#anachronisms for the win

[sharry-arry-odd]

Sip hears this question and lowers his head, and Lambeaux is conspicuously silent, which means that Tristan has been eaten by the admiral. To be the cabin boy of an unrepentant cannibal is to lie on a platter. Lambeaux sinks into his shoulders. "I need a woman," he says, which is enough to draw a mermaid's attention away from The World According to Garp. "Will you come into the water, sailor?" she sings cooly up to him in gargled, unmoored English, only picking the fish bones from her breasts as an afterthought. "Madam," Lambeaux hollers down at her, "not even if you had a proper quim and were floating in a tub of beef bourguignon."

The Sea Beast Takes a Lover: The Sea Beast Takes a Lover, by Michael Andreasen

[garbagequeer]

people wanting the riverdale timeline to follow some logic so that things are accurate to their time period is like if people wanted an explanation for the magic in magic realism like girl thats not why we're here it is illogical because that's their style of storytelling and the story would not be the same if it had to answer to outside logic

[tanadrin]

Ok this might be a strange ask, but. do you have any opinions on the marxist/leninist/whatever idea that, western capitalist states supply a welfare state and higher wages (and so on) for western workers through imperialism, in order to subdue class struggle in western states, so that the western proletariat basically has a hand in imperialism (that anti-imperialism in practice would materially harm the western proletariat)

i think that's wrong. i think it sounds like a way you can rationalize political disengagement in a both-sidesist kinda way and also accelerationism if you're into that; i think that kind of nebulously conspiratorial belief is also a way to sort of rationalize the red-brown alliance, the need to punish the bad sheep people who don't agree with you, and a way to discount anybody who uses actual substantive policy achievements as a way to point out that actually, yes, engaging with politics can produce positive outcomes.

it is factually incorrect, of course. there's no causal connection between the welfare state and capitalist imperialism. capitalist imperialism in the form that hardcore marxists are thinking of is kind of an anachronism anyway. much like "liberalism," they're using a lens of analysis which basically thinks history ended in 1917, that the systems and politics of the long 19th century have continued forever, and we have to sort everything into categories that are a century old even though the world has changed radically since then.

it is also, annoyingly, a rejection of the wins of leftism. leftism has done a lot of good in the world! i think leftism is directionally correct. many of the things we take for granted now in many wealthy countries--the 40-hour workweek, legal protection for unions and labor organizing, universal healthcare (outside the US of course), the existence of welfare programs in various forms, employee protections (weak in the US except for Montana; strong in many other countries), and, you know, the decolonization of most of the planet--these are all things leftists of various stripes fought and died for, and for good reason!

the reason "leftism" is weak--and of course by "leftism" people taking this position usually only mean their own particular flavor of revolutionary leftism, with everybody else being a scumbag liberal or a revisionist or a trotskyist sabateur or w/e--is because leftism keeps winning when it allies with aligned interests in an electoral context. that is to say, pragmatic progressive politics is historically quite effective (the thing Americans have historically called "liberalism" but which in international political language is closer to "social democracy," and is not Reaganism/Thatcherism), is quite willing to ally with people who share its goals including less self-defeating leftists, and continues to make new gains. see this page. there is no telos to history of course, and it's a constant struggle. but the revolution-only remnant needs to come up with a narrative to rationalize being left out in the cold, because without that rationalization their whole approach starts to come under indictment. so it can't be that their politics is ineffective--it's the sheeple bribed into shutting up by welfare!

[paradoxo8y]

AFK Jorney Headcanons

Merlin

The amnesia made their personality return to basic

Maybe adhd, starts a mission, forget about it, ends up with 3 half made quests

Hyperfocus on magic

Genderfluid, "Are you a boy or a girl?" - "I can conjure hamsters :D"

Merlin's favorite animal are hamsters, that's why they are their familiars

Completely oblivious to people flirting with them

Someone would need to kiss them and say "I love you" in their face for them to get it

Merlin's true appearance looks like a graveborn (based on @miss-anachronism graveborn Merlin post)

Before amnesia was less friendly and more strict with people

Used to be afraid of making friends and losing them to time

After, they forgot about the immortality and become less afraid

And the trophy of worst liar goes to...

Mirael

Loses control of hers pyromancy when under strong emotions

Still buries the objects she has incinerated, mostly hats

Had a crush on Merlin when she was a student, is not over it

More than once people have asked if she dyes her hair, "the answer is no, please stop asking"

In the depression stage of grief, even though Merlin isn't dead

Valen

Sees general Hogan as a father figure, he will not admit

His scar was from an accident when he was still a cadet, he slipped trying to catch a thief and fell face first

Will tell a different fight story to justify the scar

Everyone has a crush on him

He, Lorsan, Chippy, Hammy and Cassadee bet on who will conquer Merlin first

Valen and Hammie bet on general, Lorsan and Cassadee on Mirael, Chippy is winning with "Magister Merlin will help everyone in need"

General Hogan

Sees Valen as a son, will not tell him

Is in the acceptance phase after Merlin's amnesia

Meet Merlin when he was a cadet and they were investigating some mages on the region

Dolly

The only one that know how to do taxes

Lyca and Lorsan

They have the bunny equivalent to zoomies

Both also flop when relaxed

Cecia

She's dissabled, she can walk short distancies but need the plant chair to locomove for long periods

Her servent is like one of those helper dogs that fetch pens and closes doors

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Most of those were inspired by my impressions and ideas while playing the game, if you disagree be nice and leave your headcanons here, I would love to read and this fandom needs to be bigger <3)

(Sorry about the image quality, it's a picture os my computer screen, also, english not my first language, so let's hope it's readable)

[snarky-art]

The Grand Mages, my version of The Major Fairies in my Winx rewrite.

The reason for the term Mages instead of Major Fairies is that they weren’t all Fairies throughout history and it isn’t a requirement that they be fairies either. The reason for them all being fairies now is that they’re simply the most common group of magic users left on Earth currently after the great scourge of death and purging magical beings experienced on the planet.

The Grand Mages are chosen by The Grand Council, the delegation for magical beings on Earth, which is now on Tír na nÓg presently.

The current Grand Mages are as follows, some with a lot of info (mainly Sybilla) and some with simple brief descriptions, including so e job descriptions, personal histories, believix info and general lore below the cut:)

Nebula, Grand Mage of Peace. Her title is kept all throughout her history, not changed like it is in the series to war, for peace comes as the end goal, and to that with the Grand Mage title, if war is needed to achieve that, then so be it.

She is the second youngest, older than Aurora by about 900 years, born around the year of what we would call 400 CE. She is around the same age as Morgana, only a few years younger.

She would be classified as one of the Picts in the eyes of humans, born in what would later become known as the area of Scotland at the time before the Celts. As I mentioned in my first ask with her, I know there are issues of debated anachronism regarding The Picts and blue war paint, but it fit her color palette and I thought it looked cool on her so we’re going to say it was indeed a thing in this version of history, but as a result of the magical beings there mainly being the ones who utilized it.

As also mentioned in my original ask with her, she doesn’t always use her magic to treat her wounds, taking certain pride in her battle scars, showing them as a way to say “you see? No matter how many times you try to beat me down, I cannot be quashed. You cannot best me, I will always retaliate and I will always come back and so long as I am alive, I will win.”

Aurora is The Grand Mage of The North, a title given to the being who guards the Lovix transformation. She is the youngest of the current Grand Mages, being only 700 years old. It is her job to preside over the domain that Lovix is connected to (the areas of what are labeled as Fennoscandia) for if the connection to the areas the transformations were birthed from is severed or lost, those transformations cannot be accessed anymore. Her dedication, quick wit, and drive to protect and honor the land her master, The Grand Mage of The North before her guarded, is what lead to her being selected as the next one despite her relatively young age when compared to the other magical beings who served under the previous Grand Mage. This retired Grand Mage now lives at the small community that is located in what we would call Northern Sweden in the wilderness that she and the other followers dedicated to this cause call their home. This area acts as their headquarters of sorts.

Aurora is in change of overseeing all areas of Earth’s Northern Hemisphere and doing what she can to ensure general harmony with the energy of the planet and its environment, with her main focus being on guarding that area Lovix is tied to. Her primary way of combatting any serious issues humans intact on the environment and any disruption they cause is through the use of environmental influence, such as extreme cold, blizzards, long winters, early frosts, etc, causing things like famine, poor harvests, or direct death from the elements.

Diana is The Grand Mage of The South, her main location insulated to where she was born in what is referred to as modern day Bolivia. Sophix is connected to what is known today as The Amazon Rainforest, and this area must be protected with regard to the transformation for the same reason as Lovix. Much like Aurora, she is also in charge of doing what she can to ensure general harmony with the nature and environment of the southern hemisphere of Earth’s planet.

A strong warrior and combatant, she has resorted to more direct force as a tactic to deal with the issues humans have been enacting on the planet, doing what she can to still stay as hidden from them as possible while attacking, or leaving no survivors. Her and Nebula are close, a love of sparring and battle strategy being a large basis for what they choose to do in any of the spare time they manage to have together.

She is the second oldest of The Grand Mages.

Sybilla is the oldest of The Grand Mages.

Her wings are present here, but she doesn’t usually have them out, simply not seeing a need to most of the time.

Lady of Justice is the title given by those of the order of Tír na nÓg, and this was the title given to her by many, magical and non magical, even before all magical beings were either sequestered away to there, killed, fled, or managed to blend in with the non magical beings.

She is much more elusive than the other Grand Mages and despite her very present record in that of history, she isn’t one to be easily reached, only deciding herself if it is worth it, answering to no single allegiance, creed, nation, etc. She is included in the category of The Grand Mages mainly by the choosing of the other Mages, and only agrees within her own terms to be accounted for as such.

Parts of magical history intermingle with non magical history in my thing. Her influence is felt in artwork, dress, customs, and tales from Greco-Roman antiquity, and even the time before that, during the eras of The Bronze Age with the Cycladic, Minoan, and Mycenaean civilizations, and then even before that.

Much like the term irl, Sybilla is a term that simply means prophetess and sprung forth to give to the term sybil, those being what they are in our real world tales too. In my thing tho, this term stems from her name first and went on to become synonymous and defined as prophetess.

There were other sybils just like in old stories, these being followers of hers who wanted to act in her stead and honor and provide their services too.

Sybilla is the supreme head though, and is the grand origin for this.

She goes into stasis for longer periods of time so despite being the oldest, turning to stone by choice, this time acting a long sleep for her. When she awakes, it feels like she has only blinked. Sometimes towns would be built around her stony form, alters erected around her, offerings brought, pilgrimages made. And then suddenly, the mortals will see her “statue” is suddenly gone, and when she chooses to rest again, the cycle begins anew. Sometimes new statues are erected where she used to rest, legends telling that it actually is her and not just a statue, others believing it was just a statue put there long ago and someone decided to steal it so a new one must be placed.

There are many of her form in many places for that reason among other, her acting as a type of saint or figure to be kept to watch over places or people or whatever is deemed to need watching, memorabilia of her present in the forms of previously memorials statues, small talisman type objects, her figure on handkerchiefs, tapestries, walls of buildings, etc.

She has a history of intermingling with non magical beings far more than any of the other Grand Mages, even more so than most magical beings in general. With regard to that and her actions, she chooses to sleep when she feels she has done her job for the time being, overseeing and acting as whatever the mortals feel she is during times of great strife, whether that label be as a guide, an oracle, a prophet, or sometimes even a god or goddess.

