ostensibly cursed and is hunting her family’ thing that all leads up to getting resolved by love and acceptance like 3 pages after it finally comes out.

Which is a shame, because if you squint a bit at the basic conceit – lifelong scavenger and predator who has never received selfless care before in her life realizes to her horror that she fell in love less with the woman and more with her unhealthy coping mechanisms and martyr complex – is in fact an incredibly meaty and interesting character dynamic. But doing anything with it would require Shesheshen to actually show some edge and be less than sympathetic to people you’re supposed to care about (also, for Homily to be even slightly interesting at some point).

It is tempting for me to say that the book’s fundamental issue is that the author spent too much of the 2010s on twitter, but I really have no way to know that. Still, for a basically unsocialized shapeshifting, human-eating magical predator whose narration takes pains to establish that she never talks to people for longer than strictly necessary to acquire a meal, has no idea how to make a first impression, and generally finds human contact hateful and viscerally uncomfortable, Sesheshen’s internal monologue is truly inexplicably emotionally intelligent, attuned to and outraged by the subtleties of exploitative or abusive relationships, and prone to making profound and all-encompassing statements on the nature of human psychology and trauma that line up very well with the progressive conventional wisdom of that milieu. As there was a great deal of buzz about what a compellingly alien and inhuman protagonist she was – and as that was the aspect of the book I really was legitimately looking forward to as I opened it – the incoherence of her character that results is a profound disappointment.

Recommend if you’re a genre romance fan looking for some interestingly-written descriptions of a flesh-eating shapeshifter finding love, I guess.

[sapphicfandompirate]

Deltarune classpects because why the hell not

Kris- Page of Heart

Ralsei- Mage of Light

Susie- Maid of Blood

Noelle- Witch of Space

Berdly- Thief of Time

Asriel- Sylph of Hope

Dess- Heir of Void

Some justifications and other stuff:

It's a 7 person party, I kind of like the idea that Dess gets lost in the void, and they find Ralsei who helps them recover her

Pages often lack their aspect at the start of the session, thus Kris lacks their own identity. Pages also often serve knights irl. I debated a whole lot between heart and breath (tbh i just felt like i had far too many canon classpects that I was starting to second guess everything)

Kris's land probably has moss in the name somewhere

Ralsei seems pretty self explanatory, while in canon he may be a prince of darkness, in homestuck he would be a light player, as they tend to know more than they should, and heavily connected to knowledge. Also mages seem to have a somewhat more complicated relationship with their aspects, or be very unlucky in it. Derse dreamer, he is surprisingly pessimistic but claims its just realism, and it ties into the darkness aspects of his character

Blood players are stubborn and very connected to their bonds. This was inspired a lot from the newest chapters where Susie was very adamant in believing in Ralsei. Ralsei was also in disbelief about how kind she is. Hope could probably work for her too, or rage. Probably has dragon consorts, she would love that

Witch's exploit or break the rules, and Noelle loves finding glitches. Tho I debated Susie for the witch too. I'm not sure what exactly is going on with Noelle in the weird route, but it seems game breaking enough that I think she fits with Witch of Space too. And that genesis frog is going to be the cutest damn thing ever, or the creepiest

I don't think I have a great gasp of Berdly's character tbh, especially how it would translate. I debated a lot between mind and breath as well, but ultimately I like having a space and time player and he feels like a thief or rogue. He would be insufferable once he gets the hang of timeline manipulation

Asriel is based on Undertale characterization mostly, since we haven't really seen him in Deltarune. He probably has The Land of Hopes and Dreams or something to allude to his Undertale form

Dess One who is consumed by their aspect [Void]. Self explanatory

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷 sooooo excited about both of these

Thank you!!!

72 or 500 for 💔:

---

“R-really?” Diane asks. “Worse than being trapped under a flaming garage in a bomb shelter?”

“Oh, easily,” Buck says. 

Easily and very, very recently, in fact. But if he keeps talking then he doesn’t have to think about that. 

“Like what?” Diane asks.

Fantastic question, Diane.

“Well-”

“Oh, we don’t need to go there,” Eddie interjects. 

“No!” Diane argues. “Please. I need a distraction. So, um… So either that or something else. Please.”

Eddie sighs, relenting. “Fine. Terrify her.”

Buck smiles. This is perfect. If he talks about everything but the lab, then he doesn’t have to think about the lab or how it had concrete walls reminiscent of this in places. If he talks for as long as he possibly can, they’ll either rescue them or he’ll run out of oxygen and die. Either way! 

“Would you like that chronologically or in order of severity?” Buck asks Diane. 

“I’m a history teacher,” Diane replies. “So chronologically.”

“Wonderful,” Buck says. “So in January of 2018 I almost went down in a sinking plane…”

▪️▪️▪️

Eddie spends about ten minutes being badly annoyed by Buck’s incessant storytelling and Diane’s eager appreciation of it. Like, couldn’t they all just choose to shut the fuck up and wait this out in companionable silence? Why is that so hard?

Eddie’s irritation switches to curiosity and confusion, and perhaps a bit of sadness, when he realizes a pattern. Buck is editing every single story. Even the ones where Eddie wasn’t there to experience it firsthand, he can tell. Because he’s heard them all before. Buck has shared all his mishaps and adventures with Eddie, over the years. Almost all his stories, to some degree, include Bobby.

Today, not a single one does.

It starts with the plane crash. Eddie knows that the only reason Buck was ever at risk of drowning that night was because he stayed behind, ignoring Bobby’s evacuation orders, when he noticed Bobby hadn’t evacuated. Classic Buck. Apparently even more classic Buck pre-Eddie meeting him. Today, the motivations of that story are a lot less clear. Everything is told in passive voice. Yes, Eddie remembers that term from English class, thank you very much. 

“We were told we had to evacuate the plane,” Buck explains. “But not everyone did. A passenger was still stuck. So what was I gonna do? Leave someone on our team there? No way! But yeah… The whole cabin was filling up with water and it was pretty scary for a minute there.”

Diane watches him with wide-eyed appreciation. 

“Did your whole team get out?” She asks. “Did the passenger?”

“Oh, yeah,” Buck nods. “She was rescued.” Not Bobby told them to evacuate. Not Bobby rescued the passenger.

---

66 or 500 for 🪷:

---

“Right,” Shannon whispers. “Is… Is Eddie not nearby?”

It’s hard to imagine Eddie leaving Chris in this city. She knows he never loved the idea of LA, but he had seemed to like it once he was here. Would he really go back to Texas the moment Chris hit voting age? 

“He is,” Chris answers simply. 

“Is he working?” Shannon asks. 

“I don’t think he works today,” Chris replies, still looking at his phone. One of the strange ones with no buttons. 

