#truly a show that contains multitudes!

[crimeronan]

today the house md fandom (which to my surprise both Exists and is apparently Very Active) is passing around a quick meta post i wrote criticizing the show with "YEAAAAHHH THIS IS IT!! THIS IS THE THING!! IT'S MY FAVE CHRONIC ILLNESS SHOW AND IT SUCKS SOOO BAD" which is making me like. 👁👄👁. do i need to get into tumblr house md fandom.

[yrsonpurpose]

alex claremont-diaz + bi update x

[tired-of-straight-lines]

rules: list 8 shows to let your followers get to know you better

in no particular order:

Interview with the Vampire (to no one's surprise!)

Fringe (currently watching b/c of Anna Torv)

Community

The Thick of It

Schitt's Creek

Taskmaster

Psych

Moone Boy

honorable mentions: What We Do in the Shadows, The Newsreader, Leverage

thanks for the tag, @fandomsmeantheworldtome!

[court-jobi]

Goldeneye Down

((banner by me! I don't own Horikoshi's characters/stories))

Pairing: Hawks x reader (quirkless!(gn)reader)

Words: 4.6K

Rating: T+ (canon-typical post-mission shenanigans, so it gets raw, kids.)

Warnings: canon-typical violence, description of injuries/blood, mentions of medical trauma, anxiety, so many tears, mutual pining, HURT/COMFORT, angst with a happy ending

Summary:

If a kiss would fix him, he'd sooner never breathe again. If you knew it would work, you'd surrender your lungs and anything else for his comfort. He hardly gets tender treatment after a fight- and that shows by how tightly he's hugging your waist for dear life. Alternatively: three times you've witnessed your dashing Hawks masking his hurt, until he can't anymore. Each time is worse than the last- until you finally learn that you're the only one who truly asks how he feels after nights like this. Not 'how are your wings' or 'is he stable'... but it's you who takes the time to wipe his face gently with a washcloth: not to rid Hawks of the sweat and grit to make him presentable, but gifting Keigo the chance to feel clean for once.

A/N: Yall, this man is one of my favorite characters on this show, and I have so many writing plans for him-- so apologies for starting right out the gate with angst??? I love him I swear

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on AO3

The first time you ever saw Hawks shirtless was hardly the stuff fantasies or a perfume advert concocted. He was bandaged across one entire pec, around his middle, and up to his shoulder, after all.

Work as a writer took you to many glamorous locations, but also to the grittiest– recently, hero hospitals when there’s been a close call and you are in for an interview with either a dying hero for their final public wish, or a heartfelt op-ed about a rising sidekick’s latest stand against threat and evil. In either case, you’d wound up at the bedside of a darling rescue agent who’d had an incredible story to share despite their career-ending injuries. 

With a genuine word of thanks and a shared pudding packet, you were leaving the hospital wing in fairly good spirits until your stomach turned in shock at what awaited you in the hallway– a gravely bandaged Hawks standing at the nurse’s station in a half state of dress, locking eyes with you in the first instance where you’d ever caught him off his guard. 

Those gorgeous eyes flashed in nervous panic which melted into boyish charm awfully quickly- standard practice for the secret object of your affections-

“Well gosh, nurse, I thought you’d give a guy a warning if a guardian angel was going to be visiting today… I’d have been decent enough to put a shirt on~!”

It was a detour of hoarse-voiced flirting on his part and masked heartbreak on yours. Seeing the blonde numbed out and paler than you’d ever witnessed him out on the job, your veil of professionalism slipped enough to really see Hawks in this moment… and catch wind of an unaware attendant who slipped the hero’s last name in front of you. 

Said PA immediately recoiled upon seeing you -an extended member of the press- overhear the #2 Pro Hero’s legal name. Though at your insistence that you were here on business that didn’t concern him, Hawks visibly relaxed enough to give you his first name himself the moment the nurse left. 

‘Mr. Takami is far too formal to come outta you; don’t even think about calling me that, dove.’

Keigo Takami truly was a man containing multitudes, but for all the tough talk about how ‘you should have seen the other guy’, you worried about that man you’ve seen now without his gold visor that night when you went home, and wondered if he was sleeping ok with his chest bound like that. 

The next injury sighting took several months of continued text exchanges, private balcony sidebars, and continued endurance of Hawks’ public displays of blatant sweet talking for you to see him less than chipper again.

Your meeting with the HPSC Press Chair was running painfully long, but necessary given the content you were working on publishing for them as side work. It wasn’t doable for you to take on a full-time job with the Hero Commission, but in your philanthropic effort to unite the civilian world with those of high profile heroes, you took on these winded assignments with the promise of a pay bump… as well as a chance to see your darling flyboy. Not that they’d note or care about your budding affections for him. Thankfully, your tight lipped smiles at him were ironclad and his reputation as a charming star preceded him, even to his higher ups so the true feelings never fully sunk in so long as you were mindful.

Pulling a doubletake at your presence in the conference room from the glass windows led Hawks to hang a left inside to quip at you, fully interrupting your meeting despite the scowls he received from the suits lining the table.

“Well isn’t this a pleasant surprise~ hey there, lovedove. Aren’t you pretty as a peach today?”

“Hey there, yourself,” you turned to acknowledge him politely, but pointedly fixed on his eye that laid nearly completely blackened and the cheek scraped to a raw red.  “--aren’t you looking- purple.”

Hawks being sufficiently threatened to report elsewhere didn’t stop him from throwing you a dismissive wink and a smirk at your subtle worry,

 “Oh this? Nah, it’ll fade. I could use the blush anyway~ it’ll save me a trip for photos tomorrow!”

That charming show of optimism wasn’t a surprise as you turned back to your grumpily apologetic managers, though you never did quite forget how Keigo stayed in the entryway soaking in even your curt ending of the conversation. He had to be practically ushered out by some fellow training officers for him to go on his merry way. Your inspection of him had been lightning quick, and you were nearly certain he was black and blue in more places than his face judging by how he sidestepped out the door.

Would he ever take his pain seriously? Under all that swagger, you certainly hoped so. Or else you hoped someone would make a fuss over him. 

Hawks shows on your patio at 12:30 in the morning one day, knocking silly on your side door. It’s been weeks since you wrote another touching piece for the HPCS’s statement on civic protection, and too long since he’s taken a rooftop stroll with you. Hell, far too long that he's had you close. Keeping you at his side, tucked under his towering wing, shielding you from the night winds, peppering each other with soft-spoken words and some stolen kisses he swears mean more to him than a move ‘just for luck’. 

Hawks knocks three times... huffing. He glanced towards the ground, tucking what's left of his wings further in with a wince. He knocks four more times, each more insistent than the last, but mindful of the noise. He even shushes himself in the delirium, canvassing your living room for signs of life.

Your oven light was still on, suggesting you hadn't gone through your full nighttime shutdown yet. That single light bulb in your kitchen appeared to double the more he stared, and tried to blink the unease away. Shit. He's really in no condition to fly. The sidewalk below your floor takes his attention again at the cry he hears. The sound is only cat this time, but still makes him oh-so nervous.

Hawks moans his impatience coupled by the searing pain, begging you to come notice him at the sliding glass. He drops his head damp with sweat to the window (intent to apologize for it later) and just bangs on the window like the desperate man he is.

"Please be up, please be up, please..."

When he opens his eyes briefly, he sees a shadow before him approaching. You'd flicked on more light in your living room and were jogging up to the window with shock brightening your features to total wakefulness. He's never been happier to see you so panicked.

Your confusion is palpable behind the door as you push the blind’s interior locking rod aside and flip up the lock, sliding it-- and Hawks-- along with you.

"Who-ooah!! Hawks??" You whisper-scream.

Stumbling aside, he grips his still bleeding hip and winces at what that move causes for his back. Eyes screwed shut, he can't even quite manage a suave, sweet greeting; he merely sighs your name as an answer to prayer.

You take in this poor, disheveled shell of a hero as he looks every bit like he's come from a dogfight. Not only were his wings sparse and bony from overuse, but his left wing was seizing up and stunted at a poor angle you knew wasn't natural.

oh my God, those poor wings… You collected him up with ready arms- gingerly guiding inside through the center of the patio, wary of bumping either's span of the door. 

"carefulcarefulcareful–"

"eh, it’ll-- nnngh!!" Hawks doubled over-thankfully right into you- "I got'kicked in the back-- right under...ahhhh~ "

Not only that, but despite the blackness of his under armour and gloves, you noted now by movement and smell that he was bleeding elsewhere. Besides the hobble, he sports a busted cheekbone and lip– which he likely bit himself.

This was a hard state to see him in and truly frightened you by the blood loss alone. Worse than any other time you’d seen him after a mission by far.

Primal, parental  instincts filled you and spilled out before you could stop yourself.

"Honey, we gotta get you to Dagoba General; it's closest--"

"I can't-" Hawks stopped you with a vice grip on your wrist while he hobbled along, "s'too public."

-Not allowed, even in an emergency. This you remembered from his earlier run through of policies about heroes needing medical attention; where in the city he could go, how it should be handled privately, and out of civilian's eyes.

"oh shit-- well, how bout the hero hospital, the one by that high school? Can't you call- or I can call! Let me-"

"No~" hawks moaned miserably. "I jus' gotta sit."

“Aren’t you -uh- supposed to have your legs up? You can lay back, it’s ok,” you try to guide him, but he only wavers- set on sitting up. His still-sure sights canvassing the room tells you he’s in a protective, alert headspace here in new surroundings. He might need more direction from you to break this..

"Hawks-- this is beyond what I can do,” You tried to reason with him, grappling a random throw blanket semi draped on the couch before he could sit down. “I told you I worked in refugee centers, I only know basic first aid- but this is more than I can help you, honey! They can get you fluids, a transfusion if you need it, pain meds stronger than what I have from the corner store if you’d just- where's your phone, I can call for an ambulan-"

Hawks fired up right away-

"NO!!" He begged, "no- they, they can't.. I don't wan'.."

Helping him sit, you knelt carefully trying to hear through his clear pain-rattled rant.

You assume he doesn't want the trouble of an ambulance or worry it wouldn't get here in time- which scares you more is debatable.

"We’re working against time here, hot stuff.." you tried for levity, caressing his hand. While he took it shakily, he bit his groan back.

He looked at you seriously, but pouted back in a way you'd normally giggle at, "No 'wee-woos'."

"I know you don't want ‘wee-woos’, but I think we're past that now." 

You cup Hawks’ cheek which successfully transfixes his attention right on your face, while you blindly try his jacket's inner pocket for his phone- closer than yours that’s clear in the back bedroom on your charger, 

"Look, I'll even talk for ya, okay? You don’t have to explain a thing about what happened tonight. Let's just get you help-"

"NO!! I can't hav' 'em find you here!"

His outburst startled you so you pulled back from his jacket entirely- at a true loss, "Can’t have who find me?"

"I won' let 'em," Hawks shook his head, pressing into his side, "I-- they don' know I'm here- they can' see only the pinpoint. Not ell'vation. Ahh. Don't wan'em know.. where you live, f’they don’ already."

You fought to keep up. He's clearly distressed- but you're surprised it's by the thought over your residence being found out. Who would be upset at the fact of him being here enough to have him shaken from even emergency services finding out?

Then you realize, he’s on the clock. He’s gotten hurt at work, and he’s not patrolling anymore. ‘The asset is damaged,’ and he’s laying low effectively out of sight.

"Your.. what, your bosses? Is that what you're worried about right now?"

Hawks was fighting for some deeper breaths. Some old instincts finally kicking in, he’s pushing air out forcefully though his lips in a decent try to slow himself down. He knows you know that much– how his work is essentially divvied into two piles: the stuff you hear about on the news, and the stuff you don't. The HPSC handles both, but primarily involves him in one. Thankfully, he knows you're quick enough to know tonight is a night of the latter and one that you know you shouldn't ask too much more of, despite your clear desire for understanding. 

But he’s bleeding on your sofa and he is about to damn near break or bleed out and you feel drawn to his heart and feel a selfish urge to know.

"I don't understand- why, ... why come here if you were worried, Kei?"

"I was.. close,” he offered with some huffs again.

That answer felt too loaded, but you were too groggy yourself to reason with such a clammy man dealing with who knows how much blood loss.

He forced as much clarity to his vision as he could, while watching you get up to close the patio door up. You shut the blinds for good measure too before debating whether to run back to the bathroom and  grab what gauze and antiseptics you had. For both the sake of time and to keep the poor man from following you throughout the apartment like you knew he’d try to do, you settled on wetting a few washcloths by the sink and came back to him.

"Your fight was close to here?" You kept him in the moment while attempting to get off his coat. He sat forward to help in this, but his eyes shut hard as it forced his shoulder blades together, to feed the gap over the wings.

Through steeled grunts he manages it, then strangles out the basics for you, "Y-yeah.. small.. weap'n traffic ring. But we had intel they'd.. Had a hit out on’the magistrate."

You set the bloodied jacket to the ground- torn between looking at his pained face and getting a look at the hip he was leaning into.

"They hadda few tough quirk users," Hawks gritted, separating his hand at your insistence. The shirt peeling back sticky was the least of his worries when you laid the wet washcloth at his side, "one had blades for legs, n’the other had a kind of whip-AHH!!"

Only water, but it burned like hell. Burned through the mess he'd made of himself. Proof he'd been sent in there outmatched-- 5 to 1 so he says, but even for the #2 Hero, the odds were stacked against him for a covert attack. You whispered a gentle apology over the sting.

You hated hearing the challenge and clear surprise of the incident that caused this version of your hero to be brought to the surface, knocking on your door like a kid trying to sneak back into the house in the middle of the night.

"So they nicked you here– and your back?" You asked gently, "Anywhere else?"

"They were gonna take out the block--"

You heard the panic rise in him again, the tremor in voice and wings.

"Haw-.. Keigo."

"They were gonna-- they didn't even know you lived up here.. you of all people.. but they were gonna do it. I had- said I hadta stop em, whatever it took.."

You set the first soiled cloth aside, centered between his spread knees, and cupped his face in both hands now. He's trembling all over and pulse is going wild under your fingers. He locked onto your necklace- avoiding your eyes in anger, guilt, and a messy, gnarled ball of exhaustion while you cleaned his face.

It wasn’t clinically necessary, but you wanted to.

 "But you stopped them," you reminded, "You said you got 'em, right?"

Something flitted across his face that looked hollow- like a younger side of Keigo Takami was looking for help finishing his thoughts. Like he was reverting to a shadow self that was about to cry just feeling you cool down his neck with the clean side of a washcloth.

"I got em." He barely whispered, new frustrated tears flooding his eyes and forcing his brows together. "I did it. I did-- what they wanted me to."

The way he says it is not a victory. It's guilty, not even proud in a sense of justice. It was forced; not unlike a militant following orders.

"The safety commission, keeping folks safe at all costs," you answered for him, forcing his eyes to blink at the name. What crimson feather remained ebbed and rustled on impulse.

Suddenly, he frowned down at his own hands, suddenly wrenching himself free of his damp, tainted gloves, like they were burning him alive the longer they stayed on his fingers. 

"Cost them," Hawks croaked, "Wanted t’take ‘em in, make them pay the way we always do. But then they said they're taking the block out- and I couldn't let em- I couldn't let them get you or anyone else--I shoulda felt like a damn hero they say I am."

Hawks shook his head pathetically, nearly collapsing forward at the feel of you raking his bangs back, before he sobbed,

"but I didn't want to. They begged. Couldn’a run when they knew they couldn't win, so they begged. I don't wanna do it this way, don't want it to come to this. I can't keep ending it all just because I can!! I’m no–"

Hawks wipes harshly at his eyes with the heel of his palm, his anger at a tipping point.

Your heart sobers and breaks altogether. He's confessing to you because he knows this whole ordeal is going to be painted so differently by the media in the morning. Heroes have to make impossible calls- and you know his handlers don't make it easier on him when it comes to completing these covert assignments. They’ve essentially given him a license none others do- allowances that dance in the world of grey.

Hawks and heroes like him have been granted permission to take lethal measures. But it’s a grim, fell thought that when you’re in the moment- the choice to kill or stay in your armed hands. The pressure is bound to weigh anyone, make them crack and doubt their sensibilities.

Any bystander would call Hawks heroic for saving more lives than taking them- but fear is what forces him to kill. Fear of loss, of the catastrophic unknown that he continues to fight for faster and faster. 

You leveled with Hawks’ sightline, forcing terrified eyes to yours. While the sight of this confident man worn down grieved you, schooling your face and brows to be strong was an easy ask when he needed you.

"I know you didn't,” you affirmed all he said, “You were so brave, Keigo. You were really brave, no matter what. No matter how these fights end. You always are brave."

Keigo listens and heaves an ungodly sound at your words. 

Suddenly, he's pulling you close and crying into your chest and you meet him all the way. You lock your grasp around his shoulders gingerly at first afraid to hold too tight. Cradling his head to you and hushing him seems to work for now, since he’s able to speak again after more schooled breaths. 

But this reaction from him is far from assured; he’s afraid. Unheard. And it seems with you, he can finally air these harsh truths without outside ears listening in stopping his tongue.

"They don't care how hard it is. They don't care. They just push and push and push me, and 'm tired and it hurts!!"

All you can do is hold him.

"I know, baby,” you barely speak, “I know it does, I know it hurts..."

“It always hurts,” he sobs, “It does every time. When you saw me and you looked at me, and you asked me if it hurt, I lied because I had to. But shit, this hurts…”

Hawks’ heated hands grasp at you: the contour of your body is the altar he's kneeling at- from this very spot of your couch. He's wailing now- half in pain, half in misery of being failed over and over again and only now -in secret- ever receiving someone to listen in return. The sound barely makes noise as its buried in your middle, but it rocks you where you kneel up straight to keep him close.