She also chooses to rest after helping with grand issues with magical affairs too just the same. She awakens when she chooses to, whether that be because something in the ambient energy of the Earth feels off, signaling a great change, she has been sought out by a being, magical or not, that has made a great plea that she deems worthy, or she has decided she simply doesn’t want to rest anymore.

Her form appears through much of human history in the areas of the modern day Mediterranean and she has many stories about her weaved through old long gone told tales and legends, many lost to time, some still present.

Her aging is less visible than on Diana as a result of her sporadic periods of stasis, who has stayed active and present for her whole life, which has resulted in peak milf status.

She has no eyes, having had them voluntarily removed to be fully dedicated to her cause of what she deems proper judgement and action.

[purrlockswatson]

Phantom of the Opera (2004), we have beef!

(I'm sorry, Gerald Butler's Phantom, you're still very cool. See the original drawing without beef here.)

I'm not saying that the film is entirely bad. It's only that I tend to be extra critical about plot and portrayal. Phans of the film, feel tree to sit this one out. Now, the beef.

🥩 1. They cut out one of the most powerful scenes

Before I fell (or rather, was pushed) into the Phandom, I saw a clip of Sierra Buggess and Ramin Karimloo performing the 'SING!!!' part of The Phantom of the Opera, and even then, it struck me. Watching film, I was waiting to see it again... But they just kept rowing the boat. I find this direction choice rather symbolic of the angle of the entire film: they lowered the prominence of Christine's thrall to the Phantom's music and instead focused on their dubious romantic attraction.

🥩2. The Phantom's origin story

Perhaps they felt the need to explain his past more, but this is a case of the more you explain, the worse it gets. Why on earth would you feel the need to explain that the Phantom has been visiting Christine since she was a child? That is not only terrifying but also creates unnecessary confusion. If he's been teaching her for so long, I find it dubious that nobody has noticed her behaving strangely before the Hannibal performance.

🥩3. They gave Mme. Giry too many hats to wear

In the film Mme. Giry essentially took on the role of three characters: her own, the Persian's, and Mama Valeris' (Christine's surrogate mother in the book). Initially, I liked that they gave Mme. Giry a more active role in the Phantom's past, but then it gets very weird because she's essentially matchmaking her surrogate daughter with a man her own age whom she has witnessed killing someone. I mean, it's not implausible to give a character two conflicting roles, but the film gave no viable explanation for it.

🥩4. The graveyard duel

Why were they using rapiers in 1870? The Phantom dueling I can get behind, being the theatre kid he is, but Raoul? Get a pistol, monsieur le vicomte. Anachronism aside, this addition doesn't add more to the scene. It's meant to show how the Phantom tried to lure Christine again and Raoul comes to disillusion her, but with the duel added in, it's just a question of who wins the duel, who gets to leave with Christine. And I keep wondering how the heck the Phantom lost the fight in spite of his Magnificent Cloak advantage. (Cloaks were used as shields back in the day of rapier duels.)

🥩5. Carlotta

I adore Wendy Ferguson's Carlotta. I understand that the film wanted to make a contrast between Christine and Carlotta, but making her something out of Mean Girls was uncalled for. You got the wrong musical, mate.

I talk about other POTO adaptations here!

[yellowocaballero]

I admire your commitment to writing tim drake as having spent his formative childhood years on a different awful forum in every universe. it fills a conspicuous void in the fandom ecosystem.

I want to put this ask on my wall. Thank you for understanding me. Thank you so much.

Look, I think there are reasons why characters act the way they do. So often when writing Batfam people put in 0 work into actually establishing why or how a character is Like That, which feels necessary when the character is the most Like That of all time. You end up with a father-son or brotherly soulmates situations and it's bizarre. Why are you adopting this child you saved, you save fifty children a day and there is nothing special about him.

Tim Drake is a fucking freak and there needs to be a reason for that. Child neglect isn't enough. Somebody like Tim needs a very specific thing to happen in their lives to get them to the point of making his decisions. He needs to be obsessive, to spend time in a place that feeds and validates his obsessions, to be in a place where he can easily collect a great deal of data to construct a pathway model, and for all of this to happen without leaving his room. It has to be the internet. Tim is a guy who the internet churns out. I know he's from the 80s but Tim as a person is somebody who is so chronically online in the weirdest way. Not chronically online how WE'RE chronically online. He's on the weird forums. Like those military simulator game forums where military personnel post classified blueprints for future military tanks in order to win an argument. Those kinds.

If you were a domestic terrorist in the early 00s you were probably on Something Awful. All I can say (Actually, technically the SA thing is an anachronism - it didn't actually pick up until the early 00s. But it was the website that worked the best, explained the most, and I fucking needed to make the 'But he wouldn't tell her what the awful thing was' joke, so here we are). This is also the reason for the other anachronism of NW. Homestuck.

[not-goldy]

https://www.tumblr.com/not-goldy/748360102451511296/did-jungkook-really-say-such-awful-things-about?source=share

like when vminkook were live and sitting on bed then jm said this is my bare face and jungkook straight up be like "ugly right?" Damn that's some real love i sense there. Making fun of someone's looks (who's been insecure about his looks as an idol Cause before that everyone has praised him for his looks, before joining BH) for yrs. And then jungkook is the standard of love for jkkrs.

Too many anachronisms, let's fix it

1. Jungkook IS the standard for love for jkkrs

IS= present tense 😬

2. When vminkook WERE live.... then JM SAID

WERE LIVE= past tense

JM SAID= simple past tense.

You can't conflate your past and present tense it makes you sound dubious and malicious.

A fair and an accurate statement would be,

So Jungkook WAS the standard of love for Jkkers when he was out there calling JM ugly?

That question I can answer and will answer differently from the question of whether Jungkook IS the standard of love for Jkkrs.

If you want to say Jungkook IS the standard of love then you would have to look to the present to see what he is doing in the present that communicates love or not and right now he is in Military Service standing in the fire next to Jimin- that to me is the epitome of love.

Know what else is/was an epitome of love?

Buying JM presents on his birthday when he wasn't doing that for any of the members

Admiting his faults, crying and apologizing to Jimin for not listening to JMs advice

Carrying JMs luggage when they traveled and taking charge of it when it got missing

Offering him a seat

Protecting his seat

Picking him up when he fell

Kissing his ear to comfort him when he cried in front t of millions

Don't cry Jimin

Being his number one fan

Playing his songs and promoting it to his fans

Cooking for him

Keeping him company through his loneliness

Making him laugh

Listening to him pour his heart out

Deliberately throwing a competition so JM will win

Offering him his jacket when he is cold

Whispering I love you to him as he sleeps

Traveling to Tokyo twice with him and for him

Risking it for him or showing signs he would risk it all for him

Holding his hands

Being emotionally open and vulnerable with Jimin

Filming editing and producing GCFs for him

Making him laugh

Making him happy

Easing his troubles

Helping him train

Showing concern for him

Complimenting him

Affirming him

Telling him he is beautiful pretty and sexy

Making him feel desired and wanted- literally says this on camera too

Showing immense admiration and respect for Jimin's artistry and being supportive of everything he does

Teleporting next to him

I can go on and on

So yes, we are guilty as charged.

Jungkook IS our standard of love

Will take him over you any day💀

[queer-ragnelle]

Arthurian Preservation Project Master List

Hi! I’m L and I run the Arthurian Preservation Project to locate and archive all Arthurian media available from Medieval literature to modern day retellings and films. This is a master post of those contributions to the archive, long informational posts about Arthuriana, history, research, writing, and my character-based recommendations so you can find what you want to read/watch and the information you need.

I have an About Me page and my Ask box is always open.

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What is Elegy of an Empire?

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Read The Moonlit Knight prologue!

#Elegy of an Empire

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Ask Recommendations

Galahad stories without deceitful conception.

Medieval Galahad appearances + essays.

Mordred stories showcasing his leadership.

Queer Mordred retellings.

Research Deep Dives

From where did Gawain’s purple coat of arms originate?

Who is Galahad’s mother?

Does Dagonet the Jester have a coat of arms?

Dagonet's coats of arms in retellings.

How did Lancelot win Joyous Gard from Caradoc?

The magical rings of Guinevere & Lancelot.

Age gap between Guinevere & Lancelot.

What is “courtly love?”

Which text first described Gawain as red headed?

Kingdoms in Arthuriana.

Lancelot’s mental illness & the history of madness.

Lancelot's suicidal ideation revisited.

Mystery lady of Hector de Maris? Why wikis are unreliable.

Post-Vulgate Pelleas is kind of a creep.

Religion in Arthuriana Legend.

Who is Sir Guinglain?

My Opinions

What is my favorite “historical” era for Arthuriana?

Arthuriana's grimdark problem.

Are fanfics books?

Is Arthurian Legend fanfic?

Shipping discourse for Medieval characters is stupid.

Guinevere's mistreatment in retellings + more shipping discourse (& what to read instead.)

Owain, Yvain, or Iwein?

In defense of The Bright Sword's "self-indulgence."

Why do I condemn The Mists of Avalon?

Why do I condemn The Once and Future King?

Misogyny in The Warlord Chronicles.

Writing Advice

There is no Arthurian "canon," write what you want!

My philosophy regarding the Arthurian literary tradition.

Anachronism is a feature not a bug.

Anachronism revisited.

Creating lovable Arthurian OCs.

Feature Guinevere in a first-person Gawain story.

Modernizing Mordred.

Depicting trans knights + reading list.

How to shift the Arthurian timeline for your book.

[remember-digimon]

Who the Adventure Kids would cosplay as

Tai: Spike Spiegel from Cowboy Bebop. He has the hair, he just needs a cool suit and a Nerf gun. He gets in trouble for shooting Nerf darts at people

Sora: Yuna from ffx2, but she would wear leggings underneath the short-shorts and half-skirt.

Matt: Sanji from One Piece. He would steal one of his dad's cigarettes to be as authentic as possible, only for it to be confiscated at the con entry

Izzy: DOOM. Like literally. This is in reference to how anything can run DOOM so he finds a way to. just. Be DOOM itself 😅

Joe: Gandalf from LOTR, because I hc that Joe is a big LOTR fan and is one of those fans that knows Everything about the books. Like Steven Colbert level

Mimi: Sailor Moon. Duh. She tries to get everyone else, even the boys especially the boys to dress as the other Sailor Scouts but they weren't into it lol

TK: does a couple-costume with Kari. He goes as Link from Legend of Zelda. He has to be warned multiple times not to hit people with his foam sword

Kari: Princess Zelda. She's the only one who actually goes for broke and has a wig, plus the ears and color contacts. She is in character the whole time. This is serious business.