“Okay, uh…” Shannon tries not to sound demanding. “Can we ask him to come instead? I-I think… Well, I’d just feel better if we did that.”

Chris shakes his head, adamant. 

“No,” he says. “No, I can’t just… No. We’ll go back to my place. I’ll call him. I’ll get him to come over alone, and then… And then we’ll figure out what to do.”

Get him to come over alone. 

“Ah,” Shannon says. There’s another wife. 

Of course there is. Why wouldn’t there be? She wouldn’t want him to be alone for over a decade and a half. She is happy to hear he’s moved on. She’s not trying to get him back. She asked him for a divorce. He’s just the only person she knows. Because she doesn’t know Chris. Not like this. 

“Could I just talk to him?” Shannon asks.

Chris looks at her. 

“He’s going to freak out.”

“Yeah, I know, but-”

“You don’t,” Christopher says. “I need to… I need to make sure he’s not with…”

With his wife.

“With my sister,” Chris says eventually. 

Shannon’s shoulders slump. Oh. A sister. Eddie has another kid. Well, of course he does. And why not? He’s a great father. Hadn’t he just said he would have been happy to have another kid with Shannon? Last night? Sixteen years ago…

“Your sister,” Shannon repeats gently.

“She’s only seven,” Chris says. “I don’t… I don’t want to freak her out. So if we could please just do this in a way that… That protects her, okay? She knows who you are and what happened to you.”

Something about this strikes Shannon as interesting. She obviously doesn’t know this little girl. Maybe she’s timid and easily distressed, and Christopher’s concerns are rather straightforward. But, the truth is, Shannon is just some stranger she must have heard stories about. Someone long gone. A ghost in her older brother’s history.

[partyof4game]

Aslo has a big fixation with the whole soulmate thing, him looking for his own and all that. Where did that come from? I mean, did his parents tell him some story about them being soulmates and Aslo got fixated on that and wanted to look for his own too? How do his parents react to that? I remember you saying that Aslo has been trying a lot up until now before he met MC, meaning he's tried to date a lot of people and been rejected?

Also, if there was a dinner between RO and MC to meet RO's family, how would each family react to MC? Well... at least the ones with parents :'D

In his settlement, oral storytelling is a big part of the culture, sort've how bardic ballads are the storytelling medium in Sentari. A lot of the stories feature star-crossed lovers, souls that are two halves of the same piece, and that true love is the reward for bravery. While many of the tales are just the stories of Nivari and her husband Melekoth dressed up in different names, Aslo has always found them fascinating.

His obsession with true love and soulmates stems from the part of him that always feels lonely, that needs approval, in a way that familial love cannot fill. A soulmate would need him, would find him to be a completion of something greater than both of them put together. It would be his reward for every brave and stupid thing he's ever done.

His parents are well aware of his fascination and accept it in a slightly, non-malicious but condescending way, as in: 'Oh, he'll grow out of it (he's well over the age of growing out of it), but if he wants to travel, then maybe when he comes back he'll have a sturdier head on his shoulders.'

He's definitely had a lot of dates and one night stands, some he remembers, some he doesn't, but in the end no one really stuck around after realizing he was very adamant about the true love thing and that it wasn't just another pick-up line lol. Some found him more of a novelty than someone to seriously date or settle with, some simply couldn't handle his intensity, others can't see themselves in a long-term situation with a hero that might die each time they leave for a dungeon. Life is rough for Aslo and his search for love.

Also, if there was a dinner between RO and MC to meet RO's family, how would each family react to MC? Well... at least the ones with parents :'D

THE WAY I SCREAMED LMFAO. Half the cast is just sitting in the corner crying.

Raena: Yoren would be more than pleased that you two are finally together. She's watched her ward quietly agonize over MC for years. It's nice that she doesn't have to listen to Raena's forlorn sighs anymore, although now Raena sighs for different, more giddy reasons. Yoren can't decide if she's more or less annoyed.

Vana: Dinner with her parents would be awkward as hell. You'd be forced to endure an interrogation of your future prospects, your current assets, what you would bring to their noble house. Her parents would be less than pleased to learn of your lineage. An orphan attempting to enter the ranks of the Peacebearer family? An outrage, really. Then they'd try to completely destroy the relationship if MC can't impregnate Vana. What else is the girl good for if she can't create an heir? Just another tally to add to the list of her faults...

Sweets: Their family would host a large and riotous dinner and then by the end pull you aside and ardently try and convince you to tell Sweets to come back home. They miss them, and even though they've let them down in the past, they swear they can look past it, let them have another chance, please? Sweets would usher you out of there ASAP; their parents can be very persuasive if you don't know what to watch out for.

Aslo: His parents would be surprised that you even exist. Aslo, of all their children, in a committed, functional relationship? Damn... this requires opening a cask of wildflower mead and a bonfire celebration! Their son finally got his wish and they feel a little bad for doubting him. His mom would give you a thick, wool shawl from the alpacas on their farm, dyed the color of Aslo's eyes, and then proceed to threaten you, that if you ever break his heart, she'll gut you. Is that a knife in her hand?

Jem's birth parents are dead to him. They abandoned him, after all.

Linzel's parents, along with his village, are dead.

Maymie's mother was murdered (father unknown).

[so-god-awful]

TD Headcanons - 1st Gen

When Noah meets someone who's exactly like one of his siblings, he'll tell that sibling all about them. Noah's siblings are begging to meet his 'friends' who are apparently copies of them. Noah is adamant that will never happen and tells them they saw all they needed to on international TV.

Noah and DJ absolutely did some bonding behind the (in-universe) scenes in Action. Noah didn't even bother to try and kick him out after the second time.

Lindsay is beaten so hard by child-proof caps. Justin is too but he can brute force them open.

Leshawna is so older sister coded to me. She gives out the unsolicited older sister advice for the girls who don't have biological older sisters/female role-models. She *will* put you under her wing and you *will* accept it.

DJ has so many volunteer hours. Doesn't matter what group benefits: old people, young people, animals.... The animal shelters are his favorite though, obviously. Bridgette tags along to those too.

Katie and Sadie's best school subjects are what the other isn't good at. They do all their homework together so they both get good grades.

Geoff's barely passed his classes because he doesn't pay attention. Duncan's barely failed his classes because he doesn't pay attention. Neither of them are sure how the other does it. Justin's convinced if both of them were hotter they'd get better grades. At school, he just shoves his handsome face into the nearest smart girl's space until she does his work for him.

Noah and Courtney are very confused and bothered by the lack of work ethic by the three above. Noah finds the effort and drive to work comes easy and Courtney is too scared of failure to not put all her effort in.

Ezekiel's parents have those white people seasoning skills. The most flavor he knows are black pepper and onion.

