#and there are no take backs i won't be taking any counterarguments

[ofgentleresolve]

FERRE! HAPPY NEW YEAR! I thought I'd drop by for this and send some positive vibe as the year starts 😊 I just want to highlight what I really like about your writing!! When I read your writings, I always get a sense of your clear grasp on your character profiles or characterizations which may also be rooted on the long years of writing them. It's very natural and interesting. I think that even if your writing partner may not fully read your profiles, they would still be able to catch on what sort of character or personality they carry because you often insert their thoughts or internalization in between the lines, which I think is really helpful. I always enjoy your writing and something I often notice is the weigh on actions as emphasis on their characters. Your narrative and choice of words, too, is something I love to read.

I could say more but for now I keep it up to this length!! Cheers to more writing with you soon 💚

Have a wonderful day and a year ahead!

@thegreenswillcome xia also has ( independently too ) made me go 🥺🥺🥺

XIA MY DEAR FRIEND 🥺🥺🥺

As I mentioned to the wonderful len, when I was coming into this year, I will admit, I wasn’t exactly feeling in the best of spirits, but YOU!! I know you reached out to me to check on me in the last month and that particular part of the year and I just wanted to say?? Thank you so much for doing so, honestly, that really helped with getting through the last of 2022 💕💕💕

But also!! PLS it always means so much to me that you take the time to read my writings and drabbles 🥲🥲🥲 I know that’ s not the point of my rp blogs existing and it doesn’t always involve other ppl muses SO THANK YOU?? 🥺🥺🥺 for reading and also just always?? paying attention to ur partners in the chill way you always do <3 <3 <3 I’ve said this before, but I’ve always gotten a very relaxed and friendly vibe from you and I think in that aspect?? It has encouraged me to be a bit more open with my mutuals on here – loosen up bc at the end of the day, we’re all nerds who love our characters and ( hopefully ) each other’s too!!

I also have been reading ur drabbles as well and I love?? how atmospheric they come off- if mine is supposed to be like stage, then I would consider yours to be really getting in the minds of ur characters, writing them as they were the ones putting down the words. I think that can be SO DIFFICULT at times bc it requires not only knowing who they are but also knowing the exact way they would narrate what they’re thinking 🥲🥲🥲 that and I also just?? love how lyrical they are?? Like each word is carefully picked out and it really shows in the line breaks…every word counts!!

BUT ANYWAYS, thank you so much for taking the time to send this in, but more importantly, thank you so much for sticking with me thru out this past year and onto now- I’m so grateful to have the privilege of writing with you and plotting with you AND being friends with and I can’t wait to see where you bring your characters ( and mine for the ride ) in 2023!! Care you lots xia and please have a wonderful day 💕💕💕

[sword-bunny]

Unpopular opinion: I don't think Luka is actually that bad

(Casual reminder first that all of the unwilling participants of this death match are slaves who were essentially raised from childhood to compete in Alien Stage. None of them are competing by choice, and this is Luka's second time being forced through this nightmare, and he will probably be made to do it a third time.)

"But he's enjoying this!"

Is he, though?

I don't feel like this moment gets talked about enough. Obviously we don't get to see the actual match so we can't say anything about it, but Luka kissing the dead girl's hand afterwards was important enough that some of the very limited time this series has was used to show it.

Here, he's not smiling, he's not making a show out of it. The show is already over. His back is to the audience, and he isn't even on stage. He lived, she died, and to me this read as a gesture of respect.

"What about him purposefully invoking the images of Sua and Ivan to make Mizi and Till lose their shit?"

Yeah, he definitely did do that, and I'll get back to that. But take a look at his face during his duet with Mizi:

It's shockingly different from the smug, smiling face he has for the rest of the song. From the background behind him, we can tell that Mizi is blocking the view of his face from the audience.

In comparison, the bit where he rolls his eyes, he isn't even looking at her. He's looking at the audience, making a show of his lofty condescension.

Look at the way he's portrayed in the "promotional footage" we see in Top 3. He's the "Ruler of the Stage", the elegant personification of victory. In other words, it's a stage persona.

We got this new expression in Blink Gone, and I did think he was laughing at first! But why would he be hiding that? He certainly never has before. There would be no point, he'd be playing it up, even. But the more I look at it, the more I think he's covering up something else.

Luka has outlived a lot of his opponents, some of whom very likely were people he grew up with, and I think he's starting to crack.

This leads us back to the tactics he uses to win.

Luka is undeniably ruthless! You could definitely make an argument that he goes beyond what's necessary to win.

But remember, he's trying to survive. I don't think he can reasonably be called a sadist for trying his best not to die, even if his methods are underhanded. Is he a good person? I wouldn't even try to argue that. Is he a bad person? I genuinely don't think so.

The situation he's been forced into is unimaginably cruel, and I genuinely believe it doesn't make someone a bad person to try to survive, even if it means someone else doesn't.

Imagine a modified version of the trolley problem: you and a person you do not know are each tied to separate tracks. You get to choose whether the train kills you or the other person. In this situation where you are not there because you want to be or because you're experiencing any kind of consequences for your actions, is it morally acceptable to choose not to die?

Anyways, that's my rant about why it's been getting on my nerves to see Luka constantly getting called a sadistic psychopath. Feel free to make counterarguments, just please try to be chill about it if you do✌️

Edit: I totally forgot about the Alien Stage promo video, which pretty clearly shows that Luka is having a Less Than Stellar time (pun intended)

This is the first shot we ever get to see of Luka, and I've left the lyrics on because I think they're pretty important since Luka is the contestant that's been in this situation the longest. He won and it's still not over. I'm not surprised he feels like it won't ever end!

Then there's this shot. Hooooooo boy this shot makes me feel a lot of things. It's so clear that Luka is even less than a pet, barely more than a toy to his "fans".

Finally, there's this bit where he hides his face behind his arms like he can't bear to be looked at any longer.

Your honor I'm so normal about him I swear

[devilfic]

Idk if you have seen daredevil but in the case you have can I request a head cannon of you making a playlist for him and him talking about songs that remind you of him?

Like I was listening to The Marias and I felt that their songs give this feeling of how it would be to date him.

❝making a playlist for matt murdock❞

pairing: matt murdock x gn!reader. cw: established relationship, brief mention of sex. words: 1k.

a/n: I actually have seen daredevil and I love him a lot, this will be fun. shoutout to this post that confirmed the "matt murdock loves jazz" vibe he gives off

I wanna start off by saying that as soon as I saw "daredevil" and "songs" in the same sentence, I got a VIVID image of matt in a jazz bar

I can't recall off the top of my head if matt mentions any specific artists or genres he listens to in the show, but I personally think matt likes jazz, funk, maybe some soul/neo-soul, or anything you'd hear in a nice understated bar downtown

the thing is I think that matt really likes instrumental-heavy music because he appreciates being able to pick apart the melodies

I also imagine he's a stickler for his favorite genres and won't really relent unless you introduce something new to him by force

so, a playlist

you push an mp3 player into his hand as you walk past him and he thumbs over the buttons, twists a finger through the cords of the earbuds, and smiles, "what's this?"

he hears you land on the couch and makes his way over to sit beside you as you take one of the earbuds to put in your ear, stretching your legs over his lap, "I made a playlist for you!"

"yeah?"

"yeah. I know you like your vinyls but this is smaller, more compact. easy to put in your pocket and hopefully not break when you're running around the city at night. I'm serious. don't break that."

"I'm honored," matt tilts his head in your direction, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, listening for the parting of your lips as they break into a smile, "nothing too shocking, I hope?"

"I tried to stick to things I thought you'd like, and I did include some of the songs you've recommended to me over the years since you can't lug your vinyls everywhere. it won't sound as nice but... it's something. it's pretty romantic, right?"

it is romantic

matt imagines you hunched over his computer, tediously searching up mp3s of his favorite songs and putting together a playlist for him, trying your best to ease him into unfamiliar territory

he can also hear the nervous thumping of your heart as you wait for his reply, so he splays a hand over your ankle and squeezes, "yeah, you're pretty damn romantic. any particular order I should play it in?

"just hit play, handsome."

when the first song starts playing, he's transported back to hearing it for the first time in the bar where he met you, sharing drinks at a table as you humored him on your theories of who the devil of hell's kitchen really was

you were a few drinks past tipsy and had come to chat him up at the behest of your friends who—and you learned this several days later—he'd heard call him sexy at least four times

but it was you whose voice had caught his attention, who had sworn that a "man like him" had to be waiting for a date, that there was no way he'd be here all alone

and had promptly eaten your words when he chimed in to let you know that he did not, in fact, have a date

he was fuzzy on the details as to how you'd gotten on the topic of his alter ego, but it tickled him nonetheless how you presented your theories more confidently than you flirted

he countered each one but in good faith, playing devil's advocate if only so that he could hear how your mind whirred with ideas

after a few pretty well-articulated counterarguments, you'd snorted and asked, "what are you, a lawyer?"

and when you learned that he was a lawyer? the matt murdock of nelson, murdock, & page? oh, he was sure you lit up like a christmas tree

even after walking you to your place, matt was humming the tune of the song he'd discovered you to, a feeling in his bones that more than just it would be sticking around

matt takes you to a jazz bar for your first date, feeding you details about the musicians over drinks as you ask him about his favorites

he likes a lot of the classics: things his dad enjoyed, stuff he's heard at the jazz bars he's roped foggy into visiting with him during law school

he tells you he likes some of the new stuff but nothing beats the classics, all of which he has vinyls of at home

and you ask him about the newer artists he likes and he tells you he'll put some on for you at his place if the night is still young

that night, he brings you back to his and plays this while you make love

most of the songs matt thinks of when he thinks of you are wordless, often more abstract representations of how you make him feel

the few songs with words are quite literal. whatever the lyrics say is how he feels about you

you've learned—if you're not already a fan of the same genres—to appreciate his taste

and you've also learned to love the way he lights up as you describe what the music sounds like to him, the way he slips in a word here and there when you come up short and it always just fits

it's kind of like his love language

you've got some of these songs on the playlist too

you see him get a little stiff when a song comes on that he doesn't know, and so you watch all the minute expressions in his face as it plays, wondering anxiously if he likes it or not

you know he does when he replays it

he'll tap out the rhythm on your ankle like he's picking apart every detail of the song piece by piece, placing them layer over layer in his mind until it becomes whole and he turns to tell you he really likes it

while he usually likes to keep his ears open for anything in the city while he's out and about, he'll pop in an earbud and start your playlist and think about you

now, if only you'd add a recording of you singing to yourself every morning, it'd be complete. that's gotta be his favorite

taglists: @yikes-buddy @alexxavicry @theclassicvinyldragon @marina-and-the-memes

[lowfunctioningoptimist]

Being a former Schoolteacher in the Van Der Linde Gang

Prompt: {Reader as a Former Teacher in the Van Der Linde Gang}

Fem!Reader x Various

Summary: It’s no secret that the Van Der Linde Gang brought together all sorts of misfits of all sorts of backgrounds. Hosea had been a stage actor, Bill had been a soldier, and Javier was once a revolutionary. However, with all these strange yet vibrant histories, yours always made you stand out. Far to off in the eastern side of the country, you had lived a modest but respectable life as a schoolteacher. 

Note: Reader is written as being in her late twenties to early thirties. I only have Arthur, John, Dutch, Abigail, Mary-Beth, Javier, Molly, and Sean in this post. I do intend to write the others, I just didn't want this to be too long. I can also write specific imagines or romantic hcs if requested!

ARTHUR

He’s likely to be the first to develop a crush on you. Honestly.

Arthur finds you comforting. You carry yourself with a warmth and a certain air of confidence that makes him feel safe in your presence. He didn’t have much schooling, so he sometimes gets shy about talking about academic subjects. Still, you do manage to coax him into deeper conversations than just “mornin’” and “lovely day, ain’t it?”

Arthur is softer than he seems and sees more than he’s always willing to say. After cracking through the awkward small-talk phase of your friendship, you and Arthur begin to talk more on philosophy. He’s never considered himself all that smart, but you tell him that he’s insightful. Insightful? Him? It's enough to make him blush sometimes.

As he gets to know you better, Arthur starts to do small favors for you. Nothing too big. Just things like bringing back books from town or little trinkets he thought you might like. If you need help with your chores, he might just join you if Miss Grimshaw ain't around. Certain people in the gang have taken to calling him, "teacher's pet."

JOHN

He hardly paid you any mind, at first.

After you spent a few weeks with the gang, he started seeing you with Jack. Thought nothing of it, at first. Then it became a regular occurrence and despite himself, he got just a touch paranoid. You were brand new to the gang. A stranger. Why would Abigail let you near his her son? He confronted her only to find out that Abigail had asked you to teach Jack as his own private tutor. Needless to say, he felt a bit silly.

From what he can tell, you're not half-bad of a teacher. Jack's learning his numbers, writing his name, and is starting to ask for more books. While a part of him wants to be happy... it only vexes him further. Why would such an innocent civilian such as yourself be all the way out here?

John takes a while to warm up to you, but you proved to be less stuffy than you looked. You have a firm yet gentle way about you. And somehow, you can correct someone without ever making them feel stupid or simple for it.

DUTCH

He enjoys your keen mind and education, but he also resents it.

Dutch won't share with the others how he found you or how you became an outlaw. He likes to say that it's your story to tell. Really, he just like to know something no one else does. His reason for recruiting you was just as simple, he hadn't met someone like you before.

It's not everyday he meets an ex-teacher-turned-outlaw. Dutch found your situation interesting, unique. He does so like to collect outcasts. Especially one as educated and clean as you. Dutch starts to linger by you as you do your chores to initiate a playful debate. Unlike most in the gang, you disagree with some of his philosophies and have counterarguments that make him pause. That's not to say you've ever convinced him to change his mind, oh no. His pauses are more for him to steady himself so he doesn't show how bothered your resistance makes him.

As much as Dutch loves to spar with you mentally, he secretly finds offense in your obstinance. What you see as playful debate may just turn into a case against you as a traitor.

JAVIER

Now, this one may seem odd, but Javier is second most likely to develop a strong attraction for you. 

When he first saw you, it wasn’t precisely love at first sight. You were new, having joined just after Charles. Javier agreed with Bill that you wouldn’t last long. Everything about you just screamed, “civilian.” You dressed modestly, wore spectacles, spoke proper English, and seemed clueless as how to survive in the west. The only reason he didn’t outright resent you was because Dutch had been the one to bring you into the gang. 

The crush started around the same time you got more comfortable at camp. Sometimes you let your hair down, literally and figuratively, both of which he found very attractive. You have a mouth on you, and you aren’t scared of much. Seeing you stare down Bill for swearing in front of Jack was enough to prove that. He likes how tough but fair you are. How you’re educated but you’re not stuck up about it, unlike some he’s met. 

MARY-BETH

Is shy about it, but eventually goes to you for help with her writing.

Mary-Beth finds out that you both like “silly romance,” books and she starts to talk about how she writes her own. With it being so hard to find new things to read, you jump at the chance to read her work. Mary-Beth is quite shy about it, but she lets you read a few pages. Much to her surprise, you praise the work and ask for more. She starts to use you as an editor for some of her short stories. You enjoy her writing quite a lot and encourage her to keep going. 

You and Mary-Beth get on very well. You’re both bookworms and not too keen on violence for violence’s sake. Privately, you talk about what you hope your life will be like some day.

SEAN

Finds the fact that you’re an outlaw to be completely hilarious. 

As he gets more used to your presence, Sean starts to come to you with questions about the world. He does this because, as a teacher, he assumes you must know the answer to at least some of these. Questions like, “Why do we call ducks and geese different things when they look alike?” or “How’d we even decide what to name things? Did we see an orange’n on a trre an’ tink, ‘Oh now that’s an orange!’ or did we already have the color all sorted out? How’d they name colors to begin with?”

Sean will sometimes follow you around camp to ask you these questions, and the gang finds it quite funny. You’ll just be doing your chores with Sean slinking behind you as his mouth runs a mile a minute. What surprises most is that you usually at least try to give him an answer. Some folks didn’t believe you were really a teacher when you first joined… They believed you after they saw how patient you can be with Sean. 

ABIGAIL

First, she was suspicious of you. Then, she trusted you more than most.

Once Abigail was certain you weren’t going to sprint back into town to turn everyone in, she had a favor to ask. Jack was getting older and although Hosea and Dutch offered to teach him to read and write, they hadn’t the time to start. She asked you to teach him whatever you could when time allowed. You were excited to help, eager. Jack being as young as he was, took to your lessons fast. In little time, you were helping him sound out sentences and write his name. This started a new problem for Abigail, however. She never learned to read or write herself. Jack would try to show her his work, or ask her to read him a story, and she couldn’t.

Instead of shaming her, you offered to teach her how to read as well. Abigail refused at first, but relented when you said she could teach you how to sew in return. Through her, you start to feel more a part of the gang.

MOLLY

She only started to have a problem with you once she realized you weren’t some old hag.

When you first joined the gang, you were still dressing like a teacher. Your clothes were bulky and formless, hair all pulled back in a bun, and you were quiet. As you got more into the outlaw life, you started to dress a bit more like the other women. Started showing more of your personality. And more importantly, Dutch started to pull you aside more often. 

Molly can’t help but feel paranoid about you and Dutch. When she spies in on you two, all she sees is you both reading or debating. It’s not as if he’s holding your hand or whispering in your ear… but it feels wrong. Dutch talks to you about things he won’t talk to her about. Books, philosophy, world events, the strange and esoteric. It feels like you satisfy him in a way she can’t, and Molly comes unglued thinking about it. 

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Podcasting "Microincentives and Enshittification"

Tomorrow (Oct 25) at 10hPT/18hUK, I'm livestreaming an event called "Seizing the Means of Computation" for the Edinburgh Futures Institute.

This week on my podcast, I read my recent Medium column, "Microincentives and Enshittification," about the way that monopoly drives mediocrity, with Google's declining quality as Exhibit A:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

It's not your imagination: Google used to be better – in every way. Search used to be better, sure, but Google used to be better as a company. It treated its workers better (for example, not laying off 12,000 workers months after a stock buyback that would have paid their salaries for the next 27 years). It had its users' backs in policy fights – standing up for Net Neutrality and the right to use encryption to keep your private data private. Even when the company made ghastly mistakes, it repented of them and reversed them, like the time it pulled out of China after it learned that Chinese state hackers had broken into Gmail in order to discover which dissidents to round up and imprison.

None of this is to say that Google used to be perfect, or even, most of the time, good. Just that things got worse. To understand why, we have to think about how decisions get made in large organizations, or, more to the point, how arguments get resolved in these organizations.