Davis: an anachronism, but Reki Kyan from Sk8 The Infinity. I know for a FACT that Davis loves that anime he told me himself

Yolei: the only one that went along with Mimi; she's going as Sailor Mars. She had to borrow a pair of pumps from Mimi and has a terrible time walking in them. She changes into birks like an hour into the con

Cody: Cody is either going as himself in a Pikachu hoodie or he's going all out as a cardboard box Gundam

Ken: since his childhood was taken up by trauma and then being an Evil Genius, Ken doesn't have as much pop culture knowledge as the others. Davis helps him out by suggesting Sasuke from Naruto. He means it almost as a joke but when Ken gets excited about it Davis is like 'oooh yeah? Bet' and Ken ends up winning the cosplay contest

[diediegamchicothdie]

Things that in my mind are the same

Øystein and a Sonny angel with devil horns are the same

Quorthon, transmasc community and Ethel Cain are just the same, I cannot see the difference

Ihsahn and this emoji, is the fucking same picture for me

Pelle is the equal of the video "el aplauso señores" and the sui * cide letter by Andrés Caicedo

Probabily a terrible traduction:

Mamacita: Cali, 1975.

One day you promised me that whatever I did, you would understand and agree with me. Please try to understand my death. I wasn’t meant to live any longer. I am enormously tired, disappointed and sad, and I am sure that every day that passes, each of these sensations or feelings will slowly kill me. Then I’d rather finish.

Of you I have nothing but love and sweetness. You have been the best mother in the world and I am the one who loses you, but my act is not defeat. I have all the winning, because I am convinced that I have no other way out. I was born with death inside and all I do is take it out to stop thinking and stay calm.

...Remember only me. I die because to be 24 years old I am an anachronism and a nonsense, and because since I was 21 I come without understanding the world. I am incapable of relations of money and relations of influence, and I cannot resist love: it is something much stronger than all my forces, and has destroyed them.

I leave some work and die peacefully. This act was already premeditated. You premeditate your death too. It is the only way to overcome it.

Dear mother, if it hadn’t been for you, I would have died many years ago. This idea is my own. Now my reason is lost, and what I do is only to stop suffering.

Tu Andrés

And the black metal in general is the same as a tragafuego in a random street or traffic light from LATAM, thanks

[waywardrose]

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 28

stranger things

eddie munson x reader

rated e

9k

spotify playlist

for @punk-in-docs​​​

fem/witch/goth!reader, sweetheart!eddie, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, mutual masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, chasing, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, blood, aftercare, nightmares, strict parenting, panic attack, past child abuse and abandonment, semi-public sex, break-ups, running away, guns, fist fighting, everyone survives, suicide ideation, fighting and making up

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird? Weird weird? He shrugged. He liked weird. In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: This is it, my dudes! The final chapter. No epilogue, because I don't think this story needs it. Thank you for all your comments, likes, and reblogs! Your support has kept me going. I'll post a masterlist directly.

28

Today’s volunteers had been abuzz with the news of Chief Jim Hopper’s miraculous return from the dead. The story was he’d uncovered a terrorist plot and worked with the government to thwart the radicals. Starcourt Mall had been the unfortunate backdrop of the confrontation.

It was also unfortunate a surviving radical had recognized Hopper. Since Hopper had been in danger, he’d been put in a protection program until the threat had been eliminated.

Rumor had it he’d been involved in defeating the rest of these radicals, who had something to do with Hawkins National Laboratory.

You didn’t bother to point out the specific government agency had been conveniently omitted. Same with the terrorist organization. Over sandwiches in the courtyard, Steve said Hawkins Lab had been closed for over a year when Starcourt’s fire occurred.

Nevertheless, while there had been casualties at Starcourt, they’d been few. Everyone considered Hopper a local hero.

A few volunteers discussed Eddie, too. They felt sorry for him and insisted they’d never believed those ugly rumors. Eddie was an orphan who’d been taken in by his uncle Wayne. Wasn’t that sad? Why, they’d known Wayne Munson for years! Wayne was an upright person. A veteran, too. There was no way he would’ve tolerated Devil-worship under his roof.

Those horrible classmates — bullies, really — must’ve targeted Eddie because he was different. Being different wasn’t a crime! Besides, Eddie had never hurt anyone. He performed at The Hideout with his little band all the time. One volunteer knew The Hideout’s owner, Cliff, who said Eddie was a good, if weird, kid.

You’d nodded and hummed in agreement while sorting donated home goods. There was no point in calling them hypocrites. Perhaps some of them weren’t. You wished you’d gone to that town hall meeting with your parents. Then you’d be able to pick out the liars.

On the way home in Steve’s car, Robin turned in the front seat to face you.

“You know, people want to be on the winning side. They like to think of themselves as smart enough to know who’s telling the truth.”

“But they were blinded by fear,” you said in agreement. “And looking for someone to blame.”

Steve said, “Like the pilgrims burning all the witches in Salem.”

You and Robin shared a look. He was close enough.

“Yup,” she said.

He appeared proud to have contributed to the conversation.

Robin rested her chin on her forearm.

“Eddie’s lucky you found him before anyone else.”

“Outside of the military, yeah, I guess.” You offered a bitter grin. “Who knows what they would’ve done to him if he’d survived Vecna.”

Though you don’t think he would have. Most likely, he would’ve dropped dead with the rest of the hivemind. If you hadn’t died from taking part of Vecna’s curse earlier, you might’ve shared that fate.

Steve said, “God, I’m so glad that fuckface’s dead.”

“Me too.”

“Me three,” Robin said with a grin.

Once at Steve’s, you three talked about dinner. Steve had pulled everything this morning to make a pan of baked ziti with roasted broccoli on the side. Robin made a disgusted face at the mention of a vegetable. You laughed at her scrunched nose and tongue poking out. Robin exclaimed eating broccoli was like eating green farts while Steve opened the front door.

Classical music played from the sunroom’s stereo system.

“Hey, Munson,” Steve said, projecting his voice as he tossed his keys into the bowl on the foyer table.

The music cut off, leaving a silence that felt as if you needed to pop your ears.

Robin kicked off her shoes and hung her jacket on an empty hanger in the closet. She reached for yours as Eddie jogged across the living room.

“Hey, good day?” He didn’t wait for a reply as he said to Steve, “I know this is a pain in the ass, but would you take me to my van? I want to do it before it gets dark. It’s on Coal Mill.”

“Dude, I gotta start dinner.”

Robin held up her hands when Eddie looked at her.

“No license. And the last time I tried to cook in that kitchen, I almost set everything on fire.”

Steve smirked.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Yeah? Tell that to your smoke detector that wouldn’t shut up for fifteen minutes.”

You snorted to hide the pang at being Eddie’s last choice and shrugged your jacket back onto your shoulders.

“I guess that leaves me.”

With a pat to your pockets, confirming you had your wallet and keys, you left the house. Eddie bumbled out the front door a minute later, swinging on a navy sport coat that was a size too big. It clashed with his green track pants and untied blue sneakers.

You kept your comments to yourself as you unlocked your car and got behind the wheel. Eddie sat in the passenger seat as you started the engine. The stereo came to life. The Sisters of Mercy simmered through the speakers. You hit the power button, cutting them off.

Sounding amused, Eddie said, “I haven’t heard that in a while.”

“I was in the mood for them the other day.”

“You can turn it back on, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine.” You shifted the car into Drive. “How do I get to Coal Mill?”

“Uh, take a left. We’ll go the back way.”

You nodded and pulled onto the street. He tied his sneakers. At the first intersection, he directed you to go left. The evening sun’s golden light flickered between the trees. This far from the nexus, the woods appeared unaffected by the poisonous ash. You mentioned it. Eddie asked how downtown was faring.

You lifted a shoulder.

“It’s like a war zone and a natural disaster had a horrible, mangled baby.”

He laughed. “Vivid.”

“There’re construction crews all over, and the school gets dusty overnight. We have to cover everything with sheets before we leave. People sleep with masks on.”

“What a nightmare.”

You nodded as you passed the turnoff to Sattler’s Quarry.

After that, the road narrowed and twisted. Eddie navigated you through more intersections and over train tracks. You passed farmhouses with fields of growing corn and pastures for cattle. He had you take a road into the woods where squat houses sat close together.

The road dead-ended with Coal Mill Road T-ing into it. Behind the houses, sunlight reflected off rippling water. He advised you to park in the gravel at the side of the road; his van wasn’t far. You found a wide, flat section and stopped the car. The peaceful neighborhood didn’t seem the place to stash a van.

You then recognized the house reflected in the rearview mirror as the one from the broadcast identifying Eddie as a suspect. That had been a shitty day. Even for you.

Eddie opened the passenger door. You blinked out of the memory, unlatched your seatbelt, and got out of the car. He was quiet as you came to his side. His grim face had you reaching for his hand.

He stiffened at the touch.

You recoiled and looked away. Rather than the quiet hurt you expected, though you were hurt, this white-hot feeling spread through you. Your jaw locked and vision narrowed. Each inhale became deliberate. You wanted to claw at his pretty face.

“Okay, what the hell is your problem?”

That pretty face became dismissive, and he stepped onto the road towards the woods.

Over his shoulder, he asked, “What do you mean, what’s my problem?”

“You’re…” You struggled to find a word as you followed, but the only one came. “Skittish. I don’t know.”

“I’m not skittish.”

A few yards down from your car, he separated two shrubs to reveal parallel tire ruts in the grass.

“You are!” You waved a hand at his back. “You are. You won’t sit next to me. You won’t touch me. Not that I expect you to be all over me, but you don’t reach for me.”

He stepped between the shrubs and held one back for you.

“I—”

“I take your hand, you flinch.” You tramped into the underbrush and onto a rut. “I sit next to you, you make sure there’s plenty of space between us. I make a move, and it’s always wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, letting the shrub go.

“Really?”

He went to the other rut. You stopped to glare at him.

Did he not see the irony of maintaining four feet of distance?

“Really?”

“I…” He frowned, though he continued walking. “I don’t want to crowd you.”

“Eddie, you’ve had your dick in me.” You resumed walking. “And I’ve never pushed you away.”

In fact, you had only pushed him away when he’d been under Vecna’s control. When it was just the two of you, the thought never crossed your mind.

He sighed.

“I’ve needed space.”

“Then tell me that. I don’t want you to feel pressured.” That heat inside you vanished. “You’re not obligated to… to do anything.”

“No, it’s not that.” He stopped and glanced at you. “I haven’t felt like myself since…”

“Yeah.”

“No, not like— It’s like…” He sighed again, his face twisting up. “There’s this emptiness.”

What could you say to that? You wouldn’t diminish his experience by saying plenty of people felt that. His was different. It wasn’t anything one could ignore or fill. You remembered dissolving into silence, and how it had swallowed everything.

You said softly, “Like a hunger.”

He met your gaze. In the sepia light and dusty shade, his brown eyes appeared darker and more vulnerable than you’d ever seen them.

“I don’t want it to touch you.”

You shook your head.

“It’s not a stranger.”

He looked away, into the trees, chin quivering. The tip of his nose turned pink. You wanted to kiss it, kiss him, make it better somehow. You took a hesitant half-step to take his hand, at least, but he walked farther into the woods.

With a deep breath, you followed a couple paces behind. The ruts curved around a dead pine and disappeared behind a thicket. Eddie knelt at the far side of the pine to dig into the rust-colored needles. An old camouflage net covered his boxy van from roof to tires.

You pushed up your sleeves while circling the van.

As you came around, he said, “Look, I know you’re too smart to believe the shit Vecna said.” He pulled something from the needles. “But I want… I want you to hear it from me—”

“Eddie.” You shook your head again. “That’s—”

“No, let me get this out. Every shitty thing he said — I said — was a lie.” The metallic jingle of keys punctuated his statement. “I don’t believe any of it. I never thought it.”