Eva's parents thought she'd mellow out and were pretty disappointed when she didn't.

Owen likes to hit up the small ice-cream shops and gas stations to find the random, over-indulging ice cream flavors there. Team E-scope waits in the car for him to get back because Noah doesn't want Eva and Izzy in the shop/gas station. When Owen comes back with brownie-batter-whisky-caramel-everything mix, Noah complains around the excessive sugar but will still take a spoonful when the pint is passed around.

Harold's diabetic. In one of the first couple episodes of Island he mentions he gets hypoglycemic (low blood sugar). Non-diabetic people can get hypoglycemic, but it's rarer and most people do not know that word.

Gwen comes from a little-pets-only house. She's got lizards (canon), her brother has hamsters, her mom keeps fish.

Other pets: Eva's got a Doberman. Noah has argued she doesn't need a scary dog because she *is* the scary dog. Geoff has some kind of Retriever he's definitely tried to teach how to surf. Bridgette's got a mutt and thinks Geoff is on to something. Stray cats like Duncan's house for no explainable reason. I saw someone else say Alejandro has horses and I agree with that.

Alejandro crosses out José's face in pictures if he can't cut him off. Carlos knows he does this and makes sure to never have José between him and Alejandro in a pictures. Alejandro's also, coincidentally, fantastic at photoshopping.

Sierra's one of those people who never drinks water. Coincidentally, Cody also never drinks water.

[watermelondip]

transatlanticism | chapter seven

masterlist ao3

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Series Description: The past, present, and plausible future. Knowing Steve in the in-between. Or, as you grow up in Hawkins, parallel to Steve's rich kid bubble, you fall out of favor with expectations, and end up abroad for the rest of highschool. In light of an abrupt return, you try to rekindle a friendship with someone you don't know anymore.

Tags: friends to lovers, friends with benefits, angst, severely poor communication.

⭑⭑⭑

steve harrington / reader Warnings: mild sexual content (so ig MDNI but it's really not that graphic), smoking, smoking, description of injury. Words: 5.3k

⭑⭑⭑

You were exponentially escaping his footnotes, and it was December. Still, Steve didn't want you to come over to his house for Christmas dinner. It was an adamant declaration under a late-night glow. You furrowed, incredulous.

You had always been in the Harrington's hesitant favor. There was always a fifty in your purse, and your hair was always done, and your clothes were always new, and your family never did anything unsavory for the vipers to consume. You wore a painted-on perfection that pleased them immensely. Despite this adoration from his parents, he feared them innately, and maybe, in some subconscious sector of his mind, feared what they might presume from your attendance. A really bitter sector of your mind, which was a mind of all-consuming, tortuous self-destruction, thought that maybe he just didn't want to face the obligations of commitment so soon. You frowned.

"Your parents love me," you pointed out, folding an old blouse on top of your dresser. "Our dads play loser-old-man-poker together, like, all the fucking time." Steve groaned from behind you, sinking into your comforter. 

"I know, I know." He placed a weighted hand over his eyes. "Isn't your family doing something?"

"Well, my dad hates me, and everyone else lives in Michigan, so probably not."

"Yeah, right." He sighed and grew quiet.

The month was a slow descent.

-

Movie store girl (the longer you expressed reluctance towards her name, you figured, the less she existed) didn't like your whole thing. With a squint and a strain, you were quite sure you remembered her from high school, albeit vaguely, and albeit with little kindness. She was in band, you knew. She was still in school, you also knew, which discouraged the thought that Steve was secretly and madly in love with her, but didn't diminish it completely, for if you knew one thing most of all things, he wasn't very wary of imbalances. She spoke tentatively. You didn't know it, but only assumed it, or simply inferred that Steve had told her about the fight you'd had. This was the ultimate catalyst.

"He doesn't work today." She avoided your eyes, straightening punch cards behind the register.

"Oh, I know. He takes Thursday afternoons off to watch sports and be lame," you replied, elbows resting on the counter. You teetered securely on your heels. "And I totally didn't come here for him, anyway. I wanted to talk to you." You smiled, plasticky. "Robin," you emphasized, showing her your teeth, a sign of faux congeniality, something she'd come to know you for.

"Hm?" She moved to the other side of the counter, and you followed swiftly, shuffling alongside her with a manic pep that forced a grimace and a glance as she fiddled pointlessly with the computer.

"Well, I guess I just figured, since you and Steve are so close and all, we should get to know each other." The statement reeked of high school. You had thought, a little idiotically, maybe, that you had long since abandoned whatever devil resided in your bones, and that you were a fairly nice, decent sort of lady in your current state. Your thoughts were volatile, and your conversations were imploding, every word another nuke sent down too late. 

"Yeah, and how exactly do you wanna do that?" She just wasn't his type. She was too young, you recalled, and sort of hyper, and she looked like a dork, and she dressed like a dude, her hair short and her eyes all smudgy. She just wasn't his type, really, but you weren't either, not after Nancy. The more the idea lingered, the more you sunk, and so you brushed it off, flicked your hair back, and grinned harder, pointed toe and popped hip incredibly poignant.

"Brunch?" You shrugged as you suggested it, a glee plastered onto your expression that made her scoff real subtle, something crueler than you'd have imagined.

"You want to have brunch? With me?" She turned to face you, arms propped up against the counter, face a little closer, competitive in this juvenile, mocking sort of way. She was poking and prodding at your weakening resolve. She was taunting Schrodinger's bitch.

"Yes. I said that." For a moment, she fell into the know and softened.

"Look, I'm busy right now," she nodded at a customer, "but talk to Steve. We'll, like, meet up or something."

The month was a slow descent, but it was also fast, and it was also mostly your fault, mostly your bizarre conscious that decimated your short-lived peace. You rented Alien and crashed at seven PM.

-

Parked in the woods, futilely flipping through radio stations, Steve was idyllic, and he looked like he could be sixteen, of course, only in the dark, and only if you looked at him from the corner of your eye and maybe fibbed a bit about the comparison. You liked to pretend that you were both still young and nothing had ever happened at all. He landed on George Michael, yet still seemed displeased, frowning as he flopped back into his seat.

"We don't need music, you know," you pointed out, unbuckling your seat belt, re-tucking your shirt into your pants.

"I always have music. Never not had music. It's like a-" he paused, lips all thin and forehead all wrinkly, "lucky charm. It's like a lucky charm." You smiled, kissed him slow, and said he didn't need one, not with you.

Steve always fucked girls in cars. Sometimes, and this was a shoddy reference, knowledge from a dying era, he'd call up a girl, and then he'd take her out to dinner, and he'd tell her she's pretty, and he'd offer to take her home, but he'd say he knew a place, and this movie-like ruse would only escalate, clothes off, mouths on. You wondered when the last occurrence was. You wondered if he'd cleaned his car since then or if, sliding your jeans off, you were sitting where another girl had sat, and that invisible sheen of nostalgia on the interior that only you could sense was, in fact, sex from another time.