We give Google a lot of shit for its "Don't Be Evil" motto, but it's worth thinking through what that meant for the organization's outcomes over the years. Through most of Google's history, the tech labor market was incredibly tight, and skilled engineers and other technical people had a lot of choice as to where they worked. "Don't Be Evil" motivated some – many – of those workers to take a job at Google, rather than one of its rivals.

Within Google, that meant that decisions that could colorably be accused of being "evil" would face some internal pushback. Imagine a product design meeting where one faction proposes something that is bad for users, but good for the company's bottom line. Think of another faction that says, "But if we do that, we'll be 'evil.'"

I think it's safe to assume that in any high-stakes version of this argument, the profit side will prevail over the don't be evil side. Money talks and bullshit walks. But what if there were also monetary costs to being evil? Like, what if Google has to worry about users or business customers defecting to a rival? Or what if there's a credible reason to worry that a regulator will fine Google, or Congress will slap around some executives at a televised hearing?

That lets the no-evil side field a more robust counterargument: "Doing that would be evil, and we'll lose money, or face a whopping fine, or suffer reputational harms." Even if these downsides are potentially smaller than the upsides, they still help the no-evil side win the argument. That's doubly true if the downsides could depress the company's share-price, because Googlers themselves are disproportionately likely to hold Google stock, since tech companies are able to get a discount on their wage-bills by paying employees in abundant stock they print for free, rather than the scarce dollars that only come through hard graft.

When the share-price is on the line, the counterargument goes, "That would be evil, we will lose money, and you will personally be much poorer as a result." Again, this isn't dispositive – it won't win every argument – but it is influential. A counterargument that braids together ideology, institutional imperatives, and personal material consequences is pretty robust.

Which is where monopoly comes in. When companies grow to dominate their industries, they are less subject to all forms of discipline. Monopolists don't have to worry about losing disgusted employees, because they exert so much gravity on the labor market that they find it easy to replace them.

They don't have to worry about losing customers, because they have eliminated credible alternatives. They don't have to worry about losing users, because rivals steer clear of their core business out of fear of being bigfooted through exclusive distribution deals, predatory pricing, etc. Investors have a name for the parts of the industry dominated by Big Tech: they call it "the kill zone" and they won't back companies seeking to enter it.

When companies dominate their industries, they find it easier to capture their regulators and outspend public prosecutors who hope to hold them to account. When they lose regulatory fights, they can fund endless appeals. If they lose those appeals, they can still afford the fines, especially if they can use an army of lawyers to make sure that the fine is less than the profit realized through the bad conduct. A fine is a price.

In other words, the more dominant a company is, the harder it is for the good people within the company to win arguments about unethical and harmful proposals, and the worse the company gets. The internal culture of the company changes, and its products and services decline, but meaningful alternatives remain scarce or nonexistent.

Back to Google. Google owns more than 90% of the search market. Google can't grow by adding more Search users. The 10% of non-Google searchers are extremely familiar with Google's actions. To switch to a rival search engine, they have had to take many affirmative, technically complex steps to override the defaults in their devices and tools. It's not like an ad extolling the virtues of Google Search will bring in new customers.

Having saturated the search market, Google can only increase its Search revenues by shifting value from searchers or web publishers to itself – that is, the only path to Search growth is enshittification. They have to make things worse for end users or business customers in order to make things better for themselves:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

This means that each executive in the Search division is forever seeking out ways to shift value to Google and away from searchers and/or publishers. When they propose a enshittificatory tactic, Google's market dominance makes it easy for them to win arguments with their teammates: "this may make you feel ashamed for making our product worse, but it will not make me poorer, it will not make the company poorer, and it won't chase off business customers or end users, therefore, we're gonna do it. Fuck your feelings."

After all, each microenshittification represents only a single Jenga block removed from the gigantic tower that is Google Search. No big deal. Some Google exec made the call to make it easier for merchants to buy space overtop searches for their rivals. That's not necessarily a bad thing: "Thinking of taking a vacation in Florida? Why not try Puerto Rico – it's a US-based Caribbean vacation without the transphobia and racism!"

But this kind of advertising also opens up lots of avenues for fraud. Scammers clone local restaurants' websites, jack up their prices by 15%, take your order, and transmit it to the real restaurant, pocketing the 15%. They get clicks by using some of that rake to buy an ad based on searches for the restaurant's name, so they show up overtop of it and rip off inattentive users:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/24/passive-income/#swiss-cheese-security

This is something Google could head off; they already verify local merchants by mailing them postcards with unique passwords that they key into a web-form. They could ban ads for websites that clone existing known merchants, but that would incur costs (engineer time) and reduce profits, both from scammers and from legit websites that trip a false positive.

The decision to sell this kind of ad, configured this way, is a direct shift of value from business customers (restaurants) and end-users (searchers) to Google. Not only that, but it's negative sum. The money Google gets from this tradeoff is less than the cost to both the restaurant (loss of goodwill from regulars who are affronted because of a sudden price rise) and searchers (who lose 15% on their dinner orders). This trade-off makes everyone except Google worse off, and it's only possible when Google is the only game in town.

It's also small potatoes. Last summer, scammers figured out how to switch out the toll-free numbers that Google displayed for every airline, redirecting people to boiler-rooms where con-artists collected their credit-card numbers and sensitive personal information (passports, etc):

https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/tech-news/phone-numbers-airlines-listed-google-directed-scammers-rcna94766

Here again, we see a series of small compromises that lead to a massive harm. Google decided to show users 800 numbers rather than links to the airlines' websites, but failed to fortify the process for assigning phone numbers to prevent this absolutely foreseeable type of fraud. It's not that Google wanted to enable fraud – it's that they created the conditions for the fraud to occur and failed to devote the resources necessary to defend against it.

Each of these compromises indicates a belief among Google decision-makers that the consequences for making their product worse will be outweighed by the value the company will generate by exposing us to harm. One reason for this belief is on display in the DOJ's antitrust case against Google:

https://www.justice.gov/opa/press-release/file/1328941/download

The case accuses Google of spending tens of billions of dollars to buy out the default search position on every platform where an internet user might conceivably perform a search. The company is lighting multiple Twitters worth of dollars on fire to keep you from ever trying another search engine.

Spraying all those dollars around doesn't just keep you from discovering a better search engine – it also prevents investors from funding that search engine in the first place. Why fund a startup in the kill-zone if no one will ever discover that it exists?

https://www.theverge.com/23802382/search-engine-google-neeva-android

Of course, Google doesn't have to grow Search to grow its revenue. Hypothetically, Google could pursue new lines of business and grow that way. This is a tried-and-true strategy for tech giants: Apple figured out how to outsource its manufacturing to the Pacific Rim; Amazon created a cloud service, Microsoft figured out how to transform itself into a cloud business.

Look hard at these success stories and you discover another reason that Google – and other large companies – struggle to grow by moving into adjacent lines of business. In each case – Apple, Microsoft, Amazon – the exec who led the charge into the new line of business became the company's next CEO.

In other words: if you are an exec at a large firm and one of your rivals successfully expands the business into a new line, they become the CEO – and you don't. That ripples out within the whole org-chart: every VP who becomes an SVP, every SVP who becomes an EVP, and every EVP who becomes a president occupies a scarce spot that it worth millions of dollars to the people who lost it.

The one thing that execs reliably collaborate on is knifing their ambitious rivals in the back. They may not agree on much, but they all agree that that guy shouldn't be in charge of this lucrative new line of business.

This "curse of bigness" is why major shifts in big companies are often attended by the return of the founder – think of Gates going back to Microsoft or Brin returning to Google to oversee their AI projects. They are the only execs that other execs can't knife in the back.

This is the real "innovator's dilemma." The internal politics of large companies make Machiavelli look like an optimist.

When your company attains a certain scale, any exec's most important rival isn't the company's competitor – it's other execs at the same company. Their success is your failure, and vice-versa.

This makes the business of removing Jenga blocks from products like Search even more fraught. These quality-degrading, profit-goosing tactics aren't coordinated among the business's princelings. When you're eating your seed-corn, you do so in private. This secrecy means that it's hard for different product-degradation strategists to realize that they are removing safeguards that someone else is relying on, or that they're adding stress to a safety measure that someone else just doubled the load on.

It's not just Google, either. All of tech is undergoing a Great Enshittening, and that's due to how intertwined all these tech companies. Think of how Google shifts value from app makers to itself, with a 30% rake on every dollar spent in an app. Google is half of the mobile duopoly, with the other half owned by Apple. But they're not competitors – they're co-managers of a cartel. The single largest deal that Google or Apple does every year is the bribe Google pays Apple to be the default search for iOS and Safari – $15-20b, every year.

If Apple and Google were mobile competitors, you'd expect them to differentiate their products, but instead, they've converged – both Apple and Google charge sky-high 30% payment processing fees to app makers.

Same goes for Google/Facebook, the adtech duopoly: not only do both companies charge advertisers and publishers sky-high commissions, clawing 51 cents out of every ad dollar, but they also illegally colluded to rig the market and pay themselves more, at advertisers' and publishers' expense:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jedi_Blue

It's not just tech, either – every sector from athletic shoes to international sea-freight is concentrated into anti-competitive, value-annihilating cartels and monopolies:

https://www.openmarketsinstitute.org/learn/monopoly-by-the-numbers

As our friends on the right are forever reminding us: "incentives matter." When a company runs out of lands to conquer, the incentives all run one direction: downhill, into a pit of enshittification. Google got worse, not because the people in it are worse (or better) than they were before – but because the constraints that discipline the company and contain its worst impulses got weaker as the company got bigger.

Here's the podcast episode:

https://craphound.com/news/2023/10/23/microincentives-and-enshittification/

And here's a direct link to the MP3 (hosting courtesy of the Internet Archive; they'll host your stuff for free, forever):

https://archive.org/download/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_452/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_452_-_Microincentives_and_Enshittification.mp3

And here's my podcast's RSS feed:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/doctorow_podcast

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

[2btheanswertothequestion]

(part 6 of November Paramedic; part 5 is here and the AO3 version is here.)

"... and the biggest problem is that I like him. I really like him! I haven't liked anyone this much since fucking high school, and that's not comparable because I never got close to those guys. Just hopeless pining from afar."

Eddie takes a step back from the dresser. The clothes in the top drawer are in disarray, and after rummaging through them twice he must accept the shirt he seeks isn't among them.

"I admit, at first it was primarily physical," he says, slamming the drawer shut and yanking open the middle drawer to search it again. This time he pulls out the incorrect items and tosses them on the floor. "He's the guardian of my spank bank – of course I wanted to sleep with him. I would've been fine with that happening once and then never seeing him again. There's nothing wrong with that. Right?"

He turns to Gareth, who's lying in an uncomfortable-looking position on Eddie's unmade bed, spinning a pencil between his fingers like it's a drumstick. Though grimacing in disgust at the spank bank-mention, he nods. Eddie nods too, punctuating their mutual agreement.

"Right. But then I just had to go and get to know him, and he just had to be the perfect man, and I had to… ugh. Catch feelings."

The middle drawer is an equally lost cause. He moves on to the bottom drawer for the second time. He knows the shirt is there and he will find it.

"So, the good news is that I'm pretty sure I'm going to snag the guy. The worst news is that I have to tell him all my secrets, or else our relationship will be built on lies. And I- ah-hah!"

Rising from his ocean of fabric, he holds the shirt aloft in triumph before donning it. It's wrinkled from having been balled up in a corner, but that's okay. The creases add to the aesthetic.

Awesome. He's washed, brushed, dressed, and he's still got – he glances at the clock – five minutes before he's supposed to leave. Some of his nerves cool at the certainty of, if nothing else, at least he won't be late.

"Where was I?"

"You have to tell him all your secrets," Gareth says.

"Yeah. I have to tell the truth without it sounding like the creepiest thing ever. Emphasize the flattering angles. Be clever about it." Yeah. Yeah! He can totally do that. Sighing, he drags both hands down his face. "I'll need to strategize. I'm going to put distance between us while I plan my next move."

"Uh huh," Gareth says, dropping the pencil and sitting up. "But, Eddie-"

"No!" Eddie foresaw Gareth disliking the 'distance' part of it all. If he had his way, Steve and Eddie would be married already, just so Gareth could rub his essential matchmaking into Eddie's face during his best man speech. "I don't want to hear your counterarguments. It's what I'll do and I don't care what you think."

"Right, yeah, sure, that's not it," Gareth says. "It's just that curious minds would like to enquire why, if you're distancing yourself, you're 1. going to see him today, and 2. wearing your seduction shirt?"

Eddie's gaze dips to his chest, and the aforementioned shirt. It's just a normal shirt! A black and yellow Anthrax shirt, to be precise. Sure, he cut up the sides and the neck because it was too small, but that's irrelevant. It's not that revealing, just airier. His clavicles are visible but you can barely see any of his torso in it, unless he bends over and the front piece sags. But he's not going to bend over today, because his jeans are too tight for that to be safe. He glares at Gareth.

"This isn't my 'seduction shirt'."

"Yes, it is."

"I don't have a seduction shirt!"

"You do. It's that one. You only wear it when you want to show off to someone."

"You're creepy for noticing that," Eddie says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Gareth leans forward with a shark-like grin. "Oh, so you admit it?"

"No! It's not a seduction shirt!"

"All right, a 'manwhore shirt', then. Listen-"

"Oh, fuck you."

Eddie flounces out of the bedroom and through the living room, gathering keys and wallet on the way. Gareth follows.

"Listen. I'm not against you going out to see him-"

"I'm not seeing him, it's a group outing-"

"-pulling back now is stupid-"

"-that Max invited me to-"

"-and I think you should go all out and get your man. So I'm all for this. It's exactly what I would do."

Eddie pivots; Gareth almost crashes into him.

"Well," Eddie says, wearing a barbed smile. "I suppose that is how I know it's a bad idea."

Then he leaves for the hallway to put on his shoes. He tries simply shoving his feet into them, but the knot is too tight and he must untie them. Gareth leans on one shoulder against the hallway wall.

"Oh, ouch," he says. "You're grouchy today. Is it because I, while sloshed may I add, gave you an excellent opportunity to get your dick wet and you still returned home unfucked? You had Steve and his pouty lips and one size too small clothes on a silver platter. You were like a towel draped around him after a really intense workout, man. He looked willing to wipe the sweat off his junk with you and you still failed. That's sad."

Eddie, shoe dangling from his fingers by the laces and face schooled into new-sketchbook-bought-to-combat-art-block levels of blank, allows himself one raised but carefully unimpressed eyebrow.

"Are you finished?" he asks.

"Hm. Yeah, I think so."

"You're never beating the 'wanting to fuck Steve' allegations after this."

Gareth shrugs. "I mean, if he had a sister…"

"Jesus Christ."

Shoes mostly on, Eddie continues storming out of the apartment. He'd have slammed the door behind him if he didn't need to lock it after Gareth. He compromises by chucking the keys at Gareth and letting him lock the door (and slam it, if he so wishes).

Max is waiting for him on the front steps, skateboard by her feet and one earbud in; she pulls it out when Eddie passes her and pushes off the steps. She's dressy again today: dark jeans and a crimson shirt left unbuttoned and tied over a black camisole. And heeled boots! No more than an inch, but it's a big deal considering Eddie's never seen her in anything other than sneakers before. He's not under the delusion that it's his business to tell her what clothes to wear, but it's nice seeing her like this. Also, her being spruced up means his outfit won't be under as much scrutiny. He appreciates her for that.

Scrutinizing him, Max smirks as she says, "You're showing skin today. Nice."

Never mind, she is detestable.

"It's his seduction shirt," Gareth stage whispers, both hands circling his mouth.

Max scrunches her nose. "What's with him and seduction?"

"I think he just likes how the word sounds."

"It's not a fucking seduction shirt. Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Eddie stomps over to his car. "We're leaving now!"

Max jogs to catch up while Gareth laughingly waves them off and tells them to have fun on their dates.

He's wrong, though. There'll be nothing datelike about this outing, and Eddie's determined to make it so. However, in the end, it seems like he won't have to. Two minutes in and it's as unromantic as it'll ever be.

Why? Well.

"Okay," Robin says, flinging a lined notebook and a pen onto the diner table. "It's settled: Nancy, Jonathan, and El will all be home during July. And Argyle and the boys have their plane tickets?"

Because they're planning a mass reunion. The plat du jour may be delicious, but nothing beats the taste of vindication!

"Yeah," Steve says through a half-chewed bite of pulled pork. It should be gross, but it's not. Neither is his tongue darting out to lap the BBQ sauce from his bottom lip. Eddie takes a big enough gulp of his pop to drown himself; Steve rubs his back through the coughing fit. Having a mere thin layer of fabric between him and Steve's big hand doesn't really help, but Eddie will be the last person to admit that.

(Okay, so maybe Gareth had a minuscule point in this counteracting the 'distancing', but shhhhh… Eddie won't tell if you won't.)

"And Erica has permission to come over?" Robin asks after scribbling check marks next to most of the names.

"Uh huh," Lucas says. His mouth is also full, with fried chicken, but he has the decency to cover his mouth with a napkin as he speaks.

"Great. So, about the accommodations. You have space for the boys?"

Lucas nods. "My housemates will be home for the summer and they're fine with me having people over as long as we stay out of their rooms."

"Where will everyone sleep if the bedrooms are off-limits?" Steve asks, reaching for his glass. His arm, tee-shirt sleeve folded up and leaving the whoooooole bicep free to view, brushes against Eddie's and leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Thank God he wasn't drinking this time.

"There's a couch, Sammy has a futon we can borrow, and I've an air mattress," Lucas says, counting on his fingers. "We'll have a weeks-long sleepover in the living room."

"The boys are accounted for." Robin checks three of the names a second time. She points her pen at Max. "You will have El and Erica at your place?"

"Yeah," Max says, nibbling on an onion ring in an unusually ladylike manner. As if to counteract the daintiness, she's slumped in her seat, one foot on the upholstery and head resting against Lucas' arm. She narrows her icy blues at Eddie. "Remember that you'll have to be quiet. There'll be virgin ears on the other side of the wall."

"You're not a virgin?" Steve says over Eddie's indignant sputtering that he's not that loud, the walls aren't that thin, and exactly what has she been hearing anyway?!

Max ignores Eddie to roll her eyes at Steve. "I'm talking about Erica. Pretty sure she's still a virgin."

Steve's expression clouds over. "She better be."

Robin scoffs. "Seriously? She's sixteen."

"So?"

"So! You were slutting it up at sixteen!"

"Now, hold on." Steve shakes his finger at her. "I was with Nancy then, and we were monogamous."

"Oh, excuse me," Robin says in a phony voice. "You were slutting it up at fifteen."

"That's different!"

"Why? Because she's a girl?"

"Because it was a mistake, and I don't want her repeating it!"