While you didn’t doubt Eddie, there was a part of you that wondered if Vecna was right. You were privileged. Your parents could afford to send you to any college. They’d even set up a savings account for you. You didn’t have to worry about a part-time job. You had a car. You’d been protected from the banal cruelty in the world. You’d taken so much for granted over the years. On top of that, you were a witch.

He straightened and looked at you.

“I don’t know how to prove it. All I got is my word.”

“No, no, I believe you,” you said, holding up your hands.

“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“What?”

“You saved me, sweetheart.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “Kinda feels like a blood debt.”

You grinned.

“Is that a real thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I don’t know, but, Eddie…” You drew closer to him. “You owe me nothing. You’ll never owe me.”

The keys rattled in his hand. His gaze darted away.

You continued, “I know what I did spooked you, but I did it because I love you. And it’s okay if you don’t…”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. It was hard to breathe or think or control the swelling sob in your chest. A tear rolled down your cheek, and you swiped it away.

Eddie’s head tilted in sympathy, lips thinning. He stepped near and offered his empty hand. It was the first time he’d done that in days.

Your vision prismed with fresh tears as you grasped his hand. The callused pads of his fingers scuffed against your skin. Your sob transformed into a long exhale.

“Vecna took you from me,” you said, and sniffed back the wet clog in your nose and wiped at your eyes. “I did it because you’re mine. Because he hurt us — hurt me.” You barked a laugh. “Now that I say it out loud, I hear how fucking selfish I am.”

You met his red-rimmed eyes. He shook his head like he couldn’t accept you were selfish. Regardless of his belief, you were, but you’d try not to be with him.

You whispered, “Even if we don’t stay together, you’ll never owe me. You’ll always be special to me.”

He tugged you near and put your palm on his sternum with his hand covering yours. His chest rose and fell because he’d pushed Vecna out, because you’d brought him back. That was something you’d never regret.

His voice was a hoarse whisper as he said, “I love you too, and you didn’t spook me. Don’t… don’t hide from me.”

As gently as you could, you said, “I’m not the one who’s been hiding.”

He stared at your stacked hands.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve been fucking up so goddamn bad.” He shook his head, his hair obscuring part of his face. “I hadn’t protected you. God, I actually hurt you. I can’t give you what you deserve. I can’t even fucking graduate.”

If his last statement was an obstacle, you would’ve tripped over it.

He couldn’t graduate? That made no sense. Nothing was official yet, of course, but Dr. Owens hadn’t balked at the party’s insistence of all the seniors graduating. Had no one told him? Hadn’t it been mentioned in conversation?

“Wait,” you said, trying to remember if anyone had brought it up.

He watched you from under his bangs, eyes so fawn-like, a little furrow between his brows.

You said, “I thought Steve told you about the party’s demands.”

He angled his head.

“No…?”

“One was all the seniors graduating, regardless of standing.” You took hold of his coat’s lapel. “What did you have in O’Donnell’s?”

“A low D.”

“D’s passing.” You grinned. “You’re graduating, anyway, but you passed her class. That’s all you needed, right?”

His eyes went wide and lips parted as he nodded. You glanced at his full bottom lip while scraping your own between your teeth. You hadn’t kissed him in ages.

You stepped closer and slid your hand from his lapel.

“Congratulations,” you said before rising and pressing your lips to his.

He gasped. His lips dragged against yours. Then he jolted, pulling away.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Why would you hurt me?”

His gaze slithered from your lips to your neck to the neckline of your shirt in an invisible touch.

“What if I lose control?”

You studied his worried face in the dimming light.

“Is it the emptiness?” you asked.

He nodded, casting his gaze to the side.

You remembered how predatory Eddie had looked with the MP’s blood on his chin. That hadn’t been Eddie. Not entirely. That had been the hivemind of bloodthirsty carnivores.

“Is it…” You didn’t know how to be tactful with this. “Do you want my blood?”

His tongue worked in his mouth, licking his canine, before he said, “I don’t know.”

You cradled his jaw over the scar and eased his head forward. His focus remained to the side.

“Please, look at me.”

His irises swung to meet yours. A flicker of sunlight illuminated them cinnamon sweet. His dark lashes fluttered as he blinked.

“I know you don’t want to hurt me,” you said. “But if you want to try—”

His posture went rigid as he shook his head. His hand pressed yours tighter to his chest.

“No.”

You pressed on.

“If you want to try my blood, I’ll let you.” You grazed the corner of his mouth with your thumb. “I’m not scared.”

He closed his eyes, mouth pinching and brows furrowing.

“Honey, don’t be scared.” You stroked his cheek to his clenched jaw. “It’s just me and you here.”

“Yeah, it’s just me and you.”

You sighed.

“What, you think you can kill me? You think I’d let you? You think I don’t know my limits?”

He opened his eyes, which blazed with anger and frustration and panic.

“What if I don’t know mine anymore, huh?”

Gritting your teeth, you said, “Then we’ll discover them together.”

With your hand on his chest, you pushed him towards the van. He bumbled backwards, dropping the keys. His back collided with a dull clunk. You slid your hand from his chest to the van, boxing him in, and pressed your front along his.

“Fucking trust me.”

“I do.”

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

He nodded, throat bobbing with a swallow.

“Are you sure?”

Again, he nodded.

You closed the distance with a hand on his nape. He angled his head, lips moving counter to yours. The kiss stole your breath and thought. You ravaged, biting his bottom lip. His hands cupped your ass and drew you against him. He plundered, groaning as your tongues slid over each other.

Teeth scraped your lip, yet it didn’t frighten you. Let them break skin. You didn’t care.

Trembling hands snuck under your shirt. He pulled at your waist, making your back arch. You mewled into the kiss and plunged your fingers into his messy hair. His tentative palms skimmed up your back.

You shivered as your nipples pebbled.

You broke the kiss to whisper, “Touch me. It’s okay. I trust you.”

His eyes gleamed as he drew his swollen bottom lip between his teeth. He spread his feet and maneuvered you between his knees. The firm mound of his erection pressed into your belly. He trailed his hands down to your ass. His fingers met at the central seam of your jeans.

“You’re so hot here.”

“Because of you.”

He caught your lips in another kiss. You gripped his hair as the woods went fuzzy. His hands, more confident, skated up your ass, under your shirt, and up your sides. Cool air swept over your skin. You inhaled as he found the band of your unsexy bra. The earlier work at the school hardly warranted anything fancy.

Eddie didn’t seem to mind. A hungry noise came from his chest as he fondled the underside of your breasts through the bra. He sucked on your bottom lip, and the sensation flowed through you like water. Your nipples tightened further. Your cunt clenched.

“God, you’re so soft.”

You caressed the warm skin at his nape, saying, “I’ve missed you.”

Without waiting for a response, you kissed him. His fingers dragged across your breasts until he pinched your nipples between his thumbs and sides of his palms.

You gasped at the wicked frisson, angled your face up to catch your breath, and writhed. You pressed your hips to his, the thick seam of your jeans rasped between your legs. He rocked his erection against you. New heat zinged down to your toes.

Voice husky, he said, “Fuck, I missed you, too.”

He kissed the side of your neck. Each kiss became more open-mouthed. His tongue moved as if he tasted more than your skin. He pulled his sharp teeth across the big tendon in your neck, like he was teasing you both. The threat of a bite had your heart beating double-time and eyes rolling back.

He pinched your nipples harder, making your lower body squirm from the ache. You kept your chest and neck still as you waited to feel what he’d do. He groaned and mouthed his way to the artery under your jaw. He sucked hard at the skin there, mouth scalding. You gasped at the delicious pain.

“Jesus,” he said between pants against the sore spot.

As his saliva cooled on your skin, you swooped down to kiss him once more. His tongue slid over yours as his hands left your breasts. You held his head in place by the hair, losing yourself to the decadent back and forth.

He folded his arms around you when you held his smooth cheek. There was no panic here. There were no monsters. It was only you and him, sharing breath and touch.

“How do you feel?” you asked.

“Good.”

You stroked his cheekbone.

“That’s all that matters.”

“I didn’t… freak you out there?”

“By giving me a hickey?” You smiled with a chuckle. “No.” You brushed your lips against his. “I like wearing your mark.”

His cheeks pinked further. He made a happy sound and buried his face in your neck once more.

“Gonna give me another one, baby?”

Muffled against your skin, he said, “I might.”

Tightening your hold in his hair, you pulled his head back. He looked at you with hazy eyes. His red lips parted, breaths shallow.

“Gorgeous,” you said.

His gaze drifted to the side. He wanted to shy away, but you wouldn’t have it.

“You act like I haven’t seen you, but I have.” You traced the scar on his jaw. “And nothing’s changed for me.”

He met your eyes, his own bright with conviction.

“Me neither, I swear, milady.”

You smiled at the endearment you hadn’t heard in too long.

“Then no more hot-and-cold, good sir.”

He nodded as much as he could.

“I’m with you.”

“No half-assed crap, either. I mean it, Eddie,” you said, relinquishing your grip on his hair and lacing your fingers behind his neck.

His spine straightened as if coming to attention.

“Whole-ass-ing it from here on out.”

“Good, I like your ass.”

“I like yours, too.”

His eyes lit with mischief, reminding you of the Eddie you’d first met. The one who quoted the Scorpions during roll call, who always answered the phone, who howled during concerts.

A hand gripped the underside of your ass-cheek and gave it a squeeze. It put to mind him holding you against the cold wall behind The Hideout and fucking you with hungry desperation. You wanted that with him.

“Wanna go home and prove it?” you asked with a quirk of an eyebrow.

He gave you a toothy grin.

“Absolutely.”

He didn’t release you, nor you him, despite the blue of the sky having faded to ginger and blushing violet. Rose-gold sunlight graced the tree tops. Once gentle shadows were now hard-edged and inky.

You liked the heat radiating from under his thin t-shirt and all the evidence he was alive. He’d survived. You had as well. He must’ve had a similar idea, because he surveyed you with loving eyes.

You swayed.

“Let’s go, Muffin Man.”

He groaned and let his head flop back.

“I swear to God, that’s adorable when we were high, but you cannot say that in front of our friends.”

“Not even—”

His head shot up.

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” you said with an exaggerated pout.

“Oh, well, please continue, sweet lady.”

“I was going to say, not even—” You imitated his dramatics as you said, “The Muffin of Demonic Charm!?”

He laughed. “I only like the ‘muff’ part of that.”

You backed away with a giggle, sticking out your tongue. His hands went to the sides of his head, pointer fingers out, and stuck his tongue out at you.

You said, “You won’t get any part of that out here.”

He fluttered the tip of his tongue.

“Tempting, but no.”

He spread the sport coat and posed like a centerfold to entice, hip canting to the side and his chest arched.

“Oh, if only I had a camera, baby.” You found the forgotten keys amongst the pine needles and dead leaves. “You’d make Goodwill a lot of money in their annual calendar,” you said and tossed the keys at him.

He straightened to catch them, juggling them to his chest.

“I’ll have you know—” He swept his empty hand down his body. “—all of this is House of Harrington.”

“How chic.”

“Very exclusive.” He pointed to the corner of the van for you to help gather the netting. “Not just anyone can say they’ve worn Steve Harrington’s tighty whities.”

You laughed and lifted the corner of the netting.