He peeled you like corn. Hand on your back, hand pulling you closer, the other fumbling with your jeans around your ankles, shucking them down your legs and onto the console. You were wearing your blue Campuses, a bit worn on the edges, a little smooth on the sole, and your pants caught on them, and he whined, pulling at the ends. You knocked of your shoes and your jeans and your inhibitions, too. He kissed like a dog. He'd been drinking, hands sweltering on your sides.

He pulled you into his lap, fumbling with his own seatbelt as he raised up his hips to meet yours. He faltered once you were on top of him, pulling back just to look at you, letting go just to let you settle. He cleared his throat. He breathed out heavy, dim and abruptly untrained. He eyed the robotic unbuttoning of your top, your fingers working mechanically, efficiently. You were looking down, sniffing a bit against the cold, and he couldn't pull you quite close enough, make you warm and melty, even as you touched him and wanted him and made soft, sex-esque sounds into his air.

There was a prying longing for the way it used to go. When you were young, wistful and angry and curious about it all, he would do it for you, hands awkwardly orientated around you collar as he hovered over you. There was a taboo in your modern roboticism. There was a thing, a lurking, garish, ugly thing that you refused to address, refused to acknowledge. It came in soft swipes of air over your collarbone, heavy breaths and heaving chests. When he was above you, maybe in your room, maybe somewhere more obscure, and he was moving hastily, and you were so lucid that your vision blurred, leaving your sightline with just a shoulder or a slice of abdomen, that is when it appeared and began to infest your mind. It was the years you had lost in England. It was the time you spent away at parties, the time in bedrooms or bathrooms or coat closets, but only once there, just like only once in the pool, once in the garage.

You wanted him, he knew. He must've known. Often, you kissed him like it was a wedding kiss, the pastor smiling all soft as he dipped you down in a puffy dress. Even in your occasional urgency, there was a blasé element, a detached edge that found itself lost in the flurry of his affections. Still, the kissing was the extent of the sexual indulgences. Often, and contrastingly, you fucked him like an old woman, maybe sixty or so, welcoming her husband to an early grave with a beer and a lasagna, doing what she figures she must. You reached for the button of his jeans. He choked on his own contemplations.

"Hey." He grabbed your wrist. "Hey, what's the rush?" He laughed. You straightened and didn't smile.

"We don't have to," you retorted, figuring it a calculated rejection. You leaned back, going to re-button our shirt before he reached out to stop you. "Steve, its okay if you don't want you," you assured, glaring, dim and obscured, a little disheartened but a lot empathetic. Brow furrowed, he grabbed onto your hands, pulling them away from your chest.

"I want to, of course I do. Just--" he winced at his own girlishness. "You never let me touch you." He sighed out something extraordinary, and he shrank, squeezing your hands in his. You broke out into the cruelest of grins, winding your fingers in-between his, dancing with the unshed skin of his knuckles, poking at his sensitivity.

"You are touching me," you jested, scooting back a bit. He scoffed.

"You know what I mean." He seemed reluctantly genuine about the whole thing. It was a toothache in itself.

"Steve, are you actually pissed that I won't let you finger me?" His hands felt like little, burning stars; he was best at touching, often touched like it was a competition, made it better than sex, sometimes. Still, the daydream had you shifting in his lap, the ideal, melodic movements that always seemed to evade you coming across as perfectionistic in your head. Of course, there was the want, just as there was the air and the heartbeat, but it faded easily into the swell of returning inhibitions that consumed you.

"Not pissed," he murmured, hand moving up your thigh, a little sloppy, a little high school. "Just wondering why. I mean, you think I'm not, like, good at it, or something?"

You laughed: "Come on. How many girls have you successfully fingered? Like, five, six bajillion?"

"More like three or four, but sure." His humility consumed you. The desire to absorb him only intensified, your spine going mushy against his trailing fingertips. "Really, though. I wanna know." He seemed to wonder endlessly, and his baby eyes implored (pretty, by the moon, looking young, smiling a little).

"It's not that you're bad or anything. I just, like, don't want you to feel obligated, you know? Like, I don't want it to be one of those things you do even if you don't really like it that much, you just do it because you have to, or you should, or I guess you think you should." Your face went hot, and his hand, wavering, slipped from your thigh to your hip, your spine to your waist, encasing you, holding you together a bit. "I don't know, it probably sounds stupid. I mean, you can do whatever you want. I don't care, is all."

"You don't care?" It struck a chord in him, a low, tentative one that shivered at the light rain that began to hit the window. You shook your head. He pulled you closer.

"Whatever you want," you murmured, but it got lost in the way he kissed you, the way he pushed his mouth against yours, fighting a little, the mental spar overtaking the rain and the night and the George Michael. In some ways, it was the cruelest thing to say. You were a constant guilt trip, a nagging reminder, like always and before, and you never changed, and you never apologized. He put his hand in your underwear, and it was the sort of thing you would've readily avoided with anyone else, too slow and too good, really. Sometimes sex was bad, and it was for the best. This unbearably morbid view faded right along with the moan you bit into his shoulder.

"Whatever I want," he repeated, forcibly, a tone that made you wiggle like an animal, too mean. He put his hand on the side of your neck, pulling you away, forcing you up, forcing you to look him in the eye, and he smiled with a part in his lips, mockingly proud. Fingers and sounds and heavy man breaths, all everywhere, all on the seats and the windows and the wheel, even, seeping into the engine. "You're so pretty," he whispered, jutting another finger inside of you, but you furrowed as the air grew thicker. You frowned. You wished you were plastic; it felt too stuffy, too much.

When you tightened, and you said his name, and you fell into his chest, he held you there, and that was the sort of touching he'd been waiting for, the real type. He liked your sweaty neck. He liked your sticky hair, your smudged makeup. Sometimes sex was good, and it was for the worst, and it felt like flying. He tucked your hair behind your ears, pressing his nose into the side of your head, shifting against your weight.

-

"I missed you so much," he said, and it resonated all the way into the backseat, maybe even into the town over. Contrastingly, he lifted up his hips, rubbing himself against you, groaning into your skull. You didn't think he'd ever understand why you cried into his collarbone, but didn't say why, and kissed him anyway.

Everything was rotating. The push and pull was reductive. It was worse when he wanted you, better when he was distracted. Your dad took another trip. The maid took the holiday off, and so did the gardener, and so did the rest of the world, so everything was just snow and unfolded sheets, all melting into the month. 