You let him grieve and hold space for every bit of it. He's never once been this vulnerable with another soul in his life, you’re convinced, and he sounds just so grateful to have your hands on his. Grounding. Giving him relief he's been starving for since you first paid attention to him across that crime scene where you first met.

Once he began mimicking your pronounced breathing he finally starts to feel more calm. 

To give him air, you robbed one hand from around him in order to push back some hair from his face and check his temperature. He could actually feel how cool your hands were once he started getting color into his face from his spot at your chest. Drained and pliant, he mumbles something at your sternum, and you ask him to repeat it gently,

“Hands’re cold,” he whispers.

“Oh, m’sorry.”

“No,” he shuts his eyes. "Feels good. You feel so good. The other docs, they're just so-- clinical.. They don't- they aren't gentle. No one feels as good as you do.”

Softness seeps from the very pit of you. What you won’t give to protect this hero now. 

You see a slumped pillow at his side and think to use it as a bolster until his back spasms lessen.

"Here, babe. Let's get one of these behind you. You can lay back a bit-"

Hawks chips his chin up to you, a bat of his eyes pleading, ‘don’t go’.

It’s official: you love him.

"I won't go,” you coo down to him, “I won't make you get up. I'll be here. Right here." 

You kiss that hot, flushed forehead, and he wants to crumble again by the way you hear him swallow. 

“I-” Hawks tries to recover from his overwhelm, "...I need you..."

Your answer would never deny him, "What do you need, pretty bird."

"Need you– hold on t'me." Hawks nuzzles your neck in relief.

"I've got you. I've got you this time. You always have everyone else; now I have you."

This is the way you’d keep him, if he were all yours. After a day of things he’d rather forget, you’d replace them all with kind words and soothing touches that settle his restlessness. To his nature that never stops moving, you’d make it your mission to bring some stillness and comfort to the forefront of his burdened mind.

While you’d love for reality to keep on pause, a flash of movement at the window gave you hope rather than alarm, 

“Hey, Kei. Lookie there. You've got a little pile waiting for you~” you nod back to the patio, catching some blips of red near the unobscured vertical blinds. “Would having them back on you help? Make you feel more steady?"

Interest piqued, Hawks sounds pleasantly surprised seeing them with his own eyes. 

"Ah. Yeah."

"Wanna rinse off, too? You can; use my shower, get yourself a lil more fresh?” the offer is true and comes from you easily. Happy to offer whatever healing measures possible to him while you wipe away leftover tears from a set of perfectly golden eyes. “I can’t promise I have something that fits you super well, but let’s see what I got.”

You knew the hot water would likely sting his wound, but would also buy him more time before he's  ready to fly again and go get checked out more formally.

Still wilty, Hawks gives a comical grimace in the face.  “I’d sure hate t’bleed all over your stuff.”

“Stuff can be washed; there’s only one you.”

And at this, he finally looks back up to you like the Keigo you know and sinks at the idea, giving in to the tempting idea. He nods. Any trace of boiled over bitterness in his aura has faded to a low simmer, and has left a warm, comfortable, gorgeous-looking man to peer up at you. 

You help him up, open the door once more, and Hawks is able to stand a bit better on his own now with a wingspan full of settling feathers preening themselves into place. Once face to face, he finds his hands are still seeking out your waist, and his face furrows– unwilling to let go fully of his personal painkiller.

You still his hesitation with a mouth’s warm press to his cheek followed by a gentle kiss on the lips. His palms go lax and a moan leaves him softly.

“I'll hold you all you want when you get out,” you whisper gently to him. “No funny business, I promise. Yeah?"

As if he held any true worries. 

"Wouldn’t ever mind if you did, dove. But yeah– I’d like that."

With another lingering kiss, you do your utmost to take things as quickly as he can manage for the sake of getting him to rest quickly… but by the way Hawks eyes you from all your puttering about the apartment, he holds no urgency or rush. To the contrary, he's happy going slow and steady while he’s with you. 

His hand catches yours any chance he gets until he’s ultimately able to lay his head to rest on you at the first idle moment of the evening. Its in these, the wee morning hours, that he’s eager now to remember this as the first night you got to help him heal and not just recover.

"You sure you aren't rushing it?" the slight worry tinges your sleepy morning voice in just the next few waking hours. All you both had was a glorified nap given his late arrival.

The song of your concern obviously pleases your loving company, as the edges of Hawks’ eyes crinkle at your worry. 

"I gotta report in by six. I'll stop at my place, change before I go in, heat up something to eat. And I’ll text you when I get there."

The checklist of answers is sweet and characteristically Hawks, but you hope Keigo hasn’t checked out of your bubble yet.

"Okay. But.. take some time if you can. Come see me if you still need me."

A noticeable fondness settles across Hawks’ devilishly handsome smile, and comes over to cup your face for another coffee-masked kiss. 

"I always need you.” Thank you. For everything. "I'll see you soon." I love you.

"See you soon." I love you too.

Weeks pass with Hawks’ semi-regular visits to the apartment, holding you in the kitchen like the lovesick boy he is at heart. ‘Talking work’ he claims, when his higher ups ask him about the delays, but he’s more inclined to slack and slip into far more personal matters as he guides you over back towards the barstools and sits back on one.

A curious mind makes you question why he's pushing the limits of his absence until he pulls you in to completely become flush with him and realize he wants your attention before anyone else’s. He sinks in how you set your hands on his shoulders, smiling like a sweet dope, looking up at you while you check him over.

You know he’s tired from a day on patrol in full sun, but the faint sunburn across his cheeks doesn’t seem altogether too painful. Just needs a decent aloe blend. Still, you ask as you always do, 

“How you feelin’, pretty bird?”

And he truly answers honestly now, no bravado for handlers to scoff at or bystanders to placate:

“Better now.”

[utilitycaster]

Wizard Breakdown Tracker: Downfall part 3

Ultimately, I associate the Wizard Breakdown Tracker with Aeor; I began it during the middle of the Nein's Aeor arc, and even bringing it back for the Nein reunions feels like it's missing something. That thing, it turns out, is a city of Wizard Hubris.

There are no wizard PCs so we can dispense with the formalities. For the purposes of this post, while The Raven Queen is an ex-wizard, Emhira isn't and is counted as a warlock, and The Raven Queen is counted as just a straight up god. As always, in no particular order, and if a wizard is not mentioned it's because I didn't have anything funny nor serious enough to say about them.

Calamity-era Wizards

Adamar: literally no idea. I think he was stressed but he got vaporized by Meteor Swarm (completely within the realm of mortal achievement btw; Imogen Temult could take it in 4 levels) before things really broke bad. Like 7/10; he was in pitched combat but he had 3 dragons and a bunch of demons on his side.

Primarch Selena: There are going to be a few wizards in this who truly do embody a more profound breakdown than anything we've seen before. Selena is one. What does it mean to be so good at creating a mortal-made form of life that the god of beauty chooses to reside in this when picking a vessel? What does it mean to realize in the same instant that your life's work is what doomed you and its target is standing in front of you and now holds your life in their hands? In the end, she doomed her city twice while also actively repenting; it's not just gods who contain multitudes and conflict. But also 10/10.

Arcadia Cerenvetorix: Well, she got tricked by Asmodeus and stuffed in a bottle. Asmodeus did a good job of imitating her too which, as a deity of truth and knowledge cannot feel great, to know that Guy Whose Thing Is Lying has your number even if he is technically lying and therefore in his wheelhouse in pretending to be you. Then she gets let out having been saved by SILAHA, who as a result of saving her, cannot stop Selena. I have to imagine this series of consequences drives some of her decision making in the very end, although at that point she is technically not a wizard and therefore out of the scope of this post. Anyway, 9/10; she did almost die.

Cassida Previn: There's no option for this other than 10/10. Her revelations were delivered with far less kindness than even Selena's; we see her break. She has time to consider that her good intentions have doomed Aeor as well as find the deity she's risked execution to serve is a more complicated being than what she expected and does not approve of her greatest act of service. And that's before we consider that the Society of Primes is implied to have not been successful (we don't know, since the Factorum Malleus is never fired, so it could be a bluff; but the Primes are heavily indicated to be in just as much danger) and that's also before her final moments are being presumably tortured by Asmodeus. I don't know if she really renounced The Everlight; Asmodeus lies, but it's not an unexpected consequence. As The Everlight says, it doesn't matter; she was well within her rights to feel however she felt in those last moments and it does not erase all that she did before. If she didn't it was a lie from Asmodeus, and if she did, she is forgiven entirely.

Those guys who were dragons for a hot second: Honestly? What a way to go. I wouldn't even be mad. 6/10.

The Wizards In The Cognouza Ward: THEY LEFT SO EARLY. AND FOR WHAT. Like, yes, yes, you want to show the moment so you have to do it pretty early on because you won't have the viewpoint of the divine entities later on since they'll be in the Genesis Ward, but COME ON MAN. It really is like...you could have been The Ring of Brass to Aeor. If you wanted to sound the early warning you could have done some strategic teleporting of as many people you could get onto Exandria, despite the storm, and hell, you could have taken a long rest and planeshifted the next fucking day if you had to go to the Astral Plane so badly but nooooo you had to fuck everyone else over. I mean does anyone deserve a millennium of madness and horror as Cognouza eventually became? no. But like, maybe a few years for this bullshit. 5/10 because it isn't bad yet because they jumped the fucking gun. and again. for what.

843 PD Wizards watching this or just hanging out elsewhere

Essek Thelyss: I imagine he is like those pictures of the math lady except he fully understands the math. Absolute mind blown. Trying to figure out the Luxon's relationship to Tengar if there is one. Wondering why Aeor was working on Cognouza and the Factorum Malleus and not their various Luxon experiments. Trying to figure out if the gods used the same principle as consecution. Trying to reconcile the image of Lolth as weirdly adorable with the horrors he knows his people escaped. Also he has been watching a movie for like 13-ish hours but I wonder if floating means his legs haven't fallen asleep. 6/10.

Allura Vyesoren: I really like to imagine she messaged one of Bells Hells and they were like "can I call you back later we're watching a movie" and she is just like I am getting too old for this shit. 4/10 in like, the relative sense of all wizards in this 843 PD narrative are dealing with an existential threat but like within that context, 4/10.

Caleb Widogast: I feel like the Nein would be best deployed to Ria'Doin but he might be on some other weird mission given that Essek was sent to Aeor in his place, and hopefully, we get a one-shot out of this. For me. Anyway though for practical reasons he did just hear from Essek recently and Trent seems gone for good so, within the broader "Ludinus Da'leth is fucking over existence" context, also like a 4/10.

Yussa Errenis: Really hard to tell! What unhinged fuckery that doesn't require physically leaving the house is this small bastard (affectionate) up to. Is he on the moon? Is Nicodranas on a nexus point thus sending him to some far-flung region of Exandria? Did he try to question Halas and get trapped in the gem? Is he just ignoring Iva Deshin? Anyway given his track record I am going to say 9/10 and he is in some kind of peril that is low-key his own fault, but it's anyone's guess.

Astrid Becke: Imagine being screwed over so hard you have to go undercover in retail. I think that fantasizing over who gets to land a killing blow in D&D Actual Play is not terribly interesting; what happens happens, and such fantasies are usually a dull slog of "who is wronged most" which is never good. With that said I don't think she is the most wronged, if that's even a metric one can know; and also I know this is not going to happen given her very tangential nature as a minor NPC in the story being told here; and I don't think I am speaking about a just or kind world in this fantasy; but in a world that aims for justice but lands in pettiness, she would get the final blow on Ludinus Da'leth. 7/10.

Ludinus Da'leth: There's a tumblr-famous post in which someone makes a lot of wild-ass claims about the status of, iirc, women who spun thread in medieval Europe and then when people were like "I don't think that's right" posted a fuckload of links and the phrase "*steeples fingers*" and then someone actually clicked on the links and was like "uh none of these back up your point, actually; most of them have little to do with it and what few do address it either contradict what you are saying, or are similarly unsourced from non-experts." Anyway I think we can all see the value in checking the citations and vetting your sources here, a lesson The Martinet seems to have failed to internalize. He is however either at a 3/10 or an 8/10 depending on precisely how up his own ass he is and whether he realizes he showed footage far too complicated to make but a single easy argument.

[artificial-transmutations]

Out Now: Dam Breakers

Hello everyone! I'm extremely excited (and, quite frankly, more than a bit nervous) to announce that I finished my fantasy romance novel Dam Breakers!

For the very TLDR-version: It is available here! Be sure to read the disclaimer below, though.

First of all, thank you! Everyone who reads my stories or likes them shows me that there is at least some interest in my mediocre writing. And even though the novel is not exactly like my stories here (more to that later), it gives me hope that you and other people might like it.

Now, for the actual novel!

Dam Breakers is the tale of Jared, a rather normal modern day college student, and Aleron, an apprentice mage living in a secluded tower with his teacher. One fateful day, they meet and are drawn into a maelstrom of magic, change and love - and dark secrets threatening to destroy everything they loved.

With over 120000 words, this is not only my longest story yet, but also my most carefully crafted one. I will attach an image of my Obsidian graph for the story at the end of the post.

Disclaimer:

As I have mentioned, it is a bit different from the stories I usually post here. First and foremost, it's a lot tamer. This novel isn't meant as a porn piece, but as an intriguing fantasy and romance tale. While there is love, desire and sex, of course, it's way more sparse and less explicit than, for example Closer Than Flesh.

It also features transformation themes, and the concept of change is one of the main focus points of the book, but, again, don't expect 500 pages full of transforming bodies because of it :)

And, finally, for a multitude of reasons, it does not contain AI generated images. I wouldn't be able to generate any that do the story justice, anyway.

Now that you know what not to expect, here are some things you MAY expect:

Transformation. Both in the sense of bodily changes but intriguing character development as well.

Gay Love. This is a story about two men from different worlds falling in love with each other, and their stony road to being together.

Magic. It's a fantasy story, and a truly enchanting one at that, with a fresh concept of magic and change.

Story. Last, but certainly not least, it's a good and interesting read, at least according to my opinion. Since I might be a bit biased here, let me tell you that my beta readers agree.

If you still want to read it (and I hope you do!), then you can grab your copy here:

If you are not in the US, you can just replace the .com with, for example, .co.uk to go to your local Amazon marketplace

I have not forgotten, of course, that I promised a special condition for you folks at Tumblr. Since Amazon makes it a bit difficult to actually implement that, I plan to offer a time limited discount or giveaway in a few weeks. I'll announce the exact time here on my blog beforehand.

If you really want to support me, it would mean a lot to me if you could leave a review on Amazon. That influences the algorithm a lot and helps the book get visibility, which is incredibly important . So, please, if you like the book, leave a review.

Teaser / Preview (mild spoilers)

And here is a short look into the book, from chapter 4. It contains some mild spoilers, but nothing too important. I also added an AI image, which is not in the book (see above).

[...]

Even though the weather was unstable, Jared enjoyed the journey through the vibrant spring land. It was a closeness to nature he had never experienced. Even back home with his parents, in rural Texas, the land had seemed different. Back there, the wilderness had been tamed decades if not centuries ago. There was no wonder, no adventure. Here, there were hills and forests, rivers and bogs, and who knew what else. It was as if Jared was seeing the world for the first time. Not to mention the smell. Jared could not remember a time when he had smelled the spring air like this.

In addition to the landscape, Jared's traveling companion also played a big part. Aleron was an intelligent and witty conversationalist, and Jared learned a lot about his new friend. They spoke of everything under the sun, and Jared told stories of his home, of modern inventions and the differences between this world and his. Even though Aleron was fascinated by his tales, he was also clearly skeptical about some of them, especially when it came to the more complex topics. That was only fair, though, as Jared himself had a hard time believing the fantastic stories of this world, even after having experienced some with his own eyes. Dragons, for example. It didn't matter how often Aleron recited what little information he had about those magnificent beasts, something in Jared resisted fully believing in them. He hoped that he would be able to see one of them for real - although Aleron repeatedly stressed how dangerous they were - in order to be able to fully believe in them.

While Aleron's world was certainly magical, it wasn't all like in the Lord of the Rings. There were, for example, no other humanoid races, as Jared learned. No elves, dwarves or orcs, at least to Aleron's knowledge, which, to be fair, mainly included the Kingdom of Myrthien. Although the Whispering Woods were not technically a part of Myrthien, and were generally considered wilderness, it was clear that they were no part of another nation either. The closest neighboring country to the Whispering Woods would either be the Golden Isles beyond the coast south of Eldoria or the Verdant Lands to the west. According to Aleron, the Verdant Lands couldn't really be considered a nation, too. It was more of a loose confederation of tribal communities, living in the characteristic dense forests of that region.

As Helena had promised, Luminara wasn't difficult to find. The capital of Myrthien was well known and if there was a sign post somewhere, it was sure to point to Luminara.

There was no shortage of smaller and bigger settlements, and about every third or fourth night they were able to sleep in beds. During the other nights, they made camp a bit off the road in order not to attract too much attention. It was one of those nights, about two weeks after they had left Eldoria, that Jared woke up in the middle of the night. Aleron, who was sleeping next to him, was moving in his sleep and occasionally made a sound, which had caused Flicker to gain a bit of distance to the sleeping man.

It was clear to Jared that his friend was dreaming, and he briefly considered waking him up from his nightmare. However, judging by the sounds, Jared began to suspect that Aleron was not having a nightmare but quite the opposite, although the dream seemed to be just as intense.

Quietly, he left the tent, careful not to wake the sleeping mage. Outside, he was greeted by the stars and a clear sky with an almost full moon. The campfire was almost dead, just a few embers and ashes were left. It was a quiet, peaceful night, and Jared decided to go to the nearby lake to drink. Aleron had never once shown a single sign of sexuality before, except for demonstrating a certain uneasiness around nudity and related topics. He never had commented on any woman - or man - in a suggestive way, so Jared had been half- convinced that this whole topic didn't have any relevance to the mage at all.