Together, you uncovered the van. Eddie gathered the netting and kicked it under the thicket before going to the passenger door to open it for you.

“I’ll drop you off at your car.”

You thanked him and climbed into the stuffy van. The scent of old smoke, warmed plastic, and upholstery seasoned with boy invaded your nose. You rolled the window down halfway after he closed the door.

With a glance at the vacant back, you thought of Corroded Coffin’s equipment there. You’d seen little of Jeff, Gareth, or Dougie at school. You hadn’t asked Eddie if they still played at The Hideout. You hadn’t asked him about a lot of things. There was so much you’d missed since New Year’s.

Eddie opened the driver-side door and hopped in. He made a face, then rolled down his window.

He turned all the air-system controls off, saying, “Cross your fingers she’ll cooperate.”

He shoved the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine sputtered and whined and chugged until something aligned, and it roared to life. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, throwing you a laugh.

You smiled back and fastened your seatbelt.

He shifted into Reverse and maneuvered away from the thicket. The tires spun in the layer of pine needles and budding grass before finding traction. The van lurched forward. You hung onto the seatbelt and prayed the van wouldn’t get stuck. It was too old for off-roading. He steered onto the ruts, tires kicking up dirt as they bit into the earth.

Your prayers were unnecessary or maybe something out there listened to you, because a minute later the van was on the pavement and next to your car.

“Your noble steed, milady.”

With a smirk, you said, “I thought that was you, stud.”

He leaned in, eyes sparking.

“I’m at your beck and call.”

You bent close enough to feel his breath on your lips.

“Get me home, sir, and I’ll show my appreciation for your fealty.”

His eyes darted to your lips.

“I can do that.”

Tilting your head as if to kiss him, you said, “I know you can,” and moved away to unfasten your seatbelt.

His head drooped.

He looked at you when you opened the door, expression amused.

You said, “Don’t go too fast, honey, wouldn’t want to get pulled over.”

“Depends on who’s doing the pulling over, sweetheart.”

You smiled, shaking your head at the cheesy line, and left the van. His attention stayed on you as you crossed to your car, like fingers trailing down your spine.

Once in the car, you made a U-turn and followed him to Steve’s. Eddie was something of a lead-foot, but you could keep up easily. He parked in front of the garage at Steve’s. You stopped next to him and locked up.

He met you at your trunk and offered his elbow.

“Not too fast for you?”

You snaked your arm around his bicep.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He hummed in agreement as he walked with you to the front door.

“Um, I know this is out of left field,” you said, “but I thought about the rest of the band. I hadn’t seen them at school, except in the hallways sometimes. Like, I don’t share any classes with Jeff or Dougie.”

“Last time I saw them was during the last Hellfire meeting.”

“Maybe you should call them? Now that your name’s cleared, it’s safe for all of you.”

“I don’t know…”

“They’re probably worried about you.” You squeezed his arm. “And unlike me, they can’t use magic to track down your ass.”

He bobbed his head once.

“I’ll call them tomorrow.”

“Good.”

You stopped him before he could make his way to the front door. He turned to you, gaze searching.

The blue hour painted him in shades of purple. Warm light from the porch sconces and nearby kitchen window caught in the waves of his hair. He was a fallen angel, halo stripped yet seraphic nature undeniable.

That felt like a line from someone more imaginative. You were no poet, though you wished you were.

Softly, he asked, “What is it?”

You shook off the thought and grinned.

“Nothing, I just… I just like you like this.”

He glanced at himself before giving you a wry look.

“In borrowed clothes with dirty hands?”

“No, butthead.” You jostled him by the arm. “I like you here — with me.”

That wry look disappeared. His eyes rounded, earnest and affectionate. He drew you in with a gentle hand on your nape and kissed you. His lips were tender on yours in silent relief, as though you’d surprised him. While he’d withdrawn after Vecna’s defeat, and you’d been uncertain about a future with him, you still loved him. That had never changed.

You threw yourself into the kiss, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Blood rushed through your veins. Your cheeks burned as the kiss deepened. His other hand clutched your hip to guide you against him.

It was easy to lose yourself with him. It was easy to love him, and he made it easy to let yourself be loved.

He cradled the back of your head like you were priceless. He held you like he couldn’t get close enough. The mark on your neck was a brand of sweet possession.

At an inevitable pause, you said, “Let’s go inside.”

“I can’t sit through dinner.” With a small shake of his head, he said, “I can’t wait.”

“Then we won’t. We’ll go straight to your room.”

“What about…?” He gave you a meaningful look. “Condoms?”

“I got it covered.”

“Sounds like I’ll be saying that later.”

You laughed, playfully shoving at his shoulder. He looked pleased with himself and trotted to the front door. Hand on the doorknob, he glanced back to make sure you were behind him.

You whispered, “Wait,” and drew energy up your body. It had been so long since you’d obfuscated your presence to sneak around, you’d nearly forgotten it as an option. You laced your fingers with Eddie’s, including him in the silent bubble you created.

“Keep close and avoid making too much noise.”

He nodded before easing the door open.

A top-40s station played on the radio in the sunroom. Robin and Steve’s voices floated from the kitchen. They remained out of sight even after you gently shut the door.

You directed Eddie to the stairs and remained a tread behind him as you both climbed. Once on the second floor, you ushered him to his room. He left the door ajar and lights off. You padded to your room, pocketed the couple of condom packets you’d stolen days ago from Steve’s nightstand, and slunk to Eddie’s room.

He sat at the head of the bed, blanket hiding his lower half with his t-shirt covering the upper. You closed the door and locked it. By the meager light coming through the window, you found the nearest lamp and clicked it on.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah, sure, fine, why?”

The sport coat and track pants draped across the armchair. The sneakers and socks lay jumbled by the bathroom door.

“Just asking.”

You crossed the room and set the condom packets on the nightstand at Eddie’s side. He remained motionless, hands hidden in the rumpled sheets. You perched at the edge of the bed while he stared at the condoms.

Something was off. He should be flirting or reaching for you. What had happened between kissing you, saying he couldn’t wait to be with you, and now? Most guys would be naked and panting like a dog for sex.

With a minute shrug, you said, “If you don’t want to…”

“No! No, I do. Trust me, I do.”

“But…?”

He exhaled.

“I don’t… You should know, I don’t look the same.”

“I’ve seen you in only a towel. I’m aware of what you look like.”

“That’s not up close and personal.”

“You think I’m going to run screaming from some scars?”

He said, “Look, baby, I’m a horror show under this,” and plucked at the t-shirt.

You let out an exasperated sound. “Are you trying to push me away? Again?”

“No—”

“Do you not want me?”

“Oh my god, I want you.” He scooted to you and cupped your face. “I’ve wanted you for weeks. Months!”

“Well, me too!” You held one of his wrists. “Anything you got under there is gonna work for me, okay?”

He scanned your face, gaze roaming from your eyes to your lips and back.

The protective blessing you’d placed in his handkerchief had failed you — and him. Your magic had been nothing compared to Vecna’s power. Eddie had pushed out the hivemind on his own. He was so much stronger than he gave himself credit for.

Through a constricted throat, you said, “Your blood soaked through your clothes.” Your eyes pricked with tears. “You di-died in front of me.”

Eddie leaned in, crushing your lips together. You forgot about tears and the feel of his blood thick between your fingers. He tilted your head. His lips, puffy and slick, glided across yours.

“I’m here,” he said, and kissed you again. “I’m right here.”

You kissed him in reply, letting your greed and relief guide you.

You shimmied your jacket off your shoulders. His hands went to your arms to help tug it off. You grinned into the kiss when the fabric caught on your forearms. He huffed, amused, before yanking at the sleeves. You shook your arms free and flung the jacket.

Planting a knee on the bed, you crowded him back onto the pillows. He put his hands at your waist and pulled you onto him. You straddled his hips, the linens bunching between you.

He hauled you up his body to tuck his face against your throat. He mouthed and bit at your neck, all hesitation thrown to the side. You encouraged him with a whimper and fingers gripping his hair. His soft lips left a fiery line as his hands grabbed your ass.

You arched your back. Your ribs pumped with every rapid breath.

“Wanna eat you alive,” he said. “Fuck, you taste so good.”

“Want you, too.”

Teeth scraped under your jaw, catching on the sore hickey there. You gasped, yet refused to shy away. Let him bite and draw blood. Let it hurt. You could heal yourself.

With a groan, he dug his teeth midway down your neck. The sting made your spine melt. His palms slid up your back, taking your shirt with them. Then he sucked, and you felt it between your legs.

You ground against him — as much as you could through the layers of fabric. You needed to feel his heat, taste his skin and scars. Because he was alive, and you were in his bed.

When he released your skin, sensation beyond pain, beyond heat, bloomed through your neck. It rang in your ears, fisted a groan from your lungs, stole your strength. He folded his rangy arms around you and grazed his lips over the spit-wet spot.

You closed your eyes with a hum.

He kissed you from jaw to cheek. He even kissed your chin. You curled to catch his lips in a languid kiss. It went aggressive in a handful of seconds. You couldn’t tell who set it in motion, but you’d follow it through with sucking on the tip of his tongue and biting his lip. He shivered and squirmed and held onto your waist.

You broke the kiss to leave him reeling.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?”

He nodded, eyes half-closed.

“Then let me take care of what’s mine.”

Again, he nodded.

You directed Eddie’s hands to the pillow, letting your fingertips linger on the silky insides of his forearms. His t-shirt sleeves slipped up to expose scarring on his upper arms. You pressed your lips to the delicate scar tissue.

He inhaled sharply.

You whispered, “It’s okay.”

He closed his eyes with a brief nod.

You kissed the scar on his jaw and the faint one at the side of his neck. He angled his chin to expose himself. In reward, you kissed his lips. His muscles unspooled. You brushed your thumbs over his cheekbones.

“I got you.”

“I know.”

You wiggled down his torso and sat up. Oh-so slowly, you skimmed your hands under his t-shirt to his sides. The jagged edge of a bigger patch on his torso peeked from under the t-shirt’s hem. The uneven texture of the scars didn’t feel ugly or rough. They were interesting, and you wanted to see them.

He clapped his hands over yours.

You met his uneasy gaze and waited, keeping your expression open. While you could offer platitudes or compliments, they’d ring hollow. He knew how you felt and how you viewed him. It was only a matter of time for him to gain confidence — or at least trust you.

His hold relaxed, then gradually drifted away.

You followed the taper of his torso until you held his undulating ribs. With the t-shirt bunched at his pecs, you could assess the havoc the bats had wrought. Beyond the patch on his lower torso was a line of bites and healed sutures on his left. A wedge of pink scar tissue defaced the right side of his ribs. Between the larger patches were claw and teeth marks.

You traced them with a light touch before looking at his face. His teeth dug into his lip as his gaze jumped from between your bodies to the side to your face and back again.

“So, this is the horror show you promised?” you asked with a playful look.

He frowned, mouth opening.

Before he spoke, you asked, “Can you feel my touch?”

He wet his lips and nodded.

“Yeah?”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

“You don’t—”

“No, I don’t whatever. I’m not grossed out.”

To prove your point, you bent to kiss the bite mark on his sternum. The satiny, pitted skin wasn’t disgusting. It was just skin — that smelled like him. You nudged the t-shirt higher to get at his left nipple. You teased it with your tongue, and he stilled. You pinched it between your teeth, and he arched against your lips. You soothed the tiny hurt with a kiss, and he gasped.