Steve slept at least thirteen hours a day. If he wasn't working, he was hanging out with children, hanging out with you, eating with either you or the children, or he was just sleeping. That day, very post-coitally, he took up more than half the bed, and he started to snore. You wondered if this was what marriage felt like, and you pulled out a cigarette. He liked to say that his emotional turmoil made him tired. When you exhaled he shifted, and so, feeling performative, you blew a puff of smoke right above his nose, forcing out a jolt and a cough as he groaned himself awake.

"Fuck you." He slammed his hand over your alarm clock, tilting it into view. "God, its late. Put that shit out."

"You'd rather I smoke during the day like a beer-gutted deadbeat?" You nudged his leg with your cold foot. He laughed all dry, pushing the hair off his forehead.

"I'd rather you not smoke." He shoved you off, sitting himself up. His eyes were puffy and there was this sheen of sweat on his face that reeked of domesticity. 

"Hypocrite," you mumbled, murdering the small attempt at release as you pressed the cigarette into your jewelry dish. "You gave me my first one, remember?" He groaned again, this time with a little less malice around the edges. "And I coughed, and you laughed and then you said it was cute, but I was so embarrassed. Actions have consequences," you taunted, your faux attempt at humor falling flat underneath the implications of the situation; nothing was now anymore, only memories.

"Yeah, and I meant it, but now its gross." You nudged him again, but he only grunted uncomfortably, rolling out of the bed to pick up his clothes from the floor. "You want me to go?" he asked, pulling on his boxers. "You know, so you can smell bad in peace."

"I wanna go out." You looked over to him, but he didn't return the gesture, pulling on his jeans, which he struggled to button up after all that leftover sloppy joe. You knew, then, that it was what marriage felt like. "I think there's a show at the lounge tonight. We can still catch it." He sighed, turning slow like cattle and pulling his lips taught. With an incredibly cruel, paternal sort of movement, he came around and sat down next to you on the edge of the bed, his hand over your knee from above the comforter.

"Baby, I'm tired, okay?" He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, but it didn't linger. "Next time, alright?" It didn't mean anything at all to you at the time, and you nodded like a bitter child, your chin reaching down to your chest. He jarred you consistently, jerking you in all directions. "Promise." He pecked your mouth. It felt like an insult, but you worried you were being over-attentive. You grabbed at his wrist.

"You don't have to go." His skin was hot and alive and dissipating, still, even as you refused to let it leave.

"My dads been getting on my case about my sudden absence in the household. Don't wanna piss him off too much." You ran your fingers over the top of his hairy man chest, which aged him a bit, but still felt symbolic of the person you'd always figured him to be, albeit a bit more homely. Even if this was like marriage, and even if you felt sort of dull whenever he bailed on you like this, the idea was innately romantic. You liked waking him up in bed and watching him put on his clothes. You liked listening to him snore, because you couldn't sleep half the time anyways, and he looked so funny when he did it, mouth open and all.

"I like it when you stay," you admitted, fingers sliding up to his neck. "Helps me sleep." A sense of naiveté peeked through your pores, and he gripped it tight, pulling you into a real kiss with a surge and a scooch; he liked you all soft and wavering, shivering under his fallen superiority, mostly because it made you seem younger and a little bit because your whole persona stung, cut him good and bleeding. He pressed steadily against your mouth, breathing in roughly, and when you tried to open up to him, he pulled away, stopping you short of yourself, keeping you decent.

"I know," he whispered, letting his breath coat you all drowsy. You memorized his sympathy, and in your dreams he'd never leave.

-

"Movie?"

"Well, probably Sixteen Candles, but maybe Heathers if i'm feeling depressed or something."

"Music?"

"I'm a radio zombie. Don't care too much. Madonna?"

"Dare I ask, book?"

"I liked The Catcher in the Rye."

"You did not!"

"Yes, I did, swear. We're both wanderers."

"You're not a wanderer. She's not a wanderer." 

Dustin was tiny and had big greasy hair that reminded you of a pre-pubescent Harrington, still attempting to tame the beast attached to his scalp. He turned to Steve, shaking his head, waiting for some grandiose explanation about why he was slumming it with a prep-slathered richie, so untasteful and so uncultured. Steve shrugged. Maybe he was just happy you'd agreed to meet his strange child friend. Maybe this was marriage, too.

"She can be a wanderer," Steve argued, gesturing vaguely at your crossed legs and your navy blouse, your proper form. "If she wants," he added, grinning softly.

"What about you, Dustin? I mean, what makes you and Steve so wholly compatible?" He grimaced at your backhanded smile, stuffing a two hands of stubby fingers in his pockets.

"Huh?" he retorted, incredulous. Steve bit his thumb, leaning back into the booth (Salty's Diner, six PM).

"I mean, what is it about you that makes you worthy of his grace? That is what we're talking about here, isn't it?" 

"Yeah, well, Steve and I, we get each other." His insincerity melted into his downturned expression, culminating in a soft mumble at the end of his statement. 

"You get each other?" You glanced accusingly between the two, forcing down a mocking giggle. "Steve, a grown man, and you, a dorky freshman, get each other?" Steve kicked your foot from under the table, tilting and parenting, just a little bit, too.

"Hey, don't be mean. He's a cool kid." His mouth went flat, and you could see his hollow brain trying to configure Dustin's personality into a complementary frame. "Total smarty pants."  He patted him on the shoulder assertively. It was charming, but guy pushing a stroller sort of charming, when you can tell he's soft because he holds a crying baby or doesn't kick a puppy. 

"New topic," you teased, slyly bringing your glass for Cherry Coke up to your lips. Dustin attempted to mediate.

"What're you bringing to the Christmas party? Steve won't let me make my own pie. He says it's dangerous." A sharp string cut the table in half. Dustin ate a fry. The innocence eluded you, and a hankering for blood consumed your complexion; it all reeked of the sorts of ordeals you might get yourself in when you were in middle school, girls with secret hangs and boys with half-truths.

"Party?" you questioned, sharpening your teeth.

"Yeah, the Christmas Eve party, at his house," Dustin clarified, fitting in another fry. "His mom makes a great turkey," he managed out over his muffled mouth full. Steve sat silently, captivated by the wall art.

"Oh, I bet." Your unpleased expression swiftly fell, revealing a stained grin that had been copied over years and years of vapid hate. Steve shivered with his eyes, but didn't let his shoulders faltered, clearing his throat as he re-adjusted his position in the booth. You would've gutted him if it had been a table for two, but then this wouldn't be the case at all, you supposed.

"It's a small thing," Steve coughed out, shifting again. "Not a big deal."

The month was a dreadful descent, one that leaked into your bones and made you terribly mushy with the worry. It was carbs and sweat upper lips and poorly fitted jeans. The daydream proved to be a temporary fix.