They're both glaring, leaning so far toward each other over the table it looks like they're either about to kiss or duke it out. Eddie doesn't know which option is less appetizing. In their corner, Max and Lucas share a squirmy look that can only be interpreted as 'mom and dad are fighting.

Then Robin withdraws with a curt nod. Steve relaxes next to Eddie. Crisis averted, it seems. Still…

"I wish I'd been slutting it up at sixteen," Eddie says, mock-mournful, because nothing evaporates tension like a well-placed joke. It works, too; both Steve and Robin huff a chuckle.

"Tell me about it," Lucas says. Max straightens up to stare at him; he flounders. "Uh, tell me about it because I've never experienced the feeling and don't know what it's like."

Max shakes her head, but re-settles against him. And she doesn't shrug him off when his arm slips an inch closer to wrapping around her shoulders, so he's forgiven.

"Anyway," Robin says, tapping her lists. "That leaves Nancy, Jonathan, and Argyle. If we" – she waves the pen between her and Steve – "share a bed that leaves one bed and the sofa for the others, but it'll be cramped."

"That's why Eddie is here," Max says.

As if on command, everyone's head snaps to Eddie. He clicks his tongue.

"Exploited for lodging purposes. I should have known."

Robin frowns, contemplative. "Put someone with Eddie?"

"Yeah." Max smiles and, oh. He sees what she's doing now. "Like Steve. Then there are four in your apartment, and you two in Eddie's. You're good enough friends by now to make it work."

How nefarious. Is this a coincidence, or are she and Gareth in cahoots? Do they conspire behind his back? How dare they concoct plots to improve his life against his will!

"Max," Steve sighs, "volunteering Eddie's home like this is rude."

"He doesn't mind."

The worst thing is, it's true. He wouldn't mind. Not only would he give his skimpy shirt off his back for these people. Not only is he getting queasy green at the thought of Steve sharing close quarters with his badass and apparently Pulitzer-worthy ex, his equally badass friend whom he used to co-big brother with, and a guy who's a tall, dark California hunk with hair longer and silkier than Eddie could ever hope to achieve. Not only that, but also? Just sharing a living space with Steve 'November Paramedic' Harrington?

A dream come true.

Eddie's couch is fine to lounge on for a couple of hours, but not to sleep on a whole night. But they could share his bed. And they'd have breakfast together. Exist in each other's space. He'd find out what Steve does in his spare time. What his favorite song is, if he showers in the mornings or the evenings, how he dresses when he wants to be comfy.

It'd be amazing… and it'd completely fuck with his plan to distance himself. Honestly, he can imagine two scenarios: him falling even harder and proposing marriage and permanent cohabitation within a week, or Steve unearthing the calendar by accident, calling Eddie a stalker creep, and leaving forever. He'll have to reveal himself before that.

"Uh," he says. "We can figure it out. It's a while until they'll be here, right?"

Steve smiles softly at him; Eddie's heart gallops around his ribcage, thudding so fiercely he can feel it in his mouth, and, fuck, he's blushing down to his exposed collarbones. He might propose now. Do any of his rings fit Steve? Their hands aren't the same size.

"Yeah," Steve says. "We'll find a solution."

After lunch they drive to a nearby park, to aid their digestion with a promenade (Steve's suggestion, of course). Reminded by Robin, Eddie brings up D&D to Lucas – they discuss possible campaigns while Steve and Robin spectate. Max, her boots exchanged for Nikes, skates circles around them. Every so often she'll ride close enough to call them dorks, but mostly she keeps a wide berth, alternating between zigzags and jumps and waving like a queen when they whoop and holler at her.

And then it happens.

She's ahead of them, having reached a stone staircase. Leaping onto the railing, she slides along it like a pro. But halfway she loses her balance and falls. Slamming against the stone, she then tumbles the last steps.

They freeze, a collective breath rushing out of their lungs.

Steve reacts first, speedwalking toward Max, still on the ground. Robin is babbling that she's probably fine, that she eats shit all the time and takes it like a champ.

Max rises on wobbly legs. She stumbles, sinks back into a heap.

Steve sprints.

In an eyeblink he's reached her, skidding to a stop and dropping to his knees in front of her. By the time everyone's joined them, he's examining every inch of her by prodding and poking, even as she mutters that she's fine. She's not, though. Her clothes are dusty, her hair has come loose from her ponytail, there are scrapes on her jaw and hands, and the left knee of her jeans is torn open, bright red glistening where pale skin should be. Lucas sits behind Max, hands hovering over her shoulders. Wanting to soothe but not quite daring.

At last, after an eon has passed, Steve puffs in relief.

"No need for emergency care. Knee might be sprained," he gestures to the bloody, bruised thing, "but that should be the worst of it."

"Told you," Max mumbles, picking dirt from her palm.

Steve frowns.

"You know, this could've been prevented if you wore knee pads."

"Oh, really?" she says, mockingly exaggerated.

"Yes. And a helmet."

Max pushes out her bottom lip; it leaks more sarcasm than her leg does blood. "I thought my head was fine?"

"This time! But might not have been!" Steve exclaims.

"But it was!" she snaps, matching his volume.

"Guys, please…" Lucas says quietly; they ignore him.

"I just think you should know better by now," Steve says. "I mean, you've done this for how many years? How many times have you seen others get fucked up? How many times have I told you-"

"Oh. My. God. I get it. You think I'm irresponsible. You don't have to talk to me like I'm stupid, or a child. I'm not."

"Oh, yeah? Maybe you should back that up with your actions."

"Fuck you!"

They're both screaming now. Lucas is sitting with his head in his hands. Robin has wrapped her arms around herself and is swaying to and fro in discomfort. The tension in the air is thick enough to taste. Eddie doesn't know what to say or do.

"Come on!" Steve barks. "I need to wrap your knee"

He reaches for her; she finches away and kicks at him with her good leg.

"Don't touch me! I'll walk on my own."

"You'll exacerbate your injury. I'm carrying you to my car."

"Like hell you are!"

"Max…"

"I refuse care!" She bares her teeth at him like a rabid dog. "Leave me alone!"

Steve glowers at her. His chest is heaving and his body is drawn taut, rigid with cold fury. He shoots up and marches off without another word, leaving awkwardness in his wake.

Max gets to her feet slowly, winces slipping past her clenched teeth. Lucas touches her elbow to help, but she violently shrugs him off and limps away.

Sighing, Lucas pats Eddie's back.

"C'mon, man. She'll get more pissed if we try to match her pace."

So they walk ahead, sometimes glancing back at Max and Robin, the only one allowed near her, apparently. Even then she keeps a five-foot gap between her and the human firecracker.

Steve's already by the car, with a thunderous expression and a first aid kit in hand. When Max finally arrives, he yanks open the passenger seat door for her. She sits, he cleans her wounds, and not one word is uttered. Once finished, he slams the kit shut and storms off again, stopping by a fountain some 50 yards away, hands on his hips and back toward them.

Max, face somehow even sourer, curls up in the passager seat with her arms tightly crossed. Gliding down the BMW's polished side, Lucas takes a seat right beneath her.

Robin tugs at Eddie's wrist.

"Come," she whispers. "Let's give them space."

She brings them to a bench where everyone is within their view but out of their hearing. She collapses on the wooden seat like a potato sack.

"I hate when it gets like this," she says. "Don't you?"

"Yeah." He sits beside her. "Does it happen often?"

"Not anymore. But back when the kids were actual kids, sheesh. They were easier with us than with their parents, but still. Hormones and rebellious phases. Not that we were much better. We thought we were so adult." She rolls her eyes.

"Have you known them as long as Steve?"

"No, I joined the gang a year or two late. At first, I only hung out with Steve and the occasional child, when they deigned to stick around. I'm closest with Dustin, the MIT wunderkind, and Erica, Lucas' sister, the one still stuck at home. You'll love both of them – they're so savage."

Eddie nods, worrying his lower lip. At the car, Max’s hand has slipped down for Lucas to hold, but they still seem not to be speaking. Steve is stubbornly staring at the fountain like it'll reveal all of life's secrets if he's patient enough.

"You know after our gig?" Eddie asks. "When you raced ahead and we walked and talked? We talked a lot. Overshared, really."

Robin nods. "As you do."

"Steve told me about something important that happened at your old job? He wouldn't say what, because it's about you and it's private. But I'm curious, so… ?"

She sighs while grinning fondly. "He made it sound bigger than it is. All right. So we worked this shitty summer job at a mall ice cream parlor. The uniforms were hideous. We actually had to film a local commercial for it?"

"Oh my God."

"Yeah. I think it's still circulating – I'll ask around for it. Steve will never forgive me for showing it, but it has to be seen. Anyway, it was a summer job that continued into fall. That November, it all came to an end when the mall caught on fire."

"No!" he gasps, already invested.

"Yes!" she says, waving her hands, growing theatrical. "In the middle of the day! Rush hour! There was a stampede; we were trapped in the parlor for ages. By the time we got out of the shop, the fire had spread. Smoke everywhere! I inhaled so much I passed out. Steve carried me outside and gave me CPR."

He blinks at her, jaw slack. "Holy shit. Jesus Christ."

"Yeah. I'd have died if not for him."

She shrugs as if it's nothing, merely a fun little anecdote from yesteryear. Perhaps, to her, it is. Eddie shakes his head in disbelief.

"Why didn't he tell me this? He talked about his dad being a shithead, but not this?"

"Yeah… I don't know. When it's about him, he'll happily overshare. But when it's someone else it's all 'it's not my story to tell, I need permission'. Unless he hates them – he's sooo gossipy about people he doesn't like," she says, giggling a beat before sobering again. "Anyway, I'm telling you now that it was him saving my life and keeping me alive until the actual professionals showed up with the oxygen mask."

"Wow," Eddie breathes out. He gazes over at Steve's rugged form. "He's amazing."

Robin nudges him with her elbow. "He likes you, you know."

He likes him. He likes Eddie. He likes Eddie. Eddie kind of already figured. But hearing it from Steve's best friend is still…

"Yeah," he says, ducking his head and pulling ringlets of hair in front of his face. "Not sure I'm good enough for him."

"Oh come on. Isn't that for him to decide?"

"He doesn't know yet… what I'm capable of."

"Are you kidding me?" Grabbing him by the shoulder, she forcibly turns him to look at her. "Listen: I'm judgmental and I'm not afraid to admit it. When we first met, I took one look and thought I had you pinned down. 'Check out this guy. Leather and tattoos and black black black. So hardcore and gothic-'"

"I'm not goth-"

"'-he probably thinks he's soooo tortured'. And then you turned out to be a geeky-sweet bundle of sunshine. Well done, proving me wrong. And now you're doing this?" She gently smacks his chest. "Hitting me with all your self-loathing? Get over yourself! It's not like he's perfect either. Look at him!" She points at Steve. "He's sulking!"

A fit of giggles bubbles from Eddie's throat. It's true – he is sulking. No matter how impressive or resolute he's looking, that's what he's doing. It's so ridiculous and adorable.

"Whatever you're capable of," Robin says once the laughter abates, "you deserve to be happy. He deserves it."

She sends Steve a long look of pure love. It tells Eddie everything he'd ever need to know about her, he's sure.

"Also," she continues. "I'm getting seriously sick of the pining. I know, I should be kinder because Steve endured years of me desponding over various girls, but I can't stand this."

Eddie emits a triumphant noise. "I knew it. Only a lesbian dresses like that."

Robin's chin dips to her suspenders and tartan tie. She raises her brows at him.

"You wish you had my drip."

He would have replied if he hadn't caught movement in the corner of his eye.

Max is leaving the car. Eddie observes with bated breath as she slowly hobbles over to Steve. When reaching him, he spins to face her but makes no effort to step closer. She says something. He nods, sternness carved into his features.

For a moment, they're still.

Then she sways toward him; his arms envelop her, pulling her into a full-body hug. She tucks herself under his chin while he caresses her hair.

Eddie breathes out.

"They're fine."

"'Course they are," Robin says. "Don't you fight like this with your family?"

"Yeah." Eddie chuckles. By the fountain, Steve seems to be coaxing Max into letting him give her a piggyback ride. "Guess I do."

Tag list: @rougenancy, @raisedbylibrarians, @yourebuckingkiddingme, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @emma77645, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @eddielives1986, @stevesbipanic, @the-redthread, @fandemonium-takes-its-toll, @henderdads, @gay-little-bitch, @lenore1232, @zerokrox-blog, @eddiemunsonswife, @cherrycolas-things, @ediewentmissing, @princess-eddie, @atombombbibunny, @ajamlessbaby, @dogswithforks, @grimmfitzz, @cutiecusp, @cuips-not-cute, @manicallydepressedrobot, @messrs-weasley, @madaboutmunson, @mightbeasleep, @suikatto, @brassreign, @snapshotmaestro, @courtjestermunson, @csinnamon-fox, @spectrum-spectre, @spinmewriteround, @just-super-fucking-gay, @escapingthereality, @oneweirdcryptid, @deehellcat, @misticageri, @lovelyscot, @linkydinky06, @rynnytintin, @anything-thats-rock-and-roll, @theysherobinbuckley, @freddykicksasses, @winterbuckwild, @sideblogofthcentury, @subparbrainfunction, @pemsha

------------------------------

Part 7

[duchess-kyuupid]

Not quite an X Reader request, but a fun little prompt: In the place of Yuu is a TWST version of Little Ghost from Hollow Knight. Everyone thinks the kid's some random five year old fae that got swiped up by accident and is mostly babysat by the staff, but that doesn't stop some students from trying to bully the baby.

However, the baby in question is very good at hiding knives on their person and is secretly a master swordsman, and one day stabs a bully in the leg for shoving them, right in front of the bully's dorm leader.

Question: How do the dorm leaders react in this situation?

Okay uhh... I haven't written anything for a long time I know, but this I feel like I absolutely HAVE to do. Hopefully Silksong comes soon...right?

« Little Ghost gets into a Little Fight™ in Twisted Wonderland »

[TWST x Hollow Knight, Platonic affection, Ghost is slightly taller than Grim, not an x reader, the bullies are from each respective dorm (like Riddle's bullies are from Heartslabyul, etc.)]

So this whole conundrum started when Little Ghost found their favorite dorm leader in the halls in between classes. In their little scurry to reach them, they had to bypass a couple other students who were also in the hallway. One such student, with their small group of friends, intended to punt them and disguise it as a mere "shove."

"Better watch where you're going, shorty- us tall people can't see you from all the way up here when- OW! God damn it, what the hell?"

Little Ghost hides away their sharpened nail within the cover of their cloak, as if it was never there to begin with. They look up to the bully, pure malice filling the void of its blank, unblinking eyes. The bully's friends decide it was probably best to take the bully to the nurse and apologize on their behalf because, just look at his leg, it's bleeding! And, oh god, how big is that hole in his foot? What even is this weird shadow stuff? Best to just apologize and get out of there while they still could...

~Riddle~

Riddle witnesses the whole thing from the very moment that the Little Ghost saw him to begin with. Yet, the bullies left so quick that he didn't get a chance to collar them for their blatant disregard for the lives of innocent creatures. And almost immediately after the bullies left, the knight headed straight towards Riddle.

He was angry at first, at how the bullies so flagrantly disobeyed Rule #75: Never kick any creature with your left foot on Thursdays. But rather, he ended up feeling more concerned over the safety of the knight than anything else.

He took a moment to make sure the knight was feeling okay before going off into great detail about how it's against school policy to carry and conceal any weapon that isn't a wand on campus. Granted, he momentarily stops himself mid-sentence during his rant about this, since technically Little Ghost isn't even a student at NRC, so perhaps those rules don't apply to them? Hmm... An interesting counterargument indeed...

Ghost merely stares blankly back with little reaction to the scolding from Riddle. He sighs and decides to say nothing else about the knight's hidden weapons because, ultimately, Riddle is just happy that he won't have to worry so much about the little guy getting hurt with the knowledge that they can protect themselves if they need to.

"Well," Riddle supposes, "I guess I can let it go just this once. But just make sure that you don't go around stirring up even more trouble. Just let me know if anyone else decides to bother you, and I shall make sure to deal with them properly. Still, I need to go make sure those other ruffians don't make the same mistake twice about breaking the Queen's rules."

Riddle leans down a bit and pats the top of the knight's head with endearment in his eyes before walking away towards the nurse's office, an obvious glare of anger in his stride as he walked.

And the Little Ghost, left all alone in the hallway, looks down to their little hand, holding onto their precious charm: Fury of the Fallen.

Ah, another time then... they think.

~Leona~

Leona catches the whole thing and laughs about it as he watches the bullies scurry away in fear. He'd be dead before he admits it out loud, but Leona was actually just about to step in for the Little Ghost. True, he was pretending that he didn't see them as they were trying to approach him in the hallway, but he's always trying to look out for Little Ghost, whether on purpose or not.

Anyway, his laugh was more like a snide snicker, filled with mocking amusement. It was almost ironic how those beastmen could be so frightened by such a small little mouse, and hearing them squeal like babies was almost like music to his ears.

Leona smiles wider when Ghost finally approaches him after the incident, and he dips down to give them a little pat on the head.

"Nice job there, runt. That's what they get for messing with the wrong pack."

However, Leona's caught by surprise when the Ghost takes his hand from their head and places something in it. It felt cold- metallic maybe?- in his hand, and he takes a look at the gift Ghost had given to him. A... brooch? Ehh... The thought is nice but he's not exactly a jewelry kinda guy, you know?

Oh wait, and there's a note on it too.

'Mark of Pride. To my favorite pack leader.'

The next day, almost all of the Savanaclaw residents took notice of the new brooch their leader started wearing around.

~Azul~

Well, those bullies did have it coming to them, to be fair. Azul is in equal parts surprised and not surprised at those turn of events. On one hand, he's not surprised that Ghost had a little something up their sleeves on how to protect themselves, but on the other hand, he just didn't expect it to be...that.

Like, you'd think that you wouldn't be able to do a lot of damage with just a comically sized nail, but apparently, it was enough to scare even Octavinelle students away. And what was with that shadow magic? He's never seen anyone use anything remotely similar- not even cosmic magic came close to what the Ghost wielded in tandem with their nail just now.

My, he's just reminded of how the land has so many things to learn and many more to gain from. Azul approaches Ghost after the bullies leave with a smile on his face. Whether the smile is from his eagerness for a new deal, his relief that Ghost is safe, or even a combination of the two- not even Azul knows.

"That was spectacular, Little Ghost! You really showed them what's what!"

And Ghost just looks back up at him with his eyes, devoid of any sort of emotion. Most people have become quite frightened of Ghost by now, and it feels like Azul is the only person who ever looks them directly in the eyes. After all, after spending basically your entire life at the bottom of the ocean, peering into the darkness is nothing new for someone like Azul.

For this reason, while Azul was talking his mouth off at the prospect of learning about Ghost's void magic, Ghost reaches into their cloak and pulls out a charm, picked out specifically for Azul.