You inched the t-shirt higher until you propelled his arms up. He took over and snatched the t-shirt over his head. He dropped it beside the bed as you caressed his chest.

Only fragments of his demon-head and black-widow tattoos were visible around a darker scar. You followed the scar’s border with your fingers and pouted at the loss of the tattoos. Not because they were the most beautiful you’d ever seen, but because they’d been Eddie’s.

“You can have these redone.”

“Nah, I’d rather get a cover-up.”

You smiled before bending to pepper kisses on the scar.

“That’s going to be a big cover-up, honey.” You kissed your way from the scar to the dip of his throat. “Maybe I can hold your hand through it.”

He tilted his head back with a soft groan. You angled his chin to the side and sucked at the hot skin of his neck, giving him a faint hickey. You kissed your way up to his ear and sucked on the lobe.

With a near growl, he said, “God, I can’t—” and pulled you into a burning kiss.

You opened for him as he teased your tongue with his own. He kissed your hot cheeks and your forehead. His hands surged down your sides, then under your shirt. You straightened onto your knees and stripped off your shirt and bra. Your nipples puckered in the cooler air.

His hips jerked as his hands gripped your hips. He stared at your chest and licked his lips.

Instead of asking if he wanted to touch, because that seemed obvious, you bent and guided his hands to your breasts. You encouraged him to support them, squeeze them, while you watched his flushed face.

He circled your nipples with his thumbs, his touch graceful yet electrifying. A feeling like goosebumps trickled through your gut and had your thighs tensing. You curved into his caress in encouragement. Your underwear’s saturated cotton grazed your pussy, and you wished it was his cock.

Eddie held your ribs and rose to bury his face between your breasts. He mouthed at the valley between them and kissed the beginning swells. You held the back of his head. He sucked at one nipple, then the other. That goosebump feeling intensified until you were a quivering mess.

He undid your jeans, and your eyes popped open. He looked at you through his pretty lashes. There was a voracity in his dark gaze that said only you could slake his need — and you wanted to be the only one to do it, too.

“This okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Y-yeah.”

With no hesitation, his hand slithered between your stomach and underwear. It burned a line down the curve of your belly through your pubic hair. His middle and ring fingers glided between your wet folds. You gripped his shoulders, hard muscle moved under his skin.

The first long stroke to your clit had your nails digging into his skin and sucking air between your teeth. You couldn’t stop the tiny sound you made. He nibbled at your collarbone, teeth scraped your skin. You leaned your weight against him as your watery legs trembled. His free arm held you upright by the waist.

Rather than circle your clit, he kept stroking. The first wash of pleasure fueled you to move your hips counter to his fingers. His calluses pulled at the hood of your clit, then drove it down. He pressed harder, sparking a sensation deeper than your clit.

Your focus narrowed to your rising orgasm and the thought of his cock pumping deep inside your juicy cunt. You wanted to feel his strong hands restraining you, his sweat-slick skin on yours, and his lush mouth between your legs.

An animalistic keen left your throat at the jumble of images. Your heart hammered in your ears. You rode that knife-edge of climax. It was right there.

“C’mon, baby, fuck those fingers.”

You moaned, doing as he ordered, until ecstasy forced its way through you — so hard, so deep. The internal throb of it stole your strength as it went on and on. You crumbled, putting more of your weight on him. He held you without protest.

“Can feel it,” he said, petting your oversensitive clit.

You writhed in his arms and begged for something you couldn’t put words to. He kissed your throat as he lay still pressure on your clit. Your cunt pulsed strong enough that your hips moved of their own volition.

After a moment, he pulled his hand from your underwear and brought his fingers to his mouth. You sat on his thighs to watch him suck at his wet fingers. He hummed in satisfaction. Your cunt pulsed one last time, as though it hadn’t had enough.

Maybe it hadn’t.

He met your gaze and offered his flushed lips for a kiss. You cradled the back of his head and kissed him with unexpected fervor. You tasted the tang of your own come on his tongue. He held your face, sticky fingers on your cheek, and pushed into the kiss. You sucked your flavor off his bottom lip, pulling a moan from his chest.

“Take the rest off,” he said, falling onto his back.

“You too.”

He smirked.

“Not much more to go.”

You let your eyes track from his chest to the wrinkled lump of blanket covering his groin. Despite knowing, intimately, what was underneath, getting him naked continued to be a thrill.

“Good.”

He blushed, and his smirk softened.

You climbed off him to sit at the edge of the bed. You untied your Docs and wrenched them off. Your socks followed. Eddie kicked the blanket away. While he wiggled out of his briefs, you hooked your thumbs in your underwear and jeans, rising enough from the bed to slide them down your hips and off your legs.

You pivoted on a hip to find him reaching for a condom. His eyes went wide with a question. Or like you’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t. You bent a leg on the bed and plucked a condom from the pile before he could.

“You know,” you said, holding the condom like a cigarette between your fingers. “I think I need to get on the pill.” You got on all fours. “Or get an IUD, or something.”

Sounding on tenterhooks, he asked, “Why’s that?”

You crawled between his legs. He spread his thighs to make room for you.

“So I can have you raw.”

He let out a breath, cheeks reddening further, and wrapped a hand around the base of his cock. A thick bead of precome pearled at its slit.

“Would you like that, honey?”

“Shit, you know I would.”

You gave him a playful wink before hunching to lick the tip of his cock. He groaned through a smile, squeezing his cock. You savored the salty taste of him.

You tapped at the back of his hand.

“Let go.”

“I swear, I’m gonna blow in, like, ten seconds flat.”

You sat on your calves with a self-satisfied shrug. He needed to feel as good as he’d made you feel. If that happened quickly, that was fine with you because—

“We got all night,” you said, and tore open the condom packet.

He still hadn’t released his hold.

“Eddie, honey, let go.”

“Just—” He swallowed. “Get it halfway down first.”

You pulled out the lubed condom and discarded the wrapper. He bit his lip, looking as though you were about to perform surgery on him. Keeping your touch light and at the minimum, you pinched the tip of the condom and rolled it over his shaft until it met his fingers.

He shuddered with eyes closed and a crease between his brows.

You said, “Let go.”

He exhaled and thumped his fists to the bed. You wasted no time in rolling the condom the rest of the way down. He panted and keened. His cock twitched in your hand, but you wiped your palms on the sheets before he could embarrass himself.

With a gentle shush, you caressed his hips and ran your thumbs in the shallow groove of muscle on either side. You kept at it until his breathing slowed and tense thighs relaxed.

You maneuvered your knees on either side of him and balanced yourself with a hand on his chest.

“Ready?”

When he nodded, you reached between your bodies to brace his erection. You were so ready, so wet, for this. Even the feeling of the condom didn’t turn you off. You found your hole and eased onto his thick cock, inch by slick inch.

Once you settled, you had to give yourself a moment. You sat with hands on your thighs while you adjusted to the fullness. He felt perfect and delicious. You looked at Eddie to see him watching you, bottom lip between his teeth and fingers digging into the mattress. Emotion filled his bright eyes.

You wanted to soothe him, but if you moved, it would set off a chain reaction he’d been trying to suppress.

“Don’t think.”

Through gritted teeth, he said, “Trying not to.”

If you didn’t take the initiative, he would torture himself for the rest of the evening. You rotated your pelvis. The simple movement made you gasp. It had been so long, and you were so eager for this with him. Under you, he choked on a desperate sound.

“I can’t wait to feel you without any barriers,” you said, rotating your pelvis again. “Feel you come deep inside me.”

He grabbed your hips to propel your movements.

“I’ll fill you up,” he said.

You planted your hands on his chest with a groan and rode him like he wanted you to. You rose only to sink down a second later, never letting him slip out. His hands glided up your sides. With a hum, you encouraged him to touch you — touch you anywhere, everywhere. You couldn’t get enough of his cock, of his nimble hands, of his body tight against yours.

Your need ramped to a boiling fever, some thrilling sickness. You bent to kiss him, sucking on his lip and tongue, as you rolled your hips in a frantic rhythm. Your skin slapped against his, but it wasn’t enough. You hid your face in his shoulder and whimpered when you found no relief.

His arms looped across your back, as if you’d try to escape. Like you could get away from this desire.

You stilled in time for him to roll to the side and on top of you. He pushed his cock deep. You mewled, your thighs stretched around his hips.

His gaze roved over your features.

“I’m gonna fill your sweet pussy.”

You nodded.

He said, “I’ll make you come.”

You closed your eyes as you imagined it. Hands all over you, gripping you, going between your legs, holding you steady as he worked your body. Your cunt clenched at the image.

“Because you’re mine, too.”

You nodded once more.

He adjusted his stance, knees dipping into the mattress. He grasped one of your shoulders as you held onto his arms with shaking hands.

“Look at me and tell me you love me.”

You stared into his eyes. It was all written out there for you to see: no denial, no hiding, and no more doubt.

“I love you.”

He caught your lips and kissed you so thoroughly you forgot anything beyond him. His hold tightened. His hips minutely rocked. His heavy cock kindled that heat hidden inside.

You moaned against his lips and pulled at him. He needed to move. You’d been wanting him for what felt like years. You’d both gone through hell, seen oblivion, and returned to each other’s side. You needed him to move — now.

He buried his face in your neck, lips against the marks he’d left. The rocking of his hips descended into grinding, then full-out thrusting. He fucked you hard. His cock dragged at the underside of your aching clit. The bed springs whined every time he bottomed out.

You couldn’t catch your breath as his thrusts became desperate. He yanked at your hair to bare your throat. His long hair — that smelled of your shampoo — veiled your humid face.

He kissed his marks and murmured something you couldn’t make out. You agreed anyway. He groaned in reply, driving you down while he thrust up. The sheets stuck to the sweat on your back. His hips snapped forward over and over, his cock ramming deep. You tried your best to move with him, but he was too fast.

Then you couldn’t move at all. Your belly quivered and your thighs tensed. His cock was too much. You strained against him, with him, until that fever broke. You shook in his arms. Your jaw clenched. Orgasm burned through you like a geyser. It sizzled up your spine. You couldn’t catch your breath. Hot tears trickled over your temples in rapturous agony.

Eddie fucked you through it, holding you tight. Your cunt throbbed and clamped around his pistoning length. He cursed in needy growls until he seized, breathless. His voice cracked. His thrusts slowed, yet remained fierce, as his cock pulsed with each thrust.

He stuttered a jumble of cut-off thoughts, all of them flattering and loving. You grinned and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, hugging his sides with your thighs. He mouthed at your neck lazily.

After a tranquil moment, he kissed you, gentle yet demanding. You felt him — every bit of him. His lips tasted of salt. His hands sheltered and cradled. His gaze warmed you. You could only respond in kind. He melted as you smoothed his hair away from his flushed, glowing face.

He kissed you one more time before steadying the condom and slipping out of you.

You relaxed, allowing your tired limbs to sink to the bed. He rolled to the side and dropped the condom on the heap of his dirty clothes. You wrinkled your nose, but didn’t comment. He flopped beside you and pillowed his head on a bent arm. The heating system kicked on. Your sweat cooled as you contemplated getting out of bed. Instead, you tucked your feet between the folds of the blanket.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie said.