Of course, for his own reasons, Jared had avoided the subject as well, so, perhaps Aleron thought the same about him. Jared didn't mind that. As magical as this world was, he had yet to encounter a single sign of same-sex attraction. Perhaps this wasn't a thing here, biologically, or perhaps it was socially frowned upon, like in his world's medieval ages - or rural Texas, present day. In any case, there was absolutely no reason to bring that topic up, so he didn't. Not bringing up his sexuality was a sport he was very experienced in for 9 years straight now, after all.

As Jared neared the lake, he was feeling weird and tingly all over. It was not entirely unpleasant, but it stirred a vague memory in Jared. He had felt this feeling once before, but he couldn't quite recall when.

When he bent down to scoop some water into his hand, he stopped before his fingers touched the surface of the lake. The moon was bright, and Jared could see his reflection in the mirror-smooth water quite well. The only problem was that it was not him who was looking back at him.

Of course, there was a strong resemblance, but the details weren't right. His face looked somewhat stronger, his jawline a bit squarer. His hair a bit lighter and styled like the day he first stepped out of the mirror. On his chin, there was a short well-groomed beard even though he had shaved just last morning. It wasn't just his face, though. As he looked down on himself, he looked fitter than he should, as if he was visiting a gym regularly. In fact, the definition of muscle on his torso increased further, just as he was watching. Suddenly, the wonder was replaced by fear. He had felt that way before, and now he remembered when. It had been during his first visit to Aleron's world, when his body was 'destabilizing' as Aleron had put it. Given, the feeling had been stronger then, but it was definitely the same. And now, his body was changing again, and he was weeks of travel from the magic mirror.

Half-panicking, he sprinted back to the tent, not caring about being quiet anymore. Perhaps Aleron knew what to do! He ducked into the entrance and called out to the mage.

"Aleron, wake up!"

Almost immediately, the apprentice jolted awake. "Jared? What is wrong?"

"I... don't know, it's me. Look at me!"

After a few words of encouragement, Flicker began burning brighter, allowing them to see in the tent as well. Aleron looked at the half-naked Jared critically for a few moments before asking: "Okay... what am I looking for?"

"Can't you see? I'm..." However, as Jared looked down on himself, everything was fine again. He was looking at his plain old self, just as he should look like. The tingling feeling was gone, too.

"Oh." Jared felt incredibly stupid all of a sudden. "I... must have been imagining things."

[...]

If you liked the teaser, be sure to give the whole thing a read :)

Let me close with another whole-hearted Thank You for your continued interest!

Stay awesome!

And here, as promised, a peek at the creative complexity of the story:

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Since you named it in the Halsin x Ace!tav headcanons, now please do also gale because I'm curious!

- a very ace ⚙️

Alright, by popular(ish) demand:

How Ace!Tav Reacts When They Realize Gale is Into Them

An expansion on this headcanon: Ace!Tav's Reaction to Halsin Propositioning Them

Based on: Astarion x Ace!Tav Masterlist

Okay, now I feel bad because I feel like I've thrown my man Gale under the bus for this, but it really isn't his fault, just a lot of miscommunication

This one is a slower build since Gale is just in the party longer and it's just how he roles

Ace!Tav and Gale form a connection fairly early on

Tav knows they're not the most book smart and so does regularly ask Gale for his input (or to read them something without asking any questions)

Gale is happy to be useful, and just so thrilled to have somebody beside his cat who will listen

This is probably where the miscommunication begins

Gale takes their active listening, and ability to recount the information he taught them as a sign of deeper interest while Tav actively listens because that's just what they do

They're a bard who never learned how to read, listening is the only way they learn anything, plus they have a memory like steel trap

This all comes to a head at the tiefling party

Astarion approaches Tav about having a "night of passion" which Tav turns down because it's obviously not their thing, and they don't really want to have that conversation with Astarion; why spoil a good thing (read I Want I All for more on that subject)

And then Gale says he wants to show them how to experience the weave later that evening and so, they decide to go with him

Tav knows they're in touch with the weave through their music, but never fully understood why or how, only that it works, so to have Gale show them is an experience they can't pass up

Besides, they know how passionate he is about it, who would they be to deny him

So, Gale shows them the weave and when he asks them to picture the concept of harmony, what they imagine is music, the way it fills their body and brings them peace; melody strumming not just through their ears but their whole body into their soul

It's an intimate sensation, one they haven't been able to express with words and for a moment Gale feels it

He tells them he feels like he owes them an apology for being at bit...well, dismissive of their form of magic, it's truly beautiful

And then Tav sees it, a flash of his own mind, and the anticipation of a kiss

That snaps them right out of it, letting the weave disappear around them

Gale, realizing what they saw, is quick to apologize but the moment is ruined and the pair of them quickly make their way back to their own tents to wallow and over think

Tav feels unbelievably guilty, not helped by Astarion's comments the next morning

Astarion isn't jealous, why would he be? But he can't help but ask what Tav and the wizard got up to, using every teasing innuendo he can think of

Tav finally snaps and tells him nothing happened and that they need to talk to Gale

Gale has been properly wallowing and keeping unnaturally silent until Tav pulls him aside to talk

Gale once again apologizes, but he really did think there was a connection between the two of them

He knows he's not much of a wizard these days and he's also very well aware that there is something going on between them and Astarion, but he did hope...well, no point in that is there

Tav feels even more guilty, but is quick to assure him he did nothing wrong, they just don't see him that way

In truth, what they really want, in the deepest part of their hearts, is to be his friend; to be honest, they don't have that many

Gale tells them, "Somehow I doubt that. I can't imagine you being lonely"

Tav only gives him a sad smile, saying "what can I say, I contain multitudes"

Gale sees it then, that they are, in fact, lonely and for a moment sees it in himself; that maybe his feelings he started to develop really do come from that same place of loneliness

Tav watches him carefully asking, "have I hurt you terribly?"

Gale shakes his head, "just a bit bruised, nothing that won't heal. Admittedly, I think it's more my ego than my heart"

He assures them that he does value their friendship, he just might need a minute to recover

He also tells them that whoever they do give their heart to better know how valuable it truly is

It does take Gale a little time to come back to himself, but eventually he's able to become a true friend to Tav with none of the remaining awkwardness

He also makes a point to assure Astarion of the same thing after he senses the vampire glare one too many daggers into his back

As much fun as it is to tease Astarion, he doesn't want to have to sleep with one eye open, if he can help it

[thefreakandthehair]

@eddiemonth prompt, oct 8th: Rockstar | Times Like These - Foo Fighters | Confident a/n: rockstar!eddie & corroded coffin. steddie. suggestive themes but not explicit. un-betaed because I’m challenging myself to write these in under an hour. read on ao3 | link to masterpost on ao3

When Eddie was a teenager, he pictured himself on stage, surrounded by pyrotechnics and aggressive bass riffs. His hair was long, his skin mottled in tattoos with maybe a love bruise or two, and his favorite ruby red guitar slung low to his hips as he belts his vocals into the microphone. 

All but the last part comes true. 

He does end up sweaty from the heat of the fire cannons on either side of their set. Freak shreds his bass every fucking show, his fingers undoubtedly calloused beyond repair. Eddie’s hair gets in his face as he plays his own guitar, his Sweetheart, but he doesn’t get to sing. 

That’s all Steve. 

Unassuming, surprisingly talented Steve Harrington who Eddie discovers can fucking sing when he’s home from a tour, driving around together through the empty streets of Hawkins, Indiana. The 90s bring a new landscape to heavy metal and rock and roll, and as cocky as Eddie might be, as confident as he is when it comes to his music, he can see when someone has one up on him. Steve’s rendition of The Foo Fighters’ Good Grief as he drums along on the steering wheel sets his heart aflame– and maybe another appendage that he’s tried to ignore for the better part of ten years. 

Steve agrees to join the band with a heavy bit of convincing, agreeing only when Eddie offers to retain his role as frontman.

I don’t wanna be a rockstar, Ed. That’s all you. 

The band truly takes off when Steve joins, his voice adding a different flavor and Eddie’s backing vocals rounding out their sound. Eddie tells Steve night after night, show after show, that he’s happy he’s there, because he is. Maybe being in love with his bandmate hadn’t part of the teenage fantasy, but it’s become his favorite part of the reality, even if it’s one-sided or unrequited. His skin remains unbruised, no groupies or flings to be found, but he’d prefer a blank canvas over meaningless artistry anyways. 

They end up touring again, exploring the country and parts of Canada together but always with different hotel rooms. Eddie never minds sharing with Gareth, or Jeff, or Freak but he also doesn’t make a habit of thinking about their dicks. 

After their show in Toronto, the end of this leg of their tour, Eddie and the rest of the band celebrate in Eddie’s room– it’s the biggest of their block and Eddie won rock-paper-scissors to claim the lone room this time around. 

Drinks flow, smoke from their joints curl out the window screen into the night, and before Eddie realizes it’s happened, he’s left alone with Steve.

Steve, who hasn’t had a thing to drink and only a few puffs of his joint, but is laying across the bed with his feet crossed at the ankles and his head resting in Eddie’s lap anyways. Steve, who Eddie listens to as he hums the melody of their encore and whose hair he can’t help but thread through his fingers. Steve, who Eddie has been watching night after night sing the words Eddie’s written himself, some of which are about Steve. 

It’s a dangerous position to be in. 

“Gettin’ tired yet, Harrington?” Eddie asks, grinning as Steve rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, we’re back to Harrington now, Munson?” 

Eddie just shrugs and continues playing with Steve’s hair. It’s soft, still damp from his shower, and Eddie’s surprised he hasn’t shoved him off yet with some comment about how he’s gonna fuck it up. But he doesn’t, and Eddie doesn’t know what to make of that. 

“You’re awfully quiet,” Steve asks, shifting his gaze from the ceiling to Eddie’s eyes. “It’s weird.” 

“I contain multitudes, don’t try to make me some one-dimensional agent of chaos.” 

Steve laughs and it’s better than any song Eddie’s ever written. And he’s written some damn good songs, if he does say so himself. 

Eddie lets out a little oof as Steve sits up, bracing himself on Eddie’s stomach to turn and face him. There’s something in Steve’s expression that Eddie can’t place– searching eyes, furrowed brows, one corner of his lips quirked up. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“You just did.” 

“God, you’re so annoying sometimes, you know that?” 

“I do, actually. But yeah, go ahead.” Eddie bites his bottom lip and shrugs.

“How come you never wanna share a room with me?” 

Eddie just about chokes on nothing, inhaling oxygen into the wrong pipe or something. His ears turn red, a tell that no amount of shaking his hair out can hide, at least not from Steve. He feels the soft skin of Steve’s hand graze his cheek as he tucks hair back behind his right ear, exposing the bright red shade of embarrassment. 

“Is it me? I can’t imagine that I, Steve Harrington, make you, big ol’ Rockstar Eddie Munson, uncomfortable after all these years.” 

You motherfucker, Eddie thinks, his mouth a little behind the speed of his thoughts, effectively leaving him speechless. 

“Little bit, actually,” Eddie manages to admit. 

He shouldn’t admit anything, but he’s alone in this quiet room with the boy he’s loved for so many years, who’s touching him like he loves him, too. Who can blame him?

“How come?” Steve whispers, his lips suddenly closer, their noses nearly touching. Eddie may or may not be breathing, but he tries. Fainting would definitely kill whatever this energy is between them. 

“Ed, c’mon. Just, just tell me you want me, too. Please.” 

Too? He thinks.

“Too?” He asks.

Steve smiles and nods, running his thumb across Eddie’s chapped lower lip before resting his palm against his cheek. 

“Too.” 

—

The following morning, Eddie and Steve meet up with the rest of the band in the hotel restaurant for breakfast– or, well, brunch at best given the time they actually make it downstairs. 

“Notice you stayed in Eddie’s room last night,” Jeff asks, one eyebrow raised halfway up his forehead as his eyes flit back and forth from Steve to the very clear, purpling bruise on Eddie’s collarbone. 

“Astute observation,” Eddie grins and answers for him, digging into the stack of pancakes in front of him, ravenous. 

“Sure did,” Steve just grins, shrugging as he shifts in his seat. 

Gareth, Freak, and Jeff all exchange a look, the kind of look that comes with inside jokes and long-suffering waiting. 

“Wait–” Steve starts, pointing an accusing finger at Jeff. “You all left early on purpose, didn’t you?”

Gareth laughs the hardest, rivaled only by Eddie who watches them all with incredulity as Jeff parrots Steve with casual confidence. 

“Sure did.” 

[quixoticall]

This Could Get Ugly Track 5: The Beginning of the End

Summary: It's 1983 and The Downsides need another lead singer and you just happen to need a band--it's a perfect match. The only issue? You have to pretend to be in a relationship with your bandmate, Steve Harrington, but you can't help but be drawn to the band's broody guitar player.

pairing: s.h. x fem!reader, e.m. x fem!reader, j.b. x n.w.,

warnings: ANGST, drinking, drug use, smut, oral and fingering f receiving, p in v sex, the Harringtons make an appearance.

a/n: It has been a while my loves! If you've been following me at all, you know I've had a rough month. I really, truly appreciate every single one of you who has reached out and checked in! I appreciate you! This chapter is extra long to make up for lost time and it contains smut. It's my first time writing smut, so hopefully, I did not disappoint.

wc: 11.2K

MASTERLIST🎸

PLAY PREVIOUS TRACK 🎵

APRIL 28th, 1984 PHILADELPHIA , PA—THE UPSIDE DOWN TOUR

If you wanted to be technical about it, the whole thing started with Argyle.

The two of you were backstage, sitting outside the dressing rooms killing time during the opener—some local band that you weren’t previously familiar with.

You had always appreciated Argyle’s ability to be friendly with everyone and float above the tensions, that was the case especially now when things with the others seemed to have fallen apart a little.

You were sitting next to each other on the floor, backs against the wall, as you were running him through some of the songs that had made the preliminary list for the next album and asking for his input while he threw a bouncy ball against the opposite wall. You liked working with Argyle, he was out of the box, creative, and one of the most technically skilled band members. You had been sitting with him for only 30 minutes and he had already made one of your songs infinitely better.

“What’s the move tonight, dude?” he asks you, nonchalantly as you scribbled down some of his suggested changes.

You shrug in response, “I dunno, I might just go home and sleep after this, maybe work on the arrangements for this—” You wave your beat-up notebook in the air, and he scoffs.

“You like never come out with us anymore,” he exclaims, “I miss when we all used to party together, dude. Now you are all dropping like flies and it’s not as fun anymore!”

It was your turn to scoff at him, “Please, I was never the life of the party, Argyle, c’mon.”

“Are you kidding, dude? People would always show up in droves to see you. Plus, you’re like totally fun. Remember when you and Steve did karaoke in Austin and you both got on the bar? That was totally cool.”

You chuckle at the memory and concede, “Yeah, that was pretty fun, but you still have everyone else!”

“Well, you took my dude Eddie too,” he points out without malice.

“What do you mean?”

“He hasn’t come out since St. Louis—keeps saying he’s gonna stay in just in case you want to write with him.”

Of course, this is news to you. You hadn’t taken up Eddie’s offer to write together since he had spurned you in Missouri (and since he starred in a very vivid dream of yours). It wasn’t that you didn’t accept his apology (presented in the form of a ridiculously large flower bouquet) it was that thing would have been far too awkward at this point.

It wasn’t that you had a crush on him necessarily, you were pretty sure that mantle was still taken up by Steve to some extent, it was more that there was an undeniable sexual something between the two of you below the surface that your dreams had made obvious and you didn’t trust yourself to be alone in a room with him without wanting to rip his clothes off.

Obviously, giving in to your desires was a bad idea for a multitude of reasons but chiefly, because:

a. It would wreak havoc on the band.

b. You were certain Eddie wouldn’t reciprocate your advances.

But then… you had heard what Argyle had said.

“Wait, are you saying Eddie has been hanging out after shows just on the off chance that I may call him?” You confirm incredulously.

Argyle nods in response, “Yeah. Did you put a spell on him or something?”

“No,” you respond wryly, “I’m not that type of witch, I’m the bad kind of witch.”

“Well, you definitely did something to the dude, he’s been obsessing over whether or not you hate him and keeps trying to get me to ask.”

This takes you aback completely. Eddie caring so much what you thought of him that he’d be willing to ask Argyle, of all people to discreetly scope that out seems improbable so you continue to probe.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, he obviously thinks you’re pretty and he’s just been waiting around for you to call him up, and he cares a lot about what you think of him, which is weird because last time I checked he kinda hated you—no offense.”

“How do you know all this?” You ask, ignoring the offense.

“He told me, duh.”

“Have you told anyone else this?”

“No one else has asked,” Argyle says plaintively.

“Well, how about we keep all of this between the three of us, then?” You propose.

Before the drummer can confirm, the thundering applause signaling that the opening act had wrapped up cut the conversation off.

Neither of you has the chance to continue the discussion before being rushed onto stage by a harried and high-strung stage manager.

Without knowing, Argyle had invertedly changed the course of everything.

***

EDDIE: We were in Philly. It was a great show—probably one of the best of that tour. The audience was feeling us the opener was sick and we were just gelling for what felt like probably the first time. It was like we were all finally on the same wavelength if that makes sense. No more guessing what the next move was or fighting to keep up. It was like we were finally learning to trust each other.

***

The Philly show was electric, all the elements had come together perfectly. You and Steve were particularly reveling in it. You spent most of the night singing into the same microphone, lips inches from one another, your hand grasping the back of his neck, fingers carding through his hair, and eye contact unbreaking. At one point, you were certain by the way he had captured your bottom lip under the meat of his thumb, that he was going to lean in and kiss you on the mouth, a barrier that the two of you had managed to maintain this whole time.