Ghost stands on their toes and stretches out their arms to offer their one and only charm of Unbreakable Greed to Azul, and he receives it gracefully with a polite thank you and a semi-surprised expression.

"It's remarkably shiny. Beautiful even. Thank you, Ghost." Ghost quickly finds a pen and paper to write on for a quick note to Azul before he starts getting any ideas.

'Don't sell this one. It's supposed to bring you more money.'

~Kalim~

He was too carried away in talking off Jamil's ears, so much so that he never even noticed the kerfuffle until the bullies started making a fuss.

"NO! GHOST, STOP IT. That's mean!" He scolds ghost as if they were a cat, and he didn't even realize that it was out of self defense. He picks up ghost and cuddles him close to his chest and tries to apologize to the bully for the inconvenience.

Meanwhile, the bully just screams out about how the ghost is a devil in disguise- a monster. Kalim doesn't believe them as the ghost just looks back up to him with (seemingly) innocent doe eyes.

"Well if you were being mean like that to them then its no wonder why they hurt you!" And by that point, the bullies had already started to run off, frightened of getting on the wrong side of an Al-Asim as well as...whatever Ghost is- monster or devil.

"You didn't get hurt did you, little guy?" Kalim asks worriedly, and Ghost merely shakes his head no. With a sigh of relief, Kalim smiles and continues walking through the hallway with Ghost still in tow within his arms.

This was probably the most perfect time for Ghost to offer their gift to him, so from their pocket they take out their Hiveblood charm.

And Jamil has to stop Kalim from crying on the spot when the Ghost attaches the charm onto his cardigan. Ghost doesn't even need to explain what it does- Kalim will probably wear it every day anyway.

~Vil~

Vil sees what happens and also laughs for a second as he watched the bullies run away from the scene. Though, he was a bit disappointed, in a way. Those bullies were the ones who started it, and yet they didn't even have the courage to finish it? Not only that, but they didn't even look the least bit graceful in their bullying tactics. How shameful. He ought to scold them for bringing such disgusting habits into the Pomefiore lifestyle.

But, Vil decided, they were very much beyond his recognition right now. As Housewarden, he can probably set them up with a punishment befitting their actions later, but right now, Vil notices the Little Ghost approaching him with a sort of glee in their steps.

"Hello there, Little Ghost. You weren't hurt, I hope?" And Ghost shakes their head no before reaching into their pocket to pull something out from under their cloak.

Immediately, the hallway fills up with a strong stench in the air that seemingly came from nowhere. But, Vil knew better. After all, he can practically see the fumes radiating off of whatever the Ghost had in their hand. What confused him though, was why it only started smelling when the Ghost took it out from their cloak if they had it this whole time...

The Ghost reaches out their hand to offer their Defender's Crest to Vil, but he looks at it in disgust and pinches his nose so he wouldn't have to smell it. (Alas, this tactic did not help whatsoever, as now he was forced to almost taste the smell as the fumes visibly wafted into his face.) Still, he tried his best to decline the offer as politely as he could... In classic Vil fashion, of course.

"If you plan on giving me that, then forget about it and keep it for yourself. It's disguising and revolting. I'd probably catch 10 different diseases if I so much as touch that thing." Reminder, this was Vil trying to politely refuse the gift.

He almost felt bad about what he said once he sees the way that the Ghost lowers their arms and looks down sadly. Keyword: almost. While their eyes held nothing but emptiness, you could almost feel the small amount of sadness coming from them as they took a moment to think. To be honest, Vil was mere seconds away from reaching for his handkerchief to begrudgingly accept this...lovely gift before the Ghost puts it back into their cloak and pulls out something else instead. It was their charm of Deep Focus, and the beautiful purple gemstones on it shimmered gloriously under the lights in the hallway.

"That's much better," Vil smiles in acceptance and graciously takes the new gift, "And rather beautiful too. Thank you, Ghost."

Ghost was at least happy that Vil liked this one since it was pretty. To be honest though, they were still pretty hurt that Vil would call it disguisting... Ghost can't smell anything, so how were they supposed to know that Vil wouldn't like it?

At least, now it means that they can keep their memento from one of their best friends from their own world.

'I won't ever forget you, Dung Defender. Not even if I lose your Crest.'

~Idia~

Please don't blame him for not stepping in. He doesn't do too well with fights- or just drawing any sort of attention to himself. But! At least when the squabble was over, Idia stood in place and waited for the knight to come to him like they initially wanted. Usually, once Idia sees someone- anyone, really, with the exception of his brother- approaching him, he'll take any sort of excuse to get out of there to avoid confrontation.

Lucky for him, the Little Ghost can't speak. Or perhaps, they choose not to. Either way, it makes it a lot easier for Idia to hang out with the Ghost when he knows he's not going to be expected to answer any random questioning or have to actively participate in conversation.

It's gotten to the point where Idia and Ghost can communicate with each other without making any sort of sounds at all. It's kinda creepy to the other students at the college though... I mean, how can you tell what Little Ghost is thinking when they've never spoken, when their mask is immovable, and when their eyes hold nothing but empty void in them?

Ortho would just tell those people off for him though, because it's in those eyes of theirs that they can understand each other so clearly. Can't you see how much expression Ghost has? Just look at those eyes! [Its complete and utter darkness.] But...to be honest... Ortho doesn't understand it either. Idia supposes he might need to improve Ortho's emotional reading modules...

Going back on topic, Ghost approaches Idia in the hallway and their creepy nonverbal conversation began.

'Are you hurt?' 'No.' 'Good. I can dox them later if you want. Wanna play some games with me later?' 'Yes. I have something for you.' 'Let's see it then.'

Ghost pulls out from their cloak their most precious charm they own: Wayward Compass. Idia's gamer instincts can tell how much latent immense power that is stored in this innocuous brooch, and he accepts it gladly.

Later that day, Idia asks Ortho to scan the object to see what kind of power lays behind this brooch.

"It just shows you where you are on any map."

"Like a GPS?" Ortho nods.

"Oh."

~Malleus~

He's quite pleased actually. He, as well as most of Diasomnia (being the fae that they are), knows the ghost isn't quite a fae, but isn't quite human either, so even he's at a loss for what kind of being the ghost really is. And this mystery makes it all the more easy for Ghost to become the target of bullying, and thus all the more easy for Malleus to become super protective over little ghost. Ultimately, Malleus is glad to see that they were not hurt in the fight.

After all, from the moment when they first met and he looked into it's eyes, he could sense that same sort of empty loneliness within as he does within himself. The Ghost isn't scared of him either, so naturally it seemed that they've become good friends, even if neither party are prone to speaking very much- if at all.

As the Ghost approaches Malleus in the hallway after the fight, he pets the top of their head and wonders to himself- what sort of material is this mask thing made of? Bone? Or is it a type of exoskeleton? Is it made from ceramic or glass? Or perhaps a strange type of wood? Maybe it's made from a material that's only exclusive to the world that Ghost is from.

Lost in his own thoughts, Malleus continued to pat Ghost's head endearingly, and he didn't notice that Ghost was holding something out for him until Ghost takes his hand off of their head and instead wrap his fingers around the stem of a precious white flower. It looked delicate, like it could break apart and fly away at any moment.

And yet, it was such a beautiful flower.

"Is this... for me?" he asks, to which Ghost responds with a nod.

To be honest, the knight would have been completely infuriated if those bullies had managed to break the delicate flower from their home world. They would not have gotten away with the measly scrapes that they did. There was only one of these flowers, and I mean, sure- it was supposed to be for someone else, but the knight got transported here before they could even bring it to Elderbug. Truly though, it was a miracle that the flower had managed to last this long without being broken.

Meanwhile, Malleus gets lost in his thoughts again for a second after realizing that this was the first gift he'd ever gotten from someone he considered as a friend. A kindred soul. He must take great care to protect both the flower and this little creature that is neither fae, human, nor monster- but a friend.

He takes extremely good care of the flower. It might even become one of his favorite items, next to his precious Tamagotchi game, and he places it in an enchanted vase to protect it for as long as he can.

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

POV: you're an aspid who broke the delicate flower

[peripaltepsy]

BEWARE OF "body mod advices" - they can be dangerous and LETHAL.

(this post was about a deactivated blog but extends to any possible future blog like it)

edit3 since he deactivated: Red told me in the DMs that he WILL be more careful about all this risk stuff, I believe he is going to do better. Im sure he's a good person and he also was extremely civil in the DMs. Since he's not here to defend himself anymore I'll gladly take his side and say that despite this mess, all Red wanted to do was indeed reduce harm and potentially save lives. Good luck on all your endeavors, Red, I wish you a beautiful and successful career and that you have a great positive impact in the atypical dysphoria community, both on and offline. I don't know how my post truly impacted you, I'm so sorry if you're feeling bad. You acted the best way you possibly could.

Second, if Red comes back, DO NOT HARASS HIM, let him be himself and don't let his past hold them down.

Third, all my points still stand for their deactivated blog and any potential body mod tips blogs in the future. Please everyone, take care, stay safe.

Past edit: DONT HARASS any possible blogs like hers, just REPORT and spread awareness, (also don't make the same mistakes as me: TALK TO THEM FIRST)

Past edit: minors please interact with this post, forget my bio for this one

Past edit: editing editing the post since I talked to Red and he isn't bait. I definitely should have talked to them in DMs first. I sincerely apologize. So sorry Red! To those reading, don't make the same mistake as me, ok? Always talk to people privately first, I genuinely fucked up bad. This mistake of assuming others intentions, can traumatize them. If I were in Red's shoes I'd be traumatized. So yeah, I fucked up bad.

Their intentions are genuine but my point still stands that its extremely dangerous and can't qualify as harm-reduction / end edit note

alright, I'm not transid/radqueer but you guys need to REPORT AND WARN OTHERS of these accounts as soon as they appear. Do not entertain them, no matter how desperate you are to transition. You can become a victim of dangerous charlatanism.

LONG POST AHEAD, VERY IMPORTANT NEVERTHELESS

Archive to what i'm about to post

Red claimed to be "a non-professional surgeon, planning on getting better with practice." Bad move!

Red has told me he's pursuing a medical degree and won't actually do non-qualified surgery.

.

Red: "The blog is centered around an idea of "extreme" body mods that I would like to explore further, [...] things like breaking and re-mending bones, creating new joints, replacing skin, etc."

My point: the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and your blog was unsafe.

.

To any possible counterarguments: "But they (people following/asking advice) know the risks!" That's victim-blaming. Red gave himself the responsibility to give harm-reducing advice, but he didn't do a good job.

"But I know the risks!" You can't possibly know the risks because Red doesn't know either or "kinda knows" but has not properly informed his audience, it didnt give sources, oversimplified their advice and failed to provide accurate information about risk. Or gave plain misinformation.

Again I'm not transid, I can't possibly imagine what you're going through in order to try anything at all to feel better, including trying experimental surgery not legally available or not researched at all. However, please please please do not become a victim of medical deceit or whatever tf it's called. Even if the blog owner tries their best to be reliable.

They might sound confident, but they do not know what they are saying, what they're telling others to do.

.

Ask: "How would I make my skin gray without tattoos?" (DO NOT SHAME THIS USER BTW)

Red: "[...] I assume you want permanent grey. To do this, it's pretty simple, although it'll take a lot of time. Basically, what you want to do is to constantly be exposed to lots of silver. Any product with silver in it like specific lotions and skin creams. also fish, milk, mushrooms, and whole grains tend to have silver in them! So tldr, consume lots of silver!"

STOP!!! DONT FOLLOW THIS ADVICE!!! DONT OVER-EXPOSE YOURSELF TO SILVER!!! "Silver toxicity causes argyria. Silver toxicity occurs when too much silver is in your body." <- from a simple research on "too much silver in blood"

THE RESULT WILL BE ARGYRIA. EVEN IF YOU DO IT SLOWLY, YOU ARE BUILDING UP A HEAVY METAL IN YOUR BODY. THE GREY SKIN IS NOT PRETTY NOR WITHOUT GRUESOME SIDE SYMPTOMS.

Yall. Anything in excess will fuck up your body, including iron, vitamins, and silver.

To whoever asked Red, I don't know your mind, but I'm sure you'd love to live a happy life with grey skin! You'd love to have a body you're comfortable with and looks rad as hell! But you wouldn't be able to enjoy it if you're deeply sick with ARGYRIA, WHICH IS WHAT RED'S ADVICE WILL GIVE YOU!

.

Ask: "How do I get darker skin without going too dark? I’m pale and burn easily, I just want a color similar to Lin Manuel Miranda" (AGAIN DONT HARASS THIS USER)

Red: [...] "expose yourself to the sun more! As you do this, you'll get tan which will protect you from future burns and make your skin slightly darker, do this enough and you can engineer your skin to be as dark as you want!"

THATS MISINFORMATION! Yes you may tan to get darker (Lin's tone may or may not be achievable to you) but one: it's not permanent unless you're constantly going out; two: SKIN CANCER!!!! DONT OVER-EXPOSE YOURSELF TO THE SUN!!!! USE SUNSCREEN!!

TO ANYONE SEEKING A MUCH DARKER TONE: YOU CAN'T "GO AS DARK AS YOU WANT TO" BY TANNING. Just look at people who have lived their whole lives outdoors like farmers! White people can't tan to black! There's a limit to how tan you may get! Are you seriously gonna risk skin cancer for an impossible thing???

.

Red: "Self amputation is really dangerous! You should learn how to use a tourniquet, that way, you can stop the bleeding! [...]" WHERE ARE YOU GETTING YOUR SOURCES, RED?

If anyone reading this is seriously thinking of amputating themselves, and will not change their minds no matter what, please just have someone immediately drive you to the hospital. I do not support such operation and you can still die or get horribly sick even with your best precautions, but you better receive actual medical attention and stay alive rather than trying to heal it yourself. Because what you'll most likely get from following Red's advice is DEATH FROM BLOOD LOSS. Again, if you absolutely cannot get rid of this dysphoria with therapy, or manage it at least, or have a doctor do it for you, I still would NEVER suggest you do it yourself, but IF you end up doing that then at least please go straight to the hospital instead of trying to heal it yourself.

.

Red: "do not try and break your own bones to make modifications! [...] Get another person (Like myself) to help you with the bone breakage instead."

NO ONE KNOWS WTF THEY'RE DOING. YOUR FRIEND DOESN'T. RED DOESN'T (as they advertised in the post). NO ONE IS GOING TO GET MODIFICATIONS LIKE THIS. NO ONE IS GOING TO BE HAPPY. EVERYONE IS GOING TO BE EITHER IN PAIN, RISK OF HORRIBLE INJURIES OR TROUBLE WITH THE LAW. FUCKING AROUND = GUARANTEED BOTCHED OPERATION.

Also, now that Red has clarified she won't perform surgery until having an actual degree, you can't really go to her XD

.

Red: "Some advice for surgery [...] This one's important, make sure your patient is strapped down and properly sedated, if they move, even slightly, you risk hitting a vital artery or organ, if you do hit an artery, don't panic, this is why you learned how to use a tourniquet! if you hit a vital organ though, odds are you won't know how to fix that, so be extra careful with abdomen and face surgery!"

Thats still promoting medical malpractice, mutilating and potentially killing friends, dangerously downplaying surgery so much, this is not harm-reduction

.

Ask: "I want to be blind in one eye, but more-so in the sense of extreme but not total vision loss. I want to do something permanent in the future!" (AGAIN DONT HARASS THIS USER)

Red: Well, a simple fix to your problem is just get some calcium hydroxide in your eye and wash it out a few minutes later, this should lead to permanent, extreme (but not total) vision loss in that eye. Keep it in too long and it can cause total vision loss so be careful!

Ok so, it's great that you're trying to come up with alternative ways for users not to kill themselves by gouging their eyes out, but you've still failed to give them the full picture

From a quick search "calcium hydroxide in the eyes": Exposure to the skin can produce burns, painful irritation and necrosis, and exposure to the eyes may cause severe pain and vision loss that can be temporary or permanent. If calcium hydroxide is exposed to the skin, contaminated clothing should be removed, excess amounts of the chemical should be wiped off and the affected skin should be flushed repeatedly with water. Victims of calcium hydroxide exposure to the eyes should flush their eyes with water continuously for the first 15 minutes, but all cases of external exposure should receive immediate medical care. Inhaling calcium hydroxide through the nose or mouth can also cause immediate, painful and potentially life-threatening complications. Throat and nasal passages may become painful and swollen, and the swelling may restrict airways, making breathing difficult or impossible. If the calcium hydroxide particles are carried all the way to the lungs, this may further complicate breathing. Victims of this type of exposure should be taken immediately to a fresh air environment, and emergency services should be contacted right away. Administration of oxygen and emergency respiratory assistance may be required.

.

Red (answering an ask): "the question shouldn't be what DO people replace their skin with, it should be what CAN they, after all, just because it's never been practiced or very rarely practiced doesn't mean it's bad or impossible! Of course, my personal favorite skin substitutes are rubber and red velvet, I am also a big fan of stainless steel."

(Don't promote such an operation). THIS OPERATION IS BAD AND IMPOSSIBLE TO SUCCEED. SKIN CAN ONLY BE REPLACED WITH SKIN. SKIN IS A LIVING ORGAN. ANY OTHER SUBSTITUTE WILL CAUSE YOU TO LOSE BODY PARTS OR DIE.

YOU KNOW HOW PEOPLE WITH TRANSPLANTS NEED LIFE-LONG MEDICAL ATTENTION SO THEIR BODY DOESN'T REJECT IT? HOW TF WILL YOU DO THIS WITH FUCKING RED VELVET?

YOU WILL FUCK UP YOUR BODY'S IMMUNE SYSTEM A THOUSAND DIFFERENT WAYS.

ANYWAYS. CROSSTAGGING FOR REACH. PLEASE EVERYONE REBLOG. THIS IS SERIOUS SHIT.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Sheriff Of Nottingham x Fem!Reader || Excerpt

Plot: You're the prettiest peasant in Nottingham, and so on carnival day you don't mind offering one simple kiss as a prize to the winner of the archery contest. You figure- what's the harm? You're an engaged woman and this may just be your last opportunity to kiss lips that aren't your husbands.

You aren't expecting a man such as the terrible Sheriff to find out you're the prize and participate. Or win-

Warnings: Its probably a mess because I wrote it while I was at work.

The Sheriff had won! A pathetic smattering of weak applause dies down quickly in the stands, no one being particularly happy he had dained to attend your little carnival. It was for the peasants; a little bright moment to hold onto throughout the dreary, poor Nottingham days. It was certainly not for him. If he had any manners at all, he would've stayed away.

But he didn't have any manners. He was terrible, and dastardly, and gross and impolite-- and now you had to kiss him!