You hummed in acknowledgement and glanced at him.

“I was thinking, and you might not be into this, but you want to go to LA? With me?”

You stared at the ceiling.

Los Angeles: broken glass glittering in gutters, live music every night, fluttering neon, cars with their tops down, a bland apartment with a mattress on the floor, your feet warmed by sunshine as you read the newspaper’s entertainment section, Eddie writing songs at the kitchen table.

A smile spread across your face.

“Hell yeah.”

[asteriskism]

who wins the psychological problems olympics, betty or cheryl?

oooh tough one! cousin v. cousin battle

to me it really depends on what you consider as their psychological problems. are we talking about how much they suffered and what psychological problems they hypothetically would end up with? or are we talking about the way the given traumas present themselves through the characters in the show?

interestingly enough despite the show running from the late 2010s to the early 2020s, we don’t get an actual mention of any dsm-certified mental illness until archie starts seeing dead soldiers post-The War and gets diagnosed with ptsd. (i don’t even remember if that was said outright but i do remember in s6 they use armchair psych terms in reference to archie’s sexual abuse from s1).

anyway a case could be made for either; our introduction to betty is of her being reminded by her mother to Take Her Pills without any later reference to what those pills might be or why she was taking them; i think it was a 50s-housewife-valium habit she was trying to pre-install in betty just to make sure she didn’t end up like polly. that being said, however, i do think that betty has, AT LEAST, some garden-variety anxiety disorder/some other mild form of clinically diagnosable mental illness - what with the pills and physical manifestation of unconscious self-harm. on the trauma end, factor in hal’s grooming of her to carry on their serial-killer legacy and the memories she repressed of her childhood, plus the fact that she was a victim of every major riverdale event (black hood, gng + THE FARM, stonewall prep death fakeout, polly’s disappearance, TBK, percival and rivervale) not to mention alice’s ways and behaviors that she was subject to. still, nothing about betty changes. the black hood and then TBK become representative of her “darkness” and what she could do if she “gave in”, but that’s always been like betty’s narrative thread, that if she ever Let Herself Go you would see Terrible Things Happen. so really, post-all this trauma, what’s really changed about betty? the answer is nothing! despite having endured ALL of this, betty remains the girl-next-door, albeit with a different job (but still an extension of her childhood interests!) whatever you want to call it - shoddy CW character work, jughead’s fucked up narrative keeping her in the girl-next-door role, or even meta commentary and the implication of Cycles in this Town, betty doesn’t change. she still wants to investigate, she still wants to date archie, she’s still the only “sane” one left. she has all this trauma, all these things that happen to her, and yet they exist outside of Betty as a being.

cheryl on the other hand has her traumas stacking like jenga. obviously her family was very much steeped in gothic horror from the jump, because even though riverdale is set in 2017, they did not bother modernizing the kind of strange context provided for the blossoms, and mind you, this is before the ghosts and the transgender twin-dolls and witches were all apparent. like from the very start there is this weird anachronism of the blossoms, who are like holding onto wealth from early colonial times and have like a house built like a crypt but also a teenage daughter who is the head cheerleader at the local public highschool (speaking of, why did cheryl and jason not attend stonewall prep?). not to say that maple syrup barons (?) don’t exist in today’s day and age, moreso that cheryl and her family contain weird multitudes. like what i’m trying to say is that cheryl’s original characterization as the mean rich girl struck by tragedy is the combination of two tropes at once - both regina george and jane eyre at once, but they exist like, separately from each other. unlike betty, however, over time the two become intertwined - cheryl hosts highschool parties at her gothic mansion. she crushes on a girl and sends her a pig’s heart . and as for the things she’s suffered. well. the weird insular nature of the blossom family makes it that her best friend and only confidante is her twin, who dies a violent death at the hands of her father, who then commits suicide, leaving her with her mother who hates her. this, then followed by the discovery of her own repressed homosexuality, plus her mother’s rejection of it, attempted murder of her and her subsequent conversion therapy at the soqm — the stakes for cheryl just keep stacking. this is also only around season 2 - we aren’t even talking about her extended family that come to visit, her stint with THE FARM, jason’s taxidermied body in the living room, the insanity that is nana rose. abigail blossom, julian blossom, the Haunting of Thistlehouse…

cheryl literally attempts suicide at the end of season one. like actively, you know what i mean? I think the key difference between cheryl and betty is that despite them literally having the same hereditary emotional abuse issues in their respective families (family?), betty is given a “normal” to return to. if her house is insane at any given moment, she can run to one of the other core four, and they help each other cope through other various insane behaviors (ie. investigating murders and leaving to cabins in the woods and whatever) and you know what they say! a problem shared among a sexually-charged almost-polycule is a burden halved! even that time penelope and hal trapped them in the woods, they had each other to go through the trials with. veronica drank poison for her. “as friends”!

on the flip side, every day of cheryl’s life is quite almost like that time the corefour polycule was trapped in the woods in that penelope tormented cheryl for the entire time they lived together. no friends, no one who knows her reality EXCEPT jason, who gets murdered by their father. cheryl never really had a normal or even an IDEA of normal to return to, because once she lost jason, realistically she had nothing left to live for. of COURSE people thought she was fucking her brother, the toxic codependency is intrinsic to cheryl’s personality and up until jason dies, i doubt she was known as anything but the girl obsessed with her brother. jason is replaced by ronnie is replaced by archie is replaced by josie is finally replaced by toni, who then is subject to all of cheryl’s insanity. cheryl, who doesn’t actually recognize that keeping her dead brother’s body taxidermied in a wheel chair is not “normal” behaviour, because she has no idea what normal is thanks to her parents’ wealth shielding them from both CPS and her peers, meaning she doesn’t have a baseline for “normal”. if alice cooper did one thing right as a mother, it’s that she was so bent on suburban normalcy for her family that it helped betty realise she was facing emotional abuse and that she needed to get out/confront alice, which is what she does several times. the blossoms’ wealth made it easier for them to isolate cheryl entirely meaning that she, now, is learning how to function thanks to toni and occasionally betty and veronica. betty can re-set every time something bad happens. cheryl just keeps stacking her stuff.

tldr: cheryl wins. by a long shot. the girl was born to be mentally ill, unfortunately. suits her though!

[deadpresidents]

"In appearance and deportment, the President recalled to Washington an earlier federal period. His clean-shaven face, in a day of prevalent whiskers and mustaches, was an anachronism that matched the demeanor of an old-fashioned statesman. McKinley was gracious but not informal, colloquial without familiarity; and, so far as was compatible with the dignity of his office, he dispensed with ostentation and parade. Avoiding the lax and desultory protection offered by the Secret Service Bureau, he walked freely through the streets without a guard. Washington, recently unaccustomed to the sight of a President on foot, applauded the advent of plain citizen to the White House.

McKinley's personal habits were lightly touched by the transition to the Presidency. He did not smoke in public, or permit himself to be photographed with a cigar. He altered his signature, which had been 'Wm. McKinley' since his father's death, and wrote his Christian name in full. Though McKinley never changed his conventional style of dress, he had a larger and more expensive wardrobe than before. He ordered a number of snowy piqué waistcoats, often sported a vivid pink carnation in his buttonhole, and took to wearing his reading glasses suspended on a neat black cord around his neck. He shone with Sinclair's expert valeting and the ministrations of the barber who periodically visited the mansion to cut and treat his hair, and sometimes to shave him. The gloss of grooming befitted McKinley's position, and also reflected the new ease of his circumstances. His financial worries were over. A salary of $50,000 a year was opulence which gave scope to his naturally openhanded disposition. The President was generous to his family dependents, and to charitable and patriotic causes. He lavished finery and jewels on his wife, celebrating her first birthday in the White House with the gift of a diamond brooch; and indulged in the purchase of a fine team or bays and a handsome carriage for their drives. The 'cuisine á la Canton' was by no means frugal, and many guests were gathered around the bountifully laden table. Benjamin Harrison lamented that the expense of White House entertainment did not permit the President to save money; but, without stinting the official hospitality or his own liberal inclinations, McKinley was able every year to lay aside a comfortable sum, which was invested for him by Myron Herrick or [Vice President] Garret Hobart.

An exceptional confinement was required of the President, and McKinley started out with a resolution to keep himself fit by taking outdoor exercise. For a while, he had a saddle horse in the stable; but after a few attempts to renew his pleasure in riding, he gave it up for good. A schedule of constitutionals, though more persistently followed, was gradually curtailed in length and frequency. McKinley was finally reduced to snatching odd moments for a stroll in the [White House] grounds. On fine afternoons, he usually took a drive with his wife. He went to church on Sundays. McKinley had come to Washington with a Bible text shining in his mind: '...what does the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?' He kept his faith alight by public worship. He attended the Metropolitan Methodist Church, joining unostentatiously in the service like any other devout parishioner."

-- Margaret Leech, painting a remarkably detailed portrait of President William McKinley's personality and life in the White House, in her Pulitzer Prize-winning 1959 biography, In the Days of McKinley

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Tristan Snell at The Big Picture:

For all the analyses and think pieces on why Donald Trump won and how the Democrats are doomed, the vast majority of such commentaries completely overlooked the most fundamental change affecting politics in America — and indeed, around the world. The deeper paradigm shift is not about politics per se. It is about media. It propelled Donald Trump and JD Vance to national office — and it is the primary reason why they won. By contrast, Joe Biden was the last president of the 20th Century and its TV Era, and if Democrats want to elect the next president, they will need to adapt to the new Digital Era. Immediately. Joe Biden using a teleprompter in 2024. It went from a standard indispensable tool of the TV Era politician to a point of criticism and weakness.

The internet killed TV

The TV Era is now ending. It began in 1951: the first-ever national live TV event was, fittingly, a presidential address, from Harry Truman. Only nine years later, TV had arguably swung a national election, with the first-ever live televised presidential debate in 1960 between JFK and Nixon.

Since then, American politics has been dominated by the institutions of TV, the set pieces we know so well: presidential debates, White House press conferences, the occasional primetime presidential address, the national party conventions, the Sunday morning talk shows, the exclusive interviews, the late-night talk shows, hosting Saturday Night Live, cable news talking head shows, and the ritual of election nights with their live reporting of results. TV forced politics to adapt, to reshape itself. Before TV, a national party convention was a series of closed-door meetings to horse trade and cut deals, followed by marching and singing in the convention hall — it was a messy, turbulent process in which the candidate was chosen right there in a four-day period. We now think of that as an anachronism: the dreaded “contested convention.” Why? Because in 1968, there were literal fistfights on the floor of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago — and it was all broadcast on live TV. It made the Democrats look fractured and out of control, helping lead to Nixon’s eventual victory that year. Since then, every national convention has looked the same: choreographed down to the millisecond, nothing left to chance, the outcome already decided months before, all to make a shiny perfect surface for the TV cameras.

[...] Digital and social media, however, are fundamentally different — in a way that most of the establishment still has not truly absorbed (1). YouTube and TikTok are not just TV on a smaller screen. Social is a different medium entirely, a successor to TV, a newly evolved species, overthrowing many of the conventions of TV and film. It values authenticity over artifice. The audience is supposed to see everything. Nothing is hidden. We watch creators get up in the morning, watch them in their cars, watch them go grocery shopping, watch them put on their makeup. They speak directly to the camera, as though they are addressing us directly. There is no fourth wall at all.