The audience must have had a similar thought by the sounds of their cheers—a sound that seemed to have shaken both you and Steve from whatever spell you had been under because the next thing you know the pressure of his thumb was gone and his eyes were turned away from you and towards the crowd.

The rest of the show was spent similarly—the two of you toeing the line and the audience following your every move. It was easy to get addicted both to the applause and the intimacy.

After the encores were sung and the last bows were taken, though, Steve was back to barely being able to look at you.

The only time his gaze does flit to you, ever-briefly, is when you politely decline Argyle’s invitation to go out after the show.

“Come on dude, you said you would come if I looked at your song,” the drummer gives a half-hearted attempt at bargaining which only makes you giggle.

“I never said that Argyle,” and truly you hadn’t, “I said that I couldn’t go out because I had to make those changes you suggested.”

In response, Argyle begins to boo you, loudly and the others join in eagerly.

You roll your eyes playfully and bid goodbye to Argyle and the rest of the band when you part ways for the night and you notice that other than yourself, Eddie is the only one missing from the boisterous group but you try not to think too much on it.

Your efforts to push all thoughts of Eddie out of your mind seemed to have the opposite effect and it was like the thoughts themselves were digging their heels in and had found your mind to be a welcoming home.

You had made the song changes you had told Argyle you would and even tried to make some progress on your plethora of unfinished songs. As it turned out, you worked slower when you wrote alone.

You knew that as the remaining tour dates dwindled and the band’s return to LA drew closer, you eventually would have to approach Eddie again to write together. It was indisputable that whatever the two of you produced together was almost always better than what you accomplished alone.

How could you possibly approach him when you could barely look at him without dying of mortification? With Steve, at least, you could get some of the sexual energy out on stage, but with Eddie you didn’t have the same luxury and it stayed bottled up.

All of this, along with Argyle’s words from earlier in the evening made focusing nearly impossible and you gave up on writing all together, deciding to call it a night and head to bed. To your chagrin, the better part of the night was spent tossing and turning trying to evict the thoughts and ideas that had begun to formulate in your mind fueled by a lack of sleep, stress and desperation. And suddenly, you had an idea.

Admittedly, it was not a very good idea. It was actually probably a very bad idea. A ruinous idea even. And yet, you found yourself pulling the covers off yourself and stumbling into a pair of slippers, perplexed by your actions. You wondered, as you blearily shuffled down the identical hotel halls why you weren’t trying to talk yourself out of this idea—one that you were certain was going to change everything. Perhaps you were itching for a new thrill. Or maybe you were as selfish as everyone seemed to believe. Maybe it was the poison that had settled in your heart before you were old enough to know better, insisting that there was no other option for you. Or maybe you were giving yourself far too much credit and you were simply horny.

Whatever the reason, it brought you directly to Eddie Munson’s door.

***

EDDIE: I swear I thought I was dreaming when I saw her there, standing outside my door in this tiny pajama top and even tinier short. They had little cherries on them. I remember thinking they were so cute. Her hair was all a mess. I thought that was cute too.

After probably 5 minutes of us standing there in the doorway, I finally got my brain to work enough to invite her in. She seemed nervous at first. Sort of paced around the room, not saying anything for a while and then—I swear to God—she asks, “Do you want to sleep with me?” out of fucking nowhere. If I hadn’t been there myself, I would’ve never believed it. Hell, even telling you now, part of me thinks I made it up.

My brain short-circuited because I couldn’t even respond. I just stared at her with my jaw on the fucking floor, trying to remember what the signs of a stroke were.

***

“Are you serious?” Eddie spits out, voice hoarse with shock at your overly-direct question.

You nod, wordlessly, trying to ignore the panic that has begun to set in.

“Why?” he presses.

You shrug, which he doesn’t find sufficient because he nods along, trying to draw the reasons from you.

“We both like sex,” you explain, clumsily, “and I find you attractive and I think you find me attractive, too—” he nods feverishly at this—“so why not have some fun?”

You try to say this last part enticingly but aren’t sure you pulled it off until you see a flush play itself across his pretty features.

“Why me? Why not Harrington?”

Even though you had anticipated the question, you can’t help but steel yourself as you respond, “Because we like each other enough for it to be fun but not enough for either of us to get attached.”

You watched, with bated breath as the thoughts played out over Eddie’s features and when you see a flash of what could be hurt you entertain for the briefest moment, the idea that maybe someone could get hurt but the thought is pushed away as a lazy grin begins to spread over his face and a newfound cockiness color his features.

Suddenly, he is much closer, and the space between your two bodies draws thin.

“Now?” he asks.

“Yes, now,” you squeak out as he encroaches in on you, fingertips grazing the bare skin on your hips.

You take a step towards him, moving to stand flush against his hip, invitingly and weave a hand through his unruly bed head curls. You want him to know how much you want this—how much you’ve wanted this. It was inevitable really, there had always been a tension between the two of you. Whether it was the hot friction of dislike , the bold spark of creative partnership or the hot embers of sexual tension, the two of you burned for one another just the same.

He leans in for a kiss when your impatience gets the best of you and you rush to meet him halfway.

He tastes like cigarettes and cherries, a taste you revel in as his lips move languidly over yours. Suddenly, he takes your bottom lip between his teeth and lightly tugs, and a moan tumbles out of you.

“We can’t tell anyone,” you mutter into the kiss and it goes unacknowledged.

The cold of his rings meets your nipples through the thin fabric of your strappy pajama top and your body arches in response.

The kiss is broken you are left gasping for air. Eddie wastes no time in attaching his lips to your neck, his tongue tracing over your collarbone hotly.

The straps of your top are shucked of your shoulders and the fabric bunched down towards your middle and a trail of kisses following in its wake.

Your knees hit the edge of the bed, and the hands in your waist guide you down in a fluid motion.

Your eyes flutter as wet kisses are peppered over your breasts.

“Come on princess, let me hear those pretty noises,” Eddie murmurs into your skin, his hot breath covering you in goosebumps.

A heady moan escapes you, almost on command. It would’ve embarrassed you if you still had the decency to care.

A trail of kisses and suddenly Eddie is thumbing at the waistband of your shorts. You nod fervently when his eyes suddenly trail up to find you, but that’s not enough for him.

“Come on, baby,” he teases, “tell me what you want.”

You throw your head back in frustration and want and Eddie takes this lapse in response to run his hand sloppily over your clothed core.

“So wet,” he murmured, “so pretty.”

You let out a desperate laugh at this and his eyes are back on you, expectantly and any resistant you have dissipates.

“Touch me, please,” you sigh, half plea, half demand.

It’s not a hard sell because your shorts and underwear are gone in a flash and cold rings are pulling your thighs wide open.

You reach out towards Eddie’s curls for purchase, gently tugging him closer to your core, hoping he’d get the message.

A moment of clarity cuts through your haze and suddenly you’re pulling him up by his hair, forcing eye contact.

“No one can know,” you insists.

He’s all half-lidded eyes and dazed smile when he’s looking at you.

Leaning in to grab his jaw in your palm, you pull him close. This is important.

“Eddie, no one can know. Promise me,” you repeat again.

He nods in agreement, even though his expression leads you to believe you could’ve asked anything in that moment and he would’ve readily acquiesced.

“No one can know,” he affirms before hitching your body closer with a harsh tug on your thighs and disappearing in between your legs, mouth latching hotly to where you need him the most.

***

EDDIE: We started sleeping together that night. A no strings attached type thing. We had to keep it a secret. She didn’t want to hurt Harrington’s feelings which I understood. He was a good guy and anyone could tell he was head over heels for her.

And she was just… well, I guess she was just afraid. We were kind of the same in that way. Couldn’t hold onto anything without crushing it into dust.

***

MAY 1st, 1984–STATEN ISLAND, NY—THE UPSIDE DOWN TOUR

Eddie’s hands are curled around your thighs, keeping your body balanced on the flimsy tour bus bathroom sink. His silver rings dig into the soft flesh of your thigh in a way that you are certain will leave bruises in their wake.

You have to be quiet, you know that. Even if the rest of the band had taken a quick pit stop between Philly and New York to explore the Staten Island Zoo and the likelihood of them coming back this early was low, it wasn’t non-existent . This left you stifling your own moans into the back of your hand as Eddie rocked into you languidly and delicious.

Your hand moved to steady itself behind you as he lets go of your left thigh and places the pad of his thumb on the soft flesh of your clit, causing you to forget nearly everything.

He seems to anticipate your next move though, because his mouth is quickly on yours, tongue gliding over your bottom lip and effectively keeping you quiet.

The angle of his hips meeting your core and his nimble fingers worked together to bring you closer to your release.

“I can feel it, baby, you’re close aren’t you?”

You nod feverishly, eyes screwed shut, “Yes, so good Eds. I’m gonna cum,” you manage to squeak out.

“C’mon pretty girl, look at me,” Eddie instructs firmly, but you can tell by the strain in his voice that he’s not too far behind, “wanna see you when you cum.”

You force your eyes open and he rewards you by pressing his unoccupied thumb into your bottom lip which you greedily take into your mouth.

Your release washes over you in a wave and you watch moments later as Eddie finds his own.

The two of you are left panting for a few moments as you try to steady yourselves. Once you find your bearings, you lower yourself from the sink and adjust the sundress that was so carelessly shucked to your hips and Eddie busies himself with disposing of the condom discreetly.

Turning to the bathroom mirror, you make an attempt at taming your haphazard hair and fixing your smudged lipstick before making a move for the door.

“Well, that was nice,” you offer before spilling into the tour bus’s common space.

“Wait,” Eddie cries out as he’s still adjusting his belt, “where are you going?”

You shrug nonchalantly in response but don’t turn around, “Back to the girls’ bus.”

“You don’t want to… you don’t want to stick around maybe? We could do some writing?” Eddie sounds out of breath when he asks but you chalk it up to the sex.

“Better not. It might look suspicious,” you explain as you take the stops down from the bus, two at a time.

“Right, wouldn’t want that,” Eddie squeaks out and you smile back at him, grateful for his understanding.

“See you later, Eds.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything back, but when you look back after having boarded your own bus, he’s still standing on the bottom step, eyes still on you.

***

EDDIE: Let’s get the record straight about something though, I didn’t steal her away from anyone. She is her own person first of all, not some thing to be stolen. And second of all, she came to me first. Not the other way around. And! She and Harrington weren’t even really seeing each other. So, other than the lying, it truthfully wasn’t that bad.

But then again, does the truth even matter? Especially now? After everything?

INTERVIEWER: It does to me and to you too, I think, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.

EDDIE: Has anyone ever told you you’re too smart for your own good?

***

MAY 3rd, 1984–NEW YORK CITY, NY—THE UPSIDE DOWN TOUR

It was easy, really, to keep your fling with Eddie a secret from the rest of the band. Most of them were barely paying attention to what you were doing anyway.

Nancy and Jonathan were once again preoccupied with waiting by the phone to hear from Jonathan’s mother, Joyce. Will’s condition had once again worsen and the two were on high alert.

Robin and Steve were busy sightseeing and pointedly only talking to you when necessary. They weren’t hostile, per se, (or at least, Steve wasn’t) but they also made a point to not invite you to their outing. You want to tell them to be wary of the paps since the city is crawling with them in a matter akin to cockroaches but you know better than to try to tell Robin what to do.

Argyle, for his part, is in his own world.

The two of you were essentially in the clear barring rehearsals, shows and any stray public appearance. Still, you couldn’t help but want to take precautions.

***

EDDIE: She would never sleep over. You know, after. She was too worried about what would happen if Steve or anyone else went looking for her.

It shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did, she—we had made it very clear that this was a purely physical thing but, well, between you and me kid, I always knew it was never gonna be like that. At least not for me. I was in deep for way longer than I had realized.

***

Long, skilled fingers trace patterns along your naked spine. The movements are comforting, calming, you almost find yourself lulled to sleep. Except you know you shouldn’t—that you can’t.

Your eyes flutter open as you fight against the sleep that sets in. This isn’t your bed, you remind yourself, and you feel that in the brush of the sheets against your naked body that definitively do not feel like the sheets of your bed merely a few doors down. It’s a silly thought, truly, these sheets are probably the exact same as the ones on your bed and more so, you haven’t slept in your bed, a bed that is truly, strictly your own in years . Still, this does not feel quite right.

You will your body to stir, working actively against every nerve that is telling you not to move from the warm, comfortable haven you had found and the warm body next to you but you know better. This is a dance you’re familiar with: they ask you to stay but don’t really mean it and if they do it’s only to squeeze another quick fuck in.

“Why don’t you stay?” Eddie grumbles into your shoulder even though both of you already know the answer.

“What if someone comes looking for me, huh?” A question for a question, “it’ll be hard to explain to Hopper why I’m naked in your bed.”

“Bullshit. You’re one of the only ones Hopper doesn’t have to keep tabs on,” Eddie’s only partially playful in saying this.

“I miss my bed,” you rebut, plainly and the guitarist pouts in response.

“This is like the same bed, dude.”

“ ‘Dude’? You’ve been hanging out with Argyle way too much.”

“Whatever,” Eddie dismisses as his hand travels down along your spine to circle around the rise of your hip to the front of your body to pull you closer against his chest and you squeal.

His skilled fingers travel down to the apex of your legs and two of them swipe through your still-wet heat making you jolt. You’re still sensitive from earlier in the night and Eddie is using that to his advantage as he swipes over your clit.

You moan at the contact and your hips canter forward embarrassingly quickly.

“Don’t want to leave now, do you?” Eddie teases as he moves away from your clit to tease your entrance and you mewl in response. Before you know it a pair of lips are attached to your neck and two fingers are slowly, deliciously rocking in and out of your core. A hand moves up to grip Eddie by the hair as you moan.

“Just like that, please keep going.”

You feel Eddie’s length begin to harden against your back as his pace quickens and his thumb circles your clit bringing you closer to your third orgasm of the night.

“No fair,” you pant, as you feel a tightening in your lower stomach. “You can’t keep me around by giving me orgasms.”

He laughs at this, full-blown guffaws. “There’s no rule against it,” he says as his tongue slides over the shell of your ear. His fingers curl inside you and you gasp at the sudden pressure before succumbing to the feeling. Your release washes over you, unexpectedly and you cry out.

A few seconds reprieve give you a moment to come back to earth. You sigh contently feeling Eddie’s harden length against the swell of you ass.

It would be impolite to leave him hanging.

***

EDDIE: Not that I could complain about our arrangement.

***

You had fallen asleep. Accidentally, of course, but erroneously still. You realize this far too late as the harsh red numbers of the hotel room alarm clock blare at you angrily: 11:52 AM.

You scramble out of bed, covers flung in the process and you make a grab for your clothes that litter the floor. The sudden, frantic movement had inadvertently awoken the man sleeping next to you and you could hear the sleep in his voice as he tried to grasp the situation.

“Woah, woah where’s the fire, princess?”

“It’s nearly noon!” you respond, panic clear in your voice. “I accidentally fell asleep and now it’s almost noon!”

Your mind is overcome with worst case scenarios and conclusions that are easily jumped to as you imagine how this late morning can turn into your downfall.

Eddie tries valiantly to calm you down to no avail. You had done the one thing you said you never would: you stayed the night and now you didn’t know what to do with that other than panic and rush out the door half dressed and fully angered with yourself throwing a paltry goodbye to a very disoriented Eddie over your shoulder as you did so.

You try to fix your hair in the elevator along with your harried breath. Most of the band wake up late into the day, you try to remind yourself, especially after a night out.

It was not unusual to be walking the halls of your hotel room at this time, but you still felt overwhelmingly nervous walking back to your room in a way that you felt obviously gave away that you were coming back from a night of raunchy sex.

Your heart dropped to your stomach as the elevator doors slid open to reveal Steve Harrington waiting outside your door. This is what you were afraid of. Certainly one look at you and he’d know exactly what you were doing and probably with who and that would spell the end of the Downsides, you were sure of it.

You didn’t say anything as you exited the elevator and slowly made your way over, hoping to prolong the moment before everything came crumbling down as much as you could.

A few steps in and you had caught Steve’s attention. When he looked at you though, it wasn’t with anger or disappointment but with nerves.

***

STEVE: My parents moved around a lot after I left home. Indianapolis, Chicago, Phoenix in the winter and Bridgeport in the summer, you know, regular rich folks shit.

It’s not like I could ever go back home but when they heard the band was planning on making the stop they wanted me to visit them and they wanted me to bring my girlfriend to meet them.  I hadn’t wanted to ask then, things were kind of awkward between the two of us, but they kept insisting. It’s like they didn’t believe I could’ve bagged a girl like her and they were willing to call me on it. So, I had no other choice but to ask.

***

You understood where Steve was coming from, truly, your own parents were rich and demanding. Plus, something about seeing your fake boyfriend waiting at your door after a night sleeping with someone else really made you susceptible to his request.

And really, there wasn’t a universe where you would say no to a request from  Steve Harrington, so of course you were going to meet his parents.

***

MAY 6th, 1984–NEW YORK CITY, NY—30 ROCKEFELLER PLAZA

“So I heard you’re meeting the in-laws,” Eddie plops down in the makeup seat next to you

You’re backstage at The Nightly Show with Chris Palmer, getting ready for one of the few media appearances Hopper had managed to schedule during the band’s short stint in the city.

You can tell by the pinching between Eddie’s eyes and the snarl in his tone that he’s not in a good mood. You chock up his demeanor to the same thing that has dampened yours: the upcoming interview.

The lack of media appearances had been a welcomed change during the band’s time on the road and the adjustment back to them have been rocky. You, for one, are on edge at the idea of having to sit down with the smarmy, sexist, Chris Palmer who, on his late night show, had already taken a few swings at you for laughs and the thought of him having the chance to do so to your face, made you sick.