-

You knew why, of course. Why he wouldn't tell you, or invite you, or tell you but not invite you, disregarding your distress with a fatal apology. Maybe this was the most marriage thing out of all the marriage things. It was ironic in that way, because all of this was emblematic of a drastic non-commitment, but still somehow indicative of the behaviors that commitment invites into a relationship. You figured he wanted a rest from you, and you figured that his parents must've heard about the specifics of your escapades. You figured you were being shunned.

You knew why, but you didn't mention it, and you let him drive you home and you let him kiss you at the door. You let him hold his hands in fists and be quiet on the road, too, because his unwavering anticipation was his punishment. There was hardly any kindness left. You wanted him to burn as well.

-

Your unkempt Christmas eve was another party, which was so unbearably predictable that you refused to tell Steve it was happening, no matter the repercussions for such an omission. Carol was there, of course, as she was everywhere, judging without restraint. Tommy came, and he brought his Ohio friends, and they brought their friends, and so there was a guy, twenty-three or so, called Dick, or Rich, because he said he liked either, and you said that was rich (funny girl, flirty girl), and he liked you in a very party way. You played suck and blow, and he kissed you then, which felt so raw, so intangible, that you nearly puked again. 

Steve got you a tennis bracelet. He gave it to you a few days early, wrapped in paper that was blue and green and like the sea, and he said he'd been saving up for something imaginary anyways, so he thought it would be best to spend it now, for you. It wasn't diamond, of course, although the one you had that was diamond, a gift from a previous romantic escapade, hardly compared, not in sentimentality. Still, you left the bracelet on the jewelry tray beside your bed when you went down to set up for the party; the event itself felt like a betrayal, after all. You got him a sweater, but you hadn't gotten a chance to give it to him yet.

So, suck and blow. This guy, Dick or Rich or Richard if you knew him well, ironically, was cute, and even worse, had the hair, the Steve Hair-ington hair. He stuck his tongue in your mouth, and you choked on it, and everyone laughed, but he gave you the sex look, so you shuddered, too. Since you'd never had a real actual boyfriend, you'd never really actually cheated. This was morally debilitating. You didn't think the lack of freedom that monogamy inevitably granted would bother you, and maybe it didn't, maybe it was just the guilt that came with promiscuity instead, not the desire for it, that wrecked you so completely. Whatever it might've been, it ached and ached and fissured, up your arm and down your neck, contracting and expanding and pulling you together a bit too tight.

Carol asked about Steve again, whether or not you had invited him, but it was only a series of "no" and "duh" that followed, your wallowing increased by tenfold.

Dick or Rich or Richard or Dickard had a foot in his mouth and a dog in his brain. He touched your shoulder. He came like a ghost up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, breathing beer into your collarbone. If you closed your eyes, his hair tickling your ear, it could maybe be Steve, and you softened at that. You felt like ice when he tried to kiss you again, your body stiff as he pressed into you. It had never felt so gory before. You thought of Steve again, missed him, and figured yourself a baby for that, too.

You had another drink, another beer, another shot, or something strong, and then you let Richard take you to your room. He liked your frilly throw. He liked your old pictures. He pointed at one of Steve, and then he kissed you like it was real. It felt like when you eat a sour candy for the first time when you're real little, five of six, and it blows your head off and makes you want to cry, but then you get lost in that, even if your tongue bleeds and your mouth purses all funny. He said you were serious hot stuff for a Hawkins party. He said he'd seen you before, back in high school, and he'd always regretted not saying something.

"Is Steve your boyfriend?" he asked, looking away as he undid his jeans. You fiddled with the ankle of your sock, legs pretzeled over each other. "I mean, I heard you talking about him earlier, with Carol."

"No." You shook your head adamantly, but the drinks made it oddly exaggerated. He turned back, pushing his pants to the floor. "No," you affirmed, straightening yourself out before moving over to him, smiling and reaching for another sloppy kiss.

He fingered you for a minute or so, and then he pushed you back and tried to make it real some more. It hurt in a way that it never did. You were aware that it was biologically correct, but there was a sting in your limbs and a blister on your heart that made it feel so glaringly wrong. He wasn't even that large. You wanted to laugh, but when he asked you how it felt you just made a breathy noise and pulled his head into the crook of your neck, spurring him on.

You were too drunk to argue for a condom. You were too drunk to move by the time he did that ugly man groan and fell down on top of you. It hit you like a nasty flu. 

Without a second word or a "thank you" or a "never again", you dressed yourself and left him on your bed, reeling.

In the dark pit of the night, it was Charlotte Street, and you were absentminded, a loose grip on the wheel. It was the shittiest of the family cars, the one with the wide turns and the occasional stall, but it was small, and it was dim, and it was the first one in the driveway that evening. You were speeding. You thought that maybe you were crying, but you couldn't have been sure, wet face slowly numbing. Steve was in the passenger's seat, and he was in the back, in the trunk, a floating, disembodied head in the rearview mirror, a carcass on the road. He was on your lap, but you were on his, and it was 83, and you were kissing and kissing and then he was grabbing your throat and then you were dead, but he didn't stop kissing you.

And so the road is thin, and so the drive is hesitant, wobbly and weaving. That same self-destructive brain from all previous exploding conversations was the one to urge you to jerk the wheel, to drive into the forest and never wake up.

At the age of thirteen, riding your bike down the neighborhood drive, your wheel got hooked on a rock on the road, the vehicle skidding to a halt as you lost your balance, leg getting caught in the mechanism. A few scratches, a bump on the head, and a skinned knee; you still cried. The world ended on the pavement, and it was born again in the kitchen, bandaged and reassured, with a cough and a shrug. Other than this incident, you had trotted through life generally unscathed. Most of your major injuries were purely emotional, a few select moments from parties or concerts when things went awry, and your optimism was snatched up without a second thought.

There was a deer, large and foreboding, frozen and wide-eyed, an omen. Your legs became solid, icy, and they melted, and you had no limbs.

You were thirteen, your ankle caught in the mechanism, but you weren't crying, possibly unable and possibly unwilling, but still felt a surge, a jolt and a slam, your nose going straight to the dash. It passed it, though, your nose scraping against the wheel as your unbuckled waist lifted from the seat, head surging forward, scalp threatening the windshield. Your emerged through the car in a birth-like scene. If felt anything at all, you felt an immense pressure, a swift hammer to your skull, as you immerged, glass cutting into your skin as you landed face-first into the hood.