You were seathing!!

You didn't want to do it! You wanted to look him in those beady eyes of his and claim second thoughts; say you didn't want to make your fiance uncomfortable.

... but your fiance was currently out of town on business, so that excuse wouldn't work quite as effectively. The Sheriff would counterargue, and you would end up embarrassed in front of everyone.

"Damnit," You muttered under your breath, eyes ablaze with frustration and hate on the smug, chubby (Ugh, how chubby he got while the rest of you starved infuriated you. He was more robust than even the horrible prince himself) 'law man' accepting forced congratulations from onlookers.

~

"Well well well, here we are!" The Sheriff jeered, all-too-pleased to be alone with you now. The tent was meant for the fortune tellers, deep midnight blue's and lovely maroon's strewn about setting the mood quite nicely. You'd been in here before, and the 'lady' with the fluffy red hair poking out from 'her' robes told you that you would be surprised with something today- well you were surprised. You were hoping that the fortune meant that your fiance would be home early,.. but no. No, that wasn't it. Not with your luck!

The Sheriff is about to lean in and just plant one on you- but you raise your hand up to his chest as fast lightning and firmly push him back with a careful glare. "... before that, I have something to say."

"Oh- " Either he's surprised to have a lady take such a stern tone with him, or he's surprised to see any peasant treat him so boldly, but he definitely pauses. Looks confused. Then shrugs, straightening up again with a gleaming, toothy grin. "Well, sure, sweetheart! Go right ahead~ "

Taking a deep breath, you straighten your shoulders and try not to squirm looking into his eyes. "... I want you to know, I don't care for you. You give law enforcement a bad name. You're a fiend." You blurt out bluntly, uncaring of the displeased responce you might get. You're expecting it, in fact.

... but he doesn't give that displeased responce. He just gives a jovial chuckle, his belly jiggling with the movement, and shakes his head at you. You're almost dissappinted. "Well, aren't you a bold thing??... "

"I want to be clear you disgust me."

"Oh, I heard~ "

"Good." You huff, put-out by his lacklustre and honestly, kind of amused responce.

After a moment, he tilts his head to the side and his eyes seem to glow in the darkness of the tent as be steps in closer to you once again. "Now, miss, do you think I could take my prize? Hm?~"

He'll have to duck down quite a ways, you think, noting the man's size. But, Sighing a frustrated sigh, you nod. "Yes you may, but I won't enjoy it and I hope you don't either."

"Can't promise that." He just says, before the Sheriff of Nottingham puts his large fat hands on either side of your face, and leans down, and smothers your lips with his.

Immediately you stiffen, giving a squeak against his lips at how he grabbed you so easily and overwhelms you with his sheer size. You were expecting a quick, sweet kiss when you signed up to be the prize for this competition! Mabhe on the cheek! Not- not- whatever vulgar mess this is!-

... and yet you feel yourself melting against the large fabcy pants brute of a man. You love your fiance, you love him dearly, but the Sheriff...

God, you can never think about this again after its over. It's so very horrendous. So appallingly bad that you return the kiss in order to make it go faster (thats the only reason, of course.). You have to make an oath to yourself after this. Never even think about this kiss ever again.

But for right now, it wouldn't be against your oath, to... slide your hands up his chest, would it? After all, you won't be thinking about it ever again (how soft but firm he is, the lovely fabric he wears in red and purple), so you dont see why you shouldn't...

Just as your fingers are cautiously linking around his neck, the Sheriff pulls away. He steals one more quick, greedy kiss, then steps back from you completely; a wolfish grin across his mean face.

Breathless, you struggle to pull yourself together. "Well- " Huff. "I do hope you had a terrible time."

An irritating, smug, grin pulls at one corner of the wolve's mouth. "Oh, dear, did I fail the assignment sweetheart?~ "

"... You ogre!!"

[delopsia]

Dancing Beneath The Moon | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 10,000  Cross Posted on AO3 Brief Summary: How is it that your heart only longs for the ghost of a cowboy? And why do you get the feeling that his heart utters the same for you? Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, Ghost!Rhett AU (with a twist! I won't tell you what kind but it's a twist!), friends to lovers, Trevor does not take rejection very well (please be advised that he does yell at the reader and scare them), unprotected sex, mentions of violence, and Rhett's 'murder.' Please refer to the user manual and wash your cowboy before sex.  

"I-I'm sorry, I need to leave."

"Trevor, wait!" Your feet patter across the floor, struggling to keep up as he lets himself out the door, "I can explain."

Only on the front porch does he stop, ostrich-skin boots clicking against the old wood with every step, "You don't need to," holding up one hand, as if to ward you off, "I just...forgot my Dad asked me to interview our new ranch hand today."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, gaping like a damn goldfish.

"I'll call you later," and that's all Trevor leaves you with, skittering off the porch and clambering up into that lifted F-150, with its perfect, custom black paint that glimmers a deep blue as he tears down your driveway.

Ugh.

"Rhett!" Your voice echoes throughout the house, punctuated by the slamming of the door behind you. So loud, and yet you can still hear the vicious banging of your beloved cast iron skillet banging on your kitchen tile. A shrill clatter of noise that has you fighting the urge to cover your ears as you storm into the kitchen.

And there he is. The translucent motherfucker, sitting cross-legged beneath your table, peeking out from beneath it. "What?" A big, shit-eating grin lacing his barely there features, so innocent and childlike that you almost don't believe he was the cause of this mayhem.

Almost.

The skillet in his hand provides a pretty damning counterargument.

"I'd kill you if you weren't already dead," fuming, yanking that dented skillet out of his hand; Rhett's grip is strong, but not enough to stop you from taking your cookware back.

"I was playin' with that," he huffs, a cold wind that tickles your ankles.

The skillet lands in the sink with a clatter. "And I was trying to have a date," you hiss, throwing your hands up, "but I'm unfortunate enough to share a house with a ghost who doesn't have any fucking manners!"

"I have manners!" Rhett's up in the air now, a buzzing collection of mist that floats up to the ceiling, no longer human, "I just ain't got 'em for big shots that wanna play cowboy for a day!"

"He is a cowboy," he's not. You know he's not. But god, you are not giving Rhett fucking Abbott the satisfaction of you agreeing with him. "You wouldn't know, being ancient and all that."

The temperature drops. Mist scattering. You can't tell where he is anymore. "I would know 'cause I am a fuckin' cowboy!" His disembodied, roaring voice comes from all directions. "No good-minded cowboy wears a goddamn rolex on a work day, 'cause they know that shits fixin' t'get scuffed!"

"Cowboy or not, you're going to have to get over it," as you reach for the tap, you think you can feel his presence behind you. Some invisible thing that sends your skin prickling, even with the knowledge of how harmless he truly is. "Trevor's coming back, and if you keep scaring him off, I'm phoning a priest."

"Fine!" Booming behind you.

"Fine!"

He's gone for the rest of the night.

The pizza guy scares the hell out of you when he knocks on the door. Not because you had forgotten about your order but because you were waiting on the curtains to peel themselves open. Expecting to hear a deep, half-hearted grumble about how "your date is here" as the fella clambers out of his beat-up sedan.

But it never comes.

Rhett doesn't even bug you about giving him a slice that he knows he can't eat, but you catch yourself putting a plate out for him. You wonder if he's in the room to see you rushing to put it back in the cupboard. Maybe he's out in the field because the television doesn't miraculously change to the Animal Channel like it usually does. You don't catch a glimpse of him lingering in the mirror whilst you brush your teeth.

You're glad.

You didn't want to see his ugly mug anyway.

Strange how such a big presence can vanish so easily, without a trace or hint of where he went, leaving this big farmhouse feeling like a husk of what it usually does. The temperature drops a degree or two when he's around, but without him, it feels like you've set up camp in the Arctic. How can a dead man bring so much life to a place?

But the covers are tucked around you in the morning.

You can't see him, but when you step into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and yawning, you can feel him wisping around you. That invisible presence seeking for anything to get back on your good side.

The toast lifts itself onto a plate before it can be burnt by that old, barely functioning toaster of yours. On the table, the weekly grocery ad flips open to a discount on new toasters, a lazily written note scrawled beneath it. 'They even have the color you were wanting! :)'

He pulls the chair out for you to sit, and when you defiantly head out onto the porch to eat, he pulls the patio chair out for you too. You hate giving him the satisfaction of helping, but it's hard to avoid him when he's free to roam this entire property.

But the one thing you've forgotten is just how hot Wabang can get, even this early in the morning. Birds tiredly chirp from their nests, unwilling to take flight beneath the sweltering sun; the old wind chime is silent, not even the slightest breeze appearing to help it sing its tune. You've been outside for a mere five minutes, and yet sweat already beads on your forehead.

A cold nothingness wisps past you. Round and round your little patio table, stirring up a breeze that doesn't reach the trees.

"You can come out, Rhett," fighting your laugh is futile because it slips out as you speak, dancing through the air in tune with the wind chime.

The opposite chair scoots out on its own, a pale blue mist collecting in the seat; it'll take him a moment to get settled back into form. "Did ya happen to find my headstone yesterday?"

Your head is shaking before he can get his sentence out. "Are you sure you were buried in Wabang?"

"I don't know where else I'd be," Rhett's face isn't fully there yet, but his scowl is, settled deep into his nonexistent features. "Wabang was the only place my folks ever knew."

Your heavy tongue can't be brought to tell him about the graves you did find. Royal and Cecelia buried together, their son Perry right next to them, and their granddaughter Amy buried in the row in front of them, next to a headstone simply titled 'Autumn.'

Rhett should know. He deserves to know where his family rests, but you can't bring yourself to tell Rhett that his killer was given the privilege of being buried next to his parents. Don't know how to tell him that the Amelia County Sherrif dug up an old newspaper declaring Perry Abbott as not guilty of Rhett's murder.

"C'n I bug you to put a cup of coffee out?" Rhett chirps, and that permanently scruffy face almost looks real. His eyes must have been as blue as the ocean deep when he was alive, for even now, they glow with their color. The only thing off about him is his slight transparency and the rays of sunlight that spear through his body.

"You didn't smell it enough this morning?" You ask, but you're getting up anyway; you'd rather not deny his request and risk him making a mess by trying to do it himself.

His boots click across the old wood, in perfect tune with your step, "wasn't here."

"Where did you go?" You're already grabbing his mug out of the cupboard, other hand reaching for the coffee pot.

He's quiet for a moment, and then, "barn." When you turn around, he's no longer there, a plume of mist once more, but you don't need to see him to know that his eyes are transfixed on the ground. "Didn't think y'wanted me in the house after last night."

Most people would love it if their ghosts would leave the residence; let them live in peace without being heckled by the souls who can't move on. You'd know; you were one of them, once upon a time.

"You don't have to leave every time we bicker, Rhett," it feels strange to say, but those words are spoken directly from the heart, "this is your house too."

He manifests again. Back to his favorite spot beneath the edge of the kitchen table, cross-legged, where he can peek out to see what you're doing. A little too big to fit, but he makes it work.

Like clockwork, his right-hand toys with the cracked edge of a linoleum tile, the one he's pulled up numerous times in the past.

"Please don't tear up my tile," you try to say it as gently as you can; you know why he's so drawn to it, but you really don't want to spend an afternoon fixing your beloved floor again. Wordless, he leaves his spot, content to settle down in a kitchen chair and smell his coffee. The closest he can get to enjoying its flavor.

You wind up back in bed early in the afternoon. Downed by a migraine that refuses to pass, settling deep into your skull, brought on by an unknown cause. You think it may be from the obnoxiously strong air freshener you plugged in; Rhett blames it on your cellphone.

"Care for some company?"

You're fortunate that Rhett Abbott is easy on the eyes because it's difficult to open them. There he is, standing near the edge of the bed, in the same spot you met him three years ago.

At least this time, the two of you aren't screaming, startled by each other's sudden presence.

"As long as you don't hog the sheets," comes your conclusion, and the bed is dipping as soon as the last word has left your mouth. A weight that isn't there settles across from you, a human-shaped indent that by all means shouldn't exist.

Rhett's hair falls into his face as his pretty head lands on the pillow, snuggling against it, and you know he's trying his best to remain as solid as he can. He says he's not touch-starved, but you're starting to think that he's lying.

Your hand wanders out on its own, carefully settling against that misty cheek, trying not to go through him. "You look a little more solid than usual."

"Only took a couple years of practice," the corner of his lip rises with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Oh, why does he have to look so sad when your hand inevitably passes through him?

You don't know if ghosts can cry, but his eyes seem to water as he feels your touch falter. They always do, but it never gets any easier to look at. It never gets easier, watching his smile wobble back into a frown, and his form grow a little more opaque.

Opening your arms to him probably isn't the best move to make. You've both discussed this; roommates is as far as this relationship can ever go because anything more asks for nothing but heartache. Heartache, such as the crushing feeling of feeling him squirm closer and not being able to feel him when you wrap your arms around his waist.

The only sign that he's real is the coldness you feel against your chest as his head settles against there. And, maybe, just maybe, you think you can feel wisps of his hair tickling your skin.

"What the hell is that?"

You haven't even taken it out of the box, and Rhett is already puffing up like a feral cat about it. "What does it look like, Rhett?"

The living room light flickers, his blue mist settling into the corner of the couch, as far as he can get from the box sitting on the floor. Refuses to take any more form than he already has, doesn't know how to react to this new thing that now sits in the same room as him.

"I don't have a clue," he says after a moment.

"It's a video game console," you want to take it out of the box and prove that it's not going to hurt him, but you don't want him getting any more surprised than he already is.

Against all odds, it seems you've got his attention because you can see his face now, head cocked to the side like a puppy. "A huh?"

"It connects to the television," nodding your head toward the flat screen next to you, "you can use it to play games on it."

He perks at that. "You can play checkers on the TV?"

Checkers wasn't what you had in mind, but you're sure it's on there.

There's a lot of fumbling involved. All the various cords and manuals only serve to confuse him more than he already is, and though he tries his best to help, he's not much assistance. There are less than five cords for the system, and he thinks they're all HDMI cables. But he's helpful when it comes to squeezing behind the television, at least.

"So that box...puts the game on the screen?" He asks as soon as you've settled onto the couch together, scooted as close as he can possibly get. "And you use that thing to play?"

For a cowboy who grew up in the days of black-and-white television, he catches on quickly. "For the most part, yes."

You'd won this thing in a raffle held down at the Bison Valley Bank of Wyoming, entered just for the hell out of it while you were down there a couple of months ago. How you won a new gaming console and why it came with a second controller, hot pink in color, you'll never know.

Rhett's simply poking at the joystick, unwilling to pick it up just yet, but you know he'll take to it like he did your television. Later, you'll wish you hadn't, but for now, you'll download one of his favorite board games.

"Monopoly?" He's fighting it, but there's still a twinge of excitement in his tone.

Now he's picking it up.

And within the hour, you regret even bringing the damn console into the house because you lose. Horribly. As soon as Rhett figured out the controls and the slight change in rules, you knew you didn't stand a chance. You can't even be upset about your crippling loss because he's kicking his legs back and forth and giggling.

"One more round?" He pleads, those opaque eyes sparkling with their childlike wonder, and you know he's never going to let this controller go.

"Let me get a drink, and then we'll play another," are you only agreeing because you enjoy the melody of laughter coming from your household ghost?

Absolutely not.

...okay, maybeyou are, but still.

At least he can't see your smile as you head for the kitchen, socked feet pattering across the cold hardwood without much of a sound. Already formulating a plan in your head, the next surprise move that might help you beat Rhett at one of his favorite games. If you can buy all four railroads before Rhett does...

The floor bends beneath your foot. Something crackles.

"Rhett, can you come here for a second?" Frozen in place, afraid to make another move. The lights are off; you can't see what's going on, but something feels wrong.

His presence is there before you can think any further, a chill ghosting over your body as he breezes around you. Circling like he's making an attempt at thwarting your fears before he flicks the light switch on.

And now you see it.

The kitchen floor is beginning to cave in, bowing inwards, right where your kitchen table sits. Beneath your foot, the tile has begun to crack, breaking into smaller pieces that cannot withstand any amount of weight on top of it.

"That floor's fixin' to collapse, doll," comes his voice, seemingly from all directions.

You're moving to step off of it and venture back out into the presumably safe hallway. But the floor crackles even louder. Tiles buckling beneath both of your feet. Sinking lower.

"I don't think I can," your body sways, fighting to remain upright.

Rhett's silently wrapping around you, formless blue mist shaping around you like a hug, tugging you away with a surprising amount of force. Practically takes your feet out from under you as he hauls you out of the kitchen.

"You're stronger than you look," you mutter in the hallway. Where the floor is solid and doesn't threaten to come out from under you.

"Only when I'm wantin' to be," he mutters directly into your ear, and you're suddenly glad that you've never asked how strong he is, as a ghost and all, "Now what kind of drink were you after?"

Rhett's your kitchen boy for the next three days until you can get someone to come and take a look at your floor. Balancing drinks and plastic cups that occasionally end in a tragic spill because he's not as good at balancing small objects. The first person never shows up; the second arrives bright and early in the morning, interrupting your morning conversation with Rhett on the porch.

"Now, like I said before, I don't have my equipment on me, so I can't guarantee you that this is the case," the guy begins, and you really, really hope he doesn't look up and see Rhett's dumbass sitting on the counter, "but my biggest guess is that your foundation has been exposed to too much moisture for too long."

"What's the worst-case scenario for this?" Your attention flickers between him and Rhett; what if it's something that you can't afford to fix?

He pauses to press his foot against the floor one more time, carefully surveying the way it shakes beneath the weight, tile crackling once more, "now it's highly unlikely, but worst case scenario, in my opinion, would be a sinkhole."

Your face drops.

"But that's highly unlikely," and he doesn't seem too concerned as he turns to face you, "I wouldn't worry until we get back out here and tear up the floor this coming Monday."

So Monday it is. That will be the day you find out if it's a simple fix or if you'll have no choice but to move out and leave your beloved house ghost all by his lonesome. Rhett seems to catch onto that thought, too. Remarkably quiet for the rest of the afternoon.

You can't blame him. For about forty-five years, this house was occupied by a family of religious folk who used some sort of herb to quite literally render Rhett into a state of unconsciousness. One too many surprise appearances in the mirror doomed him to sleep for all those years, only -reawakening after you moved in and scrubbed this old farmhouse from top to bottom.

He's never known what it's like to be alone. The closest he's come to it is the sporadic vacations you've taken over the past couple of years. None of which have lasted longer than a week, but all of which have ended in him waiting on the porch, tackling you the moment you stepped out of your car.

Unless he can attach himself to you, he'll never be able to wander further than the fields that surround your home.

Rhett doesn't take form again until Sunday night.