Which was why you barely responded to Eddie’s attempt t goading you and instead, shrug in response, tightly, “I guess.”

His eyes flit over you and his demeanor shift to one approximating concern. “Hey, you doing okay?” He moves closer, but not enough for it to be noticeable to anyone but you.

“Yeah,” you try to smile but it comes out a grimace, “just out of practice I guess.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I have an extra copy of Baldwin that I brought on accident if you want a distraction,” the book flashes in your periphery and this time your smile comes out genuine and unprompted.

While you can’t be one hundred percent certain, you’re familiar enough with the guitarist’s ways to know that this was no accident—he brought the book with you in mind.

You make a grab for it but have to keep yourself from leaning in for a hug at the risk of the others’ scrutiny and your makeup artist’s ire. Not knowing how else to communicate your appreciation, you give his shirt a quick—and hopefully discreet—tug.  He seems to catch your drift because his fingers graze yours purposefully as you move your hand away.

The brief touch shoots electricity through you.

“Thanks,” you murmur before watching him jaunt away to his spot between Argyle and Jonathan, both of your moods seemingly lifted, if only for a moment.

You’re grateful for the distraction although it barely keeps your attention and instead end up thumbing through the pages anxiously to the chagrin of your makeup artist who is clearly relieved to pass you onto hair once the final touches of lipstick are applied.

You thank her profusely before moving next door where, to the surprise of exactly no one, you’re sat next to Steve. Or at least you think it’s Steve you’re sat next to given how little you can see through the thick mass of hairspray clouding the air.

“They don’t call me ‘The Hair’ for nothing, right?” He says when you catch his eye through the fumes.

His hair stylists laughs a little too hard for your taste and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“I thought you hated that nickname,” you say, settling into your chair, ready to play your part as the doting girlfriend.

He shrugs nonchalantly, “there are worst things to be called.”

You scoff in response, your previous concerns regarding tonight’s host bubbling up again, “I am sure there are.”

Steve turns to you fully now, offering a charming apology to his stylist that leaves her a giggling puddle, and you can feel his eyes scanning you in assessment.

He suddenly reaches over to the vanity in front of him, “The vending machine in the hall is totally broke, it gave me four candy bars. Do you want one?”

You look over at the bars in his hand which he has fanned evenly and is waving as if they’re a wad of cash and you grab one out of his reach.

“These are my favorite,” you point out as you smooth a hand over the wrapper, remembering all the times you would raid the vending machines at venues or backstage before an interview for them.

“I know,” he says, impishly.

“Harrington, be straight with me, is the machine really broken or did you get me my favorite candy bar just to butter me up?”

He nods,  self-satisfied, like a little kid happy to be caught doing something that they’ll know they’ll get away with. Your joint hairstylists coo in adoration at your dotting “boyfriend” and you can’t help but roll your eyes affectionately.

“You seem a bit nervous,” he explains, “and candy usually helps.”

You exhale a laugh at this and admit that he’s right, “candy usually does help,” before nibbling on the bar carefully  for the sake of your lipstick.

“So, what’s up?” He asks after a beat, while the hairstylists are preoccupied cleaning their tools, “are you nervous about doing our thing again?”

He says the last part with an overly-dramatic eyebrow waggle and you giggle.

What do you mean?” You ask, avoiding his glance.

He almost rolls his eyes at this but catches himself, knowing better.

“You just seem off, like nervous almost? But not in the usual way you are nervous about interview, but like different. Normally you’re just nervous because you overthink it but now it’s like you’re dreading it.”

You snort at the way he saw right through you.

“It’s stupid but, Chris Palmer has made jokes about me in the past, you know, about my dating history and things like that and I’m not really looking forward to hearing what he has to say tonight,” you explain, bashfully.

“What do you mean? Do you and Chris know each other?”

“No,” you respond, shifting uncomfortably in your seat, “he just is, you know, one of those comedians who pokes fun at celebrities and he loves making fun of women who ‘get around’ or whatever and well, that was my reputation before you… and the band.”

You see realization dawn on Steve’s features, it’s almost like he doesn’t believe anyone could ever be mean to you.  Realization quickly turns to anger.

“And you think he’ll make fun of you tonight in the same way? In front of everyone?”

You shrug at this, “maybe, he’s not exactly known for taking it easy on his guests, but I’m used to it, it’s annoying though.”

Steve shakes his head aggressively at your dismissal and bolts up from his char, “No, I’m going to go talk to Hopper or something, have him tell Palmer’s people he needs to cool it or we won’t perform.”

He’s marching down the hall now, purposeful and quick. You make a beeline after him running ahead to cut him off.

“Woah, hey, Steve, you do not need to do that.” The last thing you want is the band being labeled as difficult to work with this early on.

Standing in front of him with your hands flat on his chest, you suddenly become very aware of all the eyes peaking out of the different green rooms to watch the exchange curiously, band mates and crew alike.

Steve grabs one of your hands lightly in his and gives it a tepid squeeze.

“I’m sorry but I am not sitting up there tonight and listening to anyone say anything bad about you.  That’s just not going to happen, okay? Please trust me, I won’t do anything crazy, I’ll just talk to Hopper and we’ll figure this out. I have your back, remember?”

You study his face as he says this and are caught up in the earnestness etched into every corner of it.

“Okay,” you finally say, softly and back away from his path, “thanks.”

And you watch him go.

***

STEVE: Hopper hadn’t known about the Palmer thing. He wouldn’t have booked us if he did. When I told him, he was pretty peeved and we immediately went to go talk to the stage manager—some smarmy  guy whose name I don’t remember.

Told us essentially, that it was no use, that Palmer wrote his own material fresh before each show.

Well, after that, Hopper and I track down Palmer in his dressing room and, you know, we give him a shake down.  Old school style. Like back when Hopper was on the force. … he did most of the shaking down, don’t get me wrong, I was definitely going to get in there, but he seemed to really enjoy it. Plus I had just gotten my hair done.

***

When Steve reappears in the green room half an hour later, Hopper is trailing him smiling giddily. 

Coming up to your side, Steve wraps an arm around your shoulders and leans into your hair to murmur, “We took care of it.”  The giant grin Hopper is sporting lets you know that they had and you exhale a sigh of relief, curling a hand against his bicep gratefully.

You spring back a few seconds later when you feel Eddie’s heavy gaze from the spot he occupied next to you, eyes boring into all the places your body is touching Steve’s.

You can sense Steve’s confusion at the lost contact but before anything else can be said or done, the stage manager appears to move escort the band to the sound stage saving you from having to navigate the complex social dynamic of interacting with your fake boyfriend who wants to be your real boyfriend and your band rival turned friend-with-benefits. Gratefully, you allow yourself to believe for the first time, that maybe luck would be on your side and tonight wouldn’t be so bad.

***

NANCY: Do I think Chris Palmer had a personal vendetta against her? No, not going into that night, anyway. I think he was just a misogynistic idiot who didn’t know what to do about a talented and beautiful woman who also did whatever she wanted.  His mind couldn’t wrap around that.

That was true for a lot of men back then. And now too.

JONATHAN: It felt like Chris had a personal vendetta against her.

***

The first half of the interview went well enough.

The band was welcomed with great fanfare and everyone filed towards the couches in the center of the stage next to the large mahogany desk Chris sat behind. You and Steve were, of course, together at the forefront and you could hear the collective cooing when he helped you down the platform.

The interview started out mild, questions about the tour and being on the road. Thankfully, Steve took the helm for most of them with the band weighing in throughout.

To your surprise, Chris directs his next question to you and Eddie.

“You two are the newest additions to the band, how has the transition been coming from working as a solo artist and from a band of a whole different genre to the Downsides and what made you want to make the change?”

The question was surprisingly insightful which took you a second to process and come up with an answer that wasn’t “Well, Chris, we were forced to join The Downsides at the risk of our careers ending completely.”

Eddie beats you to it, “The royalty checks are better than they are when you’re in a metal band for one—“ it takes the audience a second to realize this is a joke, but when they do the laugh pays off— “but honestly, I like the stability. What they don’t tell you, kids, is that too much rock and roll can be bad for you.” He says this part directly to the camera with a devilish grin.

“What about you?” Chris turns to you once the laughter subside, “do you miss being a free agent?”

You ignore how pointed that feels and smile in response.

“Not at all, the band has been super welcoming and there’s something really rewarding about working together to make something great happen.”

“Don’t miss your old duet partners at all?” The host needles.

“No, not really. At the risk of sounding cheesy Chris, I think I found my forever duet partner,” you punctuate your response with a pointed smile at Steve.

The audience eats your response  up but you can tell that Chris is not ready to let it go. Luckily for you, a well-timed commercial break saves you from further questioning.

When the cameras start rolling once more though and the segment is reintroduced, Chris flashes you a wolfish smile.

“So, does this mean you’ve settled down a bit more, now that you’re a one-duet partner type of gal?”

The question makes your throat run dry because you know that there’s another, much tricker question behind it.

“No, not at all. It’s nice to be a part of something,” you respond placidly.

Chris barely lets you finish before launching into, “well the press sure does miss writing about you! Did you know that, in the last year, you were one of the most mentioned stars on Subrosa, popping up a total of 65 times only rivaled by one Evelyn Hugo in 1967.”

You don’t really know what to say or where this is going but the feeling of dread in your stomach grows.

“In fact,” he continues, “why don’t we play a game that we cooked up with the help of your Subrosa mentions?”

Games were something Chris did with his guests pretty frequently and they varied in execution but in nature there was always something a bit embarrassing to them and tonight was no exception. But instead of going after the band as a whole, this game was targeted specifically at you .

It was a guessing game, “Simple enough,” Chris touted as his assistants bring out giant blown up headshots of various male celebrities, guess which of the men you had been involved with according to the media and which ones you hadn’t been. The joke of course was that you had been linked to all the men whose pictures had been provided.

The looks of shock on your bandmates’ faces perfectly countered the one of self-satisfaction painted on Chris’s smarmy face.

You felt Steve stiffen beside you, leg twitching as if he was getting ready to stand up and leave. Or punch Chris. Before he can, you place a stabilizing leg on his thigh and giving a squeeze. You didn’t want this to diverge into a fight and you refuse to let this vile man make a fool of you on live television.

“Well, this won’t do,” you smirk at Chris. “You only have half of my list out here, Chris! You’re missing quite a few other fellas. I thought you wanted to make this difficult.”

“Oh?” The host is clearly not expecting your response but has no choice to lean in since you clearly have the audience’s attention, “and who could we possibly be missing?”

“The crown prince of Monaco, for starters,” you respond, evenly, “and the entire Harlem Globetrotters ‘83 starting lineup—“ the crowd guffaws at your clear exaggeration, “—and most importantly, this guy,” you reach over to grab Steve’s chin and affectionately squeeze his face. At this, laughter turns into applause and from where you are sitting on the shared couch, you see Chris’s jaw tighten.

“Is there anyone who’s hasn’t made the list?” he cries, trying to turn the joke back on you.

“You, for starters,” you respond playfully, and then add before he can say anything, “but who knows? Maybe this band thing doesn’t work out and in a few years time I’ll become washed up and lower my standards and you and I can give it a shot.”

Before Chris can retort, Steve cuts in with an over-exaggerated, faux-jealous, “what about me?”  That kicks off a jokey bit of banter between the three of you that takes the show all the way up to comercial.

***

NANCY: There was a second part to the game.   

ROBIN: Yeah, that second thing was just mean. It was essentially the same premise as the first guessing game but instead of guessing different men she had been associated with, it was different nicknames she had been given by the media. They were not very nice names either, “Siren of the Strip”, “Heartbreak of Hollywood”, “Pop Music’s Maneater”, you get the gist.

Of course, like with the last “game” the joke was that it had been all is them.

***

The names had been a surprise.  You didn’t know how to react and neither did your bandmates although you’re pretty sure you can feel the heat from Eddie’s glare from the other end of the set.

Still, you kept your cool and  immediately admitted that all of them seemed familiar and instead turned the conversation into criticisms of each of the names, which was gaining too many laughs for Chris to try to stop it.

“See this one I don’t like at all,” you say, pointing to Malibu Minx that had been professionally printed on a giant poster board in newspaper font.

“Whys that?” The host asked wolfishly.

“Malibu Minx? Are you serious? Anyone with half a brain knows I’m from the Hills, not Malibu. Honestly, it’s a little insulting.”

“Come on, they can’t be that different,” Chris still plays along, even though your comment did not go where he wanted it to.

“Not at all! The Hills is where all the directors and actors live, Malibu is where divorced dads take their kids during their monthly weekend visits. It’s like, here on the east coast… well, I can’t think of an East Coast equivalent. Chris, help me out, where do you take your kids during your monthly visits?”

***

ROBIN: You should’ve seen his face when she said that.

NANCY: His first divorce had just gone public a few weeks prior. Guess it was still a sore spot. Not that he didn’t deserve it, he did, but he wasn’t used to his guests fighting back like that. The rest of the show was… tense and then after the show ended Palmer lost his cool.

STEVE: Honestly, I wanted to punch the guy since he brought out his stupid  little games, but I was willing to leave things as they were that night, especially after she had put Palmer in his place, but we get backstage after the show and he starts yelling at her about having “embarrassed” him or something like he hadn’t essentially called her a bunch of names on live tv. Before any of us could even do anything though, Hopper had him pinned against the wall, saying stuff like “I thought we had come to an agreement about the jokes, Palmer.”

He gave him a good shake down, you know how intimidating Hopper can be. Plus Chris looked like he had never been in a fight in his life so he was shaking in his boots immediately. Security had to come to get Hopper off of him and we were all thrown out after that.

ROBIN: Yeah, we were never asked back after that not that we would’ve gone back.It was a shame for him, really, that 1984 episode of The Nightly Show with Chris Palmer was one of the most viewed episodes in the ten years he was on the air.

***

You return to your hotel room in the early hours of the morning, after having gone for celebratory drinks with Hopper and the rest of the band.  Everyone had been thoroughly impressed with the way you had held your own against Chris and even previously-icy Robin seemed impressed and warmed by you.

You hadn’t had much of an opportunity to talk to Eddie throughout the night, something about the undecipherable expression he wore most of the night had left you curious and you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe hearing your entire history splayed out like that in front of him and the rest of the world had soured you and he no longer wants anything to do with you.

As you’re getting ready for bed, the ringing coming from the hotel phone jolts you.

“Hello?” You breathe out, harried and confused into the handset.

“Hey, I didn’t wake you did I?” Eddie’s concerned question statics over the line.

“No,” you respond, relief coloring your tone, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, really, I was just thinking how hot it was when you told that dickbag off and I was wondering if you’d be up to me showing you that.”

“Showing me what, exactly?”

“Showing you how hot I think you are. If you’re up for it, of course?”

25 minutes later, with Eddie’s face buried messily in your pussy you’re near inching closer to release when you hear him muttering into the soft skin of your thigh while two of his skilled fingers begin pumping in an out of your tight heat.

“You know, if I didn’t know better, seeing you all hot and desperate to come on my fingers like this would make me think you are a minx.”

Hearing him call you that so low and growly, left you burning all over and you keen into his hands. Knowing his words had the intended effect, Eddie smirks into your thigh and speeds up his fingers.

“Only for you,” you respond once you can find your voice again.

Eddie give a low moan at this and in an instant he clamors up onto the bed and moves to replace his fingers with his dick.

“Say that again,” he challenges as he swipes his tip through your folds and you cry out.

“I’m a minx for you,” you nod along to what you’re saying, hoping that it makes him more eager to stop teasing and finally push inside you.

He does exactly as you hoped and pushes his hips into you hungrily, setting a punishing pace, “Only for me right?”

You nod along, fucked out and on the verge of coming agian, “Yes, only for you, Eddie.”

You don’t make it back to your hotel room that night either.

***

MAY 11TH, 1984–BRIDGEPORT, CT—THE UPSIDE DOWN TOUR

“Are you sure the’d still want to meet me?” You ask Steve one evening, brushing your hair standing in the doorway of the door that separated your hotel room from his.

“Yeah, of course! Why do you keep asking that? Wait… do you not want to meet them anymore? It’s okay if you don’t,” Steve is already trying to hide his disappointment.

“No,” you rush to correct as you follow the sound of his voice to the bathroom, “it’s not that at all it’s just that, well with all the Minx stuff in the news, I worry that maybe they won’t think I’m worthy of the Harrington brood or whatever.”

You’re of course referring to the drama that had followed the band’s appearance on the Chris Palmer show where Chris had given an interview to Subrosa after you had affectively embarrassed him on his own show calling the band talentless and you worthy of every bad name that the press could call you and more.

In response to the interview—and partially inspired by your encounter with Eddie following the interview— you had gotten the word ‘Minx’ embroidered on the back of your favorite suede jacket which you made sure to wear to all of your subsequent interviews and media appearances for the rest of the band’s time in New York.

“First of all,” Steve begins,  rubbing shaving cream over his chin “neither of my parents would ever dream of reading a gossip magazine and even if they did, they hate Chris Palmer, always said he was too ‘blue’ whatever that means. Plus, historically, dinners with my parents haven’t been the most enjoyable affairs, so having you there would really mean a lot to me.”

You smile understandingly at him through the mirror and suddenly the whole domesticity of it all strikes you. In another life, the two of you could’ve simply been a couple discussing meeting one another’s parents in the bathroom of a shitty apartment the two of you shared.

The fantasy is interrupted abruptly by a bright cacophony of knocks at your door.

“That must be Eddie,” you explained,  “he’s coming over to write.”

(He really was.)

With all the fucking the two of you had been doing, writing music had fallen to the wayside and as the end of the tour was insight and Murray’s quota of songs still not met, which meant you had to get writing.

You scramble over to your door and let Eddie in. He almost leans in for a kiss but catches himself when he notices the open door leading into Steve’s room where he is very much watching the interaction with prying eyes.

The two nod at each other in greeting. You linger in the middle between either sides the awkwardness tangible in the air. You look at Eddie’s urging eyes and then flash back to Steve whose puppy dog gaze and newly received information about his parents make you do something that is surprising even to yourself.

“Do you want to help us write, Steve?”

The situation is awkward at first, especially with the glares Eddie seems to shoot you and Steve’s shy insistence that he’s no good at writing music but eventually, after two bottles of wine, the tension subsides, at least a little.

Eddie and you had presented Steve with a few songs that were very close to done but just needed a bit more work on the melody hoping that maybe he had suggestions.

He scans over a song that Eddie had primarily written, “Wild Ride”. Steve had an idea for a rhythm that could match the song and before long, he and Eddie were fully invested, both of them bent over their guitars trying out the rhythm and shooting notes at each other. Arrangement  was definitely not your strong suit, however, you were more than happy to watch the two guitarists work

Steve was fascinatingly somber when it came to writing. He would play the notes over and over again until he found what came next, treating the whole thing like a puzzle that needed to be solved and running his hands through his hair when he was particularly stuck on something. His eyes would close while he was thinking, his lashes fluttering on his cheeks and then blinking open prettily when he had finally thought of a solution.

Eddie was much less delicate and would play around with notes, sometimes scrapping what he had all together and starting new. He tucked a pen behind his ear and was constantly scribbling and crossing out. When he focused on playing, his tongue would stick out from the corner of his mouth a bit.

They worked well together, never talked over each other, and were always willing to listen to what the other had come up with. As Eddie would write notes down in his notebook, Steve would lean in really close, so they were almost cheek to cheek looking down at the paper together. It almost seemed like they’d forgotten you were there and you were too busy refining some lackluster choruses to notice.

Eventually, they hit a wall in their writing and more drinks were ordered through room service, and soon the three of you are sprawled across your bed, drinking French 75s and watching a late night marathon of “Night Court”.

“Hey Harrington, you excited to see your folks soon?” Eddie asks during a comercial break.

You turn to look and see Steve grimace at the question. You know Eddie means well in asking, but the question ruffles Steve nonetheless.

“Not really. We were never really close on account of them sending me away to boarding school when I was eleven and then when we were together my dad’s favorite pastime was criticizing me and my mom’s was drinking,” Steve says, finally, “seeing them once a year is probably the most I can stand, honestly.”

A beat of silence settles over the group before Eddie finally speaks.

“Sorry to hear that man. If it makes you feel better, my folks weren’t exactly parents of the year either,” Eddie responds.

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, my uncle took me in. He’s a great guy. What about you, Princess? Were your parents the perfect image of love and support?”

You scoff. “Barely. I went back to their house right before the tour started, to get some of my things, and they thought I was breaking in and called the cops.”

“Well,” Eddie bristles, “looks like being a terrible parent can happen across all tax brackets, huh?”

“Yeah, we kinda got fucked over, a bit,” you say and the other two murmur in agreement.

The three of you stay silent for a bit, processing what had been shared and how to possibly move past such a heavy topic.

It’s Steve who finally breaks the silence, “Do you guys think Dan and Christine will ever get together?”

“Oh, yeah.” “Definitely.”

***

“This restaurant is obscenely nice,” you shift uncomfortable in your chair, taking in the surrounds and the unfamiliar unease of being somewhere where you felt out of place. Of course, you had grown up in fine dining establishments in California, but East Coast wealth seemed like a different beast entirely.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Robin huffs next to you, “but what else can you expect from Stan and Carolyn? They’re obsessed with letting everyone know how rich they are.”

She of course, had the advantage of knowing Steve’s parents after over a decade of friendship and it made sense that Steve, wanting as much of a buffer between himself and his parents during this dinner, had invited her along as well. So far, she had only been a little hostile towards you which was a personal victory.

The two of you spot Steve entering the restaurant at the same time along with two middle-aged companions that, based off resemblance alone, you knew were his parents.

Steve’s father had the same starkly defined chin and nose as his son, but none his face didn’t turn up into a natural smile like his son. He stood stately and stern, eyes surveying the room with little interest. His wife, Steve’s mother, was made up of refined, delicate features offset by the bright eyes that were clearly passed on to her son. Her entire outfit was meticulously perfect in a way that almost seemed artificial.

Steve introduces you with fanfare and pride that you don’t consider yourself worthy of but you smile along anyway and graciously shake Mr. Harrington’s hand and exchange dotted cheek kisses with Mrs. Harrington.

You exchange niceties and think to yourself maybe they won’t be so bad.

“Stan, Carolyn, it’s so nice to see you again,” Robin grits out through a tight smile.

Carolyn pats her on the shoulder in response and says,, “Please dear, call us Mr. and Mrs. Harrington. We’re out in public after all.”

***

ROBIN: Yeah, Carolyn and Stan hated me. It was like they could smell the gay on me. Or the poor. From the moment Steve had invited me over to spend spring break with them in the Hamptons they did not like me. They despised the idea of their son’s best friend being some scholarship kid whose parents were public school teachers. However bad they were to me though, they were far worse to Steve, which is why I ever even bothered going to these lunches. I didn’t want him to have to suffer through them alone.

***

“Sorry we’re late,” Mr. Harrington drawls as the three of them take their seats at the table, “our idiotic son forgot to bring cash for the valet.” His statement is punctuated by a mirthless laugh and you can tell by the matching expressions on Steve and Robin’s faces and the way Mrs. Harrington makes a grab for the bottle of wine on the table that this level of disparagement is normal for the Harrington household. You remember the comment Steve had made a few nights ago about his father’s favorite pastime

“Don’t worry,” you respond with a smooth smile, “we’re so used to having drivers back in LA—“ a lie “—I can see why Steve forgot about valet. Although, I’m sure you both know what that’s like.”

Mr. Harrington stalled. Everyone at the table—including you—knew that the Harringtons were nowhere near wealthy enough to afford personal drivers but if there was one thing insecure men, like Stan Harrington would never do is admit that they couldn’t afford something.

You were familiar with these types of ego games from your youth, although you took no pleasure in them.

Your youth was spent tucked into your mothers skirts during luncheons and tea and fashion fittings, listening as the women would eviscerate each other with laser-edge precision. If there was anything your mother had taught you was how to sow the seeds of insecurity in someone and although it did not come naturally, you could make an exception for Stan Harrington.

***

ROBIN: It was easy to forget most of the time that she came from money but damn, the way she handled Stan that night made me think that some politician was missing out on having her as their cutthroat third wife. It was like watching an artist paint or someone do sleight of hand magic. He would say something mean about Steve and she would just turn it right back around on him but she would be smiling and batting her eyes the entire time. Even with that though, it wasn’t an easy lunch to get through.

***

“It’s so nice that Stevie was able to make something of himself through his little music,” Carolyn fawns. She means well, for the most part, but the four glasses of wine she’s downed during the last twenty minutes makes her words come out just a tad but demeaning.

Her husband sneers in response, “You say that now, Carolyn, but soon he’ll be back here asking for a spot in the firm.”

“Hopefully not too soon,” you giggle in response running a hand alongside Steve’s arm, “the studio wants us recording our second album as soon as we get back and then we’ll be touring again and we’ll need him for that.”

“But darling, you can’t possibly expect to do that for the rest of your life,” Mrs. Harrington sighs, “eventually the two of you will want to settle down and have children, live a normal life.”

“Well, yeah Mom, but that’ll be a long time down the road—“

“Making music is our life, we don’t want to ever stop—“

You and Steve halt your explanation once you realize what the other is saying. The two of you exchange blank, confused looks and it’s not until Robin says, “I’m sure that they’ll decide what their next move is when the time comes. We still have plenty of time.” That the two of you jolt back into the conversation.

“Right,” you add, “plus with the royalties deal we just secured on this new album, we will be pretty stable financially.”

The rest of the lunch is spent fielding Mr. Harrington’s questions about financials and Mrs. Harrington’s questions about grandchildren. It’s exhausting but the three of you come out mostly unscathed.

The five of you part ways outside of the restaurant, and not a moment too soon. The wave of relief that washes over the three of you once the Harringtons have been sent on their way in a taxi is palpable.

You and Robin offer to buy Steve a drink for having survived the lunch and Steve offers to buy the two of you a drink as a thank you for playing roles in that. Soon, one drink each turns into multiple rounds of drinks spent recounting all the agonizing points of the lunch.

This leaves the three of you stumbling into your hotel in the early hours of the evening, completely and utterly drunk. You ride the elevator together, a mess of laughter and then bid goodbye to one another in front of Robin’s door. She’s ready to sleep off the drinking and you do not blame her.

This leaves you and Steve to stumble back to your joint rooms together.

“You know, seeing you today having dinner with my parents and my best friend almost made the whole thing feel real,” Steve says lowly, standing in your doorway.

“Steve don’t,” you plea softly.

“I just don’t get it,” he cries in response, “we would be so good together. We are good together: we have so much in common and we just make sense, everyone thinks so except for you. Just… tell me why wouldn’t you give us a shot?”

You’re in your room now, perched on the edge of the bed , teary eyes focused on everything in the room other than the man who stands in front of you.

“Steve that’s not fair. It’s just never going to work, why can’t you accept that?”

“Because I’m in love with you,” Steve blurts out, “and I know I may not be your first choice, but if you give me a chance I will prove that I’m good enough—“

“Steve, stop please don’t say that, you’re plenty good enough for anyone,” you stand now, to face him.

“Just not you,” he says devastated.

“No, listen, it’s not like that. I just, I don’t know if I can be with someone in the way that you want me to, okay? You want someone to eventually settle down with and I’m not that girl. I’m the fucking Minx for God’s sake not someone’s future wife. In another life maybe, we could’ve made each other very happy, who knows? But in this one, I can’t be what you want.”

The two of you stand there in silence for what feels like an eternity. Finally, Steve moves, walking past you to sit in your vanity chair.

“Is there someone else you have feelings for?” He asks, timidly.

“No, no,” you insist. “I told you, I don’t do that.”

He laughs mirthlessly in response, “I think you’re wrong about that. I think you’ll find someone, maybe not now or in a year or in five years, but eventually you will find someone and they will make you want to try and you will love them and I will have to watch you fall in love with them and we will both realize I was just not worth it.”

PLAY NEXT TRACK🎤

Taglist: @rexorangecouny , @persophonekarter @mystargirl-interlude @brinleighsstuff @thegaysaretired @nothing2-see @harrysvirgogf @Prior-antidote @stardustofyesterday @buckleyverse

[lesbian-in-leather]

Let's Talk About Alastor

Hazbin Hotel is rotting my brain so it's time for me to ramble about it to no one in particular!! Obviously this post will contain a whole multitude of spoilers, so please don't look under the cut unless you're fine with that/have seen the full season

As I mentioned in the tags of this post, I have SO MANY THOUGHTS about our beloved Radio Demon, especially in regards to the finale and how I think his plot could go next series, so buckle up folks, this'll be a long one

First off, let's talk about the way he fights. When he's fighting anyone, Alastor is big, and showy, and fucking deadly. We see it time and time again—he has fun when he fights, he enjoys the carnage and, most importantly, the terror he elicits from his foes. And that's why he was tasked with dealing with Adam—he's insanely powerful, and if anyone can take down the head of the exorcists, it would have to be Alastor (because obviously they didn't know Lucifer would show up to help, and Charlie hasn't fully come into her power yet, but that's another post). And he knows it! He knows he's powerful, he knows he's deadly, he knows everyone is shit-scared of him, and that's what he relies on.

And then the finale happens. He's in that final battle, and he's actually put to the test. And in terms of sheer power, for once in his afterlife he isn't the strongest in the room. He's actually outmatched, or at least on an even footing. And if he'd fought like everyone else, then maybe he would have succeeded—if he'd taken Carmilla's advice, I have no doubt that he would have won, or at least held Adam off for long enough that the others could have come and helped him. But he never stood a chance. Because he fights like an angel, and that's why he loses to one. Look at Carmilla's conversation with Vaggie:

"You leave yourself open with every swing; you fight like someone unafraid of harm" "Angels wield no shield, little armour, and fight with reckless abandon"

Remind you of anyone? Rewatch Alastor's fight with Adam—he's fighting just like he always does. He has multiple opportunities to take him out, but, like always, he chooses to play with his food. He's enjoying himself, he's riling Adam up, dancing around him, taunting him. Because at no point does he consider that he could lose this fight—he has no armour, no shield, he didn't even bring an angelic weapon! He just has his trusty radio mic (the source of his power? Perhaps... but that's a discussion for another post) that Adam breaks. And the genuine fear in his eyes, in his voice when that happens? He has no idea what to do. He never even considered this could happen. Everyone else is fighting for their lives, but he was treating this war like simple sport... until suddenly he couldn't.

And speaking of motivation, once again we can look to Carmilla's song to see why he loses when the other, objectively less powerful souls (Husk, Angel, Cherri, hell, even Nifty) succeeded. Yes, they weren't against Adam, but they were still fighting exorcists—you know, the same angels that have been decimating hell's population unchallenged for literal centuries. But they didn't die. Because they were fighting for what they truly believed in, because they had a real reason to not only fight, but to live. I saw it mentioned in this post earlier, and they make such a good point! Charlie's fighting for her dream and for her people; Vaggie's fighting for Charlie; Lucifer for his daughter; Angel, Husk, Pentious and Cherri are all fighting for their friends (something Charlie gave them, btw, but again, that's a different post). But what's Alastor fighting for? Power? Fun? To prove a goddamn point? I think he loses because even he doesn't really know why he's fighting. I mean, listen to Out For Love and tell me it doesn't apply to Alastor just as much as Vaggie:

"I see you're driven by your detestation Your every step is stoked with animus You need a different type of motivation Or there's no way that you can handle this I know you're thirstin' for vengeance, Vaggie You're out for blood But you'll only stand a chance if you're out for love"

Which would bring me onto where I think his plot will go in future seasons (should we get them), but first we need to clear a couple of things up and try to understand his character as best we can. Now here's the thing, I know a lot of people are divided on the topic of Alastor's feelings. Some people say he genuinely cares about the others, while some say he's just putting up a façade and playing the game, and that all of the supposed evidence of his feelings are actually manufactured manipulations. But I think both readings are true, and also, neither of them are.

Because I think Alastor does care about the others, to an extent. But I also think he refuses to acknowledge it, to recognise that part of himself, that he's buried those feelings so deep he doesn't even know that they can exist within him anymore. I think whoever holds his leash (Lilith? The seven year gap is a little too convenient to ignore, but at the same time, now that we know where she is, what's her motivation? Anyway, another post) pushed him towards the hotel for their own purposes, but I also don't think they're particularly checking up on him. I think his mission is to do with Charlie, but I also think he's grown genuinely attached to her over the months they've known each other. Why do I think this? I'm glad you asked!

First off, let's examine his reactions in various key moments throughout the series so far:

This first shot is the most annoyed we see him for the entirety of the song Should Have Stayed Gone, despite singing with one of his (many?) self-proclaimed rivals, Vox. Now yes, he does look moderately peeved, but I would argue that it's much less to do with Vox, and much more to do with the focus on television and his constant fear of irrelevancy (more on that later in this post). Then look at his expressions later—

Now he's enjoying himself, he has that ever-present shit-eating grin we all know and love. And, most crucially, no one else can see his expressions during this song. No one's looking at him in the first pic, and for the rest of the song he's in his radio booth, so it's safe to assume that his expressions are far less guarded than when he knows he's being observed. Why is that important? Well, let's take a look at another Alastor-heavy episode, shall we? That's right, no Alastor analysis would be complete without a delve into Dead Beat Dad, so here we go!

Right off the bat, we're shown his dislike of Lucifer. I know some people say it was all for show, but I disagree. Hear me out—Alastor's smart, no one's arguing otherwise, so why make an enemy of the literal devil just for sport? Now, let me be clear—I don't think he actually sees Charlie as a daughter-figure (at least, not consciously, and certainly not as strongly as he was making out). The thing is, he is good at reading people, and all it took was one look at Lucifer can't-wait-to-break-the-door-down Morningstar for him to realise that Charlie's affection was what mattered the most to him. However, his hatred of Lucifer was not all for show. So why did he hate him? The fact that he hadn't heard of him certainly won't have helped (again, Alastor definitely has a whole complex, we'll get to that), but his loathing started before Lucifer had even spoken to him. How do I know? Take a look at the moment when Lucifer has literally just opened the door

Look at that eye twitch. No one's looking at him. No one can see it. But the sheer, unbridled rage is so evident that he can't quite keep it from his face. And all Lucifer has done is hug his daughter. Now, assuming the two have never interacted before (Lucifer certainly doesn't seem to remember him, and Alastor doesn't act as though they've met) what reason does Alastor have to hate him? If Lilith is his master, perhaps it's on her behalf? But he doesn't seem particularly loyal to whoever holds his leash, far from it, so that leaves us with the two most logical options: either Lucifer is the one holding his leash (not impossible, but I wouldn't say it has much evidence thus far), or Alastor is genuinely opposed to him because of how he's treated Charlie. Because he does care about her, however little he'll admit it to himself.

Just to really hammer this point home, I'd like to show just some of the many other instances of Alastor being genuinely furious with Lucifer over the course of this episode—in fact, seeing as we've already talked about Should Have Stayed Gone, let's constrain ourselves to Hell's Greatest Dad for now, shall we?

All Lucifer has to do is laugh at the start of this song, and just look at Alastor's face! That's anger, or at the very least intense annoyance—with ever-smiling-Alastor, the proof is always in the eyebrows. Then we get this wonderful sequence of expressions while Lucifer begins insulting him:

Oh, and just in case you need a comparison, here's a shot of Lucifer insulting Alastor side-by-side with two different instance of Vox insulting Alastor. And some people still think Vox is his rival and he was just messing with Lucifer?