This also extends to genres that are not quite all the way on the social end of the spectrum — like podcasts. A talk show on cable news is a highly structured affair, with a strict schedule, commercial breaks, and a teleprompter for the host. The host’s words are scripted and edited in advance. The show runs exactly an hour and starts and ends at the same time every time. Compare this with a podcast, where there is often little to no scripting at all, far less editing, a lot of rambling and tangents, and a show time that can vary widely and run far beyond an hour — and yet the listeners and viewers love the format, because it feels like the hosts and guests are hanging out with you having a conversation. The social/TV differences are even visible in genres that are still technically on the TV side of the spectrum — like reality shows. Reality shows exhibit many of the same characteristics as digital and social media — they are less scripted, less rehearsed, with a higher value placed on authenticity and raw emotion, with less of a fourth wall. Yes, they have a professional camera crew following them, and the shows are heavily edited — but just as on a YouTube vlog, you see (most of) the cast members when they first wake up, and you see them put their makeup on. It is thus not surprising that so many reality show stars have done exceptionally well by crossing over to become social media stars (“influencers,” as the establishment business and media worlds call them, condescendingly (2)); they have built massive followings on social platforms like Instagram (where they make branded content just like other creators), and it now seems to be required that they all have podcasts.

Yes, the shows are on TV, but a reality show star has far more in common with a social media star than with a “Hollywood” celebrity from traditional TV or film. Whether by coincidence or not, reality shows first exploded into mass popularity in 2000 and 2001 — just as broadband internet became widespread, and just before the first social media platforms emerged (MySpace in 2003, Facebook in 2004, YouTube in 2005, Twitter in 2006). People wanted to watch unfiltered “real” people on screen, and social media technology allowed them to do just that, without the intermediary of a large production studio. Then once the iPhone was first released in 2007, the revolution was on. But if it’s a revolution, why has it taken so long? Many technological paradigm shifts are not instantaneous but generational — dripping slowly into a society over a 30-year period. We are now roughly in year 23 of a 30-year revolution in retail, for example, moving from brick-and-mortar to e-commerce. And we are now roughly in year 17 or 18 of a 30-year revolution in media.

The internet killed TV-centric politics, too (3)

There were early signs of the changes to come, of course. Barack Obama’s 2008 presidential campaign was the first to make heavy use of Twitter and Facebook (and the first to inspire viral videos by YouTubers), and it was part of his appeal to younger, more tech-savvy voters, especially given that Obama was 48 at the time, and his opponent John McCain was 72. But the biggest flashpoints of that election cycle were still all tied up with the major institutions of the TV Era — Obama’s massive rallies and incandescent speeches, Sarah Palin’s disastrous one-on-one interviews with Katie Couric on CBS, and Tina Fey’s hilariously perfect spoofs of Palin on SNL. As wonderful as Obama’s speeches were, they were still scripted and read off of a teleprompter, just as politicians had been doing since 1952 when the device made its political debut at the Republican National Convention. Yet by the time Donald Trump announced his presidential run in 2015, the digital and social media revolution was in full swing (4), and Trump was weirdly positioned to take advantage of it.

Trump was never a TV Era politician, despite his old age. He was initially a creature of the tabloid newspapers — and someone who appeared on TV as a personality, a celebrity, being interviewed (and interviewees don’t have teleprompters; if their remarks seem canned, it’s because they’re often scripted in advance by PR handlers). Then, of course, he was a reality show star, with its more digital style and tone — and becoming a fairly early adopter of social media. Starting in 2011, Trump began to post more and more like a digital creator, with blunt, provocative takes rather than scripted promotions for his TV appearances. Trump never had to exist in the scripted paradigm of TV-centric politics, and he immediately shattered many of its rules once he began his run in 2015 — ranting, rambling, unscripted, unfiltered, unhinged, starting late and running way over schedule, often with no teleprompter or freelancing away from its prepared remarks, insulting whole segments of the population and tossing crude and violent remarks at rivals and reporters and audience members.

In the heart of the TV Era, Trump would have been utterly disqualified by the luminaries of the TV-centric media world, who would have deemed him not to be a serious candidate, lacking the temperament to be president. Even in the Late TV Era, this type of top-down rejection from the media was still a very real phenomenon as recently as Howard Dean in 2004 and then Palin in 2008. Yet in the Digital Era that had already dawned and was in full morning by 2015-16, Trump was able to circumvent the TV-centric media entirely — speaking directly to his growing cult of fans by using Twitter and Facebook.

There is often a sense that Trump himself did something to change or realign American politics when he won his first term in 2016 — but the change had already happened, to the media, and only then to politics. Trump was merely the first to benefit from it. [...]

The televised presidential debate has been a pillar of the TV Era, and last year featured perhaps the two most crushing defeats of any candidate ever: first, Joe Biden’s performance against Trump in June, and second, Kamala Harris’s drubbing of Trump in September. And yet a strange thing happened: the first debate followed the old TV Era rules, in which the media (and the political establishment in turn) so coalesced around the idea that Biden was too old to run for another term that he felt compelled to withdraw from the race; the second debate followed the new Digital Era rules, in which the voters did not seem to notice that Harris had pummeled Trump. Under the old rules, a victory like Harris’s over Trump would have led to Harris jumping out to a 10-point lead in the polls (and Trump’s refusal to debate Harris again would have been considered disqualifying by the media). Under the new rules, the polls did not budge, the media mostly refused to deem Trump unfit for office — despite being a 78-year-old convicted felon and indicted leader of the January 6 insurrection, falling asleep at his own criminal trial. And the voters who swung the election likely did not watch the debate at all. Democrats still follow the old rules, and so the old rules were applied to them. Republicans follow the new rules, and so the new rules were applied to them.

Kamala Harris was no exception to this. Harris ran an absolutely magnificent campaign — but mostly rooted in the TV Era and not the Digital Era. She had larger, more exuberant rallies; she and the Democrats threw a far better national convention; she so obliterated Trump in their one debate together that he refused to engage her in another. By any measure of the heart of the TV Era, Harris would have won handily. Yet we were in the Digital Era (or at best, the Late TV Era), and Harris came up through the ranks as a TV-Era politician. Her social media team did heroic work, and they wisely leaned into the online memes, the coconuts and the bratness of the halcyon days of summer — but Harris herself still used a teleprompter. No freelancing, no tangents. Everything was scripted and choreographed. Executed perfectly, mind you, but scripted and choreographed all the same — in sharp contrast to Trump’s rambling, tangential mess every time he got up to speak at a rally.

The future of Democratic politics in the Digital Era?

Joe Biden was, more than likely, the last president of the TV Era — and thus the last holdover from the 20th Century political and media world. But what does that mean for the future? Kamala Harris’s campaign slogan was “We’re Not Going Back,” but she was more right than she realized. We’re not going back: the TV Era is in its final evening phase. And while Republicans have fully embraced this, Democrats seem to resist it (5).

Republicans under Trump have focused much of their campaign energy on digital targeting of previously unlikely voters. Democrats have continued to pour the lion’s share of their campaign money into TV ads — the pièce de résistance of TV-Era politics. Republicans have spent anywhere from $500 million to $1 billion on building a digital media ecosystem in the last decade: this bankrolled Turning Point, CPAC, Prager, the Daily Wire, Newsmax, OAN, Real America’s Voice, RSBN, and more, building up hundreds of digital and social influencers such as Charlie Kirk, Candace Owens, and Ben Shapiro. If Fox News went off the air tomorrow, Republicans would be totally fine. If MSNBC went off the air tomorrow — or if it gets bought by new owners who turn it into another right-wing network — Democrats would suddenly lose their primary megaphone for reaching the faithful. If Democrats wish to be more competitive in national politics, this imbalance must be fixed, immediately, with a massive investment in digital and social media — and especially creators. Critically, when it comes to the Digital Era, it’s not just about building networks — today’s audiences want individuals, not institutions; personalities, not properties. In the TV Era, the network made the stars. In the Digital Era, the stars make the network.

But what about the politicians? Well, first, in the Digital Era, the distinction between a creator and a politician is collapsing. Trump and Vance were content creators before entering politics. The most visible down-ticket Republicans are who they are because of social media: Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebert never had to suffer through the indignity and invisibility of being backbenchers, because they could tweet their way to national notoriety. Matt Gaetz is now out of office; in the TV Era, his disgrace would have meant a complete exile from public life, but in the Digital Era, he simply slides over to hosting a show on OAN and continuing to post online to his millions of followers. Anna Paulina Luna literally went from being an influencer and activist for Turning Point to landing a Florida congressional seat. Democrats have their own Digital Era politicians — even if they’ve been inconsistent in embracing them — and they prove that left-leaning politics can absolutely reach an audience in this new world. For Exhibit A, we need look no further than Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.

Establishment Democrats and TV-Era media commentators mistakenly ascribe AOC’s appeal to her progressive politics — but this misses the mark. More of her appeal is her Digital Era persona and her skill as a social media creator: she is direct, blunt, brash, passionate, not just conversational but confessional (doing posts or livestreams from the hallways of the Capitol or relaxing on her sofa, like she’s just decided to FaceTime you). New York City politics is full of outspoken progressives like AOC; what catapulted her to national fame is her superpower as a creator, as a communicator in the Digital Era. It’s about her persona, not her policy positions. In a fascinating window into how Digital Era politics really work, AOC herself took to Instagram to ask a question: given that a sizable number of her congressional district constituents cast seemingly incongruous ballots that included votes for her and for Trump, why did they vote that way? A slew of respondents answered that they loved AOC because she’s not a typical or traditional politician, because she tells it like it is, because she supports people like them — and so does Trump, they said.

Voters in the Digital Era want authenticity and realness so badly that they will lunge at it even when it’s entirely fake. Yet the other critical thing to note here is that Digital-Era appeal is not about political positions or ideology per se (6). There is nothing inherently fascist or authoritarian or right-wing about digital and social media (7). And there is nothing inherently extremist about it, either, lest you see Trump and AOC or Bernie Sanders (8) and think that only far-right or far-left politics play well on social platforms. The Democrats’ other Digital Era rising stars — such as Jasmine Crockett or Katie Porter (9) — are more moderate than AOC. The important thing is personality, not policy.

Tristan Snell wrote a good story that the Democratic Party needs to move out of the TV Era and into the Digital Era for campaign strategy.

TV Era = TV-centric campaigning.

Digital Era = Digital-centric campaigning.

[kedreeva]

This year, I accomplished more than I thought I could and crossed off a trip on my bucket list. I'm a part of the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) and I do rapier fighting. I was really doubting my skill at the start of the year, but I've really come far since then. I got an award for my prowess and people are starting to notice me on the field. to hear other fighters say "you made me work for that win!" makes me wiggle with pride.

I also attended Pennsic, an event in PA that saw over 11k attendees this year. I've wanted to go ever since I found the SCA. and to attend Pennsic 50 felt magical. To learn about the big battles is one thing, but to be in it.....simply astounding. It did feel like coming home and I cannot wait to go back.

All in all, it's been an amazing year and I can't wait to see what comes next. And I will leave you with my favorite photo of my fencing kit:

Oh, fantastic job! That all sounds like so much fun! I hope that you get to return!

Please enjoy this photo of Bug contemplating her feather