The impact hit your nose like a brick, the cartilage bending, fissuring, flattening, and you heard the rebel yell of your limbs following close behind, your wrist bending awkwardly beneath your chest. You slid across the hood, the windshield scraps digging harsh into your skin, drawing lines down your arms and your cheeks and your neck; this was like the months in England, the slow deconstruction on the plane. But pain hit slow, and all it was at first was noise, crashing and bending and halting, the night's children whispering around you.

The deer laid misshaped in front of the car, and it cried before it died. From your face-first position, lifting up your chin slightly, you saw it fall limp.

[honorhearted]

"Possible scandal?" Benjamin echoed, feigned dismay seeping into his tone. "Just what do you intend to do out here, madam? Though for some, I suppose two people of the opposite sex standing side-by-side is enough to warrant gossip. It's very racy stuff." Here, he lifted his brows in mock horror. "If you're not careful, I might take it a step further and deign to breathe the same air."

Amelia seemed adamant about her girlhood. “True, I may not have the same reasons as you, but I did my fair share of rebelling."

"Did you, indeed?" Benjamin asked, his tone giving off the impression that he did not, in fact, believe her. Though the more she spoke, the less amused he felt, and his smile faded as he noted the exasperation emanating from her frame.

Admittedly, he did not know much about the fairer sex, and he knew even less about what it was to be a woman. Perhaps she had needed to rebel in her own way; skinned knees, loud voices, and raised fists weren't the only methods to gain attention, after all.

Deciding to deflect, he focused more on the positive angle of her commentary. "You have sisters?" he asked, turning to better appraise her. "I grew up in a household of brothers, so I'm curious how that experience differs from mine. If I had to guess, I would wager there were probably a lot less broken bones on your end." He grinned. "By age one-and-ten, there were already four accidents in our family."

Amelia tilted her chin, sparing him her profile as she gazed up at the dazzling heavens. Folding his hands behind his back, Benjamin followed her gaze and hummed at her assessment. "I'm afraid the mothers of the ton haven't quite been so desperate as to be sincere, but yes...I imagine most of them tolerate me, despite my birthplace."

"The Bridgertons still have unwed daughters," Amelia pointed out. "They're rather beautiful, from what I hear. Do none of them interest you at all?"

Benjamin blinked at the question, breathing an uneasy laugh. "You truly think that I have a chance with a Bridgerton?" he asked, amusement sparking behind his eyes. "I may get along quite well with the family, yes, but I don't imagine they'd want their youngest son's tutor to marry into the family." He shrugged, dismissive. "I adore them quite dearly, but I imagine the eldest brothers would have something to say about such an arrangement."

Amelia apologized, but he waved a hand, unbothered. "I've heard much worse," Benjamin assured her, "and in the way of gossip, that's far from offensive...just horribly, horribly misguided." He chuckled. "If I didn't know better, I would think you were trying to play matchmaker."

"Oh, I would never." She teased with a cheeky grin. "My real talent lies in acapella." The mental image of him belching a song out to a crowd was enough to spur her into a small fit of giggles. In her world, men never did anything unsightly--or that's what they'd have the world believe. Always prim and proper, raking behavior notwithstanding, a man in their world could do no wrong. Yet Ben didn't seem ashamed of such supposed flaws. His humility and honesty was refreshing and, if she had to confess as much, slightly intoxicating.

If her sisters were present to witness her shameless flirting, they would be disappointed in her. Or at least that's what Amelia tells herself. She knows she shouldn't be here, talking to an unmarried man alone, but if her own fiancé didn't pay any attention to her, what was the harm in finding some attention from another? It wasn't anything lascivious, she told herself. Just a friendly, casual conversation with a peer. It was little more than the simple joy of seeing and being seen in return; a measly reward for tolerating as much as she did.

Her cheeks flushed at his retort. “No, I suppose I don’t. But I have very little choice in the matter, so I try to make the best of it. Hence,” She teased, her tone self deprecating and dripping in sarcasm. “Why I have subjected myself to possible scandal and escaped to a secluded location with a total stranger."

Amelia simpered, a buzz of adrenaline rushing through her body at the revelation. This was wholly unladylike and entirely unbecoming of a future duchess, but she didn't care. If a bit of friendly flirting was what she needed to stop Amelia from throwing herself into the Thames, it seemed a noble sacrifice.

“True, I may not have the same reasons as you, but I did my fair share of rebelling." Her girlish ideas of rebellion were undoubtedly different than what a young boy might do, but the consequences were equally dire, if not worse for a young lady. A single skipped piano lesson, a feigned illness to avoid a dance, or even threatening to run away were commonplace in young Amelia's life, but now that she had far more to lose, she found her means of insurrection far more subtle.

"As the eldest daughter, I was—am—expected to set a good example for my sisters, and evidently for society as a whole. I’m supposed to be perfect. The way I dress, the way I speak, who I associate myself with. Even the way I smile is at risk of being criticized." Letting out a frustrated sigh, she brought her train of thought back to the point. "Needless to say, I often tested the limits of such expectations in my youth. To no avail, unfortunately, but I did manage to find a few loopholes."

The smile that graced her lips was proud and unwavering like a child proud of a small achievement, fully unaware of how insignificant such a feat was in the grand scheme of things. The only difference was that Amelia was aware of how little her choices mattered. Her life had been written out for her before she'd even opened her eyes for the first time. Her entire future scribbled in ink on parchment and agreed upon by the same men that tried to belittle and undermine her at every opportunity. For Amelia, the idea that she might have any say over the trajectory of her life was rebellious enough, and she'd long since given up hope of changing her father's mind.

"Me?" she began, amusement laced in her words. "I would never think to dog-ear a page in anything. A flower or feather does the trick just as well. But, if you choose to see me as a respectable young lady, I wouldn't dare prove you wrong. It will make my own nefarious deeds easier to get away with. 'Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't.'" Amelia grinned and tilted her head back, taking in the view of the sky from her perch. Were the stars always so bright, or had she truly been locked away in her proverbial tower for so long?

"Guilt is not my intention, no, but if it works, I'm not opposed to applying such harsh tactics." Scrunching her nose, Amelia offered a light shrug and bit back a smug grin. "Well, if you are half as charming with others as you are with me, I’m sure the invitations are genuine. Especially considering you are not married."

As the thought crossed her mind, Amelia's smile faltered and a strange twinge of unprompted jealousy sprouted in her stomach. "The Bridgerton still have unwed daughters. They're rather beautiful, from what I hear. Do none of them interest you at all?" After a moment, Amelia bowed her head and averted her gaze. "I apologize, that's rather untoward of me to ask. I know it's none of my business, I just tend to enjoy living vicariously through others."

[lemodoe]

anyways. he called her renée....