Now you may say, "Ah, but that's not a fair comparison! Alastor was clearly winning his argument with Vox, whereas he and Lucifer were on a much more even footing!" to which I would reply yes! Exactly! That's why Vox isn't anywhere close to being Alastor's rival, and also at least part of the reason Alastor cared so much when fighting with Lucifer. If winning against Lucifer was as easy as Vox, of course he'd pick that fight. But it wasn't. At the start of Hell's Greatest Dad, he's getting straight up humiliated (as those four waiter-esque pics demonstrate). And yet, he keeps fighting. Partially for pride, I'm sure, but some part of him absolutely cares about the argument he's making.

How do I know that? Well, you see, first of all we take a look at how Alastor acts when he first starts singing. As we all know, Alastor's power lies in his voice—his face was made for radio—and he's (almost) always so much more in control when he's talking, and always in control if his radio filter is in place. In fact, the stronger it is, the more he appears to be taking charge. So, when he first begins to fight back against Lucifer, he immediately puts that Cheshire-Cat-esque façade back into place, quite literally dancing around Lucifer as he does so:

And yet, his energy is so much higher than normal. He's leaping around, his usually calculated movements suddenly far more erratic and energetic than we've seen him. For example, in his first verse alone, he goes though all of this:

Not only is he using far more power, he's become so showy, his expressions are so much more unhinged than even he usually is, his pupils are near-constantly slitted, and, most importantly, take a look at his colour palette. Right at the very start it's still his classic red and black, but then—without Lucifer even interrupting—he gets so invested in convincing Charlie (and, by extension, proving himself better than Lucifer) that he switches to what I have dubbed his Powerful Palette. It only ever happens when he's demonstrating his full abilities; when he's angry at Husk, when he's fighting Adam, when he makes a new deal, and... now. Arguing with Lucifer over who's a better father to Charlie. And while usually it's in brief flashes before he returns to normal, here he stays consistently in his greens and pinks, for a good majority of the song. You don't think that means he really cares, even just a little bit?

And when Lucifer has the gall to interrupt him with his golden fiddle, and just look at Alastor then;

Look at his face, look at his posture. Alastor, notorious for waving his arms around in grand, swooping gestures, is standing there, gritting his fucking teeth, fists clenched, arms folded at what must be an uncomfortable angle. The only time he moves is to concede a tiny step so he can drop a fucking piano on the literal devil.

Now this bit is so interesting, because he, very briefly, seems to believe that he's won, or is at least winning. And even then, he doesn't relax, he doesn't return to his normal colour palette or even his normal expression. He's still furious, you can see it—with Vox, it was a game. This is personal, and then when Lucifer is actually not only fine but still fighting, now playing a new instrument, (literally playing the devil's chord) to deliberately ruin Alastor's melody? Oh that's pure rage.

This first expression is his immediate reaction to it and, perhaps even better, the other two are him trying to contain it. Because he knows he can be seen, but he physically can't look any more collected than that; he can't control his expressions during this song. If he could, he would, because it would irritate Lucifer all the more, and he's more than smart enough to realise that. But neither of them can control themselves here, because both of them really, genuinely, care.

Then he physically places himself in between Charlie and her father, not only pushing him out of the way, but then going so far as to physically drop him out of frame with a gesture reminiscent of a Roman Emperor as he reinstates his claim over Charlie—again, feeding into his need to be relevant and powerful (we're getting to that part, I promise). But isn't it interesting that this time, he didn't even use his power? He pushed Lucifer with his bare hands, not bothering with the intimidating shadows or powerplays, because for once it wasn't about that. For once he wasn't focusing on the person he was fighting, but on the person he was fighting for.

Now this exchange is so interesting. Because Alastor misses a really good opportunity to get Charlie on his side, and I think he misses it purely because he (almost certainly without realising it) gets actually, genuinely offended on behalf of his friends. Because when Lucifer calls the others losers, he's insulting Charlie's family. Knowingly and callously! Right in front of them! And if Alastor was in his right mind, he would have absolutely pointed it out with a fake gasp and a shit-eating grin. But look at the way he reacts to Lucifer's interruption—the narrowed eyes, the tensing of his shoulders, the flexed wrists and clenched hands. That's genuine anger; it's too immediate and out of character to be anything else. Because he didn't intentionally goad Lucifer into saying that. And instead of taking advantage of the opportunity, he responds by, very childishly, asking Lucifer to "butt out" of his song. Because they were Charlie's family first, and he may feign indifference, but he included himself among them for a goddamn reason, and how dare Lucifer insult them like that?

And again, compare how he's moving and standing to how he was in Should Have Stayed Gone. In this gif (and Hell's Greatest Dad as a whole, but let's focus on this bit right now) he's glaring, his shoulders are hunched—he tries for his usual nonchalance by pushing Lucifer out of frame with a swing of his hips, but then is immediately betrayed by his expression, and his reaction the second Lucifer comes back at him. Meanwhile, in Should Have Stayed Gone, this is how he acts while taunting Vox:

He's so much more relaxed, he's visibly having fun, and Vox is the one bending himself out of shape to try and get Alastor's attention win the argument. Another interesting parallel between him and Vox in these numbers is when Vox is clearly losing towards the end of his part in Should Have Stayed Gone, compared to Alastor's first verse in Hell's Greatest Dad.

I mean, these frames are just a little too similar, don't you think? Both of them desperately trying to grab the attention of the subject of the song, duplicating themselves and leaning over the borders to try and be noticed... oh Alastor.

And now, finally, we get onto the bit that I've been promising for this entire post: Alastor's inferiority complex. The thing is, I think I've worked him out (at least, to an extent). We've seen time and again that he hates the idea of being irrelevant—the fact he doesn't like any technology beyond radio (leading to the real reason for his annoyance in that very first picture I used, when he sees everyone gathered around Vox's screens); his reaction when Carmine said she had not in fact, been wondering where he was; his reaction when Lucifer says he's never heard of him; the way he rushes to "remind people why he's here" at the end of Dead Beat Dad, and the fact that when he first arrived he took out all of the overlords who dared to dismiss his power, just to name a few. His fatal flaw is clearly pride—he wants people to know him, he needs to be relevant or he doesn't know who he is.

And I think that's the real reason he hates Lucifer. Because, father-figure or not, the two of them do represent the same position in Charlie's life. But why would she need help from a human soul (albeit an insanely powerful one) when she has a literal angel around to do whatever she wants? Yes, Alastor is powerful, but if Lucifer is back in the picture... well, we all saw it in the finale. Alastor was quite literally fighting for his life, and barely escaped with it, while Lucifer was dancing circles around Adam, shapeshifting, taunting, joking, and all the while he was periodically rescuing Charlie too. His attention wasn't even entirely focused on the battle, and he wasn't even really trying to hurt Adam until the end when shit got personal.

And I also think that's why Alastor got so scared. Because he almost died. As I said right at the start, he fought like an angel. He didn't even consider getting hurt as an option. And now he's having a crisi of mortality, and being powerful and scared is a dangerous combination. So where will his story go from here?

Well, from the fact that he's still at the hotel, I think that's evidence enough that he's being forced to stay with Charlie—despite all the very real evidence we have that he does genuinely care about her (I mean, they way he talks about shaping her to Rosie? The gentle looks, the fact he loaned her his mic? Don't forget how he looked when that got broken, it's clearly so important to him, and he gave it to her twice. Not to mention the whole 'wanting to be relevant in her life' thing that I've been going on about for like, half of this post. Remember what Rosie said about words being easy, but actions are hard? Yeah, he says he doesn't care, but... anyway). So, he's being forced to stay while he looks for an out in his contract with someone. But where does that leave him in the wider story? Well, I do think he'll eventually turn on Charlie and the rest of the gang, but I also think that it'll be temporary. Assuming the crew gets as many seasons as they want to tell the full story (never a guarantee, but here's to hoping) then I think he'll probably stay for a while next season but work against them behind the scenes, then make an open move against them, then be gone for a while, then start his long and arduous journey back into everyone's good graces.

Obviously his deal with Charlie will come into play, and I think he'll probably use it as leverage to get out of his deal. "I'll make Charlie do what you want—without hurting her, or making her hurt anyone else—and I get to be free from this bullshit" kinda thing. I also think it'll be very interesting when that happens, because I have a theory on what he meant by the deal having "clipped his wings"—I don't think he can take anyone's soul anymore. Think about it; we've only seen him even attempt two deals this season, and not even once has he attempted to add a soul to his supposedly ever-growing collection. It would certainly clip an overlord's wings to not be able to amass any more underlings—especially since it seems that the more souls someone owns, the more powerful they are, not just in terms of owning other people, but in actual, tangible power. So I think he'll eventually get out of his deal, and then he'll be free and he'll go utterly off the rails... for a while. But it won't be as fun anymore. Husk and Nifty will have been forced to turn against their friends, and Alastor won't care what they think, because why would he?

Except suddenly he does. Husk's silences suddenly feel a lot more pointed, and Nifty refuses to even look at him, and suddenly he feels something he hasn't felt in a very long time, or perhaps he's never felt it at all. He feels guilt. Regret. He wants friends again, because they were loud and annoying and they didn't respect him but... he'll realise that his affection for them wasn't all for show, not even by half. Because he almost died for them. And even when he's talking about it, scoffing at his own perceived weakness... he calls them his friends.

And that's when the real fun will begin, because the Radio Demon On A Mission will be a force to behold, and god help anyone who gets in his way, because once he figures out the love he's fighting for... oh, he'll be unstoppable.

[nevesmose]

Coveting

Trazyn/Clone!Fulgrim requested by @chemos-factories (first time writing these two so drawing a lot of inspiration from your fics)

It's natural to play games with things you own.

Today's entertainment was an old favourite of theirs, and a way for Fulgrim to show off the knowledge he'd gained. Fulgrim loved nothing more than to show off.

"And here we see a typical cabinet of curiosities," he said, leading the way into the wide, marble-floored hall dotted with exhibit cases that formed a space so stereotypically like a museum as Fulgrim understood the term that, to an outsider, it would have verged on parody.

A strictly delimited playhouse, everything arranged just so and built to perfectly suit the superhuman build of the Primarch who was not a Primarch, in which Fulgrim had free rein to explore and learn as he wished.

Ancient scientists had done such things with rats in mazes once.

"They are also called wonder-cabinets," Fulgrim continued, eager to share his knowledge with his visitor. He was suitably attired in purple silks, and delicate gold bangles shifted on his wrists as he gestured to the object in front of them.

"Although the gathering of disparate objects and artefacts has no real scholarly intent or value, they represent an important step in the development of Old Earth's versions of museums as we would know them."

"How fascinating," Trazyn said, playing his role of distinguished guest to perfection.

"I think so too," Fulgrim answered. "And although the exhibit appears to be fully authentic to its ancient origins, further inspection reveals that the curator has included a number of deliberate anachronisms."

"Deliberate, you say?"

"Yes. To reward the attentive viewer for his study. For example, in the centre, beside a truly ancient specimen of monodon monoceros tusk, we can see a comparatively much more recent piece. A bust of an unknown subject by the remebrancer Delafour."

"Oh, how intriguing." Trazyn leaned closer, as though seeing the sculpture for the first time. "May I touch it?"

"My deepest apologies, honoured guest," Fulgrim replied, "but these objects are too fragile to touch. Lord Trazyn forbids it."

Trazyn stood back with a gesture of mock offence. "But I am, as you say, an honoured guest," he said. "Surely there's something here I can touch?"

The script being old didn't make the play any less entertaining.

Fulgrim hesitated for a moment. "The fragile objects are forbidden, but... I am not, honoured guest."

Sometimes he remembered that he had been something else, once. A being created for a very different purpose. But remembering brought pain and after so much time among Trazyn's other possessions it was infinitely easier to let go, to drift into the comfortable haze of being simply one more pliant, complaisant object to be arranged alongside many others. And so he did.

"A most agreeable solution," Trazyn said, radiating satisfaction as he moved closer to Fulgrim. "Shall we continue?"

The Archaeovist's hand settled comfortably in the small of Fulgrim's back and directed him onwards through an ornate archway with a subtle application of strength.

"Of course, honoured guest. We now enter the gallery of Terran dolls."

"Oh, how appropriate."

They halted in front of a tall, glass-fronted display case containing a multitude of dolls with painted ceramic faces and wigs of genuine human hair.

"In this exhibit," Fulgrim said, "we see every surviving product of the warrior and artisan Jean-Andoche Juneau, a toymaker from ancient Franc. The effort required to gather them here must have been vast."

"It was," Trazyn said. "Put your hands on the glass."

Fulgrim obeyed, bending gracefully at the waist to lean forward and place his palms flat on the cold surface. The dolls in their serried ranks smiled vacantly up at him.

"Good. Look only at yourself."

He locked his gaze onto his own face reflected in the glass, reducing Trazyn to a blurred outline as the Overlord of Solemnace moved behind him.

"Every object has a purpose, does it not?" Trazyn asked.

Fulgrim swallowed dryly as the Archaeovist's hand began to stroke languidly up and down his back. "I would agree, honoured guest."

"And, having acquired a truly beautiful, precious object, would it not be shameful for me to deprive it of its purpose?"

Necrodermis fingers glided up over the back of Fulgrim's neck and into his hair, stroking through it with intermixed possessiveness and reverence. He was intensely aware of how easy it would be for Trazyn to grab it if he wanted to.

"What is the purpose of a doll, Fulgrim?"

"To be looked at," he replied quietly. "To be dressed and posed as its owner pleases."

"And above all?"

"To be played with."

As all pretence fell away and Trazyn began to explore and claim his body in earnest, Fulgrim kept his focus on his own reflection as he had been ordered to and saw exactly what his owner wished him to see - himself in the glass as simply one more doll arranged among a thousand others. He matched their placid, vacant smiles with his own and felt nothing but happiness.

[possamble]

Okay please, I just adore how you talk about Marcille!!

I feel like a lot of people don’t like her as much, or more like they don’t like her as a character or just completely ignore her character growth etc. So it’s so sweet to see someone who GETS IT. Haha

AHa thank you so much!!! I get what you mean. Marcille is like... because she's written so well, I think she can induce polarizing reactions in people. On one hand, you have the people just dismissing her as a prissy uptight girl who's overly mean to the boys.

On the other hand, her fans unfortunately can have the tendency to be too charitable about her. Like, they kind of don't see the fact that she can be so horrendous sometimes? So hypocritical? that she absolutely should not be allowed to date Falin until she gets her shit sorted?

I think she shows an insane amount of complexity that changes and grows throughout the story. The Marcille at the end of the story is so much more mature than the Marcille you meet at the beginning. I kind of just want to wave her around like... isn't that wonderful, that she started as such a close-minded and scared child, only to very nearly cause the end of the world and then grow immensely from it? that she is so deeply flawed and damaged and lets fear rule so many of her actions, lets fear poison the way she treats Falin (almost like a beloved pet than a full person), but ultimately decides she'd rather learn how to be brave than die scared? That the audience is genuinely unsure if she would have been able to be truly brave without the love and support of those around her? That beneath all the immaturity and prissy hysterics, she is fundamentally motivated by unfathomably deep love--for better and for worse?

She is still cringe in her most profound moments. She is still profound in her most cringe moments. She contains multitudes beyond what can be explained in so many words and I really really really let this post get away from me

[genshinemblem564]

Birthday

How the different nations of Teyvat celebrate your birthday

My birthday is today so it's fresh on my mind, so you get headcanons.

_______________________________________________

Every nation has a festival in your name on this special day, but how does each festival differ.

• Mondstadt

The nation of wind and freedom and also wine, you would think this would lead to mass celebratory drinking, while this is true for some, the more upstanding citizens set aside their glasses, even the drunkard god himself, he does have his own role to play in this festival after all.

The city is decorated with windwheel asters and the shops carry wreaths made from the flower as you expressed amazement when first seeing the specimen.

Across the day dandelion seeds are gathered by visitors and locals alike and when the stars start to shine in the night sky a strong gust of wind summoned by Barbatos himself comes to help them soar, and due to the elemental energy flowing through them, it's as if the sky gained new stars that night.

• Liyue

The nation of stone and commerce, much like the Lantern Rite signifying the new year, lanterns are released into the night sky, these lanterns however are filled with notes containing prayers, thanks, and many simply wishing you a happy birthday.

Many of the city's shopkeepers offer a portion of their earnings to you, jewelers on the other hand offer their finest gems, only the best will do for their creator after all.

In years past a dragon could be seen resting at the peak of Jueyun Karst on this special day, these days however the only notable difference is the occasional absence of one of the funeral parlor's employees, but that's probably just a coincidence.

Unfortunately, Xiao cannot celebrate today, at least not to the extent that the others can. While hilichurls, treasure hoarders, and even the Abyss Order dare not disturb the peace this day, nothing can stop the rogue programming of the ruin guards. However seeing how diligently you work through your vessels even during festivities, he holds a sense of pride knowing you'd be doing the same if you were here.

• Inazuma

The nation of lightning and eternity, during the vision hunt decree, today was celebrated secretly, not because the Shogun had a law against, no, she was actually saddened by how quiet the day was, but it was because every vision bearer she hadn't caught thought she'd use the festival to round them up. Now that the hunt is over however, the streets of Inazuma are busting more than ever.

Inazuma is definitely the most diverse in its celebration, with warriors wishing to honor you by displaying their skills, artists hoping to show you the beauty of their craft, and a grand fireworks show courtesy of Naganohara Fireworks.

The shrine maidens of both Narukami and Watatsumi are very busy this time of year, accepting a multitude of offerings and words of appreciation for the creator.

The Arataki gang hosts a multitude of attractions for the festival, poor Shinobu was left with the paper work and the gang gets a good earful the next day, but she decides, so long as they're not causing problems, the lectures can wait until tomorrow.