You don't know why you've drug these two lawn chairs out into the lawn, past the gravel that eats up the area around the house, but you have. Lounging, gazing up at the moon and stars hanging high above your heads, pointing out all the shapes you find amongst them.

The portable radio drones lowly in between you, stuck on the same old country station, ever since Rhett and his ghostly ways accidentally jammed it last summer.

"Do you wanna dance with me?"

And you don't know if...did you make that up in your head? Or was that just the radio?

"You know I'm not drunk this time, right?" Your head tilts, aiming to get a glimpse of him. He's already looking at you, smiles weakly as you meet his eye. Laying here, cloaked in the silvery light of the moon, he looks...real. If you reached out, you're sure you'd feel the scruff of his cheek scratch at your palm.

He hums, "I know." Pausing, just for a moment, to look up at the stars one more time. Your eyes follow, scanning the speckled sky, delighted to catch the tail end of a shooting star. You should make a wish...but you can't think of anything to wish for. "I just...wanted t' know what kinda dancer you are when you're sober."

"Alright," comes your answer; dry, nothing more to add to it.

And you don't know where it comes from, but Rhett reaches off to the side of his chair and plucks a translucent cowboy hat off the ground. Takes care to dust it off with his scarred palm, even though nothing can possibly dirty it, before carefully placing it atop his head.

He holds his hand out for you to take as if it's something that's become possible all of a sudden, and against better judgment, you do just that. Slipping your palm into the chilly illusion of his, deceiving yourself into believing that you feel his fingers curling around your hand. It's not, but as he leads you out further into the grass, it becomes easy to deceive yourself.

"Whoever taught you to dance, anyway?" You giggle as he spins you around; catches you by the waist when you come to face him once more.

He grins, big and wide, and you think you see his teeth glint in the moonlight. "You give amazin' lessons when you're drunk."

Oh, how easy it is.

Dancing beneath the moon, in nothing but your pajamas, held close by the ghost of a cowboy whose soul fits against your own like a puzzle piece. He doesn't know what he's doing, and if he were human, you're sure he'd be stepping on your feet, but he moves in such wonderous tune with your body that it feels like a daydream. His cold forehead rests against yours, ocean eyes peering deep into the deepest crevices of who you are.

You're drifting away from the grass and into the driveway, feet kicking up loose gravel with each and every step. Sweeping past your car, your shoulder narrowly avoids the passenger side mirror. You should be looking where you're going, you're going to drift too close to the porch and fall, but Rhett's gaze is so captivating that you can't bring yourself to look away.

How is it that your heart only longs for the ghost of a cowboy?

And why do you get the feeling that his heart utters the same for you?

"You're thinkin' awful hard," the hand that curls around your cheek feels so real, the vague callous of a thumb stroking beneath the corner of your eye.

"Just figuring out how I'm going to pack you up and take you with me," your words are a poorly collected lie; you both know it, but he doesn't call you out on it.

Oh, and he's pushing your noses together with all the boldness of a man who knows what he wants. Your fingers are trying to tangle in his hair, and it's of no use, but you do it anyway, uncaring of how your hands sink through that collection of mist.

"Take me with you, hm?" He's slowing to a stop, the arm around your waist drawing you closer to him. "What happens when y' find someone to settle down with? Y'gonna turn me into the ring bearer at the weddin'?"

"Fortunately," your gaze flickers down his face, and you're so, so sure he's real, "I've already found that someone."

Rhett has no need for oxygen, and yet he sucks in a breath of air anyway, a little reflex remaining even after all this time.

One of you should shut this down right here before it goes too far. But your arms are wrapping around those broad shoulders, precariously balanced upon the thick collection of mist that makes up Rhett Abbott's ghost. The hand on your cheek is dropping to cup your jaw, and the world spins even faster as both of you lean in. His cold breath fans out against your lips, your eyes meet one more time, and...

Kissing him is the only thing you have ever needed.

A heart-stopping boom tears through the silence. Glass shattering in hot pursuit. As your eyes flutter open, the kitchen light goes out.

"What was that?" Your feet are already moving, Rhett's form dissolving into a thin mist, following at your side.

"I don't know," his distant voice rings, "please be careful."

You can hardly heed his warning. Sweeping past the front door, not bothering to take your shoes off, as you head for the kitchen. It's too dark to see, forcing you to fumble for the dining room light that you never use. Your hands graze over the switch, flipping it on, and, and—

The kitchen floor is nearly gone.

Replaced by a deep, cavernous hole that seems to reach deep into the earth. Consumes over half of the floor where your table once sat, reaching from your cabinets to your teetering refrigerator, on the verge of falling in.

"I don't suppose you have any ideas on how to get your spirit to attach to a living person, do you?" You hope Rhett can't pick up on the shake in your tone; there's no way insurance will cover a damn sinkhole.

But your question is met with silence.

"Rhett?" You're turning, and...he's not there. The air is unusually warm, not a speck of mist to be found. "Rhett?" Trying again, louder this time, as you head for the door, because maybe he's outside, maybe he's...

He's not there either. Maybe he's upstairs. Yeah, when he panics, he usually hides out in his old bedroom. He's just upstairs.

The door slams shut.

A second crash follows suit; you don't want to know if that was your refrigerator or if the sinkhole expanded even further.

"Rhett, this isn't funny," shaking the door knob. Locked from the inside. "Rhett, open the door!"

He doesn't.

The windows are all locked down tight. Even the one you intentionally leave unlocked. You find your car keys sitting atop the roof of your car, the paint scratched from where they've been thrown from a distance.

Rhett's chilly presence doesn't visit you when you sleep in the car that night.

He's not there to spook the contractor when he and his crew arrive early in the morning. You don't find him sitting on the couch when they kick the door down, and he's not on your bed when you sneak up the stairs, even after you're warned against going to the second floor. He isn't even there when countless faces enter your home to check out just what is going on in your kitchen.

"I've never seen this before," one of them tells you, her brows furrowed as she looks at her clipboard once more, "but it's not a sinkhole at all."

You don't know if you heard her correctly. "It's not?"

"It's a fifteen-foot hole that must have been dug by a past owner," she pauses to flip through her phone, presenting you with a photo of...just a dirt hole. Nothing special about it in the slightest. "They never refilled it, either; it was only a matter of time before the foundation collapsed into it."

Your mind flickers to your seemingly non-existent ghost. Rhett's never told a lot about his murder, but you know for sure that it happened in the kitchen. "Did you find anything down there?"

That seems to give her pause, ink pen tapping idly against her lips as she rechecks her pages and pages of notes. "Aside from your refrigerator and debris from the collapse...," flicking through another page, "it was completely empty! Nothing to worry about."

Well, at least now you know Rhett's not buried beneath the kitchen floor.

Even worse, his spirit no longer lurks within the paper-thin walls of this century-old farmhouse. You call for him in the fields, disturbing the cattle your neighbor keeps, and you beg for him to be there when you crawl out of bed in the morning. But the house remains warm; the only mist you find is in the fog that settles over your home after it rains, and he doesn't come out to mess with the teen boys employed to carry in bags of dirt, to fill the hole with.

Doesn't even appear when Trevor's F-150, with its irritating color-shifting paint, pulls into the driveway one evening.

"And so there was just a hole under your floor this whole time?" He's sitting in Rhett's favorite spot, cheap beer balanced carelessly between his legs. Has already spilled it once, leaving a stain on your cushion, and you'd tell him off if you weren't hoping it would infuriate Rhett into showing his face.

"The going theory is that one of the past owners dug it," glancing toward the mirror as you speak; still no ghost.

"I bet you more than anything that it's related to that Abbott murder," Trevor says, picking his drink up once more.

Your heart lurches in your chest. "Murder?"

"Did the realtor not tell ya?" Why is he scratching his cheek with the edge of his beer can? "That uh...what's his name? Perry, that's right, got into it with his brother and beat 'em to death in the kitchen."

"They told me someone died, but they never really elaborated," you mutter as he scoots a little closer. "Do you know what the argument was about?"

Trevor's heavy arm slings over your shoulder, drawing you near, musky cologne rudely meeting your nose. This is the same man you've been pursuing for months, so why is it that all of a sudden, your stomach churns at his touch? "Think it was...mmm, I think it was over some broad that went missing a couple of months before. Perry's wife, fiance, or something like that."

The alcohol on his breath has your senses reeling, overwhelmed with a sudden onset of nausea. Rhett didn't have much of a scent, but the little he carried was nothing but leather and honeyed sweetness. Your memory of his touch is brief, can count on one hand the amount of times he wrapped an arm around you, but he never dragged you into his chest like Trevor does.

"I'm sorry," speaking gently, you slide out from under his arm, rising to your feet, "I can't do this."

Trevor's face falls; you already regret speaking up, "what do you mean?"

"I'm sorry, I thought I could, but I just..." shaking your head, eyes landing on the hot pink controller that Rhett once played with, "I can't."

"The fuck do you mean you can't?" He's shooting up from his seat, beer can hitting the floor, the golden liquid splashing across the hardwood.

Your mouth is opening, but you don't get a chance to speak.

"You sure could when you were begging me to stay in this freaky ass house of yours last week!" Roaring, face twinging with red as he tries to close the space between you. Your heart is pounding in your ears. Loud bangings that rattle you so hard the house seems to shake with it. "You put me through all this just to tell me no?"

"I didn't put you through a damn thing!" Your voice echoes through the house, tone fierce, yet your feet timidly take one step back for each one Trevor takes forward. The floor seems to tremble beneath you. An earthquake that only you can feel.

Trevor's quiet at that.

You'd rather if he just yelled.

Because now he's got you creeping backward, and there's only so much space you can back up into. Your voice is caught in your throat. Stifled by something invisible. Mouth opening, but nothing comes out. The light in the kitchen goes out. Glitters of gold flitter past your head like tiny sugar plum fairies.

All of a sudden, Trevor lurches toward you.

Your head smacks against the wall. Jumping away from him.

"You think that little of me," he laughs, incredulous, "you think that fucking little of me?"

"Trevor." Your voice bursts past your lips. Shaky. But there. "Stop."

"Or what, huh?" Spit hits your face. His hand slams next to your head. Breaking through the drywall. "You owe me! I didn't spend all this goddamn time just for you to up and change your little fucking mind!"

"They asked you to stop." That's not your voice.

And it's not Trevor's, either.

Heavy boots thump across the floor. Spurs jingling with every step. Next to your head, a dirt-covered hand takes hold of Trevor's wrist. Muscles flex as it tears Trevor's fist out of the wall. Shoves it into his chest.

Trevor's reddened face has gone stark white. Trips over his own boots as a hulking, dirt-coated figure steps in front of you. Broad shoulders, covered by a vaguely patterned flannel; plaid, it looks like. Dark brown curls rest at his nape, unruly hair flowing freely. Suspiciously similar to...

"Who the fuck is this?" Trevor's still backing up, and this vaguely familiar man eats up every inch of space that's put between them.

"The house ghost." And that's...that's...

Trevor runs for the door before you can finish your thought. Slams it shut behind himself, like it'll keep him from being followed. Truck already rumbling to life. Downright roaring as the vehicle tears out of the driveway, sending gravel clanking against your windows.

But that's not what you're paying attention to.

Truly, you should be concerned about your windows being broken. But all you can do is look towards your kitchen because the light flickers back on. Gives you a momentary glance at a bottomless hole that's returned once more. Leaving behind no trace of the dirt that once filled it. Thin wisps of gold dance through it like an aurora, seemingly alive as they move.

You blink, and it's halfway gone. The edges shrinking inward until the hole is no more. Leaving behind that same freshly packed dirt.

Leaving behind...

"Rhett?"

He jolts at the sound of his name. As if he's surprised you're even speaking to him. Has yet to speak; confirm it's really him, but you already know the answer to that. He turns. Slow. And you can't help but wonder if that really is dirt because it seems to be fading away.

Slow, your hand drifts out from your side, and when your fingers curl around his jaw, you don't know if it's you who sucks in a breath of air or him.

Scruffy. Unshaven face scratching at your soft palm, dirt sticking to your skin as your thumb soothes over a remaining patch stuck to his cheek. Warm. He's warm. And he's hesitantly pushing his head into your hand, and, and—

"Rhett." You say it once more. The only thing you know how to say.

Tears well in those eyes. They're as blue as you ever could have hoped they would be. So, so real, not a shred of translucence to their color. One spills over onto his cheek, rolling until it's caught and wiped away by your thumb.

His arms are moving, hesitant to wrap around you, and you know he's worried about getting dirt on you, but the only thing you care about is stepping into him. Wrapping your trembling arms around that big, warm body of his and feeling him squeeze you into his chest. Where his heart beats heavy, thunking against you with the strength of an ox.

"I don't know how..." he whispers, hot breath tickling your neck, where he's buried his face.

"You're still an ass for locking me out of my own house," you're trying to sound irritated, but it's difficult to feign annoyance when he squeezes you a little tighter.

"Didn't want you bein' sucked in like I was," it's so strange to hear his voice like this, no longer a disembodied sound, "I...it just...kept suckin' me in every time I got out."

You're leaning away, and God, you don't want to leave those strong, trembling arms, but you want to see that face of his even more. The wrinkles beneath his eyes, the wobble of thin, chapped lips as they rise into a meager smile.

The callouses of his fingers drag against the soft skin of your cheek as his big hand settles there. Not the misty, barely there touch you're used to, but just as gentle as it's always been. His nose bumps against yours. Don't know who's leaning in. You shouldn't. You shouldn't do this.

This time, you know for sure that it's you who closes the gap between your bodies. It's you who catches this cowboy's lips in your own, reveling in that surprised gasp of his.

If you thought that kissing his ghost was heaven, then this is something else entirely.

Molding together like you were made just for this, his hand on your cheek and yours delving into his messy hair. Feeling the strength of the arm that curls around your waist and breathing in those faint notes of leather and honey and something warm that you can't quite place.

He pauses for a moment, breaks into a big, dumb smile as you meet his eye once more. And then he leans in to kiss you once more, hands cradling your cheeks, like you're a delicate flower whose petals will fall if he doesn't hold you together. His body shudders with something torn between a giggle and a sob, tears rolling down his cheeks, but he's smiling so much that your teeth clack together.

Your name tumbles off of his lips. Then again and again, like he's trying to memorize the feel of it in his mouth. The way it rolls off his tongue and twists through the air, the sound seeming to kiss your ears when it meets them.

"Rhett," mirroring him, and oh, how he perks at that. Has he always reacted so beautifully to you calling his name?

"Say it again," his nose bumps against yours as he speaks, "Please. Wanna hear you say it again." So eager to hear you that he looks two steps away from a puppy, the tears in his eyes shimmering with wonder as you open your mouth once more.

"Rhett," you whisper, like it's a secret shared on the playground, and then, again, "Rhett."

This time, when your back hits the wall, it's because a bright-eyed cowboy is carefully backing you into it, one hand protecting the back of your head as he dresses his body against yours. Smiling too much to kiss you, can't seem to get over the feeling of your skin against his, the overwhelming reality of whatever this is.

"We probably shouldn't be..." Higher thinking rushes back to your head in a whirlwind, thoughts running wild in the darkest crevices of your mind. What if's and why's and wonderings of how this happened, if it's permanent or temporary. "What if we cross that line, and you go back to being a ghost?"

You don't think you'll ever adjust to the sound of Rhett breathing or the way his eyelashes flutter as he thinks for a moment. He's licking his lips, mouth opening, and, "What if we don't cross that line and spend our whole lives regrettin' it?" 

One too many kisses may leave you longing for him for the rest of your life, but one too few may leave you carrying eternal heartache. And that's only if he goes back to being a ghost. But he feels real. When you press your palm to his chest, his warm hand covers it, guiding it to rest over his beating heart. Little thumpings that shouldn't be there, full of life and love and all just for you. 

He could have come back to life for anyone. But he came back for you. 

To hell with it. 

Your bodies collide like galaxies. Blinded by a frantic kiss that promises bruises to your lips. Flecks of gold fall from his body as your hands roam, tugging at a flannel, at his hair, at his hands. Legs tangling because you're moving too quickly, and he's still adjusting to walking rather than floating. 

Only break apart long enough to tumble up the stairs; Rhett almost trips over every one of them. Struggling to keep his confidence but boosted along by the kisses you pepper to his reddened cheeks and the gentle tuggings of your hand in his. 

Your back hits the bed with all the grace of a newborn fawn, Rhett tumbling right along with you, chuckling into the crook of your neck. Under the dim lighting of your bedroom lamp, it's easy to catch onto the deep bruising that scatters beneath his right eye. 

"These are from Perry, aren't they," it's more of an observation than a question, your fingers soothing over the marks as if they can somehow heal them.

Rhett's pressing a kiss to your wrist as it roams past, "Don' wanna think 'bout that son 'f a bitch right now."

You can work with that. 

Especially when your bodies squirm further up the bed, his hips settling between your legs, forearms bracing themselves on either side of your head, heaving chests against one another. His lips solid against your own, hungry, urged on by the nails that dig into his shoulders for leverage. 

"You'll tell me if I'm goin' too far?" He's speaking into your kiss, unwilling to remove himself any further. 

Maybe there's a second ghost in this house because something possesses you to roll your hips up into his. Such a faint pressure, the rough bulge in his jeans rubbing against your soft pajama shorts, but it's so much compared to what used to be. "I will," you're interrupted by his mouth once more, "but I'm sure you'll be the one asking me to stop before the end of the night." 

Your hand has a mind of its own, wandering down his chest, flattening out to feel the muscles that ripple along his stomach, hidden from view by his shirt. They flex under your touch, a simple thing that makes your head spin. By some method of madness, that shirt is still tightly tucked into his jeans, the material hard to get ahold of. 

Rhett shifts above you, unintentionally moving when you feel for some slack in his shirt, something to get ahold of, and your hand wildly overshoots. Palm splaying out against the front of his jeans instead. 

"'m not so sure 'bout that, sweetheart," he groans, a deep, guttural noise escaping him as he reaches down, catches your fleeting hand, and guides you to press against him once more.  "I ain't had a dick for the better half of a fuckin' century." 

These old jeans are thick, but even so, you can still feel him twitch against your touch. This wasn't what you were aiming for in the slightest, but watching him shiver as you massage over the outline of his bulge is a hell of a sight. 

"Sensitive," you're only lightly teasing; any more words and you'll be fumbling with his belt buckle.

"You're one to talk," he mutters, head dropping to press his lips to the meet of your jaw, teeth tugging the skin there. 

You think your eyes may pop out of your head. "I thought you promised to stay out of my bedroom when I didn't invite you in." 

"Wasn't in the bedroom, baby," he's chuckling, breath tickling your ear as he works his way towards it, "When you're a ghost, you hear everythin'." 