[forensicfabulist]

went on arementalkingtoomuch.com to see how hazbin hotel would do and. oughhhhh

i only did the first 4 episodes rip. if you wanna double check these or do the other 4, tag me pretty please

EP1

EP2

EP3

EP4

[sludgekludge]

can you give us the rundown on your vaggie/lute thing? i dont think you ever ended up posted it but ive always been curious

i did Not post it bc the post i wrote out made me sound like an insane person. moreso. than usual. this also unfortunately made me sound like an insane person.

this is all very much personal opinion over overt critique i think. though i would still call adam/lute a Bad choice, narrative wise.

the gist is i think vaggie/lute have infinitely more interesting potential than adam/lute (which is the direction you can tell it's going from day 1) not even in a 'aww i like tis ship!' sense just in a. idk story sense.

if lute/vaggie were some kind of weird toxic yuri, vaggie being left behind as violently as she was and lute's pure vitriol towards her makes more sense imo? as is it just makes lute feel cartoonishly evil. why would she even do that, over adam? does she even have that authority? why would she even be following vaggie in the first place...is she really the type who'd spare someone that makes (what she perceives to be) an unforgiveable decision? like...really, would she let vaggie live.

primarily what comes to mind i guess is that i think there was a lot of interesting (and imo thematically relevant) potential for that kind of relationship between the two of them. vaggie being someone who was forced out of an abusive poisonous environment, and then finding growth and love amongst the people she had been manipulated to look down upon is already kind of canon i guess but i think lute, with the context of vaggie being some kind of potential romantic interest of some kind, having to come down and witness that this person she has such history with is not only happier, but happier with someone who isn't lute when she's in what lute perceives to be the worst possible position. because i'd imagine lute cannot imagine anything lower than being in hell. i'm sure she would perceive sparing a demon as a personal betrayal, if a loved one did it. anyway would that not be compelling. i don't think lute would regulate those feelings well lol. esp if we want to tack on 'her bestie was literally permamurdered to death and vaggie is actively affiliated with the side that did it' like. come on. right. do you understand. grabbing you. do you understand-

i guess ultimately i find it wasted potential to not set up something between the much more emotionally charged dynamic between lute and vaggie (esp as their current animosity feels kind of meaningless to me. why is lute so cartoonishly evil. what was their relationship before vaggie got goofed) over some kind of one sided pining between a confident woman like lute and a man who was never even very nice to her

tl;dr: vaggie and lute being two confident strong fighters and lute being drawn to that only to reject her vehemently when vaggie shows compassion and then grapple with lingering feelings watching her almost-ex become happier without her would be crazy yuri and yet

[redeemedbytheking]

come into the light…

[forcedhesitation]

I have the coolest idea ever for my next big dbd themed project but woooow finished work today and too beat to even start doing anything to meaningfully progress it. I made some sketches last night though, and some more throughout today. just working on skin ideas.

anyway-- the piece will be original characters ONLY, with the exception of vecna (and I guess technically aestri). so dnd themed, as you can infer.

BUT I plan to do a totally separate bonus steve, nancy, and lucy for sure. perhaps some other licensed characters too, depending on my energy levels.

what class do other people think steve and nancy fit? lucy is a bard, obviously, as they're a drag performer. but I feel like steve could fit fighter, paladin, or barbarian, while nancy could be a wizard or a rogue?

[nyt1ba]

     Memory is a dagger through ribs,   a thorn's sting that grows sharper with the torment of time,   for wherever one would turn it would dig deeper,   not allowing a moment's respite away from its ache.   There used to be a time not long after the war,   that a mere sound,   a scent,   a shape in a familiar disfigurement that brings forth a flood of unwanted memories,   a heavy tide one cannot escape but to endure   &.   hope not to be swept along with it.   Back when his wounds were bleeding fresh,   blood a lingering taste in his mouth,   the stench of decay stuck to his being as though he was the one rotting.   A grief so raw he could not,   and would not forget despite the strain of such a long life ;   it was the last proof of humanity,   that deep feeling incomprehensible to those who claimed it,   and while senses had turned numb and his passion no more,   that sorrow remains,   intermingled with flesh and bones so that his body itself a personification of grief,   a state of being as thoughtless as breathing.   The horrors that lay hidden in the sand are apparitions only his eyes could see,   now bringing forth a bitterness rather than that old and more human fear.   Elektra hadn't seen the true depths of it,   but just as he was haunted by his own demons,   hers came and took residency along with his own.   Adam had long welcomed them in,   while hers still would barge in uninvited.

  He had seen it before,   the absent look that seemed to see something in an unseen dimension,   guarded nature turns to paranoia,   a constant looking over the shoulder while nails would dig into flesh to draw out feeling through blood.   It was a thoughtless act,   to come find her when she would succumb into the illusion,   drawing back into herself with a terror as real as it had been felt the first time.   It's useless to call,   to drag her attention away from a reality separate from the one in her mind.   So he settles with her on the sand,   hands gentle as they seize hers to stop her from picking at skin,   [   with little care to all the blood between their palms now.   ]   He pulls closer to him then and into a protective embrace.   Although her troubles remain invisible to him,   he would shield her away from them regardless.   Recognition manifests itself with a tightening grip upon the fabric of his jacket,   her hold desperate,  voice reduced to a whisper.   '   Just … hang onto me, please. I feel like – I might really go to pieces if you let go.   '        ❛❛   I'm here               I'll hold you together.   ❜❜        arms wrap tighter around her as he assures,   she can fall apart in his graps however she likes and not a single fragment will slip through.

     ❛ i didn’t want you to see me like this. ❜

  When he heard her voice again she was worn with exhaustion,   slumped limply within his hold in an inability to fight any longer,   her tone akin to shame,   a defeat someone as prideful as her finds difficult to profess.   Elektra Alrune never asks for help,   always dependent on herself even when she could barely walk.   He knows the feeling,   even if he wasn't as stubborn as her,   to ask for a shoulder to carry a fraction of his burden was not a kindness he's deserving of.   He still struggles with the concept,   prefers to retreat to the agony of his solitude than to utter a word.   She's the same in that regard,   all her pain was punishment hardly sufficient to compensate for all the bloodshed.   It was justice taking its course   ...   but he couldn't stand to see it tearing her apart,   he would take it all in her stead if he were able.        ❛❛   And yet I did,   there's nothing to be ashamed of.   ❜❜        he says simply,   moving slightly so can see her better,   a strand of ashen hair is gently pushed aside,   hand cradling her cheek with his thumb brushing at skin.   Her choice had little relevance in the matter,   he would have come to find her either way,   no matter how much she would kick and thrash at him,   he would stay,   there's nothing more terrible to him than having to endure this much all alone.        ❛❛   You're alright,   that's what matters.   ❜❜

@stilettaux // answering based on this because hehe

[molagboop]

I just think it would be fun to make Raven Beak smooch Samus' other dads.