• Sumeru

The nation of dendro, knowledge, and wisdom. In the past the Akademyia sages would over see this momentous occasion, now that role goes to lesser lord Kusanali.

The city holds a showcase of each of the Akademyia's darshans, this showcase is filled with incredible flora and fauna, all harmless of course, mechanical marvels, and elemental beauty.

Aaru village may be small but they go all out for you, due to how small it is there is nothing truly of note, but due to the peace mentioned in Liyue's section, even the ever diligent Candace can enjoy a day of leisure and laughter, much to Dehya's delight.

• Abyss

Not much is known about the abyss but one thing is clear, like the rest of Teyvat, they have a strong sense of devotion, so this is the one day of the year they retreat back to their domain and the nations are left in peace, as for what they do on this day, that is yet another mystery.

• Misc.

While treasure hoarders are known for, well hoarding treasure, on this day they leave the innocent in peace and even turn in some of their stolen goods, not directly of course out of fear of being imprisoned, but they leave them near city gates.

The numerous hilichurl tribes hold feasts as they dance around their bonfires, to the untrained eye this seems like normal behavior, however one may notice the particular dance they do is distinctly different.

The bards and poets of the land may not have much to offer in material goods, but they hope you are satisfied with their songs and rhymes.

The Adventurer's Guild does their utmost in every city to see that each celebration goes of without a hitch, it may not be much, but it's all they can do without treating it like any other day.

[majorbaby]

some early and candid thoughts on MASH: The Comedy that Changed Television

I thought Gary Burghoff had the most illuminating commentary to offer. he was specific, technical and detailed when recounting how the show was constructed, a style of media commentary that caters to my preferences. he has one comment that really stuck with me as a strong descriptor of the Radar character (paraphrase from memory): they needed a character who was experiencing the concept of war for the first time, for whom you could see the

after Burghoff, I thought Jamie Farr had some interesting things to say re: Margaret - 'she contains multitudes' being one of them, and a recurring theme when everyone was speaking about the character

i have to talk about mike farrell's comment on anti-war vs. anti-military: i've talked about how I feel that the post-reynolds/gelbart years have heavily watered-down messaging re: war before, and i've pointed to several episodes where i feel this is obvious, but mike farrell saying (quite strongly) that he felt the show was anti-war but never anti-military is pretty damning evidence.

i mean, i think this is good characterization for BJ, to take a more, let's call it 'broadly', anti-war stance, rather than be opposed specifically to military, particularly to the US military. it fits with his aspirations to live a quiet, middle-class life, with his insistence that he's always done 'the right thing' and imo, a good motivation for him to butt heads with the more radical Hawkeye, who opposes authority figures in general (per Alan Alda himself in this same special) - which actually goes beyond the military...

so i love it for BJ but i hate it for a show that never framed him as being wrong about that idea specifically. i can't say for sure whether BJ always held Farrell's beliefs of course, or vice versa, but if BJ ever did oppose the military as a system, Farrell doesn't know it. this knowledge makes episodes like Preventative Medicine and Back Pay land even worse with me.

'some of us were IN the military' he added, as a justification for his point that the show could not have been anti-establishment which i would speak on even more candidly if i was going to make this unrebloggable lol. but truly it's not that serious except in terms of how i think about the themes of this show - he seems like a perfectly lovely person who really loved making MASH and i think his fans will enjoy watching him speak about that.

Mclean Stevenson makes a point about how what Radar anticipates about a character tells us something about that character beyond what we would receive if we just heard the character say it themselves (which they usually do, at the same time as Radar) - I need to think about this some more when re-watching those scenes...

dlfkjaljfk I've never heard David Ogden Stiers' natural voice I thought someone was giving commentary over footage of him and then i realized he was actually giving the commentary - I feel like everyone knows this, but he was immensely talented, a master of voice and speech

1 hour and 10 minutes (including ads, or 'commercial breaks' as we used to call them back in my day) spent on seasons 1-3. tbf there's character-specific commentary in the first half that is for characters that were with us for the whole run, but, there's also a lot of time devoted to talking about how the show was initially constructed, the pilot being good (correct), and something that made me smirk - Larry Gelbart's commentary on how people were incensed and outraged at Henry's death and felt they had been misled, lied to, about their funny haha, wholesome weeknight comedy (set in the Korean War???) is almost indistinguishable from how people talk about plots they don't like in media nowadays

it was good! i had fun!

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is:  fragilecapric0rn! @fragilecapric0rnn has written 22 fics in the Stranger Things fandom and 21 of them are in the Steddie tag!

@cheatghost recommends the following works by @fragilecapric0rnn:

It Might Be Worth It For Once

clown music at the disco

you can take the heart from your chest to use as a compass when you are lost

Catch Me (I'm Falling)

Anyway, It's About Old Friends

"Sen's body of work is like a truly love letter to the characters. No matter the universe, Steve and Eddie always feel authentic to themselves. Sen's love for classic rom-coms influences a lot of her writing and makes for really romantic, touching stories. It's an absolute delight to dive into a world crafted by this author!" -- @cheatghost

Below the cut, @fragilecapric0rnn answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

I think in May of 2022 I was bit by the same bug as everyone else. Before I started writing Steddie, I was on a 4-year fic writing hiatus, and it was like seeing those two interact on screen zapped my brain awake. The chemistry, the potential, the fact that one half of the ship got ripped away from us too soon. All of those components really did something to my brain and I decided I had to write them and I haven’t looked back since!

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

I love a idiots to lovers! These two really have the potential to fit that trope so well!

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Second-chance at romance! If you’ve seen any of my fics, you know that I love and will take any chance to write 90s older steddie, haven’t spoken or seen each other in years, who re-meet and fall in love. It is so them, it is my favorite version of them. It’s the version of them that lives in my head!

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

There are so many good ones to choose from, but I think I have to go with Show Me the Place Where He Inserted the Blade by the incomparable, the magnificently talented and outstanding Cheatghost. Lou, who I am very proud to call a friend, is one of the most talented people I know and I feel very lucky to have had them brought into my life via the Steddie brainrot.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

Is it lame if I say no? LOL. Honestly, I have written almost everything I have felt the need to explore with this pairing. A lot of my ideas moving forward are expansions/continuations of ideas that I already started or have posted before. 

What is your writing process like?

Right now it’s at its most unstructured because I am rawdogging life without my ADHD meds for the first time in 7 years, which has been a whirlwind but I am managing. However, it usually depends on the fic I’m writing! For a lot of my longfic, I have a physical notebook that has an outline and major plot points I want to hit at certain times in my stories. Other times, for the shorter fics/one-shots, I just write them all in one go. It starts with a (usually silly) idea, and then I get possessed by the writing demons, and suddenly, I haven’t moved from my chair in 2 hours and I have four thousand words on my screen. I contain multitudes!

Do you have any writing quirks?

I am a victim of the: One word. One phrase. Lin breaks for emphasis. And I will be doing it until someone who is being paid real money to publish one of my original works tells me to knock it off!

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

Again, asking if it’s bad if I say neither? When I first started posting fic again, I was very much writing it all and then posting it over the course of a few days. But now, I tend to write sporadically and post even more sporadically. And I prefer the latter! Fanfiction, and fandom in general, is a collaborative experience in its heart and soul. One of my favorite things about longfic is posting a chapter and seeing what people take away from it, because 9/10 it’ll be different then what the writer thinks they’re going to take away! And the chance to change and rework and let yourself be influenced by other fans of the ship is taken away when you write it all at once and post it all at once.

Which fic are you most proud of?

Anyway, It’s About Old Friends. Even in its unfinished form, it is my magnum opus. My white whale. I have done some of my best writing in it (chapter 2 MY BELOVED) and the fact that its so close to the end is both exciting and terrifying. It is a fic I wrote and continue to write for me, and the fact that other people are reading and enjoying it is a win!

How did you get the idea for It Might Be Worth It For Once?

HA! So, I was chatting with my friend Emily (JudasofSuburbia) about a potential Pornstar!Steve AU offhandedly back in the fall. Then, I got paired with them for a little fic exchange between friends, and it felt natural to take that one off little conversation and turn it into a fic for her. It was one of those fics that started out as a silly idea and then suddenly it’s been six hours and I wrote the whole thing in one go! After some polishing and editing, it became a Pornstar!AU with not as much smut as I expected. It was so fun to write, made even more fun as it was for a dear friend.

When writing Anyway, It's About Old Friends, what was something you didn’t expect?

I didn’t expect it to change and mold and morph in the way that it did. There is a version of this fic where they do hook-up earlier, there’s a version where they re-meet at gay club and not a wedding, there’s a version where Steve marries a Evie and Eddie is Raul. But, this version feels the most right. It’s a story about heartbreak, about finding love (in all it forms) in unexpected places, and it’s about found family most of all. All of that was stumbled on accidentally! My only intention was to write a Steddie-fied When Harry Met Sally fic, and accidentally flashed my heart and soul. Whoops!

What inspired clown music at the disco?

I used to be an opener at a coffee shop and there is something so disorienting and mind altering about having disco music blasting on the speakers at 4am. But, it was in one of those moments, where I was so tired I was nauseous, that the fic idea came to me! I had already been thinking of writing as my first fic, Steve and Eddie accidentally have a Devil’s Sacrament moment at the gay bar, but the line “But it’s Disco Night”, came to me at the ungodly hour of 4 in the morning. What a time!

What was your favorite part to write from you can take the heart from your chest to use as a compass when you are lost?

The Never Have I Ever Scene! It was the first time I wrote the entire party in one scene and it’s chaotic and a little messy but it was one of my favorite parts of the fic. It also made me realize how much I love writing ensemble scenes! Just everyone trying to talk over each other, chaos in its best form.

How do/did you feel writing Catch Me (I'm Falling)?

I wrote this fic in the span of like almost 3 weeks? I was sick and burnt out for most of the time I was writing it, but it was almost a compulsion. I had the idea and I just HAD to write it. No outline, just vibes and Steve Harrington in a cheerleading uniform! I took it down for a while because I was turning it into something else, but then had a change of heart and put it back up. And part of me is glad that I took it down for a moment because people love to be weird about the feminizing Steve’s character, and even though I was writing him as a cheerleader, I tried really hard to keep him earnestly himself, and in character.

What was the most difficult part of writing Anyway, It's About Old Friends?

Writing about San Francisco while being the most homesick I have ever been in my life. Also writing Eddie in those first few chapters as an asshole but not unlikable. I didn’t want him to be “fine” (because no one is fine in this universe, especially not in the beginning) but I also didn’t want him to do or say anything too bad. I think I got a handle on it pretty well.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

In Faces Freedom With A Little Fear, the first scene in the hospital with Steve’s sister. She storms in, threatens federal agents, all for her brother. JJ Harrington you will always be famous!

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

Just my current WIPs! Anyway It’s About Old Friends; the When Harry Met Sally AU of my dreams. Hand on My Stupid Heart; the modern AU, where the UD exists but everyone has iPhones and Steve deals with his bisexuality!

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

Shout out to my boys! Kkpwnall, judasofsuburbia, figthefruitfaeth, gideoncharov, cheatghost, fastcardotmp3, snowangeldotmp3 you guys rule and they’re all so talented!!!! Thank you to whoever nominated me! I feel the love and give it back to you tenfold!!!!!!

Thank you to our author, @fragilecapric0rnn, and our nominator, @cheatghost! See more of fragilecapric0rn's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[wishcamper]

Heavy Lies the Crown: Rhysand, greatness, and the pressures of power

Or: the librarian’s daughter, former playwright, licensed counselor mashup of my nightmares dreams because I am vast, I contain multitudes.

No content warnings and no real HOFAS spoilers, I don't think, other than that he's in it but I feel like you know that by now. Spoilers for Breaking Bad (lol).

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In working on my current fic (on ao3 here!) I've been thinking a lot about Rhysand and how he really goes off the rails in ACOSF and HOFAS. It's easy to chalk it up to poor writing, but I like the challenge of trying to make it make sense. What are Rhys’ motivations, truly? What would explain the vast array of heinous shit he does the text tells us is justified?

Rhys is shown over and over to be quite Machiavellian ('ends justify the means' dude, who was maybe writing satire). It's easy to list the times he shows this. The 50 year Velaris hostage situation. The bargain UTM with Feyre. The Weaver's cottage. Stealing the Book from Tarquin. CLARE BEDDOR. Infiltrating people's minds. Torture. Assassination. Allying with Kier. Concealing his wife's medical information. Being an ass to people in general. According to Mr. Machiavelli, any action is warranted if it the goal it achieves is morally important enough.

It seems like Rhys can justify anything to himself if he believes it will serve the greatest good at the end of the day. He does so many things with the air of “it’s for your own good” or “you’ll understand why one day” but that day never.. comes? Not yet anyway, which begs the question: is he that unself-aware, or is there a longer game he’s playing that all of these minor skirmishes are leading up to? What if he knows what's coming? And what kind of cause or threat would feel so great he could justify everything he does up to this point?

Okay I'm gonna talk about Aristotelean literary structure, please don't leave me.

The idea of a tragic hero is a character whose downfall is inevitable but who fights against it anyway. Hamlet is a classic example of a tragic hero, Oedipus being the de facto first, Walter White from Breaking Bad a more modern version. We see Walt learn he’s going to die in the first episode, in the middle he does a bunch of stuff to prevent his physical death (cancer) and metaphorical death (failure/obscurity), and then both his body and reputation die in the last episode as a direct result of his attempts to avoid fate. It’s blissful Aristotelean symmetry. *chef’s kiss*

Every tragic hero has hamartia, more commonly known as a ‘fatal flaw’. In Hamlet, his fatal flaw is procrastination, and his delays create space for all kinds of the fuck shit he was trying to prevent. It’s important to note that hamartia is by design a neutral term - not so much a flaw, but a trait, motivation, or decision that sets off the chain of events the character is trying to avoid. Tragedies have occurred equally from too much love as too much hate, and doing nothing is just as much a decision as doing something. The word itself comes from the Greek for ‘to miss the mark’. To try and fail, the backbone of tragedy.

One of the most common hamartia is hubris, a modern synonym for arrogance but which more specifically means an outsized belief in one’s ability to affect and control the future. Well-known tragic heroes taken down by hubris include our boy Walter White, Tony Soprano, Viktor Frankenstein, Achilles, Jay Gatsby, Kendall from Succession. It exists in real life, too: Lance Armstrong is a perfect example of a modern tragic hero brought down by hubris. And what do all these men have in common? Power, via money, fame, strength, the state, intellect, violence etc.

I’ve been enjoying looking at Rhysand through this tragic hero lens because while it doesn’t really make him more sympathetic, it does make his actions easier to understand logically, which is its own kind of humanization. If Rhysand is aware of a prophesied or fated event sometime in the future and is pulling the cosmic strings now, it must be incredibly important, like annihilation-level important, which is so much pressure. 

So he grows to maturity with an understanding that he will one day have to face this intense evil that could completely destroy his world, and it plants in him a hubris. He believes that his immense power grants him a certain amount of influence automatically. And honestly, is he wrong?

And this is where it’s important to think about how power makes people weird. Power gives people a false sense of confidence in their actions and choices, because their status and privilege protect them from so many more consequences. In this way it’s easy to see how someone can get a big ego - no one is stopping me, so I must be doing well! Or: everything is going well for me, so I must be really killing it! I know I feel that way in the first tingles of hypomania, but hypomania is fundamentally a distortion of reality and I believe so is power.

Power not only gives people confidence but also access to make decisions for others. They begin to think they should share the success they’ve found by leading and guiding others to see how great it can be if you do what they say. Just look at one of those cringe 'billionaire morning routine' videos to see what I mean. It’s a very patronizing form of altruism, because the leader genuinely believes they have the people’s interest at heart. And I use the word patronizing intentionally - leaders have often referenced feeling paternal towards their people, Winston Churchill + FDR, 'God the Father'. Power and fatherhood have been linked for a long time. And direct from our girl Wikipedia, "paternalism is action that limits a person's or group's liberty or autonomy and is intended to promote their own good".

I was talking with a girlfriend of mine recently about how I think some men don’t have the experience of other people depending on them in a significant way until they get married and/or become fathers. Like, afab and femme people learn very early to be considerate of others, to think about how others feel, to act in ways that keep others happy, etc. This plants in us a sense of duty to perform in ways that please others, to smile, to create comfort and provide caretaking in every environment we enter. So by the time we get to marriage and motherhood, we already know how to put others’ needs before our own because we’ve been doing it from the jump.

For men, however, this can be a completely novel experience. And it seems like it's SO HEAVY FOR THEM. George ‘Father of his Country’ Washington just wanted to go back to Virginia the whole time he was President. So many men talk about the pressures of being a provider and their families depending on them in a way women don’t, and I think it’s because for the first time others truly depend on them and they don’t know how to handle it.

In response, they either shove down their emotions as patriarchy demands and have a midlife crisis, or they abdicate that responsibility and go completely absent physically and/or emotionally to continue living for themselves. (Obviously there are good men and dads out there, and bless you if you’re lucky enough to know, have, or be one.)

And this aspect of power feels relevant because from the text it seems like Rhysand is unraveling. Between Feyre, the baby, the Trove, Nesta and being threatened by her power, Koschei, Bryce, the whole High King shit - I think he’s starting to crack under the pressure. And honestly, I’m kind of surprised it didn’t happen before now.

According to Aristotle, the tragic hero must:

Be significant (virtuous/capable/powerful/important etc.)

Be flawed

Suffer a reversal of fortune.

Rhysie boy definitely ticks the first two. I wonder what it would look like to get to three? I don’t think Sarah has the balls, but it’s definitely enhanced my reading experience and given me a lot of interesting things to think about.

Okay that's all I've got. Love ya, see ya soon xx