Then he's leaning back, leaves you feeling cold as he fumbles with his jeans, boots hitting the floor with two solid thunks. An involuntary whine works its way out of you, reaching aimlessly for him. 

"Don't wanna get y'all dirty, sweetheart," he soothes, catching your hand and pressing kisses to your knuckles. Pops open his belt buckle with a pinch of his fingers, and soon those dirty jeans are sliding off, revealing milky white thighs, mottled with bright spots of red and deep purples,  a badly bruised knee to match.

...as well as a pair of boxers patterned with bright red hearts. 

"Y'ain't gonna believe me," Rhett's staring down at them too, teeth worrying his bottom lip, "but I have no fuckin' memory of wearin' these." The tips of his ears have gone bright red. Another quirk hidden until now. 

"We'll get them off soon enough, I'm sure," you say, leaning up to let him peel your shirt over your head. 

As soon as it's out of sight, Rhett's lips return to your neck, one wandering hand soothing up your side, not stopping until it reaches your breast. Does nothing more than feel you in his hand, sucking at a soft spot beneath your ear that has you fighting the urge to close your eyes. 

Your hands wander, one wrapping around a surprisingly muscled bicep while the other delves between your bodies once more. Feeling down his sturdy chest, past his stomach, and not stopping until you can take hold of him through his boxers. 

"Fuck," his body jolts, "'re you sure 'm not dreamin'?"

"I thought ghosts didn't sleep?" You're parroting something you so clearly recall him mentioning in the past, can't place the memory yet. Don't really care to, either. The only thing on your mind is the way your fingers wander past his waistband, wrapping around his cock that jumps at your touch. 

He's thicker than you imagined he'd be. 

Moans prettier, too, for that matter. A little bit breathy and so Rhett. 

"Hands of yours are so fuckin' small," he's muttering in between kisses as he works his way back to your lips. Can't kiss you because a jolted grunt interrupts him, a symphony of sounds as you slowly stroke him. Oversensitive, the first touch he's felt in decades.

His hair drops into his face, acts as a curtain when you look down to where your hand is working him. Can hardly see what you're doing, but you do catch a glimpse of precum beading at his flushed tip, hearing his gasp when your thumb swipes over it. 

"Y'need to stop that," he huffs, voice nothing but air, "gonna...fuck, 'm gonna cum if you keep..." And despite asking you to stop, he grumbles when you let go of him. 

Hands now free, you reach for your shorts, not sure why you feel so shy when he helps you tug them down your legs; it's not like he hasn't seen you naked before. From you forgetting he's there to him accidentally floating into the shower while you were using it. 

But these eyes are not the translucent ones you're used to, with their expression hidden by deviations in his mist. No, these eyes darken as they drink up the sight of you, every little thought in his head spoken through his gaze. But even as he kicks his boxers off, shirt going right along with it, you can't help but feel like hiding under the sheets. 

"'ve I ever told you that you're beautiful?" His voice breaks the silence, stroking the inside of your knee as he speaks. 

You don't have words for that. 

He doesn't need them. 

You really don't have words for when he takes hold of your wrist, guiding it up and taking two of your fingers into his mouth. Tongue carefully swirling around each of them, soaking them with a content hum. Your eyebrows furrow, to which he raises his other hand. Dirt beneath his nails and caught in the wrinkles of his hand. 

Ah.

Reluctantly, you pull your fingers from his warm mouth, and you're pleasantly surprised to find that there's hardly any resistance when you press them inside. Open and already wet, helped along by a moment of fun you'd had in the morning, hoping a familiar ghost may come to help you along. 

"How did you know I kept my lube in the bottom drawer?" You can't help but ask, watching as he fishes around for it. 

The tips of his ears are red again. "I learned the hard way not to float through bedside tables."

He's the one who uncaps the container, but it's you who reaches out for him to pour it into your palm. Not because you're concerned with dirt but because you want to feel him in your hand again. Twitching when you take hold of him, a thick vein running along the side of his length. He has to stifle a noise with each stroke, squeezing your knee all the while. 

"You're sure you're ready for me?" He asks when you urge him closer. 

"I'm sure I'll be fine, cowboy," fighting back a noise as you guide him down, letting him push between your folds, some lazy, teasing thing that has his plush head dragging past your clit. Sensitive, almost has you considering making him fuck you like this instead. 

But he's catching against your entrance, and you've daydreamed about this man too many times to pass up the opportunity. 

That tentative, forward tilt of his hips is enough to make your head spin. Pressure blooming as he pushes into you, careful, like you'll shatter into a million pieces if he's too quick. 

"Rhett," you whisper, don't quite know why. 

"'m here," he's coming back down, nose pressing against yours in his own little way of reassurance, "I've got you."

Your earlier rendezvous didn't end well for you, but you're so thankful for it in hindsight because his cock stretches you wide. Blunt head dragging against your walls, massaging past the bundle of nerves you couldn't seem to find with a toy, your thighs squeezing his pale hips. 

"So tight for me," he pauses about midway, or what you think is midway, at least, "you're sure 'm not hurtin' you?"

Your head spins, loose on your shoulders, "I'm okay." 

With a noise of his own, Rhett starts to move again, draws back a little before pushing further, and you can't help but wonder if he's holding his breath. Your nails bite into his shoulders, hanging on as he finally bottoms out, now flush against you. His mouth moves, but he can't speak. Only capable of releasing a shaky breath, lazily catching your lips in his.

He doesn't need to be asked to move, catching on the moment you grind yourself against him. Withdrawing slow, shallow, before pushing back in, and you're so, so full. Clinging to his shoulders to stay in place, feeling like you'll float away when he brushes against those nerves again.

Fuck, he's just begun to move, and you're already biting your lip. Don't know how you're going to keep yourself quiet because he massages past that little spot every time he moves, never lets it alone. 

His thumb pulls your lip out from between your teeth, "Let me hear you, darlin'."

His words alone have your cunt fluttering around him, and you're leaning into the palm that cups your cheek, mouth falling open. "Rhett, fuck."

You don't think you need to reach down between your bodies, but you do anyway, fingers pressing to your long-neglected clit. Working in tandem with Rhett's quickening hips, jolting as his angle shifts.

"There?" He says as if he hasn't already found that damned spot. All you can manage is a nod, a whimpered 'uhuh' escaping you. 

And he's doubling down, cock head kissing that oversensitive spot again and again. Grins wickedly when you shudder beneath him, nails dragging down his pale shoulders, panting into his mouth.

"Fuck, this sweet lil' pussy of yours feels so good 'round me," he groans, thrusts becoming harder now that he's remembered the ropes. Heavy balls smacking against you, and you really hope there aren't any more house ghosts who can hear the sinful sounds whistling through the air. "'s this what you've been needin', hm? 

"Rhett," you don't know how to speak, his name tumbling off your tongue.

"Bringin' home all those dates that could never make you cum," his voice dropping an octave deeper, damn near growling, but the softness in his eyes suggest he wouldn't hurt a fly. "Wouldn't have terrorized 'em if they woulda treated you better." 

That's why he chased them all off? God, how many times did you bring someone home, thinking he was gone? And how many times has he daydreamed about having you beneath him, whimpering his name as he fucks you nice and proper. 

You should be mad, but you can't. Not when you're falling apart at the seams, hand sliding from his shoulders, barely clinging to his bicep. Bounced by every heavy thrust, can't keep your fingers on your pulsing clit, tightening around him as something warm blossoms between your legs.

And he must be able to feel it because his eyes flicker into the back of his head, if only for a moment. "You gonna cum on my cock for me, sweetheart?" 

This is new. Fuck, this is so, so new and so much. No longer able to keep your eyes open, tongue lazy in your mouth, words long forgotten as you try to nod your head. Mind clouded with thoughts of Rhett, Rhett, Rhett. 

"Shit, y'got me so damn close, baby," he rasps, hair tickling your cheek as he presses kisses there, "You want me to cum on those cute thighs of yours? Or your sweet little tummy?" 

You don't have the answer to that question. Distracted by the crumbling of his rhythm, thrusts growing shaky, in perfect tune with the tightening coil in your lower belly. Almost there. Almost there. 

He's still talking. "Or would you rather I cum nice 'n deep in this pretty pussy of yours," you regret opening your eyes. All you see is the sweat beading at his forehead and strong hips working you over. Fat cock disappearing into your wet pussy, elicits a dizzying squelch every time. "Pump you nice 'n full of me, just so you'll need me to fuck it out of ya in the mornin'." 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where's your voice? Where's your voice? "I-inside."

Rhett's breathy "yeah?" is all you fucking need. Your back rises up off the mattress, head tilting back with a silent cry as you cum around his cock.

"There you go," Each pump of his length into you only sends your head higher up into the stratosphere. Whimpering, clamping down around him as a shudder washes over you. "Feel so good when you're clampin' 'round me like that." 

And he's still fucking going. Fucking you through it, beating against that bundle of nerves even when you begin to tremble, after-shocks still tearing through you. 

"Hang on for me, baby," his eyes are bolted shut, chasing his high, biceps shaking, so, so close. 

"Please, Rhett," you whisper, your hand soothing over his hardened face. Those deep blues flutter open, softening at the sight of you, like he's just seen an angel "Cum for me." 

A whimper tumbles past his lips,  a second one follows suit, and then those eyes are closing once more, hips stuttering to a halt as his orgasm hits him. Tiny noises escaping his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, the familiar tune of your name tumbling off his sweet tongue. Filling you with his cum, making good on his promise, jolting as you involuntarily pulse around him.

For a while, the air is silent. 

Until Rhett lifts his head and kisses up your sensitive neck, sending you into a fit of giggles. "C'n we take a bath t'gether?" He murmurs, seemingly shy, unable to meet your eye.

"So long as you agree to bubbles, baby." Baby. You don't think you've ever called him that. 

You can't wait to do it again.

For decades, the folks of Wabang, Wyoming, have whispered the tale of two brothers. Gossiping about a murder they presumed to have taken place, for they knew that Perry Abbott was a violent man, and it was only a matter of time before his little brother became the next punching bag. 

Never have they whispered about the hole that opened beneath the kitchen floor, swallowing Rhett's near-lifeless body up, escorting him to an unknown safety while leaving his lonely spirit behind. They don't know of the decades he spent forced into an unnatural slumber, only to be awoken by another lonely soul with a heart made of the same glass as his own. 

Nobody giggles about how a human scared a ghost or chatters about the adventures they've shared in that century-old farmhouse. They do not know of the arguments, and the boyfriends lost because a ghost wanted the best for his friend, appearing in mirrors and whispering their deepest insecurities into their ears. Worse, they don't roll their eyes over the many tales of him banging a cast iron skillet on the tile just to see them run.

But you do. 

Only you know of how Rhett smiles, big and dopey, as you take him into town for the first time in decades. You are the only person who gets to explain what self-driving cars are and roll your eyes as some new thing scares him into jumping behind you. Nobody else gets to take him on a road trip, watch him fight with a GPS for the first time, and introduce him to the ocean and the concept of crabs.

"Why are they shaped like that?" Rhett's stumbling after you; not sure if he likes or hates this little creature, only knows that he wants to follow you. "Why is he following me?" 

You wish you could see the little bugger, but it's so dark that you can hardly tell where you're going. The only light you have is a dull light in the parking lot and the silver moon hanging high above your head.

"Probably because you've pissed him off," you laugh, holding your hand out when he reaches for it, "are you going to survive two more nights this close to the beach, or do I need to take you back to the pasture?"

He hums, loud and dramatic as he can manage, scratches his freshly shaved chin for added effect, "I suppose I'll survive, but if that crab kills me, I'm comin' back as a ghost and suin'."

From the moment your feet are on the cool concrete of the parking lot, Rhett's spinning you around. It's still the only thing he knows how to do, and his feet tangle with yours a little more than they should, but oh, is it as magical as that night in your driveway.

"'ve I ever told you that I love you?" He smiles as he speaks; knows he says this every time you wind up dancing beneath the moon.

"Never," feigning surprise, as he pulls you in close, noses bumping together, "but I love you more."

And then you're running. Squealing as Rhett sets hot on your trail. He'll catch you before you so much as reach the hotel doors, trap you in his arms, and insist that no, he loves you more, punctuating every word with a wet, sloppy kiss. And you're so excited for it that you think you may let him catch you early. 

Perry took away a lifetime from Rhett. 

You're more than happy to give him a life worth waiting centuries for. 

Even if he does still refer to himself as the house ghost.

[sophieinwonderland]

Hey, to our knowledge you aren’t a traumagenic DID system, but we really love your writing and takes on all things plural. Could you discuss the bad video that came out like 2 days ago called “It’s time to Revisit Dissociative Identity Disorder” by Neurotransmissions? We couldn’t get through it. Early on the dude starts talking about how alters aren’t their own people, and we looked in the comments and apparently later on the guy says that DID should be reclassified as a form of BPD or PTSD. Also stuff about Non-human alters being rare or something? It’s blurry and that’s where we stopped -Sincerely a DID system

So, I gave it a watch. Or, well, a listen at 2x speed while we walked since nothing in that video seemed necessary to actually look at the screen for.

There are a lot of minor nitpicks here and there. But most of it is just general stuff that you expect from psychologists and psychiatrists. Of course alters aren't people if you define a "person" as the biological human organism.

And likewise, are only "parts" of a personality if you define the personality as all of the personality traits of said organism.

I consider most headmates people. I think most headmates meet the definition of a person according John Locke's philosophy of a personhood. But I understand that there are legal and medical definitions that this won't use that philosophy. So I guess my overall opinion on his thing about alters not being people is... it's whatever. 🤷‍♀️

He's stating the psychiatric view on personhood, not going out and trying to police systems who use person language. There are bigger fish to fry.

I don't care for him comparing alters to a singlet having different moods in different contexts. I feel that this is an inaccurate representation of the disorder, and really shows that this is a person who hasn't treated or even interacted with DID systems.

I am also bothered by the claim about nonhuman alters being rare because... I don't think any sources are actually provided to back that up. It's a claim I see get thrown around a lot, but if there's a study surveying DID patients to find how many have alters that identify as nonhuman, I have yet to see it. There were some other points in the video that I had similar issues with, where he would just state that something is rare in DID, and then just give no follow-up. Those little claims that are supposed to slip into the audience's brain without giving time to think critically on what's being said.

And there were a lot of little claims like that throughout the video that I didn't like.

Overall, I actually find the video to be fairly balanced. For a video with which the majority of conclusions are things I completely disagree with.

I mean, most of the time as he would spit out something I disagreed with, he would also acknowledge the counter-argument that I was making in my own head before I could make it.

For example, when he's arguing that TikTok presentations of DID aren't matching the clinical presentations of the disorder, he's quick to acknowledge the counter argument that this is likely due in large part to these spaces supplying freedom to systems to be themselves without judgement. (Or something along those lines. I can't remember exactly how it was worded.)

On Misdiagnosis

At one point in the video, he talks about these periods where DID is popular and diagnoses soar. He mentions briefly that one counter-argument is that DID could be under-diagnosed because doctors don't understand it.

And while I appreciate him acknowledging this counterargument as a possible explanation, he really undersells it. DID has been estimated to have a lifetime prevalence in 1.5% of the population. About as common as schizophrenia.

Furthermore, we see that DID systems are likely to spend years in the psychiatric system before finally getting a DID diagnosis.

There is no epidemic of people being falsely diagnosed with DID. There is, however, an epidemic of people not being able to get an accurate diagnosis because of doctors who don't believe the disorder exists.

I discussed this before in my breakdown of the Imitated DID myth. Here is what I said then:

And when you hear a doctor claim that they've never treated or diagnosed an actual DID case, I want you to keep in mind that statistic that 26%-40% are diagnosed and treated for Schizophrenia first. And that many will be diagnosed with other disorders long before they can a DID diagnosis.

Misdiagnosis and underdiagnosis of DID is not some hypothetical issue. It's something many DID specialists, even the most ableist ones, have been blowing the whistle on for a very long time.

"All Models Are Wrong, Some Models Are Useful"

This is a truly fantastic quote that I hadn't heard before, and am really glad that the video introduced me to it.

It really succinctly describes a lot of my feelings towards mental illness and disorders: That these are not necessarily objective things but our own simplified human classification systems. That mental disorders are made to categorize people together who may benefit from similar treatment.

These are models that exist to serve a utility. If they don't serve that utility, then they're not useful.

With that in mind...

DID is a Useful Model

Perhaps not perfect by any means. But despite what he claims in the video, it is useful. Especially compared to the alternatives.

Even in the video, he acknowledges that DID treatment is effective at the same time as arguing the disorder should be eliminated and grouped with other mental disorders.

But if DID treatment works on DID, then doesn't that in itself make it a useful model?

Treatment for other disorders often would actually be harmful to DID systems, pushing them to ignore or tune out voices in their heads, leading to greater dissociative barriers and internal conflict.

Another claim made in the video is that DID would get more research were it a subtype of another more popular disorder, but I don't believe that's true either. I don't think most studies tend to care about specific subtypes of disorders.

Maybe if DID was classified as a form of BPD, it would get more research in the way that studies into BPD would include DID systems too. But that conflation of the two different disorders wouldn't actually be more research into DID. And even worse, it would completely throw off all data for BPD.

If you classify DID as a subtype of any other disorder, DID would get even less research as its own thing, would throw off data into that disorder, and would result in DID patients being subjected to treatment that may not be helpful to them and could even be actively harmful.

This is a truly awful idea.

A Model Where DID is a Type of BPD is Useless for Everyone... Except...

This comment stuck out to me under the video.

I'm not going to say that this is the motivation behind this particular video, but it is curious how it seems like the most researched and over-diagnosed medical conditions tend to be those that are most profitable for pharmaceutical companies.

Hey, remember that paper about Imitated DID I mentioned earlier where doctors decided 7% of their DID patients were falsely diagnosed. Do you want to know the result of a similar study into Schizophrenia?

When 7% of DID cases are ruled to be "imitated," it's a national health emergency and we need to root out the fakers.

But when half the people with Schizophrenia are falsely diagnosed, it gets swept under the rug and nobody talks about it.

I'm honestly one of the more pro-psych pro-endos you'll find, but it's hard to not see how a lot of the models we use to define illnesses, and the models that get the most support, happen to be those that will be most profitable for big pharmaceutical companies.

A More Useful Model Might Actually Go In The Opposite Direction

One thing that he was right about is that DID is vaguely worded and has a huge problem when it comes to actually being diagnosed.

Instead of grouping Dissociative Identity Disorder into other disorders it doesn't fit with, my solution would be to look at other disorders for dissociative symptoms, and broaden Dissociative Identity Disorder so there can be clearer lines between disorders.

Looking again at psychotic disorders, voice hearing in them often comes in two varieties. One is just totally random and unintelligible. Another are these more agentive voices with their own distinct personalities that are consistent over time.

I believe that many of these would be examples of what DID specialists would classify as "dissociative parts," and would fall under Partial DID in the ICD-11. I also believe these would benefit from the same sort of treatment used in DID, revolving around establishing connections and communication between the headmates.

There should also be a delusional subtype added that would encompass headmates with delusional self-beliefs. Such as if the voices believe that they're being implanted in the head by aliens, or that the headmate is actually another real, living person communicating telepathically.

(Would the POSIC community jump at me if I also suggested many instances of delusional companion syndrome would be better classified as a dissociative disorder as well?)

And while I'm focusing on voice hearing, I also think there may be other delusions that may actually be representative of "dissociative parts," especially delusions where one believes themselves to be someone or something else.

Some DID specialists have been testing DID treatment methods on hostile voices in psychotic disorders. If studies show this is successful, I believe the logical move would be to reclassify these presentations of disorders as dissociative, grouping them under DID or Partial DID, or a new "complex dissociative disorder" umbrella.

This obviously needs to be investigated further and would require a huge overhaul of the current psychiatric system that's sadly unlikely to happen given tradition, disbelief in DID by practitioners, and financial interests of big pharma.

But from the papers I've read and systems I've communicated with, this is the model that I feel would be most useful for patients.

[vidavalor]

I love your thoughts and obviously agree with Aziraphale being a badass 😊 but would you allow me to offer a bit of a counterargument?

Gabriel is actually doing the best thing by Heaven possible by mutinying and refusing to fight in its war. Gabriel didn't turn his back on Heaven-- he figured out the best way to lead it. He is a popular, long-time leader who is asserting the fact that angels and demons are equal, humanity is rad, and they are all free to go live as they please. He is modeling with Beez what that can look like. This is how change is made. It's absolutely not made from giving up your independent life and going to work for your oppressors and abusers. No change is made from letting the people who have harmed you control the narrative of your life.

You don't save a cult or a fascist regime or an abusive church by going to work for those in charge of it and Aziraphale won't save Heaven this way, either. You change bad systems by realizing that your power truly comes from resisting them by living your own life independent of them. You change them by denying them your time, money, energy, and headspace, and by devoting all of those things towards living a life of your own the way you believe life should be lived.

This is how you collapse a bad system because if enough people do that? If enough claim their own personal power? Then, they have the collective power at the expense of those oppressors. The regime will collapse itself because the engine that keeps it running will no longer exist. Aziraphale is a badass and is on the side of humanity and he fundamentally knows that this is true.

He didn't actually take the job when the job was all that was offered-- he doesn't want to run Heaven and he doesn't think that doing so would change anything. He's only tempted-- key word: tempted-- by this offer because he thinks he can protect Crowley with it. The reason why it's a temptation is because taking it means allowing Heaven/Hell to dictate the terms of his life. It's understandable why he makes this choice but this is the wrong path to take. Aziraphale's true power has always been in his resistance to Heaven/Hell. There is no power in capitulation to them. He knows it's not going to help humanity to take a job with The Metatron. I don't think one really exists, anyway, because he is falling, not being promoted.

He didn't get into the elevator to make a sacrifice to save people when he heard about The Second Coming. He knew in that moment for sure that the job offer didn't really exist as, if the plan is Armageddon, why would Heaven ever put in charge of that the angel who stopped it the first time? They wouldn't. It's not a real offer. Getting into the elevator was not an act of heroism but one of despair. This does not make Aziraphale any less badass.

He will definitely do everything he can to save Earth in S3 but it won't be from the top down because no power really comes from there. It'll be from the bottom up-- from claiming himself finally as a demon and as one of the people of Earth.

Aziraphale has been saving Heaven and Hell as much as he's been saving humans all along. How? By making a life on Earth with Crowley.

He and Crowley helped show people like Gabriel and Beez that they weren't alone in wanting more out of life and in seeing other possibilities. They modeled there being more to life and have offered help to those looking to escape. Getting the long-time managers of Heaven and Hell on their side means that Aziraphale's impact is in the ripple effect of drawing more and more to this viewpoint. He's already done all the groundwork for stopping Armageddon just by being himself. There's nothing for him to do as a figurehead of a fascist regime that would be more impactful than what he has already done.

You can't have a war without people willing to fight that war. That's what Gabriel realized and bravely acted upon-- and he did so inspired by Aziraphale and Crowley. Aziraphale doesn't need to save the world alone to be badass-- this is a group effort. It'll take all of them. He and Crowley went first and paved the way. Aziraphale has been badass all along simply by living as best he can in ways that exemplified the changes he wanted to see in the world.

It's Gabriel who made the right call in S2, not Aziraphale, but Gabriel was only able to make that call because Aziraphale went first down that path-- walked the Earth, loved Crowley, built the bookshop sanctuary that quite literally saved Gabriel's life because, without it, there was nowhere for Gabriel to run when he shots fired a revolution. It's Aziraphale's badassery that will save the world because he already has. He is who has set the whole revolution into motion.

gabriel turned his back on heaven for his demonic love really easily and that’s not a coincidence. since gabriel is a bit of an arse this is supposed to show us that it’s not a choice a good angel would make.

like aziraphale in contrast cannot turn his back on humanity, on trying to make heaven better, because he feels a moral duty which weighs heavily upon him. no matter how much he loves crowley he can’t abandon his ideals and that’s badass actually

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Form leader rook and dorm leader Jade fighting each other for raven, as Crowley’s unwilling assistant she thinks they’re just kissing up for more budgeting for their respective dorms, but really they just want to kiss her, and maybe spoil her, put her in their dorm uniform, have tea with her, just classic jealous boy antics (raven doesn’t get paid enough for this)

OTL SHE GETS PAID NOTHING FOR ANY OF THIS, SHE JUST HELPS BECAUSE SHE KNOWS CROWLEY WON'T DO IT IF SHE DOESN'T

Crowley hears that Jade and Rook ousted Azul and Vil as dorm leaders and decides to nope on out on a sudden vacation to leave his niece to deal with the fallout 😷 Or he just starts dragging her to every dorm leader meeting to help mediate/take notes... How yasashii magnanimous of him--

Jade just awkudadoasdoabgfuoayifa manipulating the conversation to steer it in the direction he wants it to go, all while dealing low blows to the others with a smile... Meanwhile, Rook is the other extreme, derailing Jade's efforts with flowery counterarguments or just enjoying that he's there at all, able to converse with his fellow dorm leaders. They obviously have the interests of their own dorms in mind, but it's also about making a statement and asserting their newfound positions and power, showing that they won't back down from a debate in their own ways. (... Romantic subplot may or may not also contribute to it--)

Riddle's the only one that sympathizes with Raven and tries to support her in keeping the meeting on track and on topic, but he'll often find himself riled by Jade or confused by Rook's wordiness. L*ona is... HE'S L*ONA-ING AND MAKING THINGS WORSE BY BEING PETTY AT THE SEAFOOD AND THE HUNTSMAN................ Kalim's totally oblivious to the hostile vibes at the table and just thinks it's great that Jade and Rook are already fast acclimating to their new roles! Idia (or rather, his tablet) is making retching noises and muttering about how it suddenly feels like "one of those corny high school romcom anime with a super predictable love triangle and a tsundere main girl with twintails". Malleus is missing--

Miss Raven would be shuffling her papers and packing up to leave the meeting, but Jade and Rook try to strike conversation on her way out, maybe commenting on how she composed herself (or didn't) during the meeting or how prepared (or not prepared) she is to one take up the mantle of headmistress herself--but she's not having it. "If you have something you need to discuss, please direct it at the headmaster, not myself."

OTL Every time Crowley sends her to the dorms to do his dirty work, she inevitably ends up getting involved in something.

Rook talks about wanting to modify the Pomefiore uniforms--oh, would Miss Raven mind modeling the current one and the prototypes for him? (BRUH IT'S JUST AN EXCUSE FOR A FASHION SHOW..................) He'll help dress her, as the sash and the cords can be difficult to tie (and you can bet he takes his sweet ass time with it), then gush about how well she wears it.

With the full powers of dorm leader, no one can dispute Jade from slapping mushrooms on the Mostro Lounge menu at all times, even in the drinks and in the desserts--here, he'll provide the full tasting menu for Miss Raven to prove how delicious it really is. He'll even be so generous as to hand feed it to her.

"This doesn't mean that either of your dorms are getting any additional funding!!" she'll scold them. "Submit a proper request detailing what you intend to use the money for to the headmaster's office--and if Uncle is feeling kind, he may grant the request."

(ADBIHLYOVYAFAIYADSL THE COMMENTS FROM OTHER DORM LEADERS............

Riddle: "I don't envy being in Raven-san's position... Constantly dealing with such troublemakers is sure to put a strain on her. I already have my hands full with Heartslabyul's hooligans, so I understand her exasperation."

Leona: "... Tch. I'd like to see how well she can deal under some actual pressure, not flitting around playing house and being doted on. If it's a fight the Canary's looking for, then I'll rise to the challenge."

Kalim: "Gahahah! They're showing her some great hospitality! Jade and Rook make for great hosts. Maybe the next time Raven comes over to Scarabia, she can try out some stuff from the Scalding Sands! It's fun to try out new stuff, right?"

Idia: "E-Eh? What's with this super intense atmosphere...? I-It's like there should be RPG boss music playing... B-But the scenario itself is like something out of a dating sim... What a total mismatch of genres--not that I expected anything more of normies that have so little sense that they don't care if people catch them engaging in PDA! Gross, definitely gross...! Avert your eyes, Ortho!"

Malleus: "... They forgot to invite me again.")

[tolkien-feels]

Anyway I'm almost certainly reading way too much into it but imho those few pages between Boromir's death and the Three Hunters setting out speak to the personalities and cultures of each of the Hunters.

Legolas is very adamant about things such as providing Boromir with whatever funerary respect they can manage under less than ideal conditions. He just won't budge, every counterargument by the others is met with "I know we can't give him all the honors we'd like, but we will do the best we can, I won't move on before we do"

Gimli on the other hand is on the other side of the spectrum. He doesn't want to delay. Things are hopeless enough already, they cannot afford to waste time hesitating. They have to pick a goal and go for it, and he just won't be sidetracked even by grief and fear. He keeps urging the others to keep their eyes on the big picture and act immediately

And then there's Aragorn. Aragorn who's just always saying "Death is all around me. Gandalf is dead and so is Boromir, and the hobbits might die soon. I can only help so many people, but which do I help?" and at first that looks a bit like he's more out of it than the others, but the instant he decides, he quickly takes on a leading role and becomes tireless in a way even the other Hunters aren't

And I think... That's it, isn't it? Elves are supposed to respect life to such an extent it might seem weird to other races. And dwarves are the hardy folk who withstand darkness, no evil can stop them. And men, so hyperaware of mortality and of the limited time to act, are so eager to do the right thing and so unbelievably bold when their hearts are set on something

And any other author would've made this A Conflict™️. "You're too sensitive, you're too cold, you're too indecisive" or whatever. But Tolkien just quietly, without even drawing our attention to it, has the Hunters support each other. We cannot bury him, Legolas, but we will give him to the river and sing in his memory. You are right, Gimli, we cannot stay here for long, let's come up with a plan. We can't take the burden of leadership from you, Aragorn, but we can run back and forth doing things to give you time to grieve and think and decide.

It just. It makes me emotional. There's strength in how the hobbits stick to each other and find comfort in the familiar. But there's also so much strength in making space for difference and being supportive as each person does what is right for them

[jeriafterdark]

ZSJ controversy, and how I dismissed this impersonation right away

Just my thoughts on the ZSJ controversy and impersonation, feel free to scroll by.

1. Background

Just a note to ya'll, in case you're out of the loop, there's been a mystery character impersonating ZZH on some public WeChat profile? Anyway, they've posted cryptic messages and such implying with doctored/photoshopped/ULTRAblurred (so blurred that it's worse than the infamous big foot photos) that they're ZZH. It's split more fans into groups, and many believe that it's really ZZH.

Let me tell you why I automatically knew it couldn't be him.

2. Uncle Li's interview with the real ZZH

Look, do you remember when ZZH ACTUALLY spoke this year? B/c of Uncle Li / Li Xuezheng interviewing him, then posting the audio interview on Uncle Li's weibo before he got muted?

Do you remember what happened when he did that? Refer to my series of posts about Uncle Li's saga to get the play-by-play.

Weibo constantly took the post down, put it back up, took it down, put it back up again. Anytime someone mentions ZZH, the powers-that-be (the capital that controls) constantly tugs those posts down or hides them. For example, the justice for the people tag that Uncle Li started? The one that reached 1 BILLION + views / interactions? That never even made it to the top trending list. lol. Other platforms quickly erased ZZH and any mention of him, too.

Now that the landscape of C-ent social media has been established, and how it absolutely hates featuring ZZH is obvious. Let's discuss ZSJ. (Zhang Sanjiang?). This character appears, and is still appearing btw, and pretends to be ZZH. AND his account is perfectly fine, never been touched, not instantly thrown into the fires of Mount Doom. HOW?

That by itself is suspicious enough. It's clearly an account that was made and approved by bad actors, how else could it be let alone? When ZZH himself is still going through getting his case filed and accepted by the police, and hasn't said a word? C'mon now.

All this account does is divide fans AGAIN, increase controversy against ZZH AGAIN, and posts nothing like ZZH's original weibo posts. It's quite clear to me, and I don't even have to speak or read Mandarin??? It's just logical? Whose advantage could it be to stir the pot?

During this important time that ZZH is filing his case with the Beijing PD, of course they'd want fans to act up and delegitimize him, also to push the attention from his ACTUAL case, to some other subject (ZSJ existing). Also how convenient that this person appears when Uncle Li has been muted on Weibo??

3. That account accidentally posted an ad for someone else and deleted it a few minutes later

Iunno how much more obvious this can be... This user has been posting rational logical counterarguments against this ZSJ character being ZZH, I'd advise checking them out. Of course, it's all additional information. So this dude posts a legit ad for an ADHD talk for some other dude, and realizes his mistake and takes his post down lol. Ok, bro is hustling a lot of side jobs.

4. Everyone wants ZZH to come back, and they know it

Everyone and their mom wants ZZH to come back, ok, there may be a few anti's and whatnot, but even the general public wants ZZH to have his whole life reinstated. That 1 billion+ discussion on weibo certainly said so. With this fervor and passion, I understand it. I want him back too.

But don't go grasping at every straw - he's not back yet, they won't let him. That's why he's filing A CASE WITH THE POLICE. And he wouldn't be so f'cking stupid as to jeopardize his own case by posting weird shit on WeChat. C'mon, ZH is very smart.

Whoever hired this guy to do this clearly saw the opportunity - that tons of people miss him and want him back - that the general public sees him favorably - that there's a void that needs to be filled. And he made an account to pretend to fill it. Iunno if it's paid or not, if he has more ulterior motives, but I don't need to know. It's clear just from this account EXISTING, and POSTING, and being ALLOWED to post - that it cannot be ZZH. You think ZZH has somehow found super hacking skills and can escape the absolute hellscape of c-ent self-censorship? No.

Gotta be patient, and use our brains - time will tell. Don't let yourself be used.

Also if you're a believer that ZSJ = ZZH, you can believe it if you want to, but don't @ me lol.

/rant over.

[smitebound]

for what feels like the fifth consecutive time, ezra rolls his eyes. if there's ever a moment for semantics, this isn't it. of course he knows it's more of a scrape and slurp! he's the one who has to do the bloody slurping! but he's not supposed to be a vampire; he's just supposed to be a terrible fucking person. "gods, you're annoying. you know that?" fixing her with a withering stare instead of offering any stupid counterargument to what he's certain she thinks is witty banter, he adds; "feels like i should take a bite out of you just for that, vampire or not." but he won't, and if she hasn't realized that by now... really, it's like she doesn't know anything about him at all. of course, who does? "but... i think i'll stick to sucking the life out of you, instead. blood's not really my thing. now, if you bled tea..." if annoyance had been counted in silver, he would have been rich. scratch that—they both would have been rich. the idea that there's any peace to be had between them has already come back around from rational to amusing—them, really? of all people? they're like oil and water. light and dark. there's nothing remotely compatible to get a foothold in. and still... she's the only option he has. "you could have told me to do the boxes, sure, but i would sooner have thrown the beasts outside to shit. you know, like reasonable creatures. don't know why you couldn't just get them a bloody sand pit in the yard." now who's fixating on the details? if only that's something they could latch onto, instead of... well, irritating each other with. it might be the one thing they actually do have in common, even. but that realization doesn't spark any glow of friendship in him, and he can't imagine it's any different with her. they might as well live on different planets. "look, you can have your psychotic view of the world if you'd like, but in my world, we use the dishwasher properly—to wash the bloody dishes. the cupboards are for the clean ones." it's truly like she picks and chooses her own lifestyle based on what will annoy him most. anyone else, and he would find it impressive... just... does it have to be him she's infuriating? "'course, if you don't like how i'll do it... feel free to take the duty on for yourself. gods know i won't be complaining about kicking my feet up."

               her eyes narrow with an itty bit of suspicion. there's just a hint of too much snark , in ezra's snappy retort. " awfully defense about that one , aren't we. and they don't take bites out of people. it's more so of a scrape and lick , kind of thing ━━ considering that they drink blood. that's literally lore 101. and you act like a vampire trying to deny being one. " now that right there , is a great example on her brother's influence flowing through her thought process. something straight out of his own brain. " i'm not asking to track your location or anything , just that we give little updates here and there. i've already unblocked your number , so long that it hasn't changed. surely , we can both be reasonable about this. "

               even as he goes about his ruckus , analyn bites her cheek to keep her face straight , refusing to let ezra see her crack. and if she weren't already , she's fully convinced that he's the actual worst. being a dick must come naturally for him at this point , there isn't any other viable explanation. or it could be summed to him being some sort of succubus , that fed off of the misery inflicted onto others , as opposed to sex. both explanations checked out , honestly. though before she's got the opportunity to chew him out , he's already reeling himself back in ━━ and agreeing to given chore , of all things ! her mouth falls open in shock and then closes , the process repeating itself a couple of times. once she's managed to form a coherent sentence , analyn's sputtering it out.

               " why wouldn't i be serious ? and don't look at me like that ! i'm being so reasonable here , and that's the thanks i get ? i could've been a prick and told you to do the litter box , or to dust and polish all of the shelves ! " apparently asking for even the bare minimum of ezra is far too much , considering he looks ready to choke her out again. " toss some things into the washer ? as in the my dishwasher ━━ are you actually crazy or what. that's for storing the clean and dry dishes , you heathen. " perhaps there was some truth to his earlier joke and they could never hope for a peaceful mutualism. " you're impossible , you know. don't forget that the door is always wide open. and that you're more than welcome to leave at any